Similarly, I am much more than a simple decoration on my master’s arm; I run around getting drinks for people and taking coats and fulfilling a hundred different roles at once. I don’t even think to talk back or be anything but the picture perfect slave. My master has given me exactly one warning, right before the party started, and it was simple: “Fuck up tonight and I’m selling you.” He knows how to hurt me, and he’s clearly willing to do it. I don’t dwell on it, though, because I suppose it would be an appropriate consequence. I want to stay with him, badly, so I perform perfectly. Even when I’m trying to be good, I’m still underhanded. I purposely overhear his conversation with a coworker. “Mr. Michaud, I didn’t realize you owned a slave!” the older man exclaims after I hand them drinks and nod deferentially to my master. “It appears that way.” My master is all grave and displeased about it as usual.
