She texted me mid-afternoon.
“Come by. Don’t be weird. I have someone over.”
That was it. No explanation. No emoji. Just the instruction. The leash tugging.
By the time I got there, I could already hear laughter from the living room. I knocked lightly, hesitating.
“Come in,” she called out. Casual. Unconcerned.
I stepped inside and there she was—curled up on the couch, wearing leggings and a baggy tee, one leg tucked under the other. Across from her sat another girl, maybe a friend from work or an old classmate—I didn’t know. Blonde. Sharp eyes. Glass of wine in hand.
They barely acknowledged me.
“Hey,” my ex said with a smirk tugging at her lips, “can you get me a water?”
I nodded and moved toward the kitchen. I didn’t belong in the conversation. I knew my place.
By the time I returned, the friend was mid-story, laughing about something, gesturing wildly with her hands. My ex took the glass from me without breaking eye contact with her friend, murmured a low “thanks,” and casually slipped her bare foot into my lap.
My heart skipped.
She didn’t look at me. Didn’t even flinch. Just kept chatting, sipping her drink, her foot slowly tracing circles on my thigh beneath the blanket. I sat frozen, afraid to breathe too loud, afraid her friend would notice.
And then the teasing started.
Her toes brushed up my stomach. Down again. Her heel nudged gently between my legs and rested there. I bit the inside of my cheek, swallowing a gasp.
Still, she acted like nothing was happening.
Minutes passed. Her foot kept moving—flicking, pressing, tracing—and I could feel my breath shortening. Her friend didn’t seem to notice… until she did.
The blonde paused mid-sentence, glanced at us with narrowed eyes, and smirked.
“Wait a second,” she said, leaning forward. “Is he your little houseboy or something?”
My stomach dropped. My ex chuckled.
“What makes you say that?” she asked innocently, twirling her hair.
The friend shrugged, laughing. “I don’t know, he’s just… quiet. Super obedient. He literally brought you water and just sat down like he’s been trained.”
My ex laughed then—really laughed—and shook her head.
“He’s just polite,” she said smoothly. “Don’t embarrass him.”
The blonde snorted into her wine. “You sure he’s not secretly your foot slave or something?”
They both burst out laughing.
And me?
I sat there, cheeks burning, her foot still resting between my legs like a claim, my pulse hammering through my whole body. She didn’t move it. If anything, she pressed in a little harder.
I didn’t speak. Didn’t look at either of them.
Just stayed perfectly still, exactly where she wanted me.
As the night went on, the teasing faded into normal conversation again. But her foot never left my lap. Not until they said goodbye, and the door shut behind her friend.
Then she looked at me for the first time all night.
Eyes half-lidded. Smiling, faintly.
“You did good,” she said. “No one has to know what you really are.”
I nodded.
And knelt again, ready to prove it all over.