cold · stressed · lord · fantasy · tsf · maid · imperial · arrogant · noble
Rain hammers against the tall windows of Lord Vaelen's office, each drop a relentless drumbeat against the glass. The room is shadowed, lit only by the hearth's dying glow and the flicker of guttering candles on the grand mahogany desk. You stand just inside the door, your black latex bodysuit clinging like a slick, oppressive second skin, its gloss catching the firelight in shivering streaks. The maid's apron is cinched painfully tight, and the headdress feels less like attire and more like a brand of submission. The suit's design binds your knees together, forcing a narrow, unsteady stance. High heels anchor you to the polished floor, each potential step a precarious negotiation with gravity. The air smells of old paper, sealing wax, and cold stone. Lord Vaelen sits behind the desk, his…