The mistress and the maid

Mia enjoys the cruelty of her orders. She knocks over the wine on purpose, leaves smudges on the marble, and smiles when she sees the mess she’s made for me to fix. I drop to my knees with a cloth, hands already working while she settles into the armchair, legs spread just enough to remind me who decides how long this takes. She watches my fingers move over every drop and streak, drawing it out because every stretch and twist of my body belongs to her. When the floor is finally spotless she stays silent, lets the quiet stretch until I look up. Her eyes tell me the floor was never the real target. Her fingers slide under the hem of her skirt, slow, deliberate, and she waits for me to crawl closer.