He lowers the fork, his head tilting to the side in that bird-of-prey way he has. A clear sign of annoyance. A warning I have learned to heed. “You let me worry about what is and isn’t good for you,” he says, his voice dropping to a soft, dangerous register. “I decide what you need, and I like you this way. Soft. Round. A beautiful, well-fed thing. And if you are fat, then I like you fat.”
The word hangs in the air, brutal and final. It’s not an observation; it’s a decree.
A sliver of defiance, sharp and bright, makes me whisper, “I don’t want to get fatter.”
The air in the room chills by ten degrees. His eyes narrow, just a fraction. The affable mask is gone, replaced by the true face of the man who owns me. “You will be as fat and as beautiful as I choose for you to be, Pet. That is my decision. Not yours. Your only decision is whether you accept my gifts gratefully, or whether you make this difficult for yourself.”
The threat is velvet-wrapped, but the iron inside is unmistakable. The caged animal inside me whimpers and retreats, leaving the well-trained dog to cower.
Obedience is safety.
Obedience is easier.
I look down at my hands, clenched on the duvet. “I’m sorry, Master.”
“That’s my good girl,” he says, the warmth returning to his voice as if a switch was flipped. He brings the fork back to my lips. “Now, open up.”
And I do.
I open my mouth for the sausage, for the fried bread, for the bacon. He feeds me methodically, relentlessly. The initial hunger has long since been replaced by a bloated, uncomfortable fullness. My stomach feels stretched and tight, a hard ball of lead under my ribs. Each new bite is a struggle, a nauseating effort to chew and swallow.
“I’m full,” I plead softly after swallowing a particularly greasy piece of potato cake I didn’t even see him add to the fork. “I can’t, Master, please.”
“Shhh,” he soothes, scooping up a last forkful of eggs. “Just this last bite. For me.”
Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes, but I open my mouth and take the food. I am beyond full. I am impossibly, painfully full. The physical discomfort is a perfect mirror for the emotional suffocation.
He is stuffing me, filling me up with his control until there’s no room left for me at all.
Finally, he seems satisfied. He sets the fork down with a soft clink and dabs at the corners of my mouth with a linen napkin, as if I am a child.
“Say thank you, Pup.”
“Thank you, Master.” I whisper back in an emotionless, soulless voice.
He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. His lips are warm, his touch gentle, and it makes me want to scream.
“You are becoming such a perfect pampered little thing,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice thick with possession and pride.
A sob catches in my throat, choked by the food and the fear. “I don’t want to be a pet,” I whisper, the words barely audible. “I’m a person, too. A human being.”
He pulls back and looks at me, not with anger but with a patronizing kind of pity. He tuts softly, shaking his head. “You must be more tired than I thought. Talking nonsense. You need to rest. Properly rest.” He stands, straightening his shirt. “The servants are at your beck and call. Summon them if you want anything. More food, a bath, anything at all. I’ll have lunch sent up.”
Christ, he’s dismissing my humanity as a symptom of fatigue. Erasing it.
From his pocket he draws a long, glittering object. A bracelet. A tennis bracelet, paved with diamonds that catch the morning light and throw rainbows across the walls and the ceiling.
Gently, he takes my left wrist. His grip is firm, but not painful as he fastens the clasp the diamonds feel cool against my feverish skin. The weight of it is surprising, substantial.
“There,” he says, admiring his work. “Every time you look at this, you will remember how much you have pleased your master. You will know what a good girl you are.”
I stare at the bracelet.
It’s beautiful.
It’s horrifying.
A reward for whoring myself out to his friends. I blink as my vision swims with more tears. I want to rip it off, to claw it from my wrist until the skin bleeds, but I don’t move. I am too afraid to argue. Too afraid of the consequences, too afraid of the cold look in his eyes.
