Chapter 3

Morning came with no comfort.

I woke on the padded floor, still legs wide apart, neck stiff and legs half-numb. She stood before me, dressed in a sharply tailored riding jacket and polished boots. She looked down at me as if I were no more than a half-sculpted piece of clay.

“Thank me for letting you sleep well,” she said.

I looked up, dazed. “Thank you, Mistress.”

She held a leather collar in her hand. Not the training one from the night before—this one was heavier. Locked. Engraved with a sigil I couldn’t yet read.

“This,” she said, “is your real collar. You’ll wear it for one month. During that time, you’ll not be treated as a submissive. You will be trained as a pet. You will follow orders without hesitation. Speak only when permitted. Eat on your knees. Sleep on the floor. You will be stripped of everything.”

I swallowed. “Yes, Mistress.”

She snapped the collar around my neck. It clicked shut like a door behind me. She freed my shackles.

“Now,” she said. “Crawl to the washroom. You’ll clean yourself, but you will not look in the mirror. You’ve not earned the right to see what you are yet.”

The weeks blurred into ritual and obedience.

I was given a schedule—painstakingly strict. Wake up at 5:00 a.m. Clean the house on hands and knees, clean myself, have breakfast on a bowl on the floor, eaten silently. Afternoon service varied: polishing her collection of crops, memorizing etiquette protocols, kneeling for hours in the gallery as a silent fixture while her guests walked past me as if I was furniture. I was wondering, who truly is she!

My mum who is now my Mistress demanded nothing less than perfection. A pause in my answer, a hesitation in my posture—each error was punished with either a cane strike, or paddle spanking or even sharp kicks on my balls – depending on her mood.

On the third week, she brought me into a mirror room, which I didn’t even know existed. This made me think, that maybe this house, which is way too secure and fully covered by tall trees and a garden and walls, was a dungeon to begin with.

The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling glass. I stood naked, collared, hands cuffed behind my back. She circled me with a riding crop in hand.

“What do you see?” she asked coldly.

I hesitated. “A man, Mistress.”

Crack.

“Wrong.”

I gasped, trembling.

“You are not a man. Not here. You are my property. A servant. A pet. You gave up your ego the moment you touched yourself in my space without permission.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You will say it properly.”

I swallowed hard. “This slave thanks you for stripping him of his false self, Mistress.”

She smiled—barely.

“Better.”

Public humiliation became part of my daily training.

She began inviting others—her peers. Other Mistresses, that I never knew existed. Among them there was those two friends of hers as well. Each time, I was presented—not as a man, not even as a submissive, but as an object.

I would be positioned on a platform, blindfolded, labeled with signs Mistress made Me write myself: “He who forgot who owned him”, “A tool learning its place”, “Not ready to be touched.”

Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they tested me.

One Mistress dropped a slice of apple on the floor before me and said, “Beg for it.”

I did—without hesitation. And when I was granted permission to eat it from the floor without hands, Mistress’ eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

At the end of the month, she summoned me to the grand hall.

She sat on a throne, wearing a black silk gown that shined like moonlight on obsidian. I crawled before her, head low, the collar still locked in place.

“You have served,” she said. “You have bled. You have knelt. You have obeyed.”

I waited, silent, heart thundering.

“I asked for submission. You gave me surrender. That is rare.”

She leaned forward.

“Remove your collar.”

I blinked, stunned.

“Mistress...?”

“I said, remove it.”