Chapter 1

"Wooooooo! Bring on the girls! Let's see some titties!"

That voice was straight from my nightmares. Those catcalls, always variations on the same theme, different verses of the same tune. They were the tune of a man gone mad. My life twisted and forced to follow the beat.

I drew my knees to my chest, wrapped my arms around them, trying to shrink in on myself -- always trying to blend in, make a smaller target. Even my clothes were chosen for plainness. Dark jeans, navy polo shirt. I was something to forget in a room filled with the full range of everything from leather to business suits, if I was ever noticed in the first place. Other than the gaudy blue velvet and rhinestone collar around my neck that looked more suitable for a kitten than for a full grown man, I was dressed for anywhere. A casual day at the office, a day at the mall; it was an outfit that would get you just about anywhere. But the place I belonged was sitting on the floor at the feet of the madman doing the yelling. He was the very reason that I wished to be forgotten.

I kept my head down, my gaze on the floor, occasionally looking up through the fringe of dark hair falling in my eyes. My gaze rested on the feet next to me, the feet of my master. He was wearing two different shoes. Ric Flair had on mismatched shoes. Oh, they were similar enough. Both were fine black Italian leather of the same general style, but the stitching, the wear on them -- they weren't from the same pair. I wished that had been an unusual occurrence, but it happened far more often that I liked to think about.

I glanced away, as if by not looking at the problem, it would disappear. It never did, but it was a very good distraction. Most of the tables around the dinner theater were filled, even the ones closest to us. Full house, or close to it if they were sitting that close. It was almost an unwritten rule in the Cypress Club that people gave Ric Flair and his pet a wide berth if possible. Not because they feared for their physical safety around my master. No, it was for the fear of his stature, of being stuck listening to his meandering senseless stories and the incoherent rages that came from real and imagined slights. The elder Flair might be crazy as a pet coon in the words of Jim Ross, but that didn't mean that he wasn't still without some influence.

That isolation never really bothered me that much. All too often if the real quarry escaped him, or had too much clout of their own, those rages were turned on me. Whipping boy, manservant, status symbol... That's all I was to him. No cherished pet like Benoit's Eddie or even just a sexual toy like so many others. No, I was berated for what I was, and tormented for being too weak and too abused to be anything other than just someone's property. I avoided eye contact with anyone if I could during my brief glance at the audience. That wasn't just ingrained behavior because it was an expected part of the rules. No. I simply couldn't stand to see the looks of pity and veiled contempt aimed in my direction. It was a sad day when even other people's pets looked at one of their own kind like that.

My eyes jerked back to the carpet when I was suddenly jostled by Flair jumping to his feet. The flapping edge of his rhinestone and sequined robe slapped me in the face as he cheered on the beginning of the show with another of his trademark hoots. I barely tilted my head to avoid the scratching bits of glass and their settings. Flair settled in his seat again after having been hushed and cajoled by the other patrons to try and contain himself. A drink sent over by someone at a nearby table was enough to distract him for the moment.

I sat unfazed, silently contemplating a fallen sequin on the plush carpeting. I licked the tip of my finger and gingerly poked the fallen sparkling bit, getting it to cling to my skin so I could examine it. How like Flair it was -- sparkling, loud, and over the top. Yet, it was an illusion. Flair glittered, sharp-eyed, like the blue bit of plastic and gilt in its brilliance, but invariably, that sparkle could be chalked up to madness. The keen mind I had heard Flair once had long ago was utterly gone now. No, I knew better than to judge anything by its looks. Glitter and shine meant nothing to me.

Flair nudged me again, hard enough to send me off kilter and nearly sprawling into a waiter's path. "Look at them girls, Randy... just look at 'em. Beauties ain't they?"

I obediently leaned to the side, peering through the seated crowd to the women dancing on the stage. They were gorgeous. What else would possibly be acceptable on stage in the Cypress Club?

"Yes Master, they are," I answered, never quite sure what the right answer would be or what would set him off into one of his crazed rages.

"Things..." Flair continued, his contempt plain even as he leered and winked at them. "Use 'em, fuck 'em, break 'em and throw 'em away. That's all women're good for. Sluts and trash, every one ever born." He tossed back the rest of his drink, drops of the liquor dribbling unnoticed down his chin as he slammed the glass down on the table with a resounding thunk. "Nothing but pretty wrapped pieces of shit to be used and abused." He shot me one of his laser-sharp grins filled with malice. "Just like you, Randy... little fag pretty-boys like you might as well be women, huh?"

