I continued to work for him existing in a semi-conscious blur of reality never making the mistake of “I don’t want to, Sir” again. I gave myself freely to him and in so doing became his whore. I even came to like it and he came to love me. I knew he loved me from the little things: His strong heavy touch, his voice (he always gave me advice about everything) and the way he looked at me. Sometimes there were even tears in my-- no, I mean his eyes. He loved me. For what else could I have asked?
To be loved is a beautiful thing- even when it hurts.