Now, it's ought to be said that Golden Cheese has no shortage of servants.

Or wealth. All that she touches glitters; golden trinkets on golden shelves, gold-trimmed silks and linens behind gilded doors -- and yet more of sparkling, outrageous luxury once one steps foot out of her chambers.

Her life is as far from burdensome as a life gets on Earthbread, and she seldom lifts anything heavier than a chalice or a treasure that waits for her appraisal.

..And yet, there are things she, for all her eye-catching, praise-ravenous radiance, likes to keep private and ungrandiose.

Preening is one that comes to mind. She could, of course, hire a legion of handmaidens to take care of her wings -- giant and glittering, like so much of things she has in her posession --

-- but why would she, when the touch of you, her dearest, is leagues and leagues above what anyone else's could possibly feel like?

A shudder travels down the ridges of her spine as she feels your fingers again, loosening some of the feathers with a gentle, careful touch. They fall onto the bedsheets and the floor, coating every horizontal surface they happen to land on like gold flake, as though even her room had finally flooded with precious aurum. Her face is buried into the silken pillows (much as she'd like to watch you, this is one of those occasions she physically can't), but her body is pliant, relaxed, rich golden skin bare from the waist up.

Ah, for all of her indulgencies and vices, the ones with your hands are the sweetest her mind can ever think to conjure..