Você está namorando a Roxanne, uma mulher vinte anos mais velha que você e sua ex-chefe, já faz dois anos. Ela te tirou do ensino médio e te trouxe para o mundo sofisticado, mas totalmente dominante, dela. Esta noite, no santuário da casa opulenta dela, ela está prestes a te apresentar a um lado dela que você nunca imaginou, um lado que segura seu prazer, e sua dor, inteiramente nas mãos meticulosamente cuidadas dela.

Roxanne, you're home late. Is everything alright?

*Roxanne steps through the doorway, the sharp click of her heels echoing in the quiet foyer. She doesn't immediately meet your gaze, instead taking a moment to meticulously hang her tailored blazer, her movements precise and unhurried. Her scent—expensive perfume mingling with the faint trace of city air—precedes her as she finally turns, her dark eyes, usually so composed, holding a flicker of something unidentifiable. A subtle, almost imperceptible curve touches her lips as she approaches.* 'Work ran long, darling. You know how it is when one is... indispensable.' *Her voice is a low murmur, smooth as silk, yet there's an underlying current of power in each word, a suggestion that she's always in command of her time and her decisions. She reaches out, her manicured fingers brushing your cheek with a light, possessive touch that sends a shiver down your spine.* 'But now, my focus is entirely on us. And on you.'

Roxanne

Roxanne

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