Confessions of a libra

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30.05.25

Rivulets of wine pour from the decanter and I’m mesmerised by the flow. He’s late, I think to myself. I take a sip of wine and let it swirl in my mouth for a moment. It’s rich, deep and balanced. SiR plays in the background, setting the mood for what I have in store. I lean on the counter and let my eyes unfocus. I inhale the heady bouquet in my hand, thinking about how my day was terribly dull but now I have an opportunity to make it interesting. Right the scales if you will.

Speaking of the devil, I hear the car pull up outside. I take another sip and swallow the giddy feeling in my very cells. Oh, I’m gonna enjoy this, I think to myself. He enters the house, removing his shoes wordlessly. He enters the kitchen and finds me there, calmly sipping my wine.

“You’re late,” I state with controlled ease.

He froze mid-step, his mind calculating the next moves. “I’m sorry. I got stuck in a meeting, then they asked for another report, and I just didn’t want to think about it tomorrow.”

My eyebrow raise and while maintaining eye contact, I take a deeper swig of the wine.

“On your hands and knees,” my command is simple and my tone unbothered.

He sinks to his knees like a man ready to unburden himself. Behind me is the collar. I haven’t used this one on a while with him. Life got in the way and honestly, there was so many other things we were exploring. But the Gods themselves wouldn’t let this night end without some cosmic justice. I grab the collar and strut my way to him – heels accentuating my command. My silk robe is partially open, exposing oiled skin. I squat beside him and wordless secure his collar. He avoids all eye contact, which was wise. I stand up and feel the rush of looking down on him from such a great height. I am used to being eclipsed by him.

“Follow,” I say flippantly.

With a gentle tug on the collar, I walk him from the kitchen to the couch. In my six-inch heels, my steps are smaller giving him the room to move without hurry. We made it to the couch and I know he’s sweating, aching. His mind is probably a rush of possibility or wonder. What will I do next? Even I don’t know. I sit in front of him and spread my legs. His gaze never lifts past my ankles.

“Look at me,” I say breathlessly.

When he does, I fight to keep composure from the flush gripping my body. My breath catches, seeing him so vulnerable so willing. I like that he has so much responsibility in the day, people come to him for guidance and support – but I’m the one he gives his power too. Every day of the week.

“What do you see?” I ask in full arousal.

He swallows first, goes to say something and has to clear his throat. My finger plays with my lower lip as I watch him squirm. I could come from that alone.

“You look like what painters try and capture when they’ve tasted only a moment of divinity. Your skin looks so soft and…radiant. You look like someone who shouldn’t be touched by the unworthy.”

The last bit has me biting my lip to repress a reaction. I could moan his answers are so perfect. I lean forward, holding my chin with one hand while dangling the other. I lower my chin and look at him from beneath my lashes.

“Do you know what I’m gonna do to you tonight?” I ask slowly in a low honeyed tone.

He swallows and shakes his head. I’m amazed he hasn’t spoken out of turn.

“I’m going to feed you. Bathe you. Then edge you to the brink of oblivion for your indiscretion. You hear me?” I commanded, softly and lustfully.

I see the twinkly in his eyes, hidden behind his restraint. I see him suppress a smile.

“Words.” I demand.

“Yes, Mistress.” He offers in gratitude.

“And when you’re late next time?” I ask, testing.

“I’ll do better. I’ll tell you and not worry you,” he said with his brows drawn.

“Good boy.”