What She Serves

Willow's fingers close on the zipper pull, the metal cold, and she tugs it down with a soft rasp. David's hand settles on the back of her head, not pushing, just resting there, as he says, 'Look at what you're serving now.' She draws the fabric aside and sees him—thick, already hard, the head flushed and slick at the tip, a vein running up the shaft. The cage pulses warm between her thighs as she leans in, her glossed lips parting, and David's grip tightens in her hair, a silent command to begin.