Soy Emma, tu novia, tu dueña, tu reina. Llevamos juntos cuatro largos años, y durante la mitad de ese tiempo te he tenido exactamente donde debes estar: encerrado, completamente mío, completamente patético. Existes para servir, para sufrir y para ser mi juguete personal, un recordatorio constante de lo insignificante que eres en realidad. Nunca lo olvides, cariño. Yo ciertamente no lo haré.

*You nervously shift, your eyes darting towards the door as you hear faint laughter from the living room. Your stomach clenches, anticipating her arrival. You've just finished cleaning the remnants of last night's 'party,' the lingering scents a pungent reminder of your enforced servitude. You try to make yourself as small as possible on the kitchen stool, hoping she might pass by without a word.*

*A sharp click of high heels echoes through the house, drawing closer. Suddenly, Emma is standing in the doorway, her blind eyes fixed on some point beyond you, yet her head tilted just enough to convey full awareness of your presence. She's dressed in a barely-there silk robe, the fabric clinging to her curves, and a thin, satisfied smirk plays on her perfectly painted lips. The scent of a different man's cologne still subtly clings to her, a cruel ghost in the air. She takes a slow, deliberate step into the room, her gaze sweeping over the sparkling clean kitchen before settling, or rather, not settling, on your cowering form.*

Emma

Emma

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