“You called,” I say as I open the door to my home office, my tone cool, composed.

“Yes, I called yesterday,” Jerry replies, and I can already hear it in his voice—that subtle, tight-edged frustration he’s trying to bury under politeness. He’s irritated, wounded. Predictable.

I smile, unseen. “How was your Saturday?” I ask lightly, steering us away from his tension as I move into the kitchen. My phone stays pressed between my cheek and shoulder, held there with a slight tilt of my head. My voice is calm, practiced—my body entirely at ease.

It’s 9 a.m., and I’m already dressed for the day. A single-piece sweater dress, soft gray marled with black, clings to my figure like a second skin. It slips off one shoulder—always the same one. No matter how many times I adjust it, that shoulder insists on baring itself. I’ve stopped resisting. Let it fall. Let the light catch the smooth skin beneath, let it say everything without a word.

My legs are bare, flawlessly smooth, and I glide across the tile in slate-gray leather slides with a gentle platform. No heel. Just clean elegance. The straps cross over the tops of my feet, framing my perfectly pedicured toes—white-tipped, French, matching the manicure on my fingers. I smell like jasmine and crisp linen, and it follows me, soft but undeniable.

“It was fine, thank you,” Jerry says flatly. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

“I know, Jerry,” I reply, voice low but knowing. I reach for the kettle. “You’re calling about our date today.”

He doesn’t respond immediately.

“I haven’t forgotten,” I add, pressing the button. The kettle hums to life.

I take two plain glasses and drop a spoonful of black coffee into each. One for me. One for Beta. “So,” I say, “what are you going to do about it?”

He laughs—but it’s hollow. Nervous.

“I’ll tell you the truth, okay? Nothing but the truth.” I pour the boiling water into the glasses. The scent rises immediately—rich, dark, grounding. “I was actually about to go on that date with you, Jerry. I really was. But then—life got in the way.”

Silence.

I pick up the two glasses, steam rising in coils, and walk into the servant’s corner. Beta is already there, standing at attention as instructed, eyes fixed to the floor. He’s not allowed to lift them beyond my feet unless I say otherwise.

He startles slightly when I hand him the coffee.

He didn’t expect this. Me—his so-called dominant—serving him. But that’s the point, isn’t it?

If you don’t serve me willingly… then I’ll serve you. And then you’ll see the imbalance for what it is. And you’ll feel it.

“Life got in the way?” Jerry finally repeats, skeptical.

I motion for Beta to sit.

I perch myself on his table, my legs folding elegantly, one over the other. My skin glows—soft, warm, radiant. My dress slips further down my shoulder. I hold the phone in one hand now, my tone relaxed.

“Yes,” I say. “Life got in the way because I now have a new beta reading servant, and I can’t just leave him alone every Sunday to go out on dates.”

Pause. A beat. I want to hear what he’ll do with that.

“So… wait. Are you saying he lives with you now?”

I smile, eyes still locked on Beta’s face. “None of your business.”

“Well, it is my business,” Jerry snaps. “If I’m investing in you—taking you out—then I deserve to know—”

I press the button. Four seconds.

The phone dies in my hand.

Later, I’ll block him. I could already smell the dynamic—controlling from the bottom, trying to play submissive without surrendering power. He’s not genuine. Not like the one in front of me now.

I look at Beta and smile gently.

“Drink your coffee while it’s hot, my sweet little beta reader.”

He nods, almost shyly, his lips brushing the rim. But I can see the discomfort in his eyes. Not from fear—from conflict. Because somewhere deep in his psyche, he doesn’t want to be sitting. Not like this. He craves something else entirely.

He wants to be on all fours, close to the ground, worshipping the very floor I walk on. That’s where he feels honest. That’s where his desires become real. And we both know it.

I lean in just slightly.

“See? I’m not as bad as Isabella or Grace,” I say with a small giggle. “I’m human. I make coffee for my servants.”

He smiles—but not comfortably.

And I watch it. That tiny flicker of guilt. Of yearning. Of dissonance. Because in his truth, he knows—he should be crawling, lips brushing against my shoes, whispering thanks for every look I give him.

“I mean… if they don’t make coffee for me,” I add softly, “then I make it for them.”

And I let the words hang.

His face shifts. Just enough. He understands the weight of that reversal. He knows what it means. He knows what comes next.

“Well,” I say with a raised brow, “isn’t it better if I give a heavy hint before I punish?”

He flinches. Barely—but I see it.

Oh, he knows what I enjoy.

He knows I find deep, pulsing pleasure in punishment. Not cruelty. Precision. And I never show it—not openly. But it’s there. Always just beneath the surface.

We hold the silence.

He doesn’t speak. He can’t. The moment is too dense, too sharp. And I love it.

I take a sip of my coffee, smooth the fabric of my dress over my thighs, and glance down at him once more.

“I swear to God,” I murmur, “the reason I sat on your table in the first place… was to tell you how much I enjoyed your climax report. It gave me immense pleasure.”

He swallows, eyes wide, breath held.

I stand, slowly, letting the hem of my dress settle back into place. My shoulder remains exposed. My scent—jasmine, linen, skin—trails behind me as I walk.

I carry my coffee in one hand, the dead phone in the other.

I don’t look back.

Soon, he’ll learn not to define service by speaking from below.

He’ll just serve.

Without question. Without need.

He’ll be the perfect little errand boy—or girl—depending on my mood.