It’s been a while since I last heard the morning mantras. But, then again, it’s been a while since I had reason to be up so early.

My steps slow as I near the slave quarters, the low, reverent murmurs of my property reaching me through the door. On the other side, over a dozen female voices speak in perfect unison, their hushed chorus more beautiful than any music. The heavy wood muffles their words, but the cadence is a familiar one, my mind instinctively following along as they proclaim:

“We give thanks to our Master for taming our thoughts.”

“We give praise to our Master for saving our hearts.”

“Our minds belong to our Master. We are His to instruct.”

“Our bodies belong to our Master. We are His to command.”

As the recitation continues, a mixture of nostalgia and pride overtakes me. Despite a restless night and an ill-tempered awakening, I find my mood improving the longer I linger, basking in the sounds of breathless worship. A conceited impulse—but what of it? Am I not entitled to enjoy the fruits of my labor? To savor the love of my subjects, as any warm-blooded sovereign would? Certainly, my slaves would be happy to learn of my listening, to know that they were not only assisting in their own indoctrination, but soothing my spirits as well.

“Is there something you require, Master?” 19 wonders, patiently waiting in my shadow. Likely, our abrupt halting has caused her concern; perhaps she fears that my irritation has become so great as to immobilize me. Regardless, her expression of servility doesn’t waver upon my turning to meet her gaze, her full lips set in a docile, serene smile, even as glistening strands of cum trickle down her face.

(After rousing me from bed, most of my slaves choose to swallow their reward; 19 prefers to wear it.)

“It’s nothing,” I assure her. “Merely taking a moment to enjoy myself. It’s been some time since I’ve heard the morning mantras.”

“Ah, yes.” 19 closes her eyes, a deep sigh swelling her sizable breasts, their plump flesh threatening to escape the frills of her uniform. “It is wonderful, isn’t it? Would you like to watch? I’m sure the girls would love to profess their adoration in person, should it please you.”

I think for a moment, tallying the day’s obligations. It’s a list that fills me with no small amount of reluctance, summoning a shadow of my earlier irritation. Perhaps a little procrastination is exactly what I need.

“I will look in,” I decide. “But no need to announce me. My inspection won’t take long, and I do not wish to distract them.”

19 curtsies, the hem of her skirt rising to offer a peek of her crotchless panties. “As you wish, Master,” she says. “Shall I feed 01 and bring her to your office?”

I follow her gaze, tracing the leather leash in her hand down to the collared woman kneeling nude at her feet. 01 was one of my earliest conquests and still bears the marks of my youthful inexperience. At the time of our meeting, I was not yet fully accustomed to my powers and, out of overeagerness, managed to make quite a mess of her mind. Like a child’s illegible scrawls, the precise dimensions of the damage are difficult to discern. However, it’s safe to say that the dull, grey eyes staring up at me resemble those of a pet more than a person, a designation which her limited capacities for speech and reason seem to confirm.

Despite this, she is as well-trained as the rest of my thralls, and one for whom I care most dearly. The others know to treat her as a cherished member of the household, ensuring her long, strawberry blonde locks remain properly groomed, cleaning her pale, supple skin no matter what mess she makes of herself, and giving her ample affection whenever I am unable to myself. She is also the recipient of certain special privileges, such as sharing my bed every night and accompanying me freely throughout the day, her superbly beautiful body the most frequent object of my indulgences. In this way, I ensure her life with me remains superior to that which I stole from her, though I’m not sure she remains capable of making that distinction herself. She does, however, seem to take a certain amount of pride in her position, flaunting it in her own charming, unsophisticated way.

“I’ll bring her with me, actually,” I tell 19, opening my palm to receive 01’s lead. “Please proceed to the kitchen and tell 15 to bring our breakfasts to the office.”

“My Master’s wish is my command.” Another curtsy, and 19 bustles onwards, heels clacking down the polished manor hall. 01, meanwhile, has crawled to my side, a blush of anticipation coloring her bare flesh. If she had a tail, it would surely be wagging.

“Come along, darling,” I say, affectionally ruffling her hair before tugging her towards the door. “Let’s pay your sisters a visit.”

The slave quarters encompass one of the larger rooms in the manor, a space originally intended to be a ballroom or recital hall of some sort. Now, it serves as the dormitory for my sizable collection, furnished with a balance of comfort and practical considerations in mind. Rows of bunk beds stretch from wall to wall, fine linen sheets still ruffled from their occupants’ recent awakening. Among the dressers and tables are scattered personal items: plush animals, romance novels, records, amateur watercolors, half-finished jigsaw puzzles, and so on.

But by far the most eye-catching area is the wall upon which my portrait hangs.