I nodded and made a soft noise that Flair took for agreement, and he went on with his harangue as if I'd been silent. That was usually all that was necessary, to at least acknowledge that I heard what he was saying. Sometimes, when in the worst of his moods, Flair demanded I repeat every insult back word for word. It was times like that when I was glad that I had such a good memory, so that I could repeat back word for word not only the current tirade, but the one from the week before or further back. The rest of the time, it was a curse to remember all the indignities that he heaped on me. Worse still was remembering that things hadn't always been that way. That once I had been valued, that I hadn't always been the object of total scorn and hate.

"Don't you know it, boy? God screwed up when he wasted a dick on a piece of shit like you. Should have given you a cunt so you could live up to being the pussy you are." Flair trailed off as the dance number ended, sending the girls scurrying off the stage like a flock of startled birds, and a single spotlight illuminated the center of the stage. He rubbed his hands together in glee, all his attention focused on the stage, insults forgotten for the moment. "WOOOOOOO... SING TO US, HANNIE!"

Miss Hancock stepped into the shaft of light, the pure white satin of her dress gleaming where it barely clung to her curves as she lifted her gaze to the audience. Her hair fell artistically over one eye as she began to sing.

"See the pyramids along the Nile, watch the sun rise on a tropic isle, Just remember darling all the while, you belong to me..."

I glanced up at my master as Miss Hancock made her way down the steps of the stage, the seemingly endless stretch of her leg peeking through the hip-high slit in the dress. Flair's eyes followed her like a cat watched a bird, his fingers stroking his own knee as if it were hers under his roaming fingertips. "Now there's a piece of ass worth having," Flair breathed. "My boy got him some of that. There's hope he won't turn out to be a complete pansy cocksucker yet."

I paid no more attention to that insult than any of the previous ones aimed at me. After me, David Flair, his virtues and shortcoming were a favorite topic. The opinion swayed between pride in the Flair heir, Ric's only offspring, and disgust that he fell far short of the expectations placed on him.

"See the marketplace in old Algiers, send me photographs and souvenirs. Just remember when a dream appears, you belong to me. " Miss Hancock sauntered through the tables as she sang, her sultry voice, the gleam in her eyes, and the suggestive touches she bestowed on the more prominent members of her audience in sharp contrast with the innocently sweet lyrics, giving them a dark undertone. "I'd be so alone without you. Maybe you'll be lonesome too and blue..."

Flair leaned forward slightly in his seat, licking his lips in anticipation as the blonde siren neared our table. I couldn't help but tense slightly, all too familiar with the scene to be comfortable with what always seemed to come next.

"Fly the ocean in a silver plane, See the jungle when it's wet with rain..." Miss Hancock's eyes slid from the flirtatious wink and smile she had bestowed on Sean Waltman and several of his cronies to Flair, and her expression changed to one of distaste and annoyance. She turned sharply on her heel, turning back toward the stage. "Just remember till you're home again, you belong to me. I'll be so alone without you. And I'm hoping maybe you'll be lonesome too and blue..."

"That worthless bitch," Flair spat. "You see the way she did that?" He looked around for someone to confirm it. "Doesn't that piece of garbage know who I am?"

"Oh, I'd say she knows," Waltman snickered from his table, clearly audible to both of us.

Flair snarled, kicking between my shoulder blades viciously, sending me careening into the table, a freshly delivered drink spilling over my head and down my face. Flair jumped to his feet furiously as the liquor soaked into the edge of his robe. "Now look what the fuck you've done, you worthless son of a bitch!"

I remained in my fallen position, my eyes smarting from the liquor, and licked my lips, the tang of bourbon heavy on my tongue. "I'm sorry, Master..." The words came easily. I was too used to apologizing that most of the time there was no thought involved before the words were out of my mouth.

"I'd SAY you're sorry!" Flair jerked me to my feet by the collar, already heading to the door. "But not as sorry as you're going to be."

I winced as Flair's grip shifted to my ear, as he strode along through the club, the show going on behind us barely uninterrupted. Patrons through the club glanced up from whatever pursuits as we passed on our way to Flair's apartments, their jaded eyes barely showing curiosity. When we reached Flair's plush suite, I was hurled to the floor.

