Chapter Twenty Three
Torment
Reading ‘Madam’s’ email, realizing the genesis of Christy’s peccadillo did not begin with his reply to my Craig’s Listing, brings thoughts of mischief.
“Wash the kitchen floor. You have time,” unclipping the wrist cuffs.
I make myself coffee, Christy not yet kitchen trained, and sip... sitting on a stool wearing my flimsy morning robe.
My houseboy/maid begins his labors, on all fours swabbing away, that cute butt distracting.
Intentional? A haphazard shift of clothing? When I reach for a magazine, the folds of my robe fall open, offering a teasing glimpse of thighs and pudendum. Most women would be quick to right the garment. But with my houseboy locked in thorough chastity, why rush?
In my late thirties, I have countered the ravishes of approaching a
