Kneel before me and kiss my feet.
Four years. Four years ago she had knelt before him. Four years ago she had pressed her lips to his boots, felt the burn deep and dark in her sex to be doing so on his command, the grab of it in her gut, her chest.
Followed by four years of running from herself, from what that game had told her about who she was. About how much she had liked it, wanted it. And running from the rejection which had subsequently followed.
Four years.
Now a second chance.
There was a dangerous light in his eyes, a dark spark of expression as he stepped back. Anticipation. Lust. His desire drove her own and she didn’t understand how or why, but she could no longer deny it. She no longer wanted to. She wanted this too hard herself.
She dropped to her knees, sliding down the wall slowly. Not so much kneeling as falling gently, the weight of fate, of command, pushing her down as hard as his physical hand ever could. It didn’t feel wrong to fall before him. It wasn’t so difficult to do in the end. To obey. It was only a matter of acceptance. Of letting him into her head and giving herself up to him. Of stopping the incessant fight. Not against him, but against herself.
Once on her knees, she pushed herself forward towards him. Brought her lips to his shoes and kissed his feet where...