The moment I saw her on that café terrace, my cock stiffened in my jeans. She was a vision of casual cruelty, dark hair cascading over bare shoulders, that polka-dot skirt teasing the tops of her thighs. The way she ignored my stare, gaze drifting past me like I was a piece of the city’s concrete—that aloofness drove me fucking insane.

She looked at me finally. A slow scan, from my desperate eyes to the bulge in my pants. A curve touched her lips, not a smile. A predator’s acknowledgment.

“Kneel,” she said. Her voice was soft, but it had the weight of an anvil.

My knees hit the pavement before my brain caught up. I was at her feet, the smell of her skin and city dust filling my nostrils. Her sandal, adorned with that little flower, nudged my chin.

“Plant your face on the ground,” she ordered. “Kiss the dirt that carries my shadow.”

I did it. I groveled at the feet of this utterly contemptuous goddess. Then she spread her legs slightly, and the universe narrowed to the space between her thighs.

“My pussy is hot and wet, slave. Do you smell it through my clothes?”

My face was buried nearly in her lap. “Yes, my Queen,” I rasped, my tongue a dry wasteland.

She grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head up. “Show me devotion.” Then she tucked her thumb into her skirt’s waistband and pulled it aside, not revealing her slit, just a hint of dark thatch above the wet fabric of her underwear.

“