He hasn’t seen me yet, standing behind him with a bemused smile on my face. Normally it’s his job to greet me at the door but I actually prefer coming home to see this. I drink in the sight of him, nude and casual and lost in a book. His parents were hard-core fundies and only let him read super-Christian material growing up, so books as rewards are the best currency in this house. I’m guessing he finished all his chores early today. I feel like I should get him some padding for his elbows, but I know what he’s doing on the floor. It’s in the high 90s today and that floor is probably the coolest surface in the house.

Damn, he is a sight. The bottom half of his body is paler than the top half from his cycling hobby. That ass…that waist…those fine, sharp shoulder blades. The urge to pick him up and caress him is strong. I reprimand myself. I need to stop fawning over him before I start to fall in love. I can’t be a good Sir for him that way. Strict. Authoritarian. That’s the way. …is it really so awful to want to make love to your slave?