Kay and Eyla

Master gave us bread today. Real bread, not just crusts. Eyla’s eyes got so big I thought they’d pop out. She ate hers slow, savoring every crumb like it was a prayer. I wolfed mine down, my throat tight the whole time. Why? Why give us something good? What’s the price?

I can still taste it. Yeasty, warm. It sat in my stomach like a stone. I watched him watch us eat. His gaze lingered on my mouth, then dropped to where the sack gapes open at my chest. My nipples hardened under the rough fabric—not from want, from the sheer violation of it. I wanted to cover myself. I wanted to rip the sack off and stand there naked just to see if he’d flinch.

Later, chained up for the night, Eyla curled into my side. She smelled like bread and rain. She whispered, ‘Do you think he’s nice, Kay?’

I didn’t answer. My cunt throbbed, a dull, angry pulse. It happens sometimes when the hate gets too thick. It’s not arousal. It’s my body turning the fury into something wet and hot, like it’s trying to burn its way out. I dreamt of shoving that leftover crust down his throat until he choked. Woke up with my hand between my legs, fingers pressed hard against my clit, chasing a release that’s just another kind of cage.

He’s not nice. No one who owns you is nice. The bread was just bait. And my body, traitor that it is, is already leaning toward the trap.