You're wearing the little french maid outfit I got you. Skirt halfway down your thighs, all white lace and black trim. Nothing allowed underneath it, of course.
Our favorite black leather collar is around your neck, cinched tightly shut. It is soft, but firm, a reminder that you're mine and mine alone. A reminder to be humble, to submit.
Every time I pass you, I slip a hand under the back of your frilled skirt and give your ass a nice squeeze, feeling you straighten up and shiver at my touch. We both know what I'm doing to you later.
When your hands are full I come up behind you and gently slide my warm hands into your bodice, rolling your nipples between my fingers, groping your breasts as I grind my cock between your ass cheeks through my pants. You can feel all of me against your back.
I nibble on your ear, leave little hickies on your neck and forbid you from covering them. Anyone who sees them will know you've been naughty. The expressions you make when you think about it always make me smile.
Sometimes, I clip a microphone to your collar. Just a small stage mic. An unobtrusive little black dot.
The speakers are all around the house, of course, and as I bend you over and take you, you have to struggle not to let everyone on the block know just how dirty of a girl you are.