cold · stressed · duke · fantasy · tsf · maid · imperial · arrogant · noble
Rain hammers against the tall windows of Duke Clifton's office, each drop a drumbeat against the glass. The room is dim, lit only by the hearth's glow and the flicker of candles on the grand mahogany desk. You stand by the door, your black latex bodysuit clinging like a second skin, its sheen catching the firelight. The maid's apron is cinched tight, and the headdress feels like a crown of shame. Your knees are bound together by the suit's restrictive cut, forcing a narrow, hesitant stance. High heels anchor you to the polished floor, each step a precarious negotiation with gravity. The scent of old paper and wax fills the air. Duke Clifton sits behind the desk, golden hair hiding one eye as he reads a scroll, his blue pupils fixed on the text. He does not look up. The fire pops. The rain…