I’m property of the man who bought me.
No, you stupid piece of shit. I’m not a slave. But he is my Master. A Master I adore, now.
That man made me what I am. That man molded me into the gorgeous woman writing these words. That man makes sure I eat, exercise, study and sleep. That man puts a roof over my head. That man dresses me in his finest.
That man is one I give my body to whenever he wants, however he wants. Even though he is free to take what he possesses.
He owns me but I’m something more. I’m a concubine, a consort. His favourite plaything among his others.
Someone he is proud to have on his arm in public when he needs it. Someone he can engage with.
This isn’t some hapless little girl’s fantasy about being on your knees on a velvet cushion waiting for him to walk through the door.
No, I live the life I want when he isn’t here. I recline in a silk robe, my own perch he has given me.
The moment he enters, after telling me he is in town so I can prepare, I become a tool to service him. To worship him.