Mine. His. Ours.
Perfectly matched in our beautiful damage.
Forced Service
Two days left, and Gabriel had moved me into his quarters completely. No more pink room, no more pretense of separation. Just his space that would become our space, where the final transformation would happen through the mundane instead of the theatrical.
"New protocol," he announced that morning, setting a small pile of fabric on the bed. "Domestic training. You'll maintain the living space, prepare meals, attend to my needs."
I examined what he'd brought—cotton panties in white, nothing else. The simplicity of it felt more exposing than any elaborate costume.
"Just this?"
"And your collar." He watched me process the implications. "Servants in ancient households wore minimal clothing to show their status. You'll do the same."
"What ifsomeone—"
"No one comes here without my permission." He moved closer, fingers tracing the collar that never left my throat now. "These are my private quarters. Our private world. Here, you can be exactly what you are without fear."
"Which is?"
"Mine to use as I see fit." His hand dropped to cup my breast through the nightgown. "Whether that's for pleasure or housework or simply because I enjoy watching you move through my space wearing almost nothing."
The nightgown came off, replaced by the simple panties that somehow felt more vulnerable than complete nudity. He stepped back to observe, and I fought the urge to cover myself.
"Beautiful." Not hungry, just factual. "Now, the kitchen. I'll have eggs benedict, toast, orange juice. Coffee black."
"I don't know how to make eggs benedict."
"Then you'll learn." He settled at the dining table with his tablet. "Part of serving is acquiring necessary skills. There are instructions on the counter."
I padded to the kitchen, hyperaware of my near-nakedness, of his eyes tracking my movement. The space was immaculate—black granite counters, professional appliances, everything precisely arranged. A printed recipe waited exactly where he'd said.
The instructions seemed simple enough. Poach eggs, make hollandaise, toast English muffins. But doing it nearly naked added layers of complexity. Every movement felt performed, conscious of my exposure, of the way my breasts moved as I whisked, how bending to check the oven displayed me.
"Stand up straight," he called without looking up. "Shoulders back. Present yourself properly even during mundane tasks."
I adjusted my posture, which pushed my chest forward, made me more aware of the cool air against bare skin. The first egg broke when I tried to poach it, yolk bleeding into the water. The second stuck to the pan. By the third attempt, frustration built alongside the strange arousal of being watched, commanded, reduced to domestic service.
"Problem?" He'd moved to lean against the kitchen doorway, observing my struggle.
"The eggs won't cooperate."
"Because you're frustrated. Rushing." He moved behind me, not touching but close enough that I felt his heat. "Breathe. Center yourself. Service requires patience."
I tried again, forcing calm into my movements. This egg slid into the simmering water perfectly, white forming a neat pocket around the yolk. Small victory, but his "good girl" made it feel monumental.
The hollandaise came together slowly, my arm aching from whisking. Toast went in the toaster—simple, foolproof. I plated everything with careful attention, proud of the final result despite my inexperience.
Then smoke billowed from the toaster.
"Shit!" I yanked out charred bread, black crumbs scattering across his pristine counter. The smell of burnt toast filled the kitchen, acrid and unmistakable.
"Language." His voice carried warning. "And carelessness. Bring me the spatula."
I knew which one he meant—wooden, flat, hanging with other implements that served dual purposes in this kitchen. My hands shook slightly as I brought it to him.
"Bend over the table."
