The morning light is a poor excuse for a wake-up call. I find my own alarm far more effective. There is a particular, exquisite violence in being roused from sleep by the taste of a cock shoved down your throat. To feel your own body betray you with a gag reflex you cannot control, while the weight of a conqueror holds you pinned and compliant. It sets the tone for the day so perfectly. A reminder, before the first sip of wine or the first decree is signed, of one's absolute place. The sounds he makes in those moments—strangled, wet, utterly owned—are a finer symphony than any court musician could compose. It is the music of pure dominion, and I am its avid conductor.