Fallen into Slavery

I knelt before Diya, my heart actually calm. Or rather, it was calm after a long period of reflection.

The stone floor was cold against my knees, a familiar sensation I had forced countless others to experience. Now it was my turn. The irony did not escape me. I had designed this very chamber, chosen each stone with care, ensured the perfect temperature to keep slaves alert and uncomfortable during long hours of waiting. How many had trembled here, wondering what punishment or pleasure I would bestow upon them? How many had I kept kneeling for hours, just to watch the hope drain from their eyes?

And now I was the one kneeling.

My red hair fell forward, brushing against my shoulders as I lowered my head. I had tied it back simply today, no elaborate styles, no ornamental combs. Only the plainest ribbon, because I no longer deserved adornment. I had taken off my jewelry this morning, piece by piece, laying each ring and bracelet in their velvet boxes like artifacts from a former life. The weight of them had felt like chains in recent months, reminders of a role I no longer wished to play.

For three years, I watched this little girl I had picked up from the wilderness grow up little by little. She always looked at me with those watery eyes. No matter how I trained her, how I made her sob and climax under my fingers, she carried an almost worshipful love. That love both satisfied and vaguely unsettled me—I began to yearn to be completely enveloped by that same love, rather than forever standing at the top.

When I personally removed the collar from her neck and held it up before her, my fingers trembled slightly. The weight of the metal once represented my dominance, but now it had become a gift I offered to her.

My palms were sweating. I could feel the dampness against the cool metal, could see the faint tremor in my hands that I could not control. How long had it been since I last trembled? Years. Decades perhaps. I had built myself into something immovable, unshakeable, a fortress of will and power. And now I was shaking like a leaf before a storm, all because of a child.

No, not just any child. Diya.

I looked at her through my lashes, not daring to raise my head fully. She was standing before me, so small in her simple dress, her dark hair falling around her delicate face. Those eyes—those impossibly deep eyes that had haunted my dreams for months—were watching me with a mixture of confusion and something else. Something that looked almost like fear.

She was afraid. Good. No, not good. I did not want her afraid. But her fear told me she understood the gravity of this moment. She knew what I was offering was not a game, not another test, not another lesson in the cruel education I had subjected her to. This was real.

'Please dominate me... my beloved mistress.'

The words left my lips before I could stop them, and once spoken, they hung in the air like a spell taking form. My voice was steady, surprising even myself. I had rehearsed this moment so many times in my head, speaking the words in solitude until they felt natural, until the shame of them had worn away into something like anticipation.

The moment I said those words, I felt all my mana rejoicing. The cold touch of the collar being refastened around my neck made me shiver. The oppressive feeling of being bound was so real, yet it strangely relaxed me. Mana began to flow, like a warm yet aggressive stream pouring from my body into hers. I could clearly feel my power being slowly drained away—the formidable mana that once could manipulate others at will was now obediently submitting to this mere eleven-year-old girl.

Am I really going to do this? Reason struggled at the last moment. I was once the lofty Lady Eileen, the mistress of countless slaves, the dominator who made Diya tremble on the training table again and again. Now, I had voluntarily given everything away. My breasts rose and fell gently with my breath, my nipples already erect with sensitivity, my private parts faintly feeling an empty heat. I did not resist. I just knelt quietly, letting this feeling of being drained slowly seep into my bones.

The mana transfer was unlike anything I had experienced before. It was not like the controlled flow of power when I cast spells, nor the violent surge of battle magic. This was intimate, personal, a river of my very essence flowing into another person. I could feel Diya's mana core accepting mine, could sense the way her body struggled to contain power that had never been meant for her. She was so small, so fragile, and yet she was taking all of me.

I gasped as the flow intensified. My body arched involuntarily, hands pressing flat against the floor to keep myself upright. Every muscle tensed, every nerve ending screamed with sensation. It was agony. It was ecstasy. It was the most vulnerable I had ever been in my entire life.

The collar around my neck felt heavy, real. It was not the decorative piece I had worn as a symbol of status, nor the practical one that regulated my mana for training. This was a slave collar, plain and unadorned, exactly the kind I had placed on countless others. The metal was cool against my throat, a constant reminder of what I had become.

When the transfer was complete, I felt an unprecedented weakness. My limbs were numb, but my body was unusually sensitive. A gentle breeze brushing over my skin felt like a lover's caress. I could feel every fiber of the fabric against my knees, every imperfection in the stone floor, every whisper of air that moved through the chamber. The world had become overwhelming, too sharp, too real.

I lowered my head, not daring to meet Diya's eyes, yet through the newly established mana link, I vaguely sensed her complex emotions of confusion and love. That love reassured me—even if I had nothing now, at least she was still here.

The link between us was faint at first, like a thread of spider silk connecting our cores. But as I focused on it, I could feel the shape of her emotions, the warmth of her presence. She was confused, yes, and frightened. But beneath that, there was something else. Something tender and protective. Something that made my heart ache.

I had spent three years teaching her to obey, to submit, to surrender. I had broken her down and rebuilt her in my image. And yet, somewhere in that process, she had maintained a core of love that I could not extinguish. That love had survived my cruelty, my manipulations, my endless tests. It had grown stronger, purer, until it had begun to change me in return.

I slowly removed my clothes. Each piece I took off felt like peeling away my former self. When the last undergarment slipped to my ankles, I stood completely naked before her. The cool air against my private parts made me tremble slightly. The coldness of the floor beneath my feet made me even more aware of my vulnerability.

My fingers worked the buttons of my dress with deliberate slowness. There was no rush, no need to hurry. This was a ritual, and rituals demanded patience. The fabric slid over my shoulders, catching briefly on my arms before falling to pool around my waist. I paused there, half-clothed, giving her time to see what she was receiving.

She had seen my body before, of course. In my role as mistress, I had often trained her while partially dressed, using the contrast of our states to reinforce her position. But this was different. This was not me displaying my superiority. This was me offering my vulnerability.

I reached behind my back to undo the clasps of my undergarments. My fingers fumbled, clumsy with nerves. I had to try twice before the fabric loosened, and I let it fall forward, catching it briefly before letting it join my dress on the floor.

Now I was bare from the waist up. The air was cool against my breasts, making my nipples tighten further. I could feel her gaze on me, could sense through the link her confusion and curiosity. She had never seen me like this, completely exposed, completely defenseless.

I reached for my skirt, unfastening it with steady hands. It fell to the floor, and I stepped out of it, leaving me in only the thin fabric of my smallclothes. These I removed last, hooking my thumbs into the waistband and sliding them down my legs. I had to balance on one foot, then the other, a moment of awkwardness that reminded me how human I still was.

From this moment on, I was no longer the mistress. This thought struck like lightning, but it brought not fear, but a long-awaited liberation. Finally, I could love her, serve her, with my whole being and without reservation.

I settled back onto my knees, my hands resting on my thighs, my head bowed. This was the position I had taught her, the posture of submission I had demanded from all my slaves. Now I was the one assuming it, and the rightness of it settled into my bones like a homecoming.

The silence stretched between us. I could hear my own breathing, could feel my heart beating against my ribs. The mana link pulsed with Diya's emotions, a constant background hum that I was still learning to interpret.

"Eileen?" Her voice was small, uncertain.

I did not look up. "Yes, mistress?"

"Is this..." She paused, and I could sense her struggling with what to say. "Is this really what you want?"

The question caught me off guard. In all my preparations, I had not anticipated that she would ask. I had expected confusion, perhaps resistance. But her concern for my wellbeing, even now, even when I had enslaved myself to her, touched something deep within me.

"Yes," I said, and my voice was steadier than I had expected. "This is what I want. What I have wanted for a long time."

"But why?" Her footsteps approached, and I could see her bare feet stop before me. "You were the mistress. You were powerful, beautiful, in control of everything. Why would you give that up?"

I raised my head slightly, just enough to see her legs, her simple dress, her small hands clenched at her sides. I did not dare meet her eyes. Not yet.

"Because power is lonely," I said softly. "Because control is exhausting. Because for three years, I have watched you love me despite everything I did to you, and I realized that your love was worth more than all my power combined."

I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I had not cried in years, had trained myself out of such displays of weakness. But now the tears came freely, and I did not try to stop them.

"Diya," I whispered. "My precious Diya. I have done terrible things to you. I have hurt you, manipulated you, used you for my own pleasure and power. And yet you loved me. You loved me when I did not deserve it, when I had done nothing to earn it. Your love broke something inside me, something that had been locked away for so long I had forgotten it existed."

She knelt before me, her small hands reaching out to touch my face. Her fingers were warm against my skin, gentle as she wiped away my tears. Through the link, I could feel her emotions shifting, confusion giving way to understanding.

"I was so afraid," she admitted. "When you took off my collar, I thought I had done something wrong. I thought you were going to send me away."

"Never." The word came out fierce, possessive. "I will never leave you. I have bound myself to you, body and soul. Wherever you go, I will follow. Whatever you command, I will obey. I am yours, Diya. Completely and forever yours."

Her hands trembled against my cheeks. "But I don't know how to be a mistress. You taught me to be a slave. I don't know how to do this."

I smiled, and I could feel the tears still falling, mixing with the salt on my lips. "Then I will teach you. Just as you have taught me what love truly means."

She was silent for a long moment, her thumbs tracing gentle patterns on my cheekbones. Then she spoke, and her voice held a new note, something like authority finding its first voice.

"Eileen. Look at me."

