From the moment Apprentice Tate crawled into the room in his flimsy ceremonial robe, I knew we were going to have fun. I instructed him to wash me, looking smugly over my shoulder at Master Snow who was being forced to play second-fiddle to me on this occasion.
Young Tate carried out his business with beautiful precision. His task was to demonstrate servitude by washing my feet, and he did this with a deeply sensuous, seductive touch. The room was utterly silent except for the sound of the boy’s breathing, which became increasingly labored as his desire for me increased.
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