Finally, the first warm days. The sun lazily filters through the window and I, triumphant, enjoy my ice cream cone on the couch like a queen on her throne. Creamy, fresh, perfect. A small everyday luxury that tastes like freedom.Beside me, kneeling as always, my leashed slave stares at me with hungry eyes. I know what hes thinking. He wants a taste. A bite, a lick, even a trace of that sweetness. But no. I dont share my ice cream. Especially not with him.You can only lick the heel of my Casadei Blades, loser, I whisper, caressing his humiliation with a smirk.And yet theres something tender, almost pathetic, in that puppy-like expression of his. Maybejust maybetoday Ill be generous.So, with regal calm and a glance of fake indifference, I prepare a small chocolate cone right there, in front of him. I do it with great love, of coursebut not with my hands. Only with my will, my grace, my superiority. And he watches, wide-eyed.Take it, I say. Eat it. Enjoy it. And be grateful.Because even slaves, every now and then, deserve a treat.
