At her footplate - Part 1

I was dozing in my hotel room when my phone buzzed. A message from Her:
"In ten minutes, in front of my room. We're going down for a drink."

She had brought me on this trip not as a companion, but as Her personal assistant—available for anything, at any time. We had separate rooms, and I wasn’t allowed to contact Her unless summoned. That message, short and commanding, sent a surge of excitement through me.

I dressed quickly and stepped into the hallway several minutes early. I didn’t want to risk making Her wait. Her door was next to mine. Glancing down the corridor, I dropped to all fours in front of Her door, my head bowed—just as She taught me. My heart pounded. Every sound made me tense, my ears straining for signs of Her movement inside.

Then came the worst and best moment—footsteps. A couple appeared: a confident woman in her 40s and a younger man. I panicked, shifting into a fake shoelace-tying pose. They laughed, entered the room beside us. My cheeks burned, but I knew She’d be pleased. The shame turned into arousal. As soon as they disappeared, I returned to position.

Finally, I heard the soft click of Her lock. My heart stopped. She had made me wait—of course—to test me. Her shadow spilled across the floor from the open door, and then, that voice:
“Good boy.”

Those two words electrified me. My back arched involuntarily.
"You can raise your head."

Terrified and in awe, I lifted my gaze. First, I saw Her feet—wrapped in sheer black nylon, black sandals framing polished white toes. Divine. I hesitated.
"I said lift your head."
I obeyed, swallowing hard.

She stood like a vision: long legs in black tights, a short strapless black dress hugging Her body, shoulders bare, hair cascading. Her hands, elegant with French tips, rested on Her chair. And Her face—flawless, lips softly painted, eyes that pierced through me.

She glanced at the elevator. I moved beside Her, crawling next to Her wheelchair. At the elevator, I stood to press the button, then dropped back down. When the doors opened, She entered gracefully, and I followed, positioning myself by Her wheel. I whispered:
“Thank you, Miss.”

She turned, eyes gleaming.
“Try to deserve the honor I give you.”

The elevator ride blurred—every second, I was lost in Her presence, while fearing who might be waiting when we arrived. As the doors opened, She slipped out smoothly, turning back with a teasing laugh:
"You’re lucky. No one was there. Get up and follow."

I stood, trembling. She led the way to the bar, and I followed at a respectful distance. She stopped at a round table. I moved quickly, pulling a chair aside to make space for Her.

The bar was dim, nearly empty. She sat and said:
“The usual for me. You’ll drink what I drink. Don’t bother the waiter.”

I approached the bar.
“The drinks will be brought to your table,” the bartender said.
“No, I’ll take them,” I insisted.

I turned to admire Her—bathed in soft light, poised like a goddess.

Returning with the drinks, I placed Hers down and waited. She nodded to the chair opposite. As I moved to sit, Her voice cut through:
“Since when do dogs sit at the table?”

I froze. Looked around. The bartender was busy. One man read the paper. Another had headphones on. I turned back. She stared, lips wrapped around a straw, amused.

I knelt beside the table, head bowed. The shame burned—hot, undeniable—and I could feel the wetness spreading in my pants.