The manservant

I picked my servant carefully. He had to be polite, well-trained, and easy on the eyes. Every morning he wheels in the cart, silver covers, fresh linen, the smell of butter and berries. He pours the coffee like it’s a ceremony. Then he drops to his knees without being asked. I let my robe fall open and lift one foot onto the chair. He knows the routine: tongue first, soft and slow, until I’m wet enough to take his fingers. Two slide in easy. He curls them just right while his mouth stays busy on my clit. I eat strawberries and come on his hand, thighs shaking against the porcelain. After breakfast he clears the table, then turns me around and bends me over it. The same fingers that fed me now press against my ass, slick with my own wetness. He works me open, patient, until I push back and take him deeper. I reach down and rub my clit while he fucks me, the edge of the table biting my hips. When I come again it hits harder. I squirt down my thighs, the floor, his wrist. He keeps going until I’m trembling and empty. Only then does he pull out, wipe the table, and ask if I need anything else. I smile and tell him to be ready for lunch.