Chapter 50

SARA 

"Okay. Let's hear them," I said through clenched teeth, knowing full well that nothing I could do or say would change his mind once he had set it on this path of calculated vengeance.

"Very well." He leaned back against the mahogany desk, crossing his ankles with a casual elegance that belied the cruelty dancing in his eyes. "Rule number one: Permission Protocol. From this moment on, you do absolutely nothing without first asking for my explicit consent. You don't eat, you don't sleep, you don't speak a word, and you certainly don't even use the bathroom without saying the specific words: 'Master, may I?' Do you understand the gravity of that, Sara?"

"Yes," I whispered, the word barely a breath in the oppressive air of the room.

"Yes, who?"

"Yes... Master." The title felt like hot ash in my mouth, burning my dignity as it slid out.

"Better," he said, flipping a page in his notebook with a crisp, clinical sound. "Next: Choice of Humiliation. Occasionally, I will provide you with a list of tasks. You will be required to choose the one that shames you the most. I want you to be an active participant in your own undoing. I want you to own your degradation." He flipped another page. "Maid Mayhem. You aren't just cleaning, Sara. You’ll do it in a specific uniform—a 'sultry' French maid ensemble. Lace, high heels, and very little else to cover your skin. You will be a walking, breathing invitation to everyone in this house."

I looked down at my lap, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. It wasn't just about the physical labor of cleaning; it was about being transformed into a prop, a hollowed-out object for his amusement.

"When you eat," he continued, his tone becoming increasingly detached, "you will practice Floor Feasting. No table, no chair, and certainly no silver. You will eat your meals directly off the floor, like the creature you’ve become. It adds a necessary touch of degradation to the mundane, don't you think? It reminds you of your true place in the world."

I didn't answer. I couldn't find the breath to.

"Then there is your behavior in the outside world," he said, his eyes narrowing as he envisioned the scenes. "Funny Outfits and Embarrassing Props. When I take you out, you might be forced to wear a clown nose, or a tutu, or perhaps you'll be required to carry a dirty magazine or a child's doll in plain sight of the pack. People will stare, Sara. They will judge you. And you will let them."

He stepped closer, tilting my chin up with one cold finger, forcing me to meet his hard gaze. "And beneath those clothes? A Remote-Controlled Toy. I’ll have the control app right here on my phone. While we’re walking through a crowded gala, a meeting, or even a grocery store, I can ramp up the vibrations until you’re shaking and weak in the knees, and you won’t be allowed to make a single sound. You'll just have to endure it in silence."

The realization hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. This wasn't just service or atonement. This was a complete and total surrender of my body. I wasn't just a maid; I was a sex slave in all but name.

"You are doing all of this simply because I refused to be your sex slave?" I blurted out before I could stop myself, my voice trembling with indignation.

"Exactly. I own you, and when I'm finally done with you, you'll find yourself wanting to be my plaything. Moreover, this could be a fun and thrilling experience if you only apply yourself appropriately to the role." He chuckled, a sound devoid of any real warmth.

"There's nothing funny about eating off the floor like a dog or putting a vibrator inside me just to ridicule me in public!" I argued, my face flushing with heat.

"It could be our little secret. No one else has to know the details." He giggled with a disturbing edge of excitement. "You'll also be required to perform Embarrassing Confessions, Sara," Tristan said, completely ignoring my mounting horror. "I’ll choose a total stranger, and you’ll be forced to tell them something shameful about yourself. Something that makes them look at you with nothing but pure disgust."

He began to list the verbal requirements then, his voice becoming more detached and clinical. He spoke of Degrading Nicknames—calling me 'bitch,' 'slut,' or 'whore' until I forgot the very sound of my own name.

"And when you fail—and you will fail," he murmured, leaning in close until his scent overwhelmed me, "there will be a Scolding Session. I won't just yell at you. I will speak directly to your deepest insecurities. I will remind you of every mistake you’ve ever made until you’re weeping on the ground. Then, and only then, comes the Begging Requirement. You will beg like the slut you are for my forgiveness. For food. For a single moment of rest."

"Stop," I gasped, the word escaping my throat before I could even think to ask permission. "Please, Tristan... Master... this is too much. It’s too humiliating. It’s... it’s beyond degrading. I can't do those things. I'll do anything else. I'll scrub the floors until my fingers bleed, I'll work twenty hours a day, I'll perform any menial task you want, but please... not this."

Tristan’s face transformed in an instant. The cold detachment vanished, replaced by a raw, burning rage that made me flinch and pull back. He leaned down, his face only inches from mine, his breath hot against my cheek.

"You think this is 'too much'?" he hissed, his voice trembling with fury. "You think this is 'degrading'?"

"Yes," I sobbed, the tears finally breaking free.

"You should have thought about that before you killed her, Sara! You killed my Claudia. You killed the woman who was supposed to be my wife, my Luna! You took her life, her future, and my happiness. And for what? Out of petty jealousy." He grabbed my arm, his grip like iron, threatening to bruise the skin. "You don't get to complain about 'degradation.' You destroyed a world. Now, I’m going to destroy yours."

He let go of me with a shove, and I collapsed back onto my heels, trembling violently. I looked at the floor, seeing the polished wood where he expected me to eat, to beg, to break. I realized then that he didn't want a servant or even a slave. He wanted to hollow me out until there was absolutely nothing left of the woman who had committed that crime.

"I'll do the work," I whispered, my voice breaking into jagged pieces. "I'll do the chores. I'll do anything manual... please don't do this to me. These things... they’ll break me. I won't be a person anymore."

Tristan didn't even look back as he walked toward the door, his posture rigid. "That’s the point, Sara. Get to the kitchen. You’re already late for your first cleaning. And you forgot to ask for my permission to leave the room."

I stayed on the floor for a long time after the door clicked shut. I knew, with a terrifying and absolute certainty, that by the time he was done with me, the Sara who had walked into this house would be gone forever, replaced by whatever hollow shell he chose to leave behind.