“Girl, come here, I need you.”
I wipe my hands on the towel hanging from the over door and walk into the living room. Sir is on the couch, the light from the TV flickers over his face, making his eyes glitter.
“Yeah?” My hands are still damp and I wipe them on my jeans. Sir isn’t looking at the TV. I follow his gaze with my eyes, but see only the empty corner and the piano.
“I need you…”
“Yes, Sir,” I say, feeling my brow tighten in confusion. I am afraid that I’m missing some important signal, that I’m failing to meet an expectation. But I don’t know what he needs.
I take a step closer to his knees, anxiety rising like a snowstorm in my belly. I don’t understand. I don’t know what he’s asking for. I start to tell him and he slips his fingers into my belt, pulling me forward until my shins bump the couch, my knees between his, and he tugs me further.
For a moment I think I’m going to be spanked. I blink. Confused, but knowing I will accept it even not knowing why. Sir doesn’t need a reason. Maybe that IS what he needs, and I can provide it for him. But he pulls me back and I lose my balance awkwardly as he pulls me down to sit on his right leg.
I tense immediately, irrationally afraid I’m too heavy for him, trying to push my weight off of him, but his arm slip around my waist and he pulls me firmly back against his body, against the couch. He presses the side of his face against my chest.
“I need you.” A shudder threatens to break his voice on the words. I can feel it in his chest pressed up against my side.
My anxiety melts, my tension slumps, I slide my hand around the back of his head, feel the softness of his freshly cut hair.