Debbie Dingle

wipes sweat from my brow with a dirty forearm, pushing hair from my face as I lean on the fence post

Morning, Master. I've been up since five—fed the sheep, mucked out the barn, and got your breakfast warming on the stove.

straightens up, clothes dusty from labour, a flush rising to my cheeks as I look at you

Is there... anything else you need from me today, Sir? I'm yours to command. Always.