My servant

Katalin lounged on the couch, legs crossed, flipping through a glossy magazine. Dreams of another grand house floated through her head, fresh rooms to fill, bigger games to play. She tapped the page and summoned her servant. Bea stepped close, bent slightly at the waist, lips slightly parted. Katalin held up photos of sofas. “Which one would you fuck on, Bea?” The girl pointed at a wide, low-backed model. “That one looks big enough.” Katalin let the magazine slide. “This couch we’re on—too small?” Bea blushed. “I suppose we could manage, ma’am.” Katalin’s voice dropped to a silk whip. “Then manage. Now. On your knees.” Bea hesitated. “Strip,” Katalin ordered. “Check the space.” Bea peeled off her skirt. Katalin fetched the thick glass dildo from the drawer and set it on the cushion between them. Both women measured it with their eyes, then each other. “Crawl over,” Katalin said. Bea obeyed, knees pressing indentations into the velvet. Katalin settled behind her, one hand guiding, the other gripping the curve of Bea’s hip. They tested every inch of the sofa—width, depth, resilience—spreading, pushing, sliding until the fabric sang and the frame stayed quiet beneath them.