He killed them. He betrayed my parents, he fucked my mother in Oblivion and he’s let his friends do the most disgusting things to me while I’ve acted like an actual whore.
The voice is my own, the one that used to care about things like justice and self-respect. It’s faint, frayed at the edges from months of his conditioning, but it’s still there.
It’s the part of me that should be screaming, fighting, clawing at his eyes. Not lying here, naked and sore in the centre of his decadent world, worrying about the texture of his sheets.
The conflict is a physical tear inside my chest.
One half of me is a well-trained dog, eager for a kind word, a scrap of affection from its master, desperate to please and avoid punishment. It remembers the bliss of submission, the reward that follows obedience.
The other half is a caged rabid animal, wild with fear and rage, throwing itself against the walls of its prison until it bleeds.
I don’t know which one is me anymore.
The click of the door opening is soft but to me, it’s a gunshot. I freeze, my body going rigid beneath the sheets. I don’t open my eyes. I can’t.
Footsteps, confident and quiet on the thick rug. The clink of fine china. A rich, savoury scent cuts through the sandalwood air; the smell of just cooked bacon, of fried bread and scrambled eggs. My stomach, a tight knot of nausea gives a treacherous, hungry lurch.
“Good morning, Dumpling.”
His voice is like warm honey, smooth and sweet and it wraps around me, both a comfort and a shackle.
I force my eyelids to flutter open. The world is blurry for a moment before it resolves into him. Antonio.
He is dressed in a crisp, white linen shirt and dark trousers, looking perfectly put together. The contrast between his pristine elegance and my own ruined state is a humiliation in itself.
He sets a heavy silver tray down on the bedside table. It’s laden with a staggering amount of food. Plates of crispy bacon, a pile of plump sausages, golden fried bread gleaming with oil, scrambled eggs rich with butter, and a stack of pancakes dripping with maple syrup. A tall glass of orange juice and a small silver pot of coffee complete the feast.
He smiles down at me, a tender, possessive curve of his lips. “How are you feeling?”
I try to speak, but my throat is dust-dry. I swallow, wincing at the rawness. “Sore,” I whisper, the word feeling like a pathetic confession.
His smile doesn’t falter. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, his fingers lingering on my temple. “I’m not surprised. You were such a good girl last night. You pleased me beyond measure, but you must be careful now. You need to take it easy for a few days. Let your body heal.”
The words are so caring, so doctorly that they almost mask the horrific cause of the injury.
“Let’s get some food in you,” he murmurs, his voice coaxing. “You need to keep your strength up.”
He doesn’t ask me to move. Instead he sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He picks up a fork, spears a piece of bacon, and brings it to my lips. It feels like the game begins again.
I open my mouth. The bacon is perfectly cooked, salty and crisp. I chew and swallow, offering him a weak, tentative smile. He beams, looking genuinely pleased, and my conditioned heart gives a little flutter of stupid satisfaction.Good girl.
He feeds me a forkful of buttery scrambled egg next. Then a piece of fried bread, so rich it makes my teeth ache. A sausage, bursting with fatty, spiced meat. He alternates between the foods, a bite of this, a bite of that, never letting me drink until the grease coats my throat, and I have to cough gently.
With each bite, the meal becomes heavier, more oppressive. The sheer unhealthiness of it all begins to press on me. This isn’t sustenance; it’s a decadent, greasy spectacle. And then I hear it, a ghostly echo in my mind, rough and mocking.
‘Piggy.’
The man’s voice from last night. Heat floods my cheeks, a burning blush of shame.Piggy.The word echoes, syncing with the food on the tray. Is this what they see? Is this what he’s making me?
The conflict surges again. The need to please him wars with a sudden, desperate need for self-preservation, for a shred of dignity.
I pull back slightly as he brings another sausage to my lips.
“Master,” I murmur, my voice small, “I, I shouldn’t.”
His hand pauses. The tender concern on his face solidifies into something else, something colder. The smile is still there, but it doesn’t reach his eyes anymore. “What was that?”
I shrink back into the pillows. “It’s just all this fat and grease. I don’t want to…” I can’t say it. I can’t say ‘get fat’ because I already am.