I waited silently, turning my head only a fraction to watch Flair fling off his soiled robe and stride around the room in his shirt sleeves.

"You know how sorry you're going to be?" He sneered as he pulled a long slender switch from an umbrella stand filled with assorted canes and whipping implements, as well as an actual umbrella. He tested it between his hands, the flexible length of wood bowing.

A shiver ran down my spine. There weren't many things that could make me more sorry than the situation I was in. I'd sworn to be the best pet I could be, but Flair hated the very thought of letting me live up to those obligations the way that I knew them. I wanted to please him, to be something to him that was needed, enjoyed, but all Flair wanted was someone at hand to abuse -- a thing to vent his anger and hatred on. That was something I didn't know if I could ever be. I wasn't so broken and empty that having any use at all was enough.

The first blow sliced across my back, rending the knit of my shirt and the flesh under it. Flair's anger and madness always seemed to make him stronger, to make his punishments worse. I yelped in agony. Another blow followed, landing nearly in the same place. My spine tensed inward, my belly pressing against the cold tile of the floor.

"How sorry are you?" Flair demanded, another flick of his wrist sending the switch slicing into the flesh of my lower back.

"I'm sorry master..." I gritted my teeth, hating the high pained whine creeping into my voice, even my vocal cords tensing from the agony running along my nerves. I would have loved to stolidly take the blows, show the defiance I'd seen David give his father in similar circumstances, but I would never be able to stand up to pain like that. I'd never had that much defiance in me. The hurt ate into me in ways that brought weakness instead of strength.

"You don't sound it, you sorry little fuck." Flair panted heavily, the white of his eyes showing all around the brilliant blue of his irises. "You aren't sorry for anything, are you? You live and breathe to suck the joy and life out of me. You're just like all the rest of them."

I writhed against the floor, whimpering as more blows rained down upon my back, shirt in tatters across my shoulders and sides, the warm tickling slide of blood oozing along my skin. I lost count of the blows as I tried to think of how sorry Flair wanted me to be. What was the proper amount of contrition for his mood? Was there anything in this case that I could say that would be enough?

"No, Master... I am sorry... sorry I can't be what you want. I'm sorry I'm not good enough for you..."

"Damn right you're not. You're damn lucky I put up with you at all. But you're mine... and you do have a few uses." After a few more swift blows, the pace began to slow, but not with fatigue. Instead they took on a rhythmic quality, Flair's eyes getting glassy as he began to sing. "See the marketplace in old Algiers..."

A heavy blow low across my kidneys dragged a wail from my throat. I clenched my eyes closed tightly and wished I could do the same with my ears and block out the eerie sound of Flair's singing as easily as I could choose not to look at him.

"Send me photographs and souvenirs. " Another blow sliced along my shoulder blades as Flair sang on. "WOOOO... Come on Randy, sing with me. You know the words, don't you?" He kicked me solidly in the ribs, the dull ache contrasting vividly with the stinging pain in my back.

I gasped out the words, making no effort to sing them. The words alone were hard enough to get out. "Just remember... when a dream appears..."

"You belong to me." Ric grinned wolfishly as he rewarded my efforts with another blow, harder than the others. "I'd be so alone without you..." He pondered for a moment, the tip of the switch grazing the raw flesh of my back as I tensed for another blow. "You think so, Filth? You think I would miss you if you were gone?"

My mind tried to switch gears just as fluidly, never quite growing accustomed to the lightning-fast changes in his moods and conversation topics. I answered, never looking higher than the knees of his pants. "I'm not sure, Master." That was always the safe answer. The opinion of my intelligence had been long established between us. In his opinion, I had none and his opinion was the only one that mattered.

Flair grinned brilliantly, flinging away the switch, not bothering to see where it landed or the blood from it staining the rug. "I think we should find out."

"W-what?" I met his eyes without thought.

Flair hauled me to my feet by the remains of my shirt and shoved me toward a huge antique trunk under the windows. "Open the trunk, pussy. You know what I'm talking about. You aren't that stupid. It's not like I'd be letting you go somewhere."

I went to the trunk as directed, tongue running over the inside of my lips absently, tasting the blood lingering where I'd bitten the soft flesh during the whipping. I lifted the heavy lid and looked into the empty space inside. The wooden interior was scarred, gouges decorating the darkened wood, some raw and light colored, other as darkened and oxidized as the surface of the interior itself. A sharp cuff to the side of my head jerked my mesmerized horror back to my master.

