First it was an extra, brightly colored coffee cup in the drainer beside his. Then it was her art, spilling from her corner in his living room onto side tables and windows, and even his blank, neutral walls. He kept his home uncluttered because he liked his mind uncluttered. She couldn’t seem to grasp this concept, not even after repeated lectures and punishments in the attic, pinned by her nipples to the spanking bench. One day he found paint drips on his carpet. He put her in the dildo chair for two hours and tormented her until she screamed that she would respect his personal space and his home’s pristine decor. Then the very next day he found a silk plant shorn of leaves, sacrificed for collage parts. He ought to have been glad. She was proving that she could be his slave and still remain her true self, an impulsive, creative bundle of trouble. But this didn’t soothe him. It threatened him. If she could be his slave sometimes, his abject, unresisting slave, and still remain Valentina in all her uncontrolled beauty...