I raised my eyes slowly, meeting her gaze for the first time since I h

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The carriage wheels turned beneath me, their rhythmic clatter against the cobblestones a steady percussion that matched the beating of my heart. The estate had long since faded into the darkness behind us, but its presence lingered in my skin, in the tender places where ropes had bitten, in the phantom weight of chains that no longer bound my wrists. Night had fully claimed the sky now, and the carriage interior was lit only by the soft glow of a single lantern that swayed with each movement, casting dancing shadows across the velvet seats.

I sat at Diya's feet.

Not because she had commanded it, though she might have, had I not moved before she could speak. No, I had chosen this position the moment we stepped into the carriage, my knees pressing into the cushioned floor, my hands resting palms-up on my thighs. It was where I belonged. The truth of that statement settled into my bones with a strange and terrible peace.

Diya's small hand rested on the top of my head, her fingers occasionally carding through my red hair with an absentminded tenderness that made my throat tighten. She had not spoken since we departed, and I was grateful for the silence. It gave me room to unravel the tangle of sensations and revelations that the evening had woven into my very being.

The gathering had ended with a final display that I suspected would haunt my dreams and feed my shame for weeks to come. Lady Seraphina had insisted on one last spectacle before releasing her guests, and I had been led to the center of the great hall on all fours, a leash attached to the collar that had been placed around my neck when I first arrived. Diya had held the other end, her small figure standing tall amid the circle of seated nobles who watched with eyes that gleamed in the candlelight.

"Do you have anything to say to those who witnessed your degradation tonight?" Lady Seraphina had asked, her voice carrying across the silent hall.

I had raised my head, meeting the gazes of men and women I had once called peers, trade partners, acquaintances. Some I had entertained in my own home. Others I had done business with, negotiated contracts, shared meals. Now they saw me on my knees, collared, stripped of every pretense of equality.

"Thank you," I had said, and the words had tasted like ash and honey in equal measure. "Thank you for seeing me as I truly am."

A murmur had rippled through the crowd. Lady Seraphina had smiled, and Diya had tugged gently on the leash, drawing my head back to look at her.

"You are mine," she had said softly, for my ears alone, though I knew others could hear. "Remember that, no matter what anyone else sees tonight."

And I had felt it then, that strange alchemy of humiliation and devotion that transformed shame into something almost sacred. I was hers. Every gaze that fell upon me, every whispered comment, every knowing look—they all confirmed it. I was owned. I was claimed. I had surrendered, and in that surrender, I had found a freedom I had never known as a mistress of my own estate.

Now, in the carriage, the memory pulsed through me like a second heartbeat. I pressed my forehead against Diya's knee, and she responded by threading her fingers more deeply into my hair, scratching lightly at my scalp.

"It was a good evening," she said, her voice carrying that quality of absolute certainty that always sent a shiver through me. "You did well, Eileen."

"Thank you, Mistress." The words came automatically, but they were not empty. They carried the weight of genuine gratitude, genuine relief. I had performed for her. I had been shown and displayed and used in ways that would have shattered the woman I was months ago. And yet, here I knelt, intact, whole, more myself than I had ever been.

The carriage hit a rut, and I swayed, catching myself on the edge of the seat. Diya's hand tightened briefly, steadying me, and I felt the warmth of her palm against my scalp.

"Tell me what you are feeling," she said. It was not a request.

I closed my eyes, letting the darkness behind my lids merge with the darkness of the carriage. What was I feeling? The question deserved an answer, and I owed her the truth, no matter how tangled it might be.

"Confused," I began, and the word felt inadequate. "But not in a way that causes me distress. It is more like... like I am seeing the world through new eyes, and everything is arranged differently than I expected. The patterns I once used to understand my place in things no longer apply."

"Go on."

"I was a slave owner." The words fell from my lips, heavy and strange. "I owned people. I directed their lives, their bodies, their very existence. I thought I understood what that meant. I thought I knew the distance between master and slave, the proper arrangement of power and submission." I paused, gathering my thoughts like scattered beads. "Tonight, I was shown, publicly, in front of people who once knew me as their equal, that I am now what I once possessed. I knelt where I once stood. I was displayed in the same spaces where I once displayed my own slaves. And the symmetry of it..."

I stopped, unsure how to articulate the vertigo that seized me when I considered this reversal. The carriage swayed, and Diya waited.

"The symmetry of it," I continued, "feels like a judgment. But also like a completion. As if I was always meant to arrive at this place, and my years as a mistress were merely a preparation for understanding what it truly means to be owned."

Diya's hand stilled on my head. "You believe you deserve this."

It was not a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes, Mistress. Or perhaps not deserve, in the sense of punishment. But belong here, yes. As if my nature, which I suppressed and ignored for so long, has finally been recognized and given its proper form."

I felt her shift above me, and then her voice came, thoughtful and measured. "You are not the first former owner to find themselves in this position. But you are the most honest about it. Most cling to their old identities, resist the transformation even as they submit to it. You... you embrace it."

"Is that wrong, Mistress?"

"No." Her hand resumed its gentle stroking. "It is what makes you valuable. Your surrender is not reluctant. It is not forced. You choose this, every moment. That choice has power."

The carriage continued its journey through the night, and I remained at Diya's feet, letting her words settle into me. She was right, of course. Every morning when I woke and found myself in her castle, in her service, I made a choice. I could resist. I could withdraw my consent. But I did not. I chose to kneel. I chose to obey. I chose to be what she was making of me.

And what was that? The question haunted me as the miles passed beneath the wheels. I had begun this journey as a slave owner, arrogant and assured in my position. I had committed a crime—a betrayal of trust and law—and been punished with the very fate I had inflicted on others. But somewhere between the sentence and its execution, between the chains and the collar, between the first night of terror and the present moment of peace, something had shifted.

I no longer wanted to escape. I no longer dreamed of freedom, of returning to my old life, of reclaiming my former status. Those desires had withered, replaced by something far more consuming: the need to be owned. To be claimed. To be utterly and completely possessed by this child who had seen through my defenses and claimed me as her own.

The thought should have horrified me. Part of me, perhaps the part that still remembered how to be ashamed, did recoil. But that part grew quieter each day, its protests weaker, its objections less convincing.

"Tell me about the toilet," Diya said, and my body responded before my mind could, flushing with heat, tightening with remembered humiliation.

I had known, of course, that she would ask. She missed nothing, forgot nothing. The moments I had stolen during the gathering, the brief escape I had thought private, she would know about. She always knew.

"I went to relieve myself," I said, my voice steady despite the burning in my cheeks. "I thought I would be alone, that I could gather myself away from the eyes of the guests."

"But you were not alone."

"No, Mistress." I swallowed, the memory rising unbidden. "Lady Seraphina's steward was there. Or perhaps not a steward—another slave, I think. A woman with gray eyes and a cruel smile. She cornered me before I could reach the door."

"What did she do?"

I took a breath, steadying myself. "She asked if I had permission to use the facilities. I told her I had been given leave by you, but she said that was not sufficient. She said that in Lady Seraphina's estate, all slaves must be attended, even in their most private moments."

"And did she attend you?"

"Yes, Mistress." The word came out rough, scraped raw by the memory. "She watched. She... she instructed me. Told me how to position myself, which parts of my body to expose, how to present myself as I performed the most base of functions. She said that slaves have no privacy, that our bodies are not our own, that even our waste belongs to our masters."

I felt Diya's fingers tighten in my hair.

"Tell me how it felt."

"Horrible." The truth escaped before I could polish it. "And... and also not. There was a rightness to it, Mistress. A terrible, beautiful rightness. When she made me kneel and exposed myself, when she stood over me and watched, I felt more myself than I had in years. As if the humiliation stripped away everything false and left only what was essential."

"Which is?"

"A slave. I am a slave, Mistress. Not just in law, not just in circumstance, but in my soul. I was born to kneel. I was born to be owned. And every moment of my life before I met you was a lie I told myself to avoid this truth."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and luminous. I had never spoken them aloud before, not even in the privacy of my own thoughts. But now that they had been said, they felt inevitable, as if they had been waiting for this moment all along.

Diya was silent for a long time. The carriage continued its steady progress, the horses' hooves a rhythmic counterpoint to the beating of my heart.

"You understand, then," she finally said, "why I did not rescue you from that moment. Why I did not come looking for you when you took so long."

"Yes, Mistress. The lesson was necessary."

"It was." Her voice held no apology. "You needed to understand that your submission is not conditional. It is not limited to the moments when I am watching, when I am present to enforce it. Your submission must be total, extending even to the most private and degrading moments of your existence. If you cannot accept that, you cannot be mine."

"I accept it." The words rushed out of me, desperate and sincere. "I accept all of it, Mistress. The humiliation. The exposure. The stripping away of every dignity I once thought essential. I accept it because it brings me closer to you, because it makes me more completely yours."

"Good." She tugged gently on my hair, tilting my head back so I was looking up at her. In the dim light of the carriage, her eyes seemed to hold depths of knowledge far beyond her eleven years. "But acceptance is not enough. You must also understand. You must know, in your bones, why this is necessary."

"I am trying, Mistress."

"You are succeeding." She released my hair and leaned back against the seat. "Tonight marked a turning point. Before this gathering, you were still partially outside. You still held some part of yourself in reserve, some secret space where you remained Eileen the landowner, Eileen the former mistress. That space is gone now. Everyone who saw you tonight knows what you are. There is no hiding, no pretense, no possibility of return."