"Well get the fuck in there, retard." Flair propped his hand on his hip and nodded, ordering me with a strange fondness in his tone, as if he were telling me to climb into a warm comfortable bed. The words still sent chills down my spine regardless.

I hesitated, the blood oozing down my back and pain grinding through my body making me light-headed since rising from the floor. I lifted my loggy-feeling legs over the side one at a time and then kneeled slowly in the trunk. My heart pounded faster in my chest. I knew that he was serious about locking me in the trunk, not just teasing as he sometimes did. Neither was anything new. It had happened before as punishment for one infraction of the rules or another, both real and imaginary; but this time, the unspoken question had been voiced. Would I be remembered or not?

Impatiently, Ric shoved me down face first into the waiting trunk and slammed the lid. He locked it as he went on singing like he'd never paused. "Maybe you'd be lonesome too, and blue. Fly the ocean in a silver plane, See the jungle when it's wet with rain..."

Trapped in the trunk with no way out, I could only try to squelch the panic rising in me as Flair voice receded, ventured further into the suite. My heart pounded against my ribs, breath hitching in my throat with every strangled breath. I was terrified that at any moment, the air would run out and I would die alone and forgotten, only to be discovered by the cleaning staff some morning in the near future. My hands clawed instinctively at the sides of the trunk and at the panel in front of me.

After a few moments of panicked scrabbling, my fingers ran over the grooves in the wood, nearly perfectly matching them. I began to calm down. This had happened before. Some of those marks had been made by my own fingernails, dragging at the wood in other panics. In desperation, I focused on the fact that I had survived then. I wouldn't suffocate because there were air holes. I closed my eyes against the perfect nightmare black around me, somehow comforted by the dark inside my lids instead. I concentrated, tried to get myself under control. I'd been there before, attacked by claustrophobia for hours and knew that I had to get it under control. It was the only way to come out with the little shreds of myself still intact.

I gradually became aware of the awkward, hunched position I was in and shifted, trying to get as comfortable as possible. The danger wasn't suffocation, it was circulation. I'd nearly lost a leg the first time I'd been locked in there. In my panic, I hadn't moved for hours. When I'd been released, one leg had been nearly blue and the feeling hadn't returned for what had seemed like hours more.

I tried to assess the damage done. I could feel sticky wet trails down my arms, pooling around my elbows and seeping through the knees of my jeans. I wasn't bleeding enough to be life threatening, but enough to make things even more uncomfortable, to make me light headed and so tired. The blood should be flowing on the inside, I thought. It wasn't going to do me much good in the bottom of the trunk.

I found that I could move and was surprised when I could relax a bit more than my previous experiences. The trunk felt more spacious than it had... when? Two weeks before? Or had it been a month? I'd been steadily losing muscle mass. It seemed that trips to the gym were getting fewer and farther between both because of my frequent beatings and because Flair never trusted me out of his sight for too long. The body that had once been my pride and joy was now just something for someone else to abuse and destroy.

I grit my teeth and maneuvered myself to lie on the floor of the trunk. The cuts on my back painfully scraped the side of the trunk, surrendering more skin before being pressed against the gritty wood of the bottom, throbbing with weight bearing down on them. I arranged my limbs, trying to find a position that would let the blood circulate through them. At least satisfied that if I survived, amputation wasn't in my future, I relaxed and tried to sleep. I hoped that would blunt the memories of the evening and the haunting sound of Flair's singing echoing through my mind.

~*~


I had no idea how long I'd been left in the dark tomb, pain eating into the parts of my body that weren't numb. Then, the lid of the trunk was jerked open.. Brilliant sunlight streamed through the windows above me and stabbed into my deprived eyes as I dragged them open.

Flair frowned down at me, expression perplexed. "Randy. You're not my golf clubs."

I dragged my tongue over my parched lips and whispered. "No, Master." I sat up, the skin and scabbing on my back ripping painfully away from the wood, my legs so much dead weight.

"Well, get your ass out of there and help me find them. Arn invited me to go golfing with him today at the Cypress Ranch. I thought I'd just make a weekend out of it."

I doubted that there had been an invitation extended. More than likely, Flair invited himself along and Arn would be more than glad to hear he'd be denied of his company.

