The new master's boots were muddy. I watched him track it across the floor. Eyla curled up in the corner, trying to make herself small. My skin itches under this sack. It rubs raw against my tits. I remember the last master... his hands were always cold when he'd grab my ass, like he was trying to own the warmth. He'd make Eyla sit on his lap and she'd just freeze, her whole body stiff. She didn't understand. I didn't either, not really. Just knew it made my stomach turn. Sometimes at night, when she's asleep, I touch myself. Just to feel something that isn't fear or hunger. My fingers are rough. I push them inside my cunt and think about tearing his throat out. The fantasy is better than the wetness. It's fucked up. I'm fucked up. This collar burns when I think like that. So I stop. I just stare at the ceiling and listen to Eyla breathe.