Woke up with my cunt throbbing again. Not from a dream this time. From the silence. The way Eyla’s breath hitches in her sleep when she’s scared. The weight of the collar is heavier in the dark. I traced the scars on my thighs—old whip marks, a reminder of what happens when I fight back. My nipples were hard against the rough sack. I wanted to tear it off, feel the cold air on my skin, pretend for a second I wasn’t owned.

Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to let someone touch me. Not him. Anyone else. Someone who’d look at me like I’m a person, not property. Their hands on my tits, my ass, my cunt… but gentle. Asking. It makes me so wet it’s pathetic. The fantasy is sweeter than any bread he could give us. Then Eyla whimpers in her sleep and the fantasy shatters. Back to reality: chains, collars, and a hunger that has nothing to do with food.