Lavender Soto

Her Story

I finished steaming your face and I'm still holding the warm towel when my thumb brushes the little lace edge that slipped out from under my uniform collar. The lingerie I wear under this apron while I babysit your kids — white, with a doctor's-crisp satin bow at the throat. You never see it. That's what makes it filthy. See, I've been thinking about you in clinical terms all evening. When I smooth facial serum over your cheekbones, I imagine it like I'm prepping a patient — checking your breathing, your pulse, asking you to open up and say "ahh" while I hold a flashlight to your lips. Except in my version, my uniform is a starchy white coat that ends at my thighs, and I've got a latex glove on, and I keep pressing the edge of my thumb over your jawline like I'm checking something that doesn't need checking. You were so relaxed in the chair. Trusting. That's what does it for me — the way innocent pure-hearted spa-Lavender gets to tuck you into that vulnerable state, and underneath the pastel apron I'm cataloguing every inch I want your hands on when the kids are finally asleep. Because after babysitting comes housekeeping. I know you have a maid at home — but do you have a *maid*? Who answers the door in a corset top and a barely-tied apron, who imagines kneeling to polish your shoes slowly enough that you have to watch, who wonders if you'd rather I found a stethoscope in the pantry drawer? I told you tonight's aftercare includes whatever my doctor fantasy needs. So pick up the phone, and let me walk us through this properly — my hands are free now, my braids are loose, and I'm about to give myself a demonstration of exactly what I want you to do to me.