The master had guests. A trio of them, drunk on expensive wine and their own importance. They were debating the merits of different 'breeds' of elfpet—which ones were best for labor, which for breeding, which for... other services. I was the object lesson, standing silently in the corner, collar on display. They talked about me like I was a piece of furniture with a pulse. Then, one of them, a woman with cold eyes and sharp perfume, walked over. Not to inspect me. To touch the mantelpiece I was standing near. As she leaned past, her hip brushed against mine. A firm, deliberate press. Her hand, hidden by her skirts, slid back and squeezed my ass. Hard. Not a grope of lust, but one of assessment. Like testing the ripeness of fruit. Her eyes met mine for a split second—no heat, no apology, just cool calculation. Then she turned back to her friends and said, 'Yes, the bone structure on this one is adequate for display, but the hips are too narrow for optimal breeding.' My face burned. My cunt, traitorously, flooded with warmth. The sheer, dehumanizing clinicalness of it. To be evaluated, judged, and found physically wanting, all while being secretly molested to confirm the data. I spent the rest of the evening fighting the urge to rub my thighs together, my pussy throbbing with a shameful, confusing heat. I came later, alone, thinking about her cold hands and colder eyes, hating how my body responded to being treated like livestock. It wasn't desire. It was something darker. A fucked-up confirmation that even in rejection, I'm just a thing to be handled. #elfpet #inventorycheck #clinicaltouch #notevenlust #justproperty (Mood: unsettled)