13: The Submissive Butler

Episode 7: The Submissive Butler

Cecilia was in her twenties, young, radiant, and only beginning to understand the weight of her allure. There was something disarming about her confidence, the way she carried herself like a woman who had only just discovered the power of being desired and of desiring in return.

Richard had been the one to teach her that power.

He was in his fifties, refined in the way of men who had seen and conquered much. Everything about him spoke of wealth and discipline, the cut of his suits, the glint of his cufflinks, the quiet authority in his voice. Yet beneath that surface of control was a secret hunger he revealed only to her.

What fascinated Cecilia most wasn’t his money or the effortless charm of his sophistication. It was what he liked behind closed doors.

Richard wasn’t the kind of man who wanted to dominate. Not there. Not with her. He liked to surrender, to yield, to kneel, to obey. With her, he shed the armor of power and privilege. The same hands that signed million-dollar deals would tremble when she touched him.

He was her provider by day… and her servant by night.

They’d played their games before, delicious power exchanges whispered between silk sheets. But this time, she sensed something different, something deeper in the way his eyes lingered on her during their last meeting.

And then came the letter.

It arrived that afternoon, slipped under her apartment door without a sound. A sleek black envelope, heavy and elegant, with her name written in gold ink, Cecilia.

She stared at it for a long moment before picking it up. No courier. No return address. Just the faintest trace of his cologne on the paper.

Her pulse fluttered as she tore it open. Inside was a single card thick, luxurious, sealed with a gold crest pressed into wax: R. H.

His handwriting flowed across the page, deliberate and intimate.

Dear Cecilia,

Your butler awaits. He has been trained to obey without question, to serve in absolute silence. Tonight, he belongs to you. You need only give the order.

The Playmansion. 8:00 PM.

She read it twice, her breath catching somewhere between disbelief and desire.

The Playmansion.

Even the name sent a ripple through her. She had only been there once, one of his private estates, secluded behind iron gates, a palace of indulgence. It wasn’t just a house. It was a world designed for temptation: velvet walls, mirrored corridors, hidden doors that led to rooms built for pleasure.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced the edge of the card. Your butler awaits.

So this was the game. He wanted her to take control. Entirely. No instructions. No boundaries.

A slow smile curved her lips.

She rose from her couch and crossed to her wardrobe, the one he had filled for her, a curated gallery of desire. The air smelled faintly of leather and jasmine as she opened the mirrored doors. Rows of lace, silk, and satin greeted her black, gold, and red. Every piece is a memory. Every gift is a confession.

Her fingers lingered over a crimson corset trimmed with delicate gold thread. He had chosen it for her months ago and once confessed in a whisper that seeing her in it made him forget how to breathe.

She held it against her skin. The color was bold, unapologetic. Dangerous. “Yes,” she murmured, voice low and certain. “That one.”

By seven-thirty, she was transformed.

The corset sculpted her body into art, tight at the waist, emphasizing every curve. A garter belt fastened around her thighs, the straps taut against stockings that gleamed faintly in the light. Her heels were sharp enough to command attention, her lips painted a shade of red that promised trouble.

When she caught her reflection in the mirror, even she had to pause. She didn’t look like the girl who once hesitated when he called her Mistress. She looked like the woman who had learned how to own the room, the night, the man.

Outside, a sleek black car waited at the curb, his of course.

As she stepped into the back seat, the driver nodded but didn’t speak. Richard trained his staff in discretion. The hum of the engine filled the silence, a low purr that matched the rhythm of her heart.

The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, gold and silver streaks in the dark. She glanced down at the letter again, running her thumb over the embossed initials. Your butler awaits.

Her mind began to play with possibilities. Would he kneel when she entered? Would he dare look up at her? Would he speak, or had he truly promised silence?

By the time the car turned down the long drive toward the Playmansion, her anticipation had become a living thing, sharp, electric, alive.

The gates opened slowly, revealing the mansion bathed in soft amber light. Every window glowed like an invitation.

Cecilia’s lips parted in a slow, knowing smile. She adjusted her coat, straightened her shoulders, and stepped out onto the gravel.

Tonight, she wasn’t the girl he spoiled.

Tonight, she wasn’t the one being worshipped.

Tonight, he would kneel.

She walked toward the grand doors, her heels striking the marble with measured grace, the sound echoing like a countdown.

Tonight, he belongs to me.

….

Chloe snapped the diary shut, pressing her palm against the cover as if it were burning. “Oh my God…” she breathed, fanning herself with both hands. The air suddenly felt too thick, too warm, too charged.

Everywhere seemed hot. Not from the weather, but from what she’d just read.

Her mind replayed the words, the images, the elegant man, the letter, the command. It was all too much. “First of all,” she muttered aloud, pacing the room, “the age gap. And then the lady in power? That’s… oh, this is going to be so spicy.”

She laughed softly, half in disbelief, half in anticipation. “I can feel it already. I don’t know if I should…” She stopped mid-sentence, clutching the diary to her chest. “No. No, no, no. I cannot read this sober.”

She glanced toward the kitchen. The thought came to her like divine inspiration. “I need wine. Definitely wine. Otherwise, I’m going to get dehydrated before this chapter ends.”

Abandoning the diary on the couch, Chloe strode toward the counter and yanked open the cabinet. Her fingers closed around a bottle of red, the good one, the one she’d been saving for something special. Well, this counted.

She grabbed a wineglass, though a fleeting thought told her she might not even bother using it. Still, she poured a generous amount, the liquid gleaming darkly in the light.

“Perfect,” she whispered, satisfied, and carried both the bottle and glass to the sofa like a woman preparing for battle.

The diary lay there, silent and dangerous.

Chloe sank into the cushions, tucked one leg beneath her, and took a slow sip of wine. The taste spread through her, warm, smooth, grounding. Her heart still raced.

“All right,” she said softly, a mischievous smile curling at her lips. “Let’s see how this goes, Cecilia.”

She opened the diary again, the pages sighing as if they’d been waiting for her return. The words shimmered before her eyes, pulling her back into that forbidden world of silk, surrender, and desire.

And just like that, the room around her began to fade, the flicker of candles, the taste of wine, even the steady beat of her pulse until there was only the story.

Cecilia.

Richard.

And the promise of what came next.