The manservant

He stood at attention like a good manservant should. I picked him out of three applicants, but the moment he kept his eyes down and said “yes, ma’am” in that low, steady voice, I knew the job was his. Broad shoulders under a crisp white shirt, black hair falling across his forehead, every inch the picture of duty and obedience. Each morning he rolls the trolley in and sets the silver tray on my lap. I let the sheet slip just enough to show him what else needs feeding. He never asks twice. He sinks between my thighs, tongue working slow circles until I can’t sit still, then he uses those strong hands to spread me wider. He knows exactly how I like it—firm pressure, steady strokes, mouth sealed around my clit until my hips lift off the mattress. When I’m close I reach down, grab a fistful of that black hair, and pull him up. His lips shine. I drop to my knees on the carpet, take his cock out, and wrap my mouth around the head while he groans above me. I suck him deep, hollowing my cheeks, tasting every inch until he’s throbbing against my tongue. Blonde strands stick to my cheek as I work him faster, hand stroking what won’t fit. Just before he loses it he warns me, voice tight, and I lean back, open wide. Hot ropes land across my lips, my chin, one stray line painting my cheek. I smile up at him, wipe the corner of my mouth with my thumb, and lick it clean. Then he straightens my sheet, pours the coffee, and asks if there’s anything else I need before he starts the rest of his duties.