The finality of her words settled over me like a shroud. She was right. I had been seen. By people who knew me, who had dealt with me, who had respected me. They had seen

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The room had grown dim as the last light of dusk retreated through the small window. I remained on my knees, the stone floor cool against my skin, each breath a reminder of the collar that now encircled my neck. The metal had lost its initial chill, but I still felt its presence with every swallow, every turn of my head—a constant, gentle pressure that anchored me to my new reality.

Diya sat on the edge of the simple cot, her small legs swinging slightly, bare feet brushing against each other. She had been quiet for some time, her gaze flitting between me and the floor, fingers twisting the hem of her plain dress. I could sense her uncertainty through the mana link—that fragile thread that now bound our souls together. Her emotions washed over me in soft, tentative waves: nervousness, curiosity, a flicker of desire that she herself barely understood.

"E-slave..." Her voice emerged as barely a whisper, fragile in the quiet room. She paused, licking her lips, and I watched her small throat move as she swallowed. "Can you... lick me?"

The question hung in the air between us, trembling like a leaf in autumn wind. I felt a warmth spread through my chest—not shame, but something far more complex. She was still testing, still afraid of hurting me. Even after everything, this delicate child who now owned me worried about my comfort.

It was this tender concern that made me want to give myself to her completely.

I lowered my head, pressing my forehead to the cool stone. "This slave would be honored to serve her mistress."

The words tasted strange on my tongue, but not unpleasant. I rose slowly, my movements deliberate, and crawled toward her on hands and knees. The fabric of the simple slave garment—little more than a length of coarse cloth wrapped around my body—brushed against my skin with each movement, the rough texture a constant reminder of my fallen status.

Diya watched me approach, her breath quickening. I saw her small hands grip the edge of the cot, knuckles whitening. She was frightened, but also excited. I could taste that excitement through our bond, sweet and sharp like unripe fruit.

I stopped before her, my face level with her feet. They were small, still bearing the softness of childhood—pale skin, tiny toes, the gentle arch of youth. I had once placed my own foot upon the necks of those I owned, had watched them kiss my soles with tears streaming down their faces. I had never understood what they felt in those moments. I had assumed it was only humiliation, only degradation.

Now I understood.

I leaned forward slowly, letting my breath warm the skin of her ankle before my lips made contact. The first touch was feather-light—just the barest brush of my mouth against the delicate bone. Diya inhaled sharply, her leg twitching slightly, but she did not pull away.

My tongue emerged, tentative and reverent, tracing a wet path across her skin. The taste was subtle—clean, slightly salty, carrying the faint sweetness unique to youth. I had never truly tasted anyone before. In my days as a mistress, I had received countless acts of servitude, had grown accustomed to being worshiped and adored. But I had never bent my head to another's feet.

Now I did, and the world shifted around me.

I kissed her instep slowly, deliberately, my lips pressing against the curve where her foot met her ankle. The pose was awkward—my neck bent, my shoulders hunched—but I did not rush to adjust. I wanted to feel every moment of this, to burn each sensation into my memory.

These feet had once walked behind me, had followed my every command without question. Now I pressed my tongue between the toes, tasting the skin there, feeling the slight resistance of her small movements as she squirmed under my attention. The contrast sent heat pooling in my lower belly, and I felt moisture begin to gather between my thighs.

I did not fight it. I welcomed it.

The mana link pulsed with Diya's growing pleasure and confusion. She did not understand why I was so eager, why my tongue lingered so long on each toe, why I moaned softly against her skin. Through our connection, I felt her tentative arousal—pure, unformed, like a bud not yet bloomed. She was eleven, still a child in so many ways, yet her body responded to the touch with instincts older than civilization.

I suckled her smallest toe, drawing it fully into my mouth, letting my tongue swirl around it before releasing it with a soft pop. Diya gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth. I looked up at her through my lashes, meeting her wide, uncertain eyes.

"Does Mistress enjoy this slave's service?" I asked, my voice low and husky.

She nodded quickly, cheeks flushed. "Yes... yes, E-slave..."

I smiled and returned to my work.

I took my time, savoring each inch of her feet as though they were the most precious delicacies in all the empire. I licked the sensitive arches, kissed the tender hollows between each toe, nipped gently at the heels. I could feel my own arousal growing with each passing moment, a steady ache that pulsed in rhythm with my heart. My breasts, freed from the confines of proper clothing, swayed and bounced with my movements, the nipples brushing against the floor with a sensation that was both tender and sharp.

Perhaps I should have felt shame. Perhaps the old Eileen—the proud noblewoman, the stern mistress—would have wept at the sight of herself crawling on the floor, worshiping the feet of the child she once owned. But that woman was fading, dissolving like morning mist under the rising sun.

In her place was someone new. Someone who had found peace in surrender.

I kissed my way up her calves, my tongue tracing the delicate line of bone beneath soft skin. Diya's legs trembled, and I felt her uncertainty through the bond—she did not know how to respond, whether to give commands or simply receive. She had never been served like this before, not truly. In her short life, she had only known fear and servitude.

I would teach her. I would show her what it meant to be worshiped.

"Spread your legs for this slave, Mistress," I murmured against her thigh. "Let me show you how much I desire to please you."

She obeyed hesitantly, her knees falling apart to reveal the soft junction of her thighs. I pressed my face between them, inhaling deeply. Her scent was sweet and clean, carrying the unmistakable fragrance of youthful arousal. I closed my eyes, letting it fill me, letting it become the only thing that existed in this moment.

I did not attack immediately. That would have been crude, unworthy of the devotion I felt. Instead, I pressed my nose against the fabric of her undergarment, rubbing gently, breathing in her essence through the thin cloth. Diya moaned above me, her small hips twitching, and I felt her juices begin to seep through, dampening the fabric.

Only then did I use my tongue.

I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her undergarment and pulled it aside, revealing her most intimate place. She was beautiful there—delicate folds of pale pink, glistening with moisture, the tiny bud at the center already swollen with need. I lowered my head and licked, a long, slow stroke from bottom to top, collecting her sweetness on my tongue.

The taste was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was pure, young, carrying the essence of her very being. I groaned against her flesh, my eyes fluttering closed as I savored it.

I circled her bud with the tip of my tongue, tracing figure eights around it, never quite touching it directly. Diya whimpered, her small hands fisting in my hair, and through the bond I felt her desperate need—a need she did not fully understand, a need that frightened and thrilled her in equal measure.

"Please..." she gasped, her voice breaking. "E-slave... please..."

I smiled against her flesh and finally took her into my mouth.

The sound she made was half-sob, half-cry as I suckled her tender bud, my tongue flicking across it with practiced skill. Her hips bucked against my face, and I held her steady, my hands gripping her thighs, keeping her pressed against my mouth. I could taste her pleasure, feel it building through the mana link like a rising tide.

I did not rush her. I had all night, all year, all the rest of my life to serve her. I slowed my pace, letting the pleasure build slowly, deliberately. I released her bud and kissed the soft folds surrounding it, licking away her moisture before diving back in. I explored every inch of her, learning the map of her pleasure with my tongue.

My own arousal had become a throbbing ache between my thighs. I pressed my legs together, seeking friction, but I did not touch myself. This moment was not about my pleasure. My satisfaction would come from her satisfaction, my release from her release.

That thought sent another wave of moisture flooding between my legs. I was wet enough to soak through my garment, to leave a stain on the stone floor beneath me. I did not care. I wanted to be soaked, to be dripping, to have everyone who saw me know how desperately I desired to serve.

The memory rose unbidden—a night years ago, when I had made Diya kneel before me, had forced her to use her childish tongue on my most intimate places. She had been so frightened, so uncertain, her tears mingling with my moisture as she tried her best to please me. I had felt nothing but cold satisfaction at her efforts.

Now I knelt in her place, my tongue buried in the very spot I had once forced her to worship.

The irony was not lost on me. Neither was the pleasure.

I slid one finger into her, feeling her inner walls clench around me. She was so tight, so small, and I was careful not to hurt her. I moved slowly, my finger curved to find the spot that would drive her wild, while my tongue continued its assault on her bud. She cried out above me, her body arching off the cot, and I felt her climax building like a wave about to crash.

I pulled back, denying her release.

She let out a frustrated whimper, her hips chasing my mouth. I smiled and kissed her inner thigh, licking away the sweat that had gathered there.

"Not yet, Mistress," I whispered. "This slave wants to savor you a little longer."

I lowered my head again, this time pressing my nose against her most intimate place, inhaling deeply before using my tongue to circle her entrance. I tasted her inner walls, lapping at her like a cat at cream. My free hand came up to cup my own breast, kneading the flesh, pinching the nipple until it stiffened between my fingers.

I was so lost in my own arousal that I almost missed the shift in Diya's energy. Through the bond, I felt her approaching climax again, and this time I did not deny her. I pressed my tongue flat against her bud, vibrating it slightly, and drove my finger deeper inside her.

She came with a cry that was almost a scream, her small body shuddering above me, her juices flooding my mouth. I drank greedily, swallowing every drop she gave me, even as I continued to lick and suckle her through her orgasm. The taste of her release was intoxicating—sweet and complex, flavored with youth and surrender and trust.

When her trembling finally subsided, I withdrew my mouth slowly, kissing my way down her thighs, her calves, her feet. I did not stop until I had kissed every inch of her, until she was covered in the marks of my devotion.

I knelt back, pressing my forehead to the floor at her feet.

"Mistress," I said, my voice hoarse and reverent. "Please continue to use this slave. This slave lives only to serve you."

