Afternoon Phone Call

"On your knees now, I don't care how uncomfortable you get."
I throw my cosy warm duvet aside and slide out of the bed. I don't even bother to pretend. He may be on the end of the phone line but he seems to be able to pick up my every movement. He always knows when I have arched my back, raised my hips or slid my hand closer when he has specifically told me not to.

"What are you wearing?"
"Jeans sir."
"Well take them off. Your knickers too."

For some reason I don't even put the phone down, just struggle out of them with one hand until I am knelt half naked in front of my own bed. While he awaits I take a peek behind and see my zebra print socks sat incongruously on my own feet, and behind them a pair of kicked off kitten heeled pixie boots, my work bag, my washing basket and a pile of unread books. My mess, my life, is spread out all around me, distracting me, calling me.

For a moment I am assaulted by minutiae...

"Whose are you?" his booming voice brings me back to where I want to be.
"Yours Sir," I answer, relieved to be back.