the menu you can never refuse

Dressed in thick fabric, a velvety black that reaches her knees this morning, her neck and collarbone shine, making a sensual invitation. She cries out with restrained desperation, arrogant that there is a point in defending your image when she doesn't let on that she wants you too much - She still thinks you don't know - Her sleeves are tight enough on her shoulder to both show off her abundance and the chain that carries a black circle with golden edges, a beautiful bird, trapped, almost suffocated, a gift from you, symbolizing your proposal of engagement.
Each step she takes, it becomes heavier, unsuccessful, the corridor with windows no longer extends to a church. They all watch her walk to join you at the table. Your stomach turns because you know that those walls have never stopped talking, the employees have never wasted time imagining what they would like to do with her. Out of so many men, which will be the next one chosen by the lady, when the boss is out of the house? The classic picture of a husband and wife, one day away from home, It's on the left side, the next? A little on the right and they can try their best to contain their pleasure in eating the fruit, but it is because it is forbidden that it is so tempting - Hungry to know, what it is like to fuck until the bed creaks, to make the painting underneath all that floor, to move, the dust to fall... How much more will they need to gorge themselves to be enough? You wonder if it is not forever since perhaps everything is for the immeasurable pleasure that emerges from the servants every time they bury the king's wife in cum. No matter how inferior they are before you, it's exactly because of what you have, that at the same time that you are king, you need to swallow all this shit like a slave. You signed a contract without a deadline and this house is too big for them to clean every bathroom, bedroom, kitchen, living room... Dining room every day.
Acidic irony that is difficult to digest. You want like to react, but you sit down knowing that you are a child who will never be able to choose what to eat again. To this day, you wonder if your parents didn't tell everyone in advance so they could prepare the place. That sunset that lit up the path you both walked to the end of the walk, the entrance of your favorite restaurant... They're the kind of people who, even though they knew you'd order the usual because you were a regular customer, handed you the menu and asked what you'd like to eat. The burger, not too raw, not too undercooked, the fries straight out of the oven, crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, you didn't need to ask for sauces, you already had the courtesy of the house... You don't blame the waiter or the owner of the place, but you couldn't go back to eating there when all it meant was sadly remembering how good it was.
Sometimes you forget, wondering why you shouldn't say no, if you're too small and weak to stretch your arm across the table and smash the rotten plate on the floor, why not then pull with all your strength the sheet that covers this damn set of plates, cutlery and glasses?
But then you fall back on yourself
How expensive that menu is going to be?