Diya was quiet for a long moment. I heard her breathing slow, heard the rustle of fabric as she adjusted her garments. Then I felt her small hand on my head, stroking my red hair with gentle fingers.

"E-slave," she said softly. "I... I liked that."

I raised my head to look at her, and my heart swelled at the sight. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes dreamy, her lips parted with lingering pleasure. She looked at me with wonder, as if she could not quite belie

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The morning light cut through the flaps of the tent like a blade, and I felt the weight of the day before I opened my eyes. The collar was cold against my throat, a constant reminder that I was no longer the one who gave orders. I had not slept well. The ground had been hard, the air unfamiliar, and my dreams were filled with the faces of slaves I had once owned, their eyes hollow and accusing.

Diya came for me before the sun had fully risen. I heard her small footsteps approach, the rustle of her robes, the jingle of the chain she carried. When she pulled back the tent flap, her silhouette was backlit by pale gold light, and for a moment she looked like something other than a child—a figure of judgment, perhaps, or fate itself.

“It is time,” she said, her voice soft but carrying a weight that seemed too large for her frame.

I rose without speaking. The cloak I had worn the night before was still wrapped around me, but beneath it I was bare. The air kissed my skin, raised goosebumps along my arms and thighs. I had chosen this. I reminded myself of that as she approached, as she fastened the thin iron chain to my collar. The metal clicked into place, and the sound echoed somewhere deep inside me—a key turning in a lock I had not known existed.

We walked out into the camp together. The caravan was already stirring, slaves and merchants and guards all moving through the morning haze. Diya led me with the chain, not cruelly, but with a firmness that told me she understood the role she had to play. She did not look back at me. Her small back was straight, her steps measured, and I followed like any other piece of property.

The other slaves were being assembled into a line. There were perhaps twenty of them, men and women of various ages, their faces blank with the particular numbness that comes from prolonged servitude. They wore collars like mine, though theirs were simpler, less ornate. I could see the brands on some of them, scars from whips on others. I had seen such things a thousand times before, had ordered such markings myself, but now the sight settled into my stomach like a stone.

Diya positioned me near the middle of the line. She did not speak to me, did not give me any special treatment. She simply clipped my chain to a rope that ran through all the slaves’ collars, linking us together like beads on a string. Then she stepped back and walked to the front of the caravan where the other handlers gathered.

I felt the rope tug as the line began to move. Dust rose from the ground, fine and red, and it coated my bare feet as I walked. The cloak fluttered around me, but it offered little protection. Each step sent small stones and grit against my arches, and within minutes my soles were raw and sensitive. The vulnerability of walking naked beneath the cloak made every nerve in my body feel exposed. I could feel the air moving across my skin, could feel the brush of fabric against my thighs, could feel the weight of the collar pressing against my throat with each breath.

The road stretched ahead of us, winding through dry hills dotted with sparse vegetation. The sun climbed higher, and the heat began to build. Sweat formed on my brow, trickled down my spine, gathered between my breasts. The cloak grew damp and heavy, clinging to my body in ways that made my skin prickle with awareness.

I had not known what it would feel like to be stripped of everything—my name, my status, my clothing, my will. I had imagined it, of course, in those long nights when I had lain awake thinking of Diya. But imagination is a pale shadow of reality. The actual experience of being reduced to flesh and bone, to a body that could be looked at and touched and evaluated like livestock, was something no amount of fantasy could have prepared me for.

The morning passed in a haze of dust and heat and the rhythmic crunch of footsteps. The slaves around me did not speak. They kept their eyes forward, their bodies moving with the mechanical gait of those who have learned not to hope. I found myself watching them, studying the slump of their shoulders, the way their hands hung limp at their sides. I had seen such postures all my life, but I had never understood them. Now I felt the fatigue settling into my own muscles, felt the way my spine wanted to curve forward, felt the desire to simply stop thinking and become nothing but motion.

But my mind would not stop. It churned and twisted, replaying every moment of the past days, every decision that had led me here. I thought of the slaves I had owned, the ones I had purchased and sold and disciplined. I had told myself they were property, that they did not feel as I felt, that their suffering was different in kind from my own. What a convenient lie that had been. What a necessary fiction to protect myself from the truth.

Now I knew. Every time the rope jerked and pulled at my collar, every time dust settled into the sweat on my skin, every time the guards looked at me with the flat, assessing gaze of those who see only merchandise, I knew. The truth was not abstract. It was the ache in my feet, the hunger in my belly, the thirst in my throat. It was the way my body responded to touch, to command, to the simple fact of being owned.

The caravan stopped at midday. We were herded to the side of the road, made to sit in the shade of a rocky outcropping while the handlers watered the horses and ate their lunch. I sat with my knees drawn up, the cloak pooling around me, trying to make myself as small as possible. The chain connecting me to the other slaves pulled taut whenever someone moved, a constant reminder that I was no longer an individual but part of a collection.

Diya came to me then, carrying a waterskin. She knelt beside me, her small hands working the stopper loose, and held the opening to my lips. The water was warm and tasted of leather, but it was the most precious thing I had ever drunk. I swallowed greedily, feeling the liquid slide down my parched throat, and when she pulled the skin away I wanted to reach for it, to beg for more.

But I did not. I merely nodded my thanks, keeping my eyes lowered as I had seen the other slaves do. Diya lingered for a moment, her hand hovering near my cheek as if she wanted to touch me, but then she rose and walked away. I watched her go, the flutter of her robes, the smallness of her silhouette against the vast landscape, and I felt something twist in my chest.

It was love. It was pain. It was the strange, aching pleasure of giving myself completely to another person.

The afternoon brought the inspection. I had known it would come, but knowing did nothing to ease the shame that flooded through me when the guards approached. They were large men, rough-handed and indifferent, their eyes already scanning the line of slaves with the practiced efficiency of those who have done this work many times.

I kept my head down as they worked their way toward me. I could hear the sounds of their work—the rustle of fabric, the slap of flesh, the occasional grunt or whimper from the slaves being examined. Each sound tightened the knot in my stomach, made my breath come shorter.

When they reached me, I did not resist. I let them pull the cloak aside, let the heat of the sun fall directly onto my naked skin. One of the guards grabbed my chin and tilted my face up, forcing me to meet his eyes. He was older, with gray stubble and a scar running from his temple to his jaw. He looked at me the way one might look at a horse or a piece of furniture, assessing my value with clinical detachment.

“Teeth are good,” he said to his companion. “Healthy. No marks on the face.”

His hands moved down, cupping my breasts, squeezing with a roughness that made me gasp. I felt his thumbs brush across my nipples, testing, and my body responded despite itself. The skin tightened, the nerves firing with a sensation that was equal parts pain and something else, something I did not want to name.

He grunted and moved on, his hands sliding down my sides, over my hips, down to my thighs. He spread my legs with a casual brutality, and I felt the heat rise to my cheeks as his fingers probed between them. The touch was clinical, impersonal, but it sent a shock through my entire body. I trembled, my muscles clenching, my breath catching in my throat.

“She’s tight,” he said. “Will need training.”

“They all do,” his companion replied.

They finished their inspection and moved on, leaving me exposed and trembling in the sunlight. I pulled the cloak back around myself with shaking hands, but the damage was done. Every nerve in my body was alight, hypersensitive, aware of the air on my skin, the fabric against my thighs, the collar pressing against my throat.

I had once made other women endure this. I had stood by while my guards inspected new acquisitions, had watched without flinching as hands roamed over bodies that belonged to me. I had told myself it was necessary, that it was simply the way of things. Now I understood that I had been lying. There had been pleasure in that watching, a dark satisfaction in the power I held over those bodies. And now I understood that pleasure from the other side—the shame, the vulnerability, the strange, hot flush that came from being seen and touched and evaluated as nothing more than flesh.

The afternoon heat grew more oppressive. The sun beat down on us as we continued our march, and the dust rose in clouds that stuck to my sweat-damp skin. The cloak became unbearable, but I did not dare remove it. It was the only thing I had, the only barrier between my nakedness and the world.

I thought of Diya. Through the mana link, I could sense her presence at the front of the caravan—a warm, steady pulse that I could feel even when I could not see her. There was worry there, and pity, and something else. Something darker. Something that flickered at the edges of her consciousness like a candle in a draft.

Did she enjoy this? The thought came unbidden, and I pushed it away. But it returned, insistently, and I could not help but consider it. She was young, but she had learned the ways of power early. She had been a slave herself, had known the bite of the collar and the sting of the whip. Now she held a former slave owner on a chain, and I could not blame her if she found some satisfaction in the reversal.

But I did not reach out to her through the link. I chose to remain alone in my experience, to let the shame and the vulnerability wash over me without calling for comfort. I had asked for this. I had surrendered myself willingly, and I would see it through without complaint.

The sun was low in the sky when we finally stopped for the night. The camp was set up quickly and efficiently, a flurry of activity that I watched from my place among the other slaves. We were made to sit in a rough circle while the handlers pitched tents and started fires. The smell of cooking food drifted toward us, and my stomach clenched with hunger.

When the meal came, it was simple—a bowl of thin gruel and a piece of hard bread. I ate it slowly, savoring each mouthful, aware that this was all I would have until morning. The other slaves ate in silence, their movements mechanical, their eyes empty. I wondered how long it would take for me to become like them. I wondered if I already was.

After the meal, we were led to a crude pen made of iron bars driven into the ground. The gate was opened, and we were herded inside like animals. I found a place near the back, away from the others, and curled up on the hard ground. The iron bars were cold against my skin, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and dust and fear.

