How could fate weave such a cruel paradox, tearing me from the orbit of my Master?

The agreed-upon hour hung in the air, an intangible limit that he, with his scrupulous punctuality, would not dare to transgress. Six o'clock, not a moment before, not a breath after. That was what his voice had dictated, and so, like a magnetized needle to its north, he would present himself.

The door, a mute witness to countless encounters, offered its dark maw. I knew the ritual, the imposed nudity, the silent pilgrimage to the living room, the sanctuary of my servitude. There I would wait, prostrate in the prescribed genuflection, for the appearance of that star whose light had not illuminated my existence for days. A shadow of doubt, as piercing as a thorn, began to insinuate itself: had another sun eclipsed his firmament?

But a fault, an unforgivable slip, must have clouded his eyes, to deserve this incomprehensible disdain, this icy indifference that plunged me into a sea of growing anxiety. This silence was a lash more cruel than the floggings my Master had unleashed on my flesh on other occasions.

A rumor of footsteps broke the dense silence. My heart beat with the hope of a reunion. I lowered my gaze, submitting to discipline, but in the forge of my interior, a fiery rebellion clamored to break the chains of protocol, to throw myself into his arms, to feel the warmth of his body merging with mine. The consequences faded before the urgency of my longing, only the proximity of my Master was the compass of my desire.

But the voice that resonated on the threshold was an unknown echo. I raised my eyes, finding myself face to face with the hirsute figure of a man, his beard rough as underbrush, his face chiseled by coarseness. A slap, dry and brutal, struck my cheek.

"They told me you were obedient, that you followed the protocol your Master indicated to me. But I see in you the mark of impudent disobedience."

"No, Sir," I stammered, my throat knotted by surprise and fear.

Another slap, more violent than the first, cut off my plea.

"It wasn't a question, idiot."

Confusion enveloped me like a thick fog. My Master did not appear, and this intruder claimed me as if I were an object, a possession. The unease twisted in my chest, demanding answers, revealing the whereabouts of my Master, the reason for this disconcerting change of course.

"Your Master wanted to teach you a lesson," the stranger spat, his voice rough as stone. "The other day, at the bar, your eyes danced with too much insistence on the waiter. He saw in those glances the seed of betrayal, the desire to be desired by others. That's why, if you longed to be a... "—the word, crude and denigrating, lacerated the air—"he has allowed me to use you, so you can feel in your own flesh what it means to be the object of others, far from his domain. Whore bitch."

My heart collapsed, a wounded bird plum...