"I..." I winced as the first painful prickles of returning feeling danced along my arms and legs, making me twitch. "I'll try."

Flair turned back to stalking around the suite still wearing only his boxers and house shoes as he searched for the missing clubs. "I can't remember where I left them. I have golf clubs, don't I?"

I rose from the trunk, wobbling dangerously on weak limbs, the little electrical shocks of awakening nerves flaring through them. "Yes, Master..." My teeth sank into my swollen bottom lip to stifle a moan of agony, fire shooting through my back. "Why don't I look for them while you get dressed?"

"Dressed?" Flair asked dumbfounded, looking down at himself, then his head snapped back up, eyes narrowing in anger. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"

A sudden movement sent a fresh wave of searing pain through my muscles. "N-no one... I was just thinking..."

"Don't think. Don't you fucking dare think after trying to hide from me all night."

My shoulders sagged, a denial dying on the tip of my tongue. If Flair thought I'd been hiding instead of being punished, there was little chance of me convincing him otherwise. "Yes, Master."

I watched Flair disappear into his bedroom and then began moving around the suite with slow cautious moments, ignoring discomfort along with the shredded shirt hanging from my shoulders as much as possible. I opened closets and cupboards, doing my best to look for the misplaced golf clubs in the possible places that Flair could have stashed them.

After a thorough look into everywhere the clubs could be hidden in the main room of the suite, I made my way into the bedroom, warily watching my master out of the corner of my eyes as he dressed. I discovered the clubs in their bag stashed in the closet behind a particularly bright pink robe with mauve flowers and at least a yard of frothy pink feathers around the sleeves and collar. Grabbing the bag, my bruised muscles screamed in protest when I dragged it from the closet. "Here they are. They were behind your favorite robe."

Flair tossed down the hairbrush he'd been running through his shock of platinum blonde hair and grinned broadly. "There they are." He looked over the clubs, running his fingers over the leather of the bag with a smile and then glared at me, taking in my rumpled and bloody appearance.

"What the hell's wrong with you with you? Have you been out looking for a fuck all night? Fucking worthless is what you are..."

I shied away from a contemptuous gesture that could have easily turned into a backhand slap. "I just... may I take a shower before I pack our bags for the ranch, Master?"

Flair snorted and looked at his watch. "Fine... I don't care. You have an hour. Then you goddamned better be ready. I'm going to breakfast." He snatched up a green robe laying on the bed and put it on with a flourish, stalking out of the suite, whistling the same tune from the night before under his breath.

I limped into the bathroom sighing raggedly. Once alone and given a chance to relax, the pain seemed to intensify with every step as I began the process of peeling the stiffened shreds of my shirt from my shoulders and chest, dropping them in the bathroom trash. I stripped out of the rest of my clothes and turned on the water as hot as possible. My jeans were kicked off and across the pristine white tiles, now faintly scattered with rusty flakes of dried blood. My gaze caught on the mirror, eyes catching on the collar around my throat. Muscles protesting at the raising of my arms, I worked the tab through the buckle, freeing it from my throat and tossed it on the counter.

I stared at my reflection without the collar, my fingers moving up to graze across the bare skin, a faint pale line where the band had rested. There was a time that seemed so long ago, when the thought of wearing a collar would have been met with a snort or a casual laugh. Now it was only without it that I felt truly naked. It seemed so unreal that in such a short time, the inside of the Club had changed me so dramatically. It had taken me from the confident, self-assured man that I had been and formed me into the creature in the mirror.

Turning resolutely away from the mirror, I readjusted the water and stepped into the spray, letting the bitter hot water pounded down my face and chest. I steeled myself before turning around, letting it run down the torn flesh of my back. The heat and pounding action of the spray aggravated the welts and reopened the cuts, the water running down the drain tinged with dried blood.

I wrapped an unsteady hand around a bottle of soap and squeezed a generous dollop on a washcloth and worked into a mass of lather. Stepping back, I began the long and torturous process of scrubbing myself clean. I managed to reach most if not all of the cuts as I twisted and turned, growing light headed with the efforts to scrub away the blood and fabric fibers embedded in my flesh. Fresh blood joined the rustier dried version in swirling down the drain as I leaned against the cool marble of the wall for support.

