She Hates Me

"I hate you," she said to me.
I collared a woman last night. She has been mine, in a legal sense, for several hands. I administered discipline to her one afternoon in the Office of the Magistrate of the People and then allowed her to dress herself, dismissing her as if she were free. In fact, she had made several verbal and physical gestures of submission which I accepted before she was sent off. That afternoon, I drew up her Writ of Enslavement and filed it away, but she was already owned. Not long after that day, I wished to be served wine by my property. I had her picked up during her afternoon shopping and brought to me. She, believing herself a free woman, was not pleased to be summoned in such a manner. She protested, scandalized, but she served my wine nonetheless.
On another occasion, it occurred to me to exercise rape privileges over my property and I summoned her once again. It was then she chose to stick my thigh with a poison pin to 'teach me a lesson.' As a free woman, of course, it would have been perfectly within her rights to defend herself against the unwelcomed, unbidden carnal advances of a man. Her convenient denial of submission, however, did not excuse her behavior. She was at that time, as I have illustrated, a slave. When I was free of the effects of her poison, I reminded her of the things she said, of the things she did which, incontrovertibly, supported by the notarized Writ of Enslavement, made her a slave.
I did not, at that time, choose to collar her. Arguably, it would have been a wise moment to do so, but it pleased me to keep her throat bare. For several days, I left her in the garments of a free woman. I kept her wrists shackled. She protested her treatment and I allowed it. Eventually, she was given something else to wear, something more appropriate to her station, and her wrists were unshackled. She held out hope, I think, that I might tire of the 'game' and free her, returning to her the possessions she once owned, the funds in her name on the Street of Coins and, most importantly, her freedom. As long as her throat remained bare, she convinced herself that this was a temporary situation.
She was wrong. It was never a temporary situation. When she wakes this morning and crawls to the mirror, her hands will go to her throat. She will pull at the collar locked securely on her neck. It is functional, the sort of collar I am fond of. Heavy, simple, and obdurate, it has a large ring welded at the front for the attachment of a leash or chain.
She hates me. I permit her to do so.