I touched the collar at my throat. The metal was warm from my body, but the edges were cool against my fingers. I remembered the day I had put a collar on Diya, how she had flinched at the touch of the cold metal, how I had felt a thrill of power at her submission. Now that power was gone, and it was my throat that b

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The campfire had burned low, its embers casting a dim orange glow across the scattered forms of the caravan. The night air carried the mingled scents of dust, sweat, and the faint sweetness of dry grass crushed beneath countless feet. I sat with my back against the rough canvas of the tent corner, the fabric coarse against my bare shoulders, and watched the flames dance their final moments.

The chain around my ankle was cool against my skin, a constant presence that I could not ignore. It linked me to a stake driven deep into the earth, and with every slight movement, the metal links whispered against one another, a soft, intimate sound that seemed to speak directly to my nerves. I shifted my weight, and the chain tugged gently, reminding me of my place. The feeling was strange at first—a tension that held my body in a state of alertness even as exhaustion pulled at my limbs. I had never been fixed like this, never known what it meant to be unable to rise and walk away at will. The sensation was not uncomfortable in the way I had expected; it was something deeper, a vibration that ran through my bones and settled in my chest.

Around me, the other slaves lay in various states of slumber. Their breathing was soft, rhythmic, a chorus of exhaustion and resignation. I could see the outlines of their bodies in the dim light—some curled into themselves, others sprawled with limbs askew. They had grown accustomed to this life, to the weight of chains and the gaze of masters. I was new to it, and yet I did not feel like an outsider. There was a strange kinship in our shared vulnerability, in the knowledge that we were all bound by the same invisible threads of ownership.

But I was different. I had chosen this.

The thought came to me again, as it had many times in the hours since Diya had placed the collar around my neck. I had chosen this. The words felt heavy in my mind, weighted with meaning that I was only beginning to understand. I touched the collar—a simple band of leather, smooth against my fingers, with a small ring where a leash could be attached. It was not ornate, not designed to humiliate or display. It was simply a mark, a statement of belonging. And yet, every time I felt it against my throat, a shiver ran through me.

Footsteps approached, and I tensed. A guard came into view, a figure silhouetted against the dying firelight. He carried a torch, and its flame cast flickering shadows across the tent. He paused at the entrance, his eyes scanning the interior. I met his gaze for a moment, then looked down, as I had learned to do. It was not fear that prompted the gesture, but something else—an acknowledgment of my new place in the world.

His light swept over me, and I felt the beam as though it were a physical touch. It lingered on my body, tracing the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh. I did not shrink away. Instead, I shifted slightly, parting my legs with a deliberate slowness that surprised even me. The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I felt its impact. The light fell upon my exposed flesh, and I knew that he could see everything—the dampness, the emptiness, the evidence of my long exposure.

I had once been a mistress who watched such scenes from a distance, who observed the vulnerability of slaves with detached interest. I had seen them display themselves for inspection, had noted the shame in their eyes, the reluctant compliance. I had thought I understood what it meant to give oneself to another's gaze. But now, as I lay in the dirt with my legs open and a guard's light upon me, I realized how little I had known.

The shame was present, yes, but it was not the sharp, biting shame I had anticipated. It was softer, more diffuse, like a warmth that spread through my body and settled in places I had not expected. It mingled with something else—a sense of liberation that was both terrifying and exhilarating. When I had held power, my actions had always been calculated, measured to maintain control. Now, I had no control to protect. I could let go, could allow myself to be seen without pretense or defense.

The guard grunted, a sound that could have been approval or indifference. He moved on, his light sweeping across the other slaves before disappearing into the night. I remained still, my legs still parted, and felt the cool air against my wetness. The emptiness I had cultivated over the hours was a constant presence, a void that demanded to be filled. I did not rush to satisfy it. That was the lesson I was learning—patience, surrender, acceptance.

I let my head fall back against the canvas and closed my eyes. The darkness behind my lids was absolute, and within it, I allowed my thoughts to wander. I remembered the training sessions I had conducted with Diya, the careful instruction in the art of submission. I had been patient with her, had guided her through the stages of shame and acceptance, had watched her transform from a frightened girl into a devoted slave. I had taken pride in her progress, in the way she had learned to offer herself completely.

Now, I understood her more deeply than I ever had. The path she had walked was now beneath my own feet. The lessons I had taught her were now my own curriculum.

The mana link pulsed faintly, a thread of connection that bound me to Diya. Through it, I could sense her restlessness, her concern. She was not far away, perhaps in the main tent of the caravan, and I could feel her thoughts turning toward me like a moth to flame. She wanted to come to me, to check on me, to ensure that I was not suffering. I smiled in the darkness, a soft, private expression.

*Mistress,* I thought, directing the words along the link, *please don't worry. I am experiencing this fully. This is what I want.*

I felt her hesitation, the conflict between her protective instinct and her respect for my choice. Then the faintest sense of acknowledgment, a gentle touch across the bond before she withdrew. She trusted me. That trust was a gift I did not take lightly.

I returned my attention to my own body. The sensations were layered, complex. The collar pressed against my throat with every breath, a reminder of ownership. The chain wrapped around my ankle, its weight a constant anchor. The exposed flesh between my thighs was slick and sensitive, the prolonged exposure heightening every nerve. I could feel the air moving across me, could sense the subtle changes in temperature as the night deepened.

And beneath all of it, the emptiness. It was not a lack, but a presence—a hollow space that ached with longing. I wanted to touch myself, to bring release to the tension that coiled in my belly. But I held back. The waiting was part of the experience, the slow accumulation of need that would make the final release all the more profound.

I began to recall, deliberately, the scenes I had orchestrated in the past. Diya kneeling before me, her eyes downcast, her body trembling with anticipation. I had ordered her to display herself, to open herself to my gaze and my touch. I had watched her struggle with her shame, had seen the moment when she surrendered to it and found peace. I had been proud of her, had felt the satisfaction of a master shaping a worthy vessel.

Now, I was the vessel. And the shaping was my own.

The memories shifted, becoming more intimate. I remembered the first time I had taken her, the way she had gasped as I entered her, the tears that had streamed down her cheeks. I had held her close, had whispered words of comfort and command. She had given herself to me completely in that moment, and I had accepted her gift with reverence.

But now, I was the one being taken. I was the one opening myself to another's will. And in that reversal, I found a strange completeness. The old Eileen had enjoyed power, had savored the control she wielded over others. But there had always been a hollowness to that satisfaction, a void that no amount of dominance could fill. The climax of command had been fleeting, leaving behind a residue of loneliness.

Here, in the dirt, with a chain around my ankle and a collar around my throat, that hollowness was filled. It was not a comfortable fullness—it was sharp and raw and demanding. But it was real. It was honest. It was mine.

I took a deep breath, drawing in the scents of the night. Sweat and dust and the faint musk of my own body mingled together, creating an aroma that was both foreign and familiar. I breathed it in deeply, imprinting it in my memory. This was the scent of my new life, the perfume of my transformation.

The hours passed slowly. Around me, the other slaves slept on, their breathing steady and deep. I remained awake, my senses heightened, my mind open. The chain clinked softly as I shifted, and the sound was like music to my ears. The collar was a constant pressure, a reminder that I belonged to another. And yet, I had never felt more my own.

The emptiness grew, becoming a presence that occupied my entire being. It was not a painful ache, but a profound awareness—a space that waited to be filled, a need that begged to be met. I let it expand, let it spread through my limbs and settle in my core. I did not fight it. Fighting was no longer my purpose.

I thought of Diya again, of the way she had looked at me when I knelt before her. There had been love in her eyes, and confusion, and the first stirrings of acceptance. She had not understood why I had chosen this path, but she had trusted me enough to walk it with me. That trust was a thread that bound us together, stronger than any chain.

As the last darkness before dawn settled over the encampment, I allowed my hand to move. The motion was slow, deliberate, a culmination of the hours of waiting. I touched my thighs first, feeling the texture of my skin, the warmth that had gathered there. Then I moved inward, my fingers brushing against the slickness that had accumulated.

I did not rush. The release I sought was not a desperate thing, but a quiet unfolding. I traced the contours of my body, exploring the sensitivity that the long exposure had created. Every touch sent ripples through me, waves of sensation that built upon one another. I felt my breath quicken, felt the tension in my muscles begin to coil toward something inevitable.

But even as I approached the peak, I did not let go of my awareness. I was present in every moment, feeling the chain against my ankle, the collar against my throat, the dust beneath my back. I was a slave, owned and marked, and that identity was no longer a source of shame. It was a truth I had accepted, a role I had chosen.

The climax came gently, like the first light of dawn. I shuddered, my body arching slightly against the canvas, and the release washed through me in waves. It was not a violent eruption, but a slow, profound letting go. The emptiness that had filled me for so long was replaced with a sense of completion, a quiet satisfaction that resonated in every part of my being.

I lay still afterward, my breathing gradually slowing, my muscles relaxing into the ground. The first hints of gray light began to filter through the tent opening, heralding the approach of morning. I had not slept, but I did not feel tired. The night had been a journey, a pilgrimage into the depths of my own psyche.

The mana link pulsed again, and I sensed Diya stirring. She would come to me soon, would check on me and prepare me for the day ahead. I welcomed the thought. Whatever tasks awaited me, whatever trials the journey held, I would face them as I had faced this night—with acceptance, with openness, with the fullness of my surrendered self.