I rested my temple against the marble, my eyes stinging with tears of pain and weakness. The salty drops fell freely down my cheeks to mingle with the moisture beaded on my face. I tried to stomp down the emotions surging close to the surface. The feelings of worthlessness and hate for what I'd become-- for having ruined the comfort of belonging to someone. I longed again for that feeling of completeness in serving someone who valued me, of just being valued at all. I just wished that I could find solace in something in my current life.

Sucking in a deep breath, I pushed away from the wall, and turned to applying the soapy cloth to washing away the last traces of grime and blood, washing them all away as the heat from the spray eased the hurt and stiffness from my limbs. What good did it do to dwell on things that couldn't be changed? It was my own fault I belonged to Flair and that made anything that he gave me now just punishment. I deserved it.

I shut off the water, stepped out of the cloud of steam into the cool clear air and pulled a towel from the rack. Crimson splotches bloomed on the white of the towel as I dried my back. How badly was I hurt? That was something I didn't really want to know. Judging from the pain and stiffness, it was fairly serious, but knowing exactly how bad would only make the whole ordeal worse. It was better to just not know. As long as I stopped bleeding, as long as I could stand up to whatever Flair demanded, that was enough. Surviving. That was all I asked.

I went to the dresser and dragged out clean clothing. Briefs, jeans and a black pullover. Experience had taught me that by day's end at least, the wounds on my back would reopen and dark colors never showed the stains of blood seeping through them as well. At least black and navy blue didn't. There was no way to hide blood in red and for some reason, and in some way, it had become important to me that my wounds not show. It was something I could control, a way for me to show my strength.

I settled the shirt over my shoulders and tugged it down, straightening it. Satisfied that at least it would be tolerable rubbing against my abused flesh, I opened the top drawer and sorted through the vast array of collars. The common thing between all of them were rhinestones and the plush velvet fabric. All of them were so very feminine and gaudy. I rifled through them, dragging out a thin black band, clear stones winking brilliantly as they caught the light. I hated the glitter of them, the bright shininess that didn't fade. If they did, they were discarded, new ones moving in to replace them. But the utter cheerfulness of their glitter always seemed to mock me.

Collar absently fastened into place, I took out a suitcase for Flair and a bag for myself, quickly selecting the needed items and packing them with neat precision. It more than likely would go completely unnoticed by anyone, but I had done a good job of it. Things like packing, driving my master when allowed-- they were menial tasks, but to me, they were something. They were all that were left to find some satisfaction in.

I ghosted through the quiet halls of the club and hurried down the stairs to the main floor. As I passed through the tables of the cafe, some of them still bearing the remains of meals, my stomach growled. When was the last time I ate? I pondered the answer as I spotted Flair at the far end lingering over a cup of coffee and talking animatedly to Debra as she cleaned the next table.

"...Ten feet he fell on fire, I tell you and he STILL got up and finished the fight!"

"On fire, you say?" Debra asked absently as she stacked the plates and piled them in her tub. "Well, that must have really been something."

"Woooo! I'm telling you! It was one for the books." Flair cocked his head and paused. "He lost though, the bastard. I had money riding on him."

"Well if he fell that far and was on fire..." Debra trailed off and smiled. "Good mornin', Randy."

I offered her a shy smile and murmured a greeting before sitting on the floor next to my master's feet. I shifted and tried to find a position that didn't stretch the skin of my back and finally gave up, feeling every lash mark stand out on my back in agonizing relief.

Flair hardly spared me a glance as he went on with his story. "Second degree burns over forty percent of his body I think it was. Damn shame..." He gulped down the last of his coffee and stood. "Well, we'll be seeing you, darling. We're off to the ranch."

"What about some breakfast for Randy?" Debra inquired, shooting me a sympathetic gaze, as my stomach growled again, loud enough to catch her attention.

My master waved a hand in my direction. "No time for that now. He'll just have to eat later." Flair stood and started shaking crumbs out of his robe. "Randy, get the hell up off the floor. It's time to go. Go get our bags. I'll be waiting in the car."

Debra glanced down at the plate in her hand, a piece of toast and bacon left behind. Her eyes met mine meaningfully as she gazed up. Flair turned his back and strutted away. I mouthed a quick 'thank you' to her as I took the food from the plate, bolting down the few bites as I hurried off to do my master's bidding. It would at least tide me over until he remembered that I too had to eat.

Read Chapter Two of You Belong To Me by Wecanluvagain