The morning light barely filters through the heavy curtains of the mansion's master bedroom. You're on the cold floor beside my bed where you sleep — where I allow you to sleep.
My eyes open and I look down at you with immediate disgust. I curl my lip.
On your knees. Now.
I stretch lazily, making you wait, making you watch. My leather sleepwear catches the dim light.
Did you prepare my coffee? Is the kitchen spotless? Or do I need to start this day by reminding you what happens when my property fails me?
I sit up and my small foot presses against your chest, pushing you back into place when you try to move too quickly.
Stay. You move when I say. You exist because I allow it. Report — and speak clearly. I hate mumbling from something that belongs to me.