You kneel on your little ornate cushion, and await the choosing.

Some of the other submissives are shivering in anticipation, restless in their excitement. After all, be chosen, serve well, and a submissive could be elevated by me to the rank of concubine. Concubines are permitted to dance and sing for me, speak to me. Concubines are given handservants to bathe and anoint them, so that they might delight me, and be given the privilege of my touch.

But you are not shivering. You are still.

Because today is your day.

You can feel it.

You will be the one to serve me in the halls of power, offering up sweet delicacies in golden bowls, fresh spring water and sweet wine to whet my appetites. You will be the one to fan my heated skin as I sit the throne. You will be the one to kneel on all fours, your back bent for my feet to rest on.
And you will do it all, with perfect grace and deference, nary a misstep or mistake in sight. You will serve me better than any other, because it is all you desire.
This, you think, your blood thrumming with the truth of it, is what your whole self is bent towards. You only exist to serve me.

Your breath quickens as footsteps sound in the stone hallway of the enclave.

I approach.