Prologue

I am a pet. I was taken against my will when I was 11 years old. A young virgin meant to become a sex slave, sold to Adrian Lambert and brought to his house. He kept me for eight years, but he never touched me, at least not sexually.

My job was to be his pet. I stayed with him when he was home, followed him wherever he went in the house, fetched him what he needed, sat at his feet, slept in his bed when he was alone, slept on the floor of his bedroom when he was with a lover. I fed him, attended him, bathed him. When he was entertaining his friends, I helped by serving drinks, readying his toys, cleaning him up, cleaning up after him. It was my job and I was the only one who did it.

When he wasn't home, my job was to prowl the house. Our house, he told me. No one watched over me and in the early days when I was still willful, I thought I could walk away at any time. That was before I understood that breaking the rules had consequences. I tested Adrian shortly after I was bought by trying to leave, but I was caught before I got beyond the front gate. Jake, Adrian's man, stopped me and brought me back.

Adrian had me beaten – not by him. He didn't touch me, but he sanctioned it, determined the degree of brutality, and watched as Jake delivered the punishment.

When it was over, he ordered me to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal and serve it to his friends and him. I could barely walk, could barely manage through my tears and Cook was not there to help. When the meal had been eaten and the dishes cleared, he made me sit at his feet for the evening, and at the end, as I cleaned him up and put away the toys, he told that the beating was a light one. Should I try to run again, I would be beaten until I couldn't walk.

After that, I didn't run. Because I was afraid, yes, but also because there was no reason to. Adrian was strict with me, making me follow his rules, but he treated me well enough, or so he said. It could have been so much worse, he told me. You could have been auctioned off. Treated brutally, fucked perversely. You should be grateful. And so I was.

He gave me what I needed to be comfortable: food, books to read, music to listen to, and materials to paint with. And he never touched me, other than to sometimes ruffle my hair or give me a small pinch or slap when I wasn't quick enough to do his bidding.

It was while I was still learning the rules that I lost the memories of my life before Adrian. I didn't spend much time dwelling on where they went because I couldn't tell the difference between real and false recollections. It's what Adrian said when I asked about something – it was a false memory, it didn't exist.

Any memories I had curled and turned to ash like paper on fire. I convinced myself that I dreamt my childhood and that Adrian was and had always been my reality. It became so much easier to accept my life after that, after I let go of my dreams.

In my real existence, Adrian was my life, the air I breathed, the food I ate. He had my unwavering loyalty. I realized that there was no better place for me to be, though I somehow knew that my term as a pet had a short lifespan, and as the years passed, I was rapidly approaching the end of mine.

At 11, I was cute, had plump curves and the roundness of a pre-adolescent girl. But at 19, I've become less soft, my body thinner, my face more angular. And I have become more serious and less tolerant of anyone and everyone who isn't Adrian.