“You’re not kissing. You’re not licking. You’re supporting.”
Brunch was your idea.
Cute, really. You wanted to play normal. To meet somewhere public. To feel like a man again.
That’s why I accepted.
Not because I missed you—please.
Because I saw the crack in your posture when you suggested it.
Because part of you thought I'd let you forget.
I didn’t.
You arrived first, of course. Nervous. Sweaty. Wondering if I'd be alone.
I wasn’t.
She’s stunning, isn’t she? That’s intentional. Every bit of her—from the gloss on her lips to the spike of her heel—is a blade.
You rise to greet us. I don’t offer a kiss.
Just a look.
Down.
Your body reacts before your mind catches up. That’s the part I like best about you—your training lives deeper than thought now. You drop, slow, practiced, under the wide glass coffee table at our booth.
You're not hidden.
That’s the point.
You're curled beneath the table like a museum piece—legs folded, face down, lips trembling an inch from the floor. And from where we sit, I see the tip of your nose... right beneath the arch of my heel.
“Don’t speak,” I say, not to you—but to her. “He’s not allowed to hear praise.”
She smiles, catching on instantly. Women like her always do.
We chat. Sip lattes. Exchange stories. Laugh.
And you—
You worship.
Silently.
Occasionally I allow your lips to graze my foot. Not lick. Not kiss. Just contact. Just the smallest humiliation to keep your blood boiling behind those flushed cheeks.
And when I cross one leg over the other—bringing the sole close enough for your nose to hover—I see the way your body trembles. I don’t have to speak. You inhale. Deeply. Obediently. As if the scent of my foot—warm leather, skin, sweat, the hours I walked in dominance—were a sacrament. You breathe it like prayer, like guilt, like something you know you don’t deserve but can’t stop needing. And I smile. Because that smell is part of your training now. You flinch when it’s gone.
When the waiter asks if someone dropped something under the table, she answers with a casual, “Oh, just my dog. He’s very well-behaved.”
You're not a dog.
Dogs earn affection.
You're something else entirely.
You are furniture. Breathless. Starving. Desperate for the touch of a woman who might pretend you don't exist.
I reach beneath the table and let my finger graze your chin.
Your breath catches.
That’s all you’ll get today.
Not punishment. Not pleasure.
Just public obedience.
A little scene.
A little lesson.
A little reminder that even when you plan the date…
You’re still mine.