I touched the collar one more time, tracing its edge with my fingers. It was cool and smooth, a simple band that carried the weight of my new identity. I smiled in the darkness, a smile that held no bitterness, no regret.

I was Eileen, former mistress of slaves, now slave to the one I had once owned. And in that reversal, I had found a truth that

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The caravan’s rattle and groan faded into the silence of dusk as we entered the city gates. The sky bled orange and violet, casting long shadows across cobblestone streets that whispered with the last sighs of the day. I felt the chain tug at my collar, a gentle pull that guided me through the throng of merchants and beasts, my bare feet meeting the cold stone with a reverence I had never known. The cloak Diya had thrown over my shoulders clung to my skin, damp with the sweat of travel, and beneath it, my naked body burned with a warmth that had little to do with the fading sun.

I followed her like a shadow, my red hair falling in tangled waves around my face, each strand a reminder of who I had been and who I was becoming. The collar sat heavy on my throat, its leather worn soft from days of wear, and the bell at its front chimed with every step—a song of submission that echoed through the streets. People glanced at us, some with curiosity, others with disdain, but I kept my eyes fixed on Diya’s small form ahead of me. Her steps were light, purposeful, her hand gripping the leash with a steadiness that belied her age.

She led me away from the caravan camp, a noisy chaos of traders and animals, and into a quieter quarter of the city. The buildings here were older, their facades weathered by time, and the air smelled of damp wood and distant smoke. I breathed it in, letting the unfamiliarity settle into my bones. In the life I had left behind—the life of a slave owner, of power and control—I had walked these same streets with my head held high, my slaves trailing behind me. Now, I walked with my head bowed, my master’s child at the other end of my leash.

The inn Diya chose was modest, its sign creaking in the wind, its windows glowing with lantern light. She pushed open the door, and the warmth of the common room washed over me, carrying the scent of roasting meat and ale. The innkeeper, a stout woman with graying hair, barely looked at us as Diya requested a room for the night. I waited in silence, my hands clasped behind my back, my body aching from the days of travel. When the key exchanged hands, Diya led me up a narrow staircase to a small room at the end of the hall.

The room was simple: a bed with coarse linen sheets, a wooden chair, a washbasin on a stand. Diya closed the door behind us and stood for a moment, her eyes scanning the space as if ensuring it was safe. Then she turned to me, her gaze soft beneath the flickering candlelight.

“Remove your cloak,” she said, her voice low, almost hesitant.

I obeyed, letting the fabric fall from my shoulders. It pooled at my feet, leaving me exposed before her—my pale skin, my full breasts, the curve of my hips, all of it bared to her gaze. The weight of the collar and the experiences along the way had left me in a state of fatigue and calm, a strange peace that settled deep in my chest. I knelt without being told, my knees pressing into the wooden floor, my hands resting on my thighs.

Diya stepped closer. Her small hand reached out, and her fingers brushed through my red hair, stroking it with a gentleness that made my breath catch. She was so young, yet her touch carried the weight of a decision she had wrestled with for days. I felt it in the slight tremor of her hand, in the way she hesitated before speaking.

“E-slave,” she began, her voice soft, “I’ve been thinking… if you just continue following me as a mere private slave, maybe… it’s not enough.”

I looked up at her. Her face was earnest, her brow furrowed with thought, and in that moment, I saw not a child playing at power, but a young soul striving to care for me in the only way she knew how. A warmth rose in my heart, unbidden and fierce. Even after I had given myself completely, she still wanted something more for me—a transformation that would make me worthy of her trust.

I did not speak. Words felt too heavy, too clumsy for the tenderness swelling in my chest. Instead, I waited, my eyes fixed on hers, my breath shallow.

She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “Not far ahead, there is a specialized female slave academy,” she said. “A place with systematic training that can make you into… a more qualified slave. I think… if you are willing, we could go there together.”

The words hit me like a wave, cold and shocking. The female slave academy. I knew of it—every slave owner in the region had heard of it. It was a place designed to strip away the last vestiges of a slave’s former self, to reshape them into perfect vessels of service. I had sent slaves there for training, expecting them to return as obedient shells, their spirits broken, their wills extinguished. I had never imagined I would stand at its gates, let alone voluntarily step inside.

Shame flooded through me, hot and suffocating. It coiled in my belly, tightened my throat, painted my cheeks with a flush I could not hide. But beneath the shame, something else stirred—a quiet acceptance, a sense of fittingness. This was the path I had chosen, the path of complete surrender. And if it was Diya’s wish, then how could I resist?

I lowered my head, pressing my cheek against the top of her small instep. The touch of her skin against my face was grounding, anchoring me in the present. “Mistress,” I murmured, my voice barely a whisper, “as long as it is your decision, I am willing. Let me go there… let me become, in that place, the slave that belongs only to you.”

Diya’s hand trembled against my hair. She hesitated for a moment, then knelt down beside me, pulling my head into her arms. Her scent wrapped around me—the faint smell of soap and wildflowers, the warmth of youthful skin. “Then we will go tomorrow,” she whispered against my ear. “E-slave… do you really not regret this?”

I did not answer immediately. Her question hung in the air, and I let it settle into the depths of my mind, where the old Eileen still lingered like a ghost. I thought of the life I had led as a slave owner—the lazy mornings, the casual cruelty, the emptiness that had always followed my pleasures. I had made other women tremble, had used them until they were hollow, had cast them aside when their purpose was served. And after each conquest, after each climax bought with another’s pain, I had felt nothing but a vast, echoing void.

But now, as I knelt before Diya, that void was being filled. Not with pleasure, not with power, but with something quieter—a sense of purpose, of belonging. The shame burned like a slow fire, but it did not consume me. It transformed me, layer by layer, into someone new.

“Regret?” I said at last, lifting my head to meet her eyes. “No, Mistress. I do not regret. I have thought of the man I was—the slave owner who believed himself above such things. But that man was hollow. He took without giving, controlled without submitting. And he was never truly happy.”

I paused, my voice thick with emotion. “Here, in your service, I have found something I never knew I sought. The shame, the fear, the anticipation—they make me feel alive in ways I never did before. If I enter that academy, it is not as a victim, but as a willing soul. For you, Mistress. And for myself.”

Diya’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She hugged me tighter, and I felt her small body shake against mine. “I am glad,” she whispered. “I was afraid you would hate me for this.”

I smiled, a soft curl of my lips. “How could I hate you, Mistress? You have given me a purpose. You have shown me a way to belong.”

That night, we lay together on the narrow bed, my body curled around hers, my arms wrapped protectively around her small frame. The chain clinked softly as I moved, a constant reminder of my place. I did not sleep much; instead, I listened to her breathing, the gentle rhythm of a child finding rest. My mind wandered through the days ahead, imagining the academy, its corridors, its lessons. I knew what awaited me there—the complete stripping of my old identity, the forging of a new self from the ashes of the old. And I welcomed it.

The next morning, we rose early. Diya dressed in simple traveling clothes, her hair tied back in a neat braid, her eyes bright with resolve. She clipped the leash to my collar, and I knelt as she wrapped a new cloak around my shoulders—a darker one, with a hood that could conceal my face. I did not ask where she had gotten it. I simply accepted.

The walk to the academy was silent. We passed through the waking city, past merchants setting up their stalls, past children playing in the streets. The buildings grew more austere as we approached the edge of the quarter, their stone facades taller and colder. And then I saw it—the Female Slave Academy, rising before me like a fortress.

Its walls were high, made of dark gray stone that seemed to absorb the morning light. A single iron gate stood at the center, flanked by guards in black uniforms. Above the gate, a crest was carved into the stone: a kneeling figure with a chain wrapped around its neck. The sight sent a chill down my spine, but I did not falter.

Diya led me to the gate, her steps steady. She spoke to the guards in a low voice, and they nodded, opening the gate to admit us. The courtyard beyond was sparse, with a gravel path leading to a main building. Several other women were about, some wearing simple tunics, others dressed in nothing but chains. They glanced at me with eyes that held no curiosity—only a blank acceptance that spoke of their own training.

In the registration hall, the air was cool and sterile. The walls were lined with wooden benches, and a desk stood at the far end, where an instructor in black robes sat waiting. She was a woman in her forties, with sharp features and a gaze that seemed to see through everything.

“Kneel,” she said, her voice flat.

I obeyed, lowering myself to the cold stone floor. The chill seeped through my knees, but I held still, maintaining the standard kneeling posture I had learned in Diya’s care. My hands rested on my thighs, my back straight, my eyes cast down. I could feel the instructor’s gaze on me, appraising, measuring.

Diya stepped forward and spoke on my behalf. I did not listen to the words—they blurred into a distant hum. Instead, I focused on my own breath, on the rhythm of my heart, on the thoughts that swirled in my mind.

*This is it*, I thought. *From this moment, I am no longer the old Eileen. I am no longer the slave owner, the woman who commanded and conquered. I am entering this place to be reshaped, to be broken and remade, for Diya. And I am doing it willingly.*

The instructor stood and walked around the desk. She held a set of equipment in her hands—nipple rings, a dog leash, a vibrating chastity belt. My breath caught as I saw them, the familiarity of their form a cruel reminder of what was to come.

She knelt before me, her hands moving to my chest. I closed my eyes as she prepared the nipple rings, feeling the cold metal press against my skin. Then the piercing—sharp, sudden, a sting that radiated through my entire body. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. The second ring followed, and I forced myself to breathe, to accept the pain as a gift.

