I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I just stare at him, a blush burning its way across my face and down my neck.
He chuckles again, a rich, warm sound that seems to imply my flustered silence is the most delightful joke. “Come, Dumpling.” He gestures with his hand toward a large, deep burgundy leather couch positioned against the far wall. “Go and sit. You quite exhausted yourself last night., you need to rest.”
The words are casually thrown, but they land like stones. Exhausted yourself.The flashbacks threaten to surge again, a tidal wave of fragmented sensation. I quickly push myself to my feet, my legs unsteady, and make my way to the couch. It’s buttery soft and so deep I feel like I’m being swallowed by it.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, the words automatic, a pathetic attempt to reclaim some shred of autonomy in all this craziness.
He doesn’t even acknowledge the lie. He picks up a phone on his desk, presses a button, and speaks quietly into it. Within two minutes a silent, severe-looking woman in a maid’s uniform enters carrying a large silver tray. She doesn’t look at me once. She sets the tray on the low table in front of the couch and leaves as quietly as she came.
On the tray is a pot of tea, a glass of orange juice, and a plate heaped with food. Eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, pancake potatoes. It’s a mammoth portion, enough for two people if not more.
‘…have you considered upping her diet, I think she’d look marvellous with a few more rolls around her belly…’
I hear the words like a whisper. Is that what this is, then? He’s fattening me up more?
“Eat,” Antonio says. It’s not a suggestion. He has already returned his attention to his documents.
I’m not hungry. The thought of food suddenly makes my stomach turn but I pour myself a cup of tea, my hands shaking slightly, the china cup clattering against the saucer. The hot, fragrant liquid helps soothe my sore throat, helps soothe my shattered nerves.
I take a sip, then another, trying to calm myself more.
I pick at a piece of toast, nibbling on the corner. I can feel his presence across the room even though he’s not looking at me. After a few minutes, his voice cuts through the silence without him glancing up.
“All of it, Pet.”
A jolt goes through me.
Heiswatching. But of course he’s watching. He doesn’t miss a thing. I pick up my fork and force myself to eat a bite of eggs. They taste so good it feels sinful. I methodically work my way through the food, my jaw aching with the effort. He is fattening me up, he is turning me into his plump little dumpling. The humiliation of it is a bitter seasoning on every mouthful.
I eat until the plate is clean, until I feel uncomfortably, painfully full.
When I finally set the fork down, he speaks again. “I have work to do. You must sit quietly now and not disturb me.”
It’s clear the rules are set. I am to be a silent, decorative object in his study. A possession on display. I pull my legs up onto the couch, tucking the oversized robe around my bare feet, and try to make myself small and still.
For a while there is only the sound of his pen, the soft tap of his fingers on the keyboard, the rustle of paper. I stare at the spines of the books on the wall, trying to read the gold-embossed titles, trying to think of anything else. Would he be angry if I got up and pulled one off? Would he permit me the luxury of reading? I remember the book of poems he gave me when I was locked in that white room. I wonder what happened to them; were they thrown out? Was my plant thrown out too now that it no longer served a purpose, or did someone claim them?
I try not to sniff, try not to breathe, try to sit in the silence and not think on anything. But my mind keeps going back to last night like it’s a bad movie, a horror movie that I keep replaying over and over.
A man’s hand, rough and calloused, skates up my thigh. I flinch but the silk holding me has no give, and the sound of laughter fills my ears.
The heat of the spotlight on my skin. The feeling of sweat trickling down my spine. The taste of fear, metallic and sharp, on my tongue. My eyes, desperately seeking his in the shadows as someone, some stranger shoves their cock into me.
His gaze holding mine, pinning me in place more effectively than the bindings ever could.
The sound of my own ragged breathing, too loud in a sudden silence. The feel of a man’s tongue as he licks and licks and swirls around my brutalised pussy, removing the remnants of what has leaked out of me, and then that resurgence of pleasure, that awful thrill as my Master demands another punishing orgasm.
I squeeze my eyes shut while an involuntary tremor runs through me as I press my lips together to stop a sound from escaping.
Do not disturb him. The command is a leash but I am unravelling thread by thread, memory by searing memory and I must do it in perfect, absolute silence.
On the outside, I am still. I am quiet. I am obeying.
On the inside, I am screaming.
This transformation of my pet has become my new obsession, a project more intricate and rewarding than any Brethren business could ever be.
I have drawn a line through the name Grace Ratcliffe, the frightened, defiant woman I bought and have begun writing a new name beside it. One that is yet to be fully formed, but whose letters I am crafting with my very own hands.
