They serve more than sweetness in this house.
The kitchen hums with heat. Her apron's thin, her thighs bare, and her eyes stay low as she stirs. Every movement is slow, practiced, waiting for me to notice. Waiting for me to act. The smell of sugar clings to her skin. So does obedience.
They say everything here is offered. Every hole. Every moan. Every inch of her aching body. She wants me to taste. To test. To take.
The dough is rising. So am I. The kitchen is open.