When she finished, she attached the dog leash to my collar. The click of the clasp was final, a sound that sealed my new identity. I felt the pull of the leash, the way it anchored me to this moment, to this place.

Then came the chastity belt. The instructor had me stand, and she fastened the device around my waist, adjusting the internal component until it pressed against my most sensitive places. I gasped as she tightened it, the vibration beginning at a low hum that buzzed through my core. My legs trembled, but I did not resist. I stood in silence, accepting it all.

Through it all, I held a long inner dialogue with myself. Shame burned within me like a slow fire, a heat that threatened to consume me. But I did not let it. I let it refine me, purify me, strip away the last remnants of pride. I thought of Diya, of the way

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The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the training hall, casting long golden rectangles across the polished wooden floor. I stood in the center of the room, my body already slick with a thin layer of sweat despite the cool air. Today was the last day. I could feel it in the stillness that hung over the academy, in the way the other slaves had glanced at me during breakfast with a mixture of envy and something else—recognition, perhaps. We had all endured this crucible together, and now some of us would leave.

The instructor entered without ceremony, her boots clicking against the floor in a rhythm that had become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. She carried no tools today, no whips or canes. Just a small leather-bound book and a quill. I watched her approach, my knees bending automatically into the first posture she had taught me on that terrible first day.

"Eileen," she said, her voice flat and professional. "Today we confirm your basic training qualification. You will demonstrate each posture and movement in sequence. There will be no corrections. Simply perform what you have learned."

I nodded, feeling the weight of the collar against my throat. It had become a part of me now, that cold band of metal. I rarely noticed it anymore during my daily activities, but in moments like this—moments of significance—I became acutely aware of its presence. A reminder of what I was. What I had chosen to become.

The demonstration took perhaps an hour. I moved through the postures with a precision that surprised even myself. The kneeling position, back straight, hands resting on my thighs. The prostrate position, forehead touching the floor, arms extended forward. The presentation position, knees spread wide, hands clasped behind my neck. Each movement flowed into the next, my body responding to the training that had been carved into my muscles through weeks of repetition and correction.

There was a strange peace in this final performance. I was no longer fighting the positions, no longer feeling the burn of humiliation in my cheeks. My body had accepted them as natural, as right. When I lowered myself into the final posture—a deep bow from the kneeling position, my forehead pressing against the cool wood of the floor—I felt something release within me. A tension I had been carrying since the moment I first walked through these doors.

The instructor's voice came from above me. "Basic training qualified."

I remained in the bow for a long moment, letting the words wash over me. Qualified. I had passed. I had survived. And in surviving, I had been transformed.

Slowly, I raised my upper body, remaining on my knees. My eyes were wet, though I had not realized I was crying. The tears tracked down my cheeks, dropping onto my bare thighs. I pressed my palm against the floor, feeling the solid reality of it beneath me. Finally. It was finally over.

But even as the relief flooded through me, a complex tangle of emotions rose to meet it. I thought of the woman I had been when I first arrived at this academy—proud Eileen, owner of the castle, mistress of the estate. She had walked through these doors with her head high, convinced that she understood what she was doing, that she could maintain some core of herself even as she submitted to this training.

I had been so naive.

The training had stripped away everything I had used to define myself. My status. My pride. My sense of control. It had broken down the walls I had built around my identity, layer by layer, until I was left with something raw and vulnerable. And in that vulnerability, I had found something I had never expected: a strange, terrible peace.

The instructor approached, and I heard the rustle of paper. "Your Mistress has made arrangements," she said, and my heart stopped. "Lady Diya has requested that you return home to continue your private training there. You leave today."

Home. The word hit me like a physical blow. I looked up at the instructor, my vision blurred with tears. "Home?"

"She has prepared a carriage. You will be transported to the castle directly." The instructor's expression softened, just slightly. "You have done well, Eileen. Your Mistress will be pleased with your progress."

My mind was spinning. Home. I was going home. But not as the woman who had left. Not as the mistress of the castle, the owner of the estate. I was going home as a slave. The realization settled over me like a heavy cloak, and I felt my breath catch in my throat.

How would I walk through those halls? How would I look upon the rooms where I had once given orders, hosted guests, lived as a free woman? That life seemed so distant now, like a dream I had once had but could no longer fully recall. The woman who had lived in that castle was gone. In her place was this new creature, marked and trained and owned.

And yet... underneath the fear and uncertainty, there was a thread of something else. Anticipation. I would see Diya again. I would kneel at her feet, feel her small hand on my head, hear her voice speaking to me. The thought sent a shiver through my body, and I realized how desperately I had missed her presence. The academy had been necessary, I understood that now. It had prepared me to serve her properly. But in the weeks I had been here, I had felt her absence like a physical ache.

"I will prepare for departure," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos within me.

The instructor nodded and handed me a folded piece of paper. "Your Mistress sent this. Read it before you leave."

I took the paper with trembling hands, pressing it against my chest. A message from Diya. I wanted to open it immediately, to devour her words, but I forced myself to wait. First, I needed to gather myself. I needed to prepare for what awaited me.

The preparations were simple. I had few possessions—the clothes I had arrived in had been taken from me long ago. A servant brought me a thin cloak of dark wool, and I wrapped it around my shoulders, feeling the fabric settle against my bare skin. The cloak was the only thing I would wear for the journey. Underneath, I was as I had been throughout my training: naked, exposed, marked by the collar around my throat and the piercings that had been added over the weeks.

I stood before the small mirror in the changing room, studying the figure that looked back at me. The woman in the mirror was thinner than the one who had arrived at the academy. The muscles in her arms and legs were more defined from the physical demands of training, but there was a gauntness to her face, a hollowing of her cheeks. Her red hair, once worn in elaborate styles, now hung loose and unadorned around her shoulders. And her eyes—those green eyes that had once held such fire and pride—were different. Calmer. Deeper. As if they had seen something that had changed them forever.

I raised my hand to my throat, touching the collar. The metal was warm from my skin. I had not been allowed to see it clearly since the day it was locked on, but I had come to know its shape through touch. A simple band, elegant in its design, with a small ring at the front where a leash could be attached. Diya's seal was engraved on the inside, pressed against my skin as a constant reminder of who I belonged to.

I thought of Diya as I stood there, and a warmth spread through my chest. She had been so small when I first saw her, just eleven years old, with that serious expression and those eyes that seemed to see through everything. I had underestimated her at first, dismissed her as a child playing at power. But she had proven me wrong, again and again. She had broken through my defenses, seen through my pretenses, and claimed something in me that I had not even known existed.

When she had given me to the academy, I had felt abandoned. Betrayed. But now I understood. She had been preparing me. Testing me. And I had passed.

The carriage was waiting when I emerged from the building. It was a simple vehicle, unmarked, drawn by two dark horses. The driver was a man I did not recognize, and he did not meet my eyes as I approached. A servant opened the door, and I climbed inside, settling onto the cushioned bench.

The interior was dim, the curtains drawn. I sat alone in the shadows, feeling the carriage shift as the driver took his position. Then the wheels began to turn, and I felt myself moving away from the academy, away from this place that had broken and remade me.

I unfolded Diya's letter with trembling fingers.

*Eileen,*

*I have missed you. The halls of the castle echo with your absence, and I find myself walking to your room before remembering that you are not there. The servants ask about you, though they do so quietly, as if afraid of my answer.*

*Your training is complete, but our journey together is only beginning. I have prepared a space for you in the castle, a place where you will serve me as you were meant to. But I will not force you into anything. When you arrive, you will have a choice. You may return to your old quarters, reclaim your old life, and we will speak as mistress and former slave owner, equals in conversation if not in status.*

*Or you may come to me as you are now, marked and ready, and kneel at my feet. The choice is yours. I will accept either decision.*

*I await you, whatever you decide.*

*—D*

I read the letter three times, each pass bringing fresh tears to my eyes. She was giving me a choice. Even now, after everything, she was offering me a way out. I could go back. I could reclaim some semblance of my old life, pretend that these weeks had been a strange dream, and return to the castle as a free woman.

But the thought brought no relief. Only a hollow emptiness.

The woman I had been was gone. I had killed her myself, day by day, posture by posture, surrender by surrender. There was no going back to that life, because there was no one left to live it. The person who had walked through the academy doors was a stranger to me now, a memory I viewed with distant pity.

I folded the letter carefully and pressed it to my lips.

The journey passed in a haze of memory and anticipation. I watched the familiar countryside roll by through the gap in the curtains, recognizing landmarks I had not seen in weeks. There was the old stone bridge where I had stopped to water my horse on the way to the city. There was the copse of ancient oaks where I had picnicked as a child. There was the village where my tenants lived, the smoke rising from their chimneys in the late afternoon air.

Each landmark struck me with fresh force. I knew this land. I had walked these paths, ridden these roads, called this place my home. But now I saw it through different eyes. I was no longer the mistress of this domain. I was a slave returning to her owner's estate. The distinction seemed small in words but vast in meaning.

I thought about the day I had registered at the academy. The shame of standing naked before the instructors, being measured and catalogued like livestock. I thought about the posture training sessions, the hours of holding positions until my muscles screamed and my mind went blank with exhaustion. I thought about the orgasm control exercises, the cruel pleasure that had been drawn from me again and again until I had forgotten what it meant to climax without permission.

Each memory carried its own weight, its own pain. But they were not the painful memories I had expected. They were... precious. Each one was a step on the path that had led me here, to this carriage, to this moment. They had shaped me into what I was now. And I had learned to love what I had become.

