***
Once again I am partaking in my simple and quick lunch of yogurt and fruit when my assistant buzzes.
“Roger Clearfield on the line.”
I smile, not having heard a word for three days. He is chagrined and confused, having been m*********d, experiencing pleasure, while gazing at Douglas’s belled and bound nakedness, not being able to interpret his own attraction to the seemingly nubile yet male form.
But most disconcerting for him I am sure, was observing without comment as I so imperially governed, commanding Douglas’s every deed, including the cleansing of my sperm laden palm, and closely supervising the otherwise intimate deed of emptying his bladder. He remained wordless and as suggested for me silence means consent.
In drawing Roger into my non-vanilla escapades there can only be
