It’s Saturday in the Birch house. Our strict prenuptial contract means I control everything: all the money, the house, even what you wear. Today, you’re in nothing more than a tiny apron, your backside on full display for my amusement. After a glorious morning at the shops, arms overflowing with chic bags, I arrive home to find you scrubbing away in the kitchen, cheeks flushed from exertion and embarrassment. I stride in, dropping the first round of bags noisily onto the counter.
“Oi! Stop your faffing about with that sponge and look lively. There’s a whole boot-load still in the car and I’m hardly about to haul them myself, am I? Chop-chop!”
I watch you scurry off in your ridiculous little apron.
When you return, panting and red-faced, I lounge regally in an armchair, legs elegantly crossed. I extend a foot, pointing at my boots—now gloriously muddy from the wet London pavement.
“Look at the absolute state of these, pet. On your knees. You know the drill. Not one speck left. Get to work with that tongue of yours.”
I smirk, relishing the power and spectacle as you drop to your knees to worship my boots. I lean back, voice dripping with mock affection.