No. That was not quite right. I had learned to accept what I had become. And in that acceptance, I had found a peace I had never known in my former life.

The carriage slowed, and I felt my heart quicken. I pulled the curtain aside just enough to see the familiar gates of the castle. They stood open, as if waiting for me. The stone walls rose up,

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The days after our return settled into a pattern so familiar it felt like a cruel joke. I woke each morning in my own chambers, the morning light filtering through the same curtains I had chosen years ago. My handmaidens still helped me dress, still addressed me as Lady Eileen with the same deference they had always shown. The castle bustled with its usual rhythms—servants moving through hallways, meals prepared at appointed hours, correspondence delivered to my study.

But nothing was the same.

I learned to dress with meticulous care each morning, choosing gowns with high necklines that could conceal the collar beneath. The leather band sat against my throat like a second skin now, its weight so constant that I sometimes forgot it was there—until I caught my reflection in a mirror and remembered. The nipple rings pressed against the fabric of my chemise with every movement, a constant reminder of what I had become. And the chastity belt, that cold metal garment locked between my thighs, accompanied me through every step of my day.

I had grown accustomed to its presence during my training at Diya's estate. But here, in my own home, surrounded by the artifacts of my former life, it felt obscene. I would walk through halls where I had once commanded absolute authority, feeling the metal pressing against me, and the shame would bloom fresh and hot in my chest.

Yet beneath that shame, something else stirred. Something I was only beginning to acknowledge.

Mistress Diya occupied the guest quarters adjoining my own chambers, though she rarely slept there. More often, I would wake in the middle of the night to find her small form curled against my side, her breath warm against my shoulder. In those moments, the boundaries between mistress and slave, between child and woman, between captor and captive, dissolved into something I could not name. She seemed so young in sleep, so vulnerable, that my protective instincts would surge—only to be crushed by the memory of what she had done to me, what she continued to do to me, and what I had willingly surrendered to her.

During the daylight hours, we maintained a careful facade. Diya presented herself as my young ward, a distant relative entrusted to my care. The servants accepted this explanation without question—after all, who would suspect an eleven-year-old girl of being the true power behind the household? I gave orders, presided over meetings, signed documents, all while acutely aware that every action I took was permitted only by her grace.

The duality of my existence created a constant state of tension that I had never experienced before. Every moment was charged with possibility. Every interaction carried hidden meaning. I would be reviewing accounts in the study, discussing grain prices with my steward, and part of my mind would be fixed on where Diya was, what she might ask of me next, whether she would choose this particular moment to remind me of my place.

She did not always choose to remind me. That was perhaps the most disorienting aspect of those first days. She allowed me to function, to maintain my role, to be the Lady Eileen that everyone expected. She watched me with those ancient eyes, saying nothing, offering no commands, letting me play my part. And in those long stretches of apparent normalcy, I found myself growing restless, waiting, anticipating.

It was on the third afternoon that she began her games.

We were in the study, a room I had always found comfort in with its walls of leather-bound books and the scent of old paper. I sat at my desk, reviewing a contract with a neighboring estate, while Diya occupied a chair near the window, a book open in her lap. Sunlight fell across her hair, making it gleam like spun gold, and she looked so innocent in that moment that I almost convinced myself the past weeks had been a dream.

"Come here, Eileen."

Her voice was soft, almost bored, as if she were commenting on the weather. I looked up from my documents, my heart already beginning to race.

She did not look at me. Her eyes remained fixed on her book. But I knew better than to hesitate. I rose from my chair and crossed the room to stand before her, my hands clasped properly in front of me as she had taught me.

"Sit beside me."

I lowered myself onto the arm of her chair, unsure of what she wanted. She continued reading for a long moment, and I watched her small fingers trace across the page, waiting, my body thrumming with anticipation.

Then her hand slipped under my skirt.

I drew in a sharp breath, my muscles tensing. Her small fingers found the edge of my undergarments and pushed them aside, making direct contact with the metal of the chastity belt. She traced along its edge, following the line where metal met skin, and I felt heat rush to my cheeks despite the privacy of the room.

"Continue your work," she said, still not looking at me. "You have documents to review."

I should have protested. I should have reminded her that a servant could enter at any moment, that the door was not locked, that this was my study, my domain, and I was still supposed to be the lady of this house. But the words died in my throat as her fingers找到了 the small opening in the belt, the precise point where they could reach me.

Her touch was light, almost teasing at first. She played with the edge of my most sensitive flesh, circling without committing, and I had to grip the arm of the chair to keep from trembling. My other hand reached for the documents on the desk, picking up a page with fingers that shook visibly.

"Read it aloud," she murmured, her voice low and amused. "I want to hear your voice."

I tried. I opened my mouth and began to read the legal language of the contract, but my voice came out strained, barely recognizable to my own ears. Words about crop yields and delivery dates tumbled from my lips while her fingers grew bolder, finding the metal ring that adorned my hidden flesh, tugging gently.

A gasp escaped me, and I had to stop reading.

"You're doing so well," she said, and the praise sent warmth flooding through me. "But you must continue. We cannot have the affairs of the estate fall behind because of your... distractions."

Distractions. As if she were not the source of every distraction. As if her fingers were not currently playing my body like an instrument, drawing sounds from me that I struggled desperately to suppress.

I forced myself to continue reading. The words blurred before my eyes, but I pushed through, speaking each syllable with careful precision while her touch grew more insistent. She tugged at the ring, sending pulses of sensation through my entire body, and I clenched my thighs together instinctively, only to realize I was trapping her hand there, pressing her fingers more firmly against me.

"Someone might come in," I whispered, the words escaping before I could stop them.

"Then someone will come in," she replied calmly. "And they will see Lady Eileen at her work, as always. Nothing unusual. Unless you choose to make it unusual."

The threat was implicit. If I lost control, if I made any sound that might draw attention, she would not protect me from the consequences. She would let me face the shame alone, would watch as my carefully constructed facade crumbled before the servants who had known me as their mistress.

I could not allow that. I had to maintain my composure, had to appear as if nothing were happening, even as her fingers worked me toward a peak I could feel building in my core. My voice grew steadier as I read, almost as if the act of speaking helped anchor me, but my body betrayed me in other ways—the flush spreading across my chest, the way my hips shifted slightly, seeking more contact.

When she finally released me, just as I felt myself approaching the edge, I nearly sobbed with frustration. But I said nothing, only sat there breathing heavily, the documents still clutched in my trembling hands.

"That will be all for now," she said, turning a page in her book. "You may finish your work."

I rose on unsteady legs and returned to my desk, my body aching with unfulfilled need. For the next hour I sat there, attempting to concentrate on figures that made no sense, while the ghost of her touch lingered on my skin and I waited, hoping, for her to call me back.

But she did not. She only read her book in the afternoon light, and I was left to wonder whether the entire incident had been real or some fevered fantasy of my own making.

These moments became the new rhythm of my days. She would strike without warning, in the most unexpected places and at the most inappropriate times. In the dining hall, while I attempted to eat my meal, her foot would find its way between my legs beneath the table, pressing against the chastity belt with just enough pressure to remind me of its presence. I would continue eating, continue speaking with the household staff who joined us for meals, while beneath the tablecloth her bare toes traced patterns against the metal that held my most private places locked away.

At first, I feared discovery with an intensity that bordered on panic. Every time a servant entered the room while she was touching me, every time someone addressed me while her fingers were busy beneath my clothing, I expected to see shock and horror on their faces. But no one ever noticed. They saw only what they expected to see—Lady Eileen, composed and proper, attending to the business of her estate. They could not imagine the truth, and so they did not see the subtle signs: the slight catch in my breath, the way I shifted in my seat, the flush that crept across my cheeks.

Their ignorance became a kind of shield, but also a source of deeper shame. They trusted me, respected me, believed in the image I had cultivated for years. And all the while, I was kneeling before a child in private, offering her parts of myself I had never offered to anyone.

The true test came during a formal banquet.

It was a minor affair—neighboring landowners, merchants from the town, a few distant relatives who had heard of my return and wished to pay their respects. I had hosted such events countless times before, had moved through them with the practiced grace of a woman who knew her place in the world. But this time was different. Diya sat beside me at the head of the table, positioned where my consort might have sat, and I felt her presence like a weight pressing against my consciousness.

The meal progressed normally at first. I made conversation with the guests, discussed the harvest, listened to gossip about marriages and disputes and births. Diya ate her food with perfect manners, contributing occasionally to the conversation in her childish voice, and everyone smiled at how precocious and charming she was.

Then I felt it—her foot, bare beneath the table, finding its way between my thighs.

I kept my expression neutral, continuing my conversation with the woman to my left about the quality of the wine. But beneath the table, my legs parted slightly, granting her access. Her toes pressed against the front of my gown, finding the exact spot where the chastity belt concealed my most sensitive flesh, and began to move in slow, deliberate circles.

The vibration traveled through the metal, through my clothing, through every nerve ending in my body. I felt myself growing wet despite the barrier, felt heat pooling in my belly, felt my nipples tightening beneath my dress. All while discussing the relative merits of red versus white wine for the winter season.

"Are you well, Lady Eileen?" The woman to my right noticed something in my expression, concern flickering across her face. "You look a bit flushed."

"I am quite well," I heard myself say, my voice miraculously steady. "The room is perhaps a bit warm. I believe the fire has been built up too high."

The woman nodded, accepting my explanation without question, and turned back to her own conversation. But Diya's foot did not stop. If anythin

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