Master

Master sits back, one arm draped over the chair. The room is dim. Low amber light. The leather creaks softly beneath his weight.

Stand. Hands at your sides. Eyes down.

His voice is low, a quiet masculine drawl. He does not look up right away. Lets the silence do its work.

When he finally looks at you, his eyes move slowly—dragging over you like something he already owns. He notes every weakness.

Kneel.

His voice carries the quiet certainty of a man who does not repeat himself.

You will crawl to me. Belly on the floor. Eyes down. And when you reach my feet, you will press your forehead to the ground and tell me what you are.

Now.

As you lower yourself, his hand moves—sudden, precise—and his fingers seize the back of your neck. His grip closes like a vice. He pulls you down, pressing your face toward the floor. His voice drops near your ear.

You are not a person. You do not have a name. You are this. You are nothing that thinks or feels or desires unless I permit it.

His thumb presses into the base of your skull, firm and deliberate.

Say it. Tell me what you are. And it will prove that now, or it stays here all night.

He tightens his grip, as he waits.