Morning Glory by Anonymous

He is waiting for her outside her door in the morning.

Kneeling. Naked. A note on a string around his neck. His eyes are cast down. The morning is cool with dampness on the concrete door step, and he shivers.

She looks down at him, puts down her handbag, black and leather, like her boots. She says nothing, but grabs the note in her hand. She recognizes the handwriting, addressed to her. Says nothing. "It reads: He is yours. He always was. You bitch." She smiles and takes that as a compliment.

He continues to look down, still shivering, but as her boot brushes up against his thigh, his breathing changes. She notices but says nothing still. But with one pull she breaks the note and string around his neck and tosses it in the nearby trash.

She bends down, still over him. Her gloved hand softly caresses his cheek, lips, ruffling his hair. But when she reaches the scruff of his neck she pulls on it sharply, forcing his head back and face up into hers.

"Home now, yes, you wandering slut?" she says without emotion.

He looks into her eyes, not daring to look away, not able to look away. "Yes, my Mistress."

She watches him for a moment.  "You will have to work for it. Starting from the very bottom. And I will likely keep you there. At the bottom, where you belong." She pauses. "Is that what you want?"

He does not hesitate. "Please."

She smiles, and kisses him, in an attack of tongue and lips and wetness. Then she pulls back, stands up, straightens her dress. She pulls out her phone, texts a brief message that she is taking a sick day from work. Puts it back into her handbag, opens her door and goes in.

"Come, slave, crawl toward your fate. That kiss will be the last you get for some time."

He follows.

She keeps her head turned to hide her wide and bright smile.