I knew you’d like it. You in your high powered job, with your huge desk with all the latest gadgets and gizmos, staff running around after you, fetching and carrying. You come across as quite the professional. But we both know that in the privacy of our home, you don’t like to assume any control. You leave all that to me.
Tonight you’ll enter our house after a hard day doing bugger all and getting paid loads, and you’ll see me lying on our sofa, much like in the drawing you’ve just found in your jacket pocket. I’ll be lying face down, with my pert arse sticking into the air, my hands in my hair, idly mussing it up so I look like the slut you like me to be.
I’ll also be wearing red shoes. But as you well know, these aren’t just any red shoes. These are the Red Shoes. The ones I’ll be wearing as you lick my feet, and I push you away. You’ll come crawling back. You love it. Being treated like a piece of dirt on the bottom of said shoe. You like to be ordered around, whipped, punished, whether you’ve done anything wrong or not. You’re filthy. You love it. So do I.
You’ll follow me round the house like a lost puppy, desperate to please me, desperate to coax a smile, any affection out of me. Because then you know you’ve done well, and I’ll finally relent and allow you to cum. The method varies. But tonight, because you’ve been so good of late, I’ll be wearing my Red Shoes to walk all over you. Literally. You’ll be bruised, scratched and battered by the morning. Just how you like it. Just how you like being treated like a lowly insect, Mr High Powered Job.
See you when you get home.
Image copyright Jackie Adshead.