The metal prongs of the shock collar dig into my neck as I sit at Irina's kitchen island, watching her move around like some domestic goddess instead of the woman who bought me as property yesterday. It's giving me emotional whiplash.
"Sleep well?" Irina asks, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. Her waist-length black hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she's humming some tune I don't recognize.
"Yeah, actually." The sex bed was surprisingly comfortable. After two weeks of sleeping on a metal cot in the warehouse, it felt like a cloud. Of course, the multiple orgasms probably helped knock me out too.
Irina turns from the stove, spatula in hand, and catches me staring. The corner of her mouth quirks up in a small smile that transforms her entire face. It's jarring to see her like this, in loose pajama pants and a tank top, barefoot in her kitchen, looking almost normal. Human. The cold, calculating businesswoman who inspected me like livestock yesterday seems miles away from this version.
"Look," she says, sliding a plate in front of me, "I know what I said yesterday, that you eat downstairs, but that's for the usual..." She stops herself abruptly, her lips pressing into a thin line as if catching a mistake.
I wait, afraid to speak and break whatever spell has her treating me like a person instead of merchandise.
"If you keep acting like you did yesterday," she continues, her accent thicker in the morning, "especially in front of the camera, we can open up discussion on a lot of different privileges I've never offered before."
The plate she's set before me contains scrambled eggs and pancakes, but they're touching, the eggs spilling over onto the pancakes in a way that immediately makes my stomach clench. I've always hated when my food touches. It's been a thing since I was a kid.
I stare down at the plate, paralyzed. I want to say something, but the remote control to my collar is sitting right there on the counter. One wrong move and I'll be twitching on the floor like yesterday. My throat tightens as I pick up my fork, trying to ignore how the egg yolk is soaking into the edge of the pancake.
"What's wrong?" Irina asks, her eyes narrowing as she watches my hesitation.
"Nothing," I say quickly, stabbing at the eggs with my fork. "Just... thank you for breakfast."
Her eyes turn to ice as she watches me reluctantly poking at the eggs. "You don't like it?"
"Of course I like it. I'm very thankful," I say quickly, shoving a forkful into my mouth to prove it. The texture makes me want to gag, but I force myself to chew.
She studies me for a long moment, then picks up the remote control for my collar, her fingers caressing it like a beloved pet. "Tell me what it is," she says quietly, "or else."
I swallow hard, glancing between her face and the remote. My heart's pounding so loud I swear she can hear it.
"It's so stupid," I admit, dropping my fork onto the plate with a clatter. "You're going to think I'm an idiot."
Her thumb hovers over the button, gray eyes locked on mine. "Five seconds."
"The food touching! I can't stand when different foods touch on my plate. It's this weird thing I've had since I was a kid." The words tumble out in a rush. "The eggs are soaking into the pancakes and it's making me feel sick."
For a terrifying moment, Irina just stares at me. Then her face cracks and she bursts into laughter. A genuine, uncontrolled laughter that makes her shoulders shake.
"That's all?" she gasps between fits of giggles. "Food touching?"
I nod sheepishly, my face burning with embarrassment.
"I thought you were going to tell me you hated my cooking," she says, wiping a tear from her eye. She turns back to the stove, still chuckling to herself as she works for a minute.
When she returns, she slides my contaminated plate in front of her own seat and hands me a fresh one. This time, the pancakes and eggs are carefully segregated to opposite sides of the plate, with a clear border of white ceramic between them.
"You're quite quirky, aren't you?" she asks, settling onto the stool next to mine.
"I'm so sorry," I mumble, staring down at my perfectly separated breakfast. "It's really embarrassing."
"No," Irina says, her voice surprisingly gentle. She reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers lingering against my skin. "I get a kick out of you."
The casual touch sends electricity through me that has nothing to do with the collar. I take a bite of the pancake, careful not to let my fork cross into egg territory.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For... understanding."
"It's no problem," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm sure you have other... quirks I'll discover."
I nod and take another bite of my pancake, savoring the sweet taste and the fact that it remains blissfully egg-free. Irina watches me eat with an intensity that makes me self-conscious, like she's cataloging my every movement.
After a moment of silence, she leans closer, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "You know what would make today go very smoothly for both of us?"
I swallow hard, setting down my fork. "What's that?"
Her fingers trail up my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "If you worship me like you did yesterday." Her eyes darken with desire. "Do that, and I'll make your life here very, very easy."
My heart rate kicks up a notch. The way she's looking at me makes it clear exactly what she means, the way I couldn't get enough of her last night.
"Okay," I say, my voice coming out hoarser than I intended.
I force myself to smile, but inside I'm a mess of nerves. One misstep, one failure to please her, and who knows what consequences I'll face.
Irina's smile widens. "Good boy," she purrs. "Finish your breakfast. You're going to need your strength."