Its 10 in the morning, and I stride into my dungeon, where my slave has been locked in a cage for two days, still lost in uneasy sleep. I wake him with a sharp command: Its time for breakfast, get up! He hasnt eaten in two days, and his weary eyes flicker with faint hope. I light a cigarette, the smoke curling through the dungeon air, stirring something in my stomach. With a sadistic smirk, I ask him, What do you expect to eat? A plate of pasta? A piece of meat? He mumbles, voice shaky, Maybe some meat I burst into laughter, the sound echoing off the cold walls. Youll see what you get in my house, I say. Here, you only consume my gifts: my caviar and my piss.He hesitates, silent, knowing he has no choice if he wants to be fed. I lift my dress with a slow, deliberate motion, grab a transparent glass bowl, and squat, filling it. This morning, my caviar is creamy, a vivid yellow, thanks to the raw fish and artichokes I savored last nightpractically a spoonable breakfast, like some perverse dessert. I sit beside him, bowl in hand, and give him time to eat it all, feeding him with a teaspoon like a servile wretch, tolerating no waste, not even a drop. The textures like a creamy soup, and his discomfort as he swallows is delightfully pathetic. Must be delicious, I remark, laughing.The slave, struggling, finishes it all, and Im proud of his obedience. To wash it down, I offer a glass of my divine piss, freshly drawn from the source, served with a straw for a touch of refined humiliation. Here, too, I permit not a single drop to be wasted. As he drinks, I watch with a mix of disdain and satisfaction. See you in a couple of days, I say, dismissing him with a cruel smile. Now Ive got another slave to feed, caged in the next room. With that, I leave him there, trapped in his submission, and head off to my next toy.