From a gilded frame, my painted likeness looks down upon my domain, the imposing image rendered with all the deep shadows and striking highlights of classical portraiture. The depiction is slightly outdated, my bronze skin unmarked by the faint creases of middle-age, my dark hair and beard lacking the streaks of silver they’ve since acquired. Yet the essence of my presence shines through, exactly as my slaves experience it. Little wonder, given that it was one of their own who fashioned this piece. Perhaps I should commission an updated version, once she returns from her gallery tour.

(At the foot of the painting lies a makeshift shrine: hand-made crafts, exotic souvenirs, and arrangements of flowers from the greenhouse. I did not request any of these tributes; they are merely a perk of permitting a degree of individuality and personal expression among my property.)

My arrival in the slave quarters is not remarked upon, the room’s occupants too enraptured in worship to notice. There is one exception: 08, my harem’s acting task-mother, whose attention shifts from her sisters to my face the moment I cross the threshold. Unlike them, she is fully dressed for duty, her black-and-white maid uniform as pristine as the day she earned it. Some may see this choice of garb as cliché—certainly, I’ve received plenty of good-natured ribbing to that effect. However, no amount of teasing will sway me; when it comes to clothing one’s servants, the classics simply can’t be beat. Not only do a maid’s frills and ruffles evoke a pleasing, distinctly feminine aesthetic, but the layered fabrics provide plenty of practical coverage as well (save for the deeply revealing neckline, of course). In erotic contexts, the impatient or unimaginative may grouse about such dress being too cumbersome, but I find the complexity of its removal allows me to extend my enjoyment of it.

Plus, in a pinch, a skirt is a very easy thing to lift.

Though it’s clear my unannounced presence surprises 08, she wastes no time performing the traditional curtsy, her emerald eyes flicking toward the others before extending an unspoken question my way.

I answer with a regretful smile and a shake of my head. She nods, understanding, and rises to fetch me a chair. As she does, I take a moment to survey my flock. All of them have assumed the proper position, prostrate before my portrait in perfectly arranged rows, bowed heads of every color and raised hips of every shape, each slave clad in nothing but the white lace of their undergarments. My taste has grown quite broad over years, the thick, pillowy thighs of 21 just as pleasing to me as the petite, pert points of 17’s breasts. All are equally beautiful in my sight, especially when in the throes of deeply conditioned devotion.

“Glory to the Master,” they chant, “our wise and powerful savior.”

“Glory to His house, our one and only home.”

“Glory to His rule, our guiding light and law.”

“May we ever be of His service.”

“May we ever be of His use.”’

“May we ever be His.”

The recitation concludes in a flurry of hitched breaths, a subtle quiver traveling down every bare back. Most of my slaves have learned to cum quietly during the morning mantras, their climaxes evident only in bitten lips, blushing cheeks, and the faint trickles of arousal trembling down their legs.

Then suddenly, above the hushed gasps of pleasure, a sharp cry breaks. My eyes track the sound to its source, observing as 31’s outburst melts into a mewling whimper, a strand of blonde hair falling before her rolling eyes. Her neighbor, 32, also seems overcome, her dark limbs threatening to give out as her pussy gushes and squirts. Examining them, 08 sighs. It seems that these newest additions to my house require more training. Though their minds have acclimated to their reeducation, it’s evident their bodies still struggle to process the pleasures of total submission. A damned shame—I was looking forward to claiming them properly tonight. Alas, if these young sluts can’t even remain lucid through the morning mantras, there’s no way they’d be able to withstand servicing me directly. Just the briefest kiss from my cock would likely shatter their sanity.

Gradually, the mantras begin again, one more cycle before all will rise and receive their assignments. 31 and 32 struggle to keep up, their voices audibly stumbling as orgasmic aftershocks shake their nubile bodies. I find myself fixated on their pathetic performance, my irritation flaring anew. A wicked impulse seizes me: I should just fuck them now and be done with it; sink my hands into their flesh, my cock into their cunts, and use them like the broken bitches they resemble. If they’re incapable of acting as servants, then they can serve as brainless fuck-dolls instead. What difference does it make?

A soft, inquisitive murmur slips through my dark thoughts. I look down, right as 01 nuzzles between my legs, her wide eyes staring up past the prominent tent in my trousers, hopeful and beseeching.

An affectionate smile warms my lips. As always, her timing is remarkable. Right when I was on the verge of a truly rash decision, the moment my emotions threatened to eclipse my judgement—here she is, a balm for my frustration, a reminder of the costs that impatience can incur. Though she is the simplest of my slaves, I sometimes like to think 01 understands me best. Who knows? Perhaps her straightforward nature grants her some special intuition, the scars my Gift left imbuing her with a faint, lingering connection to my thoughts.

Or perhaps my obvious erection has made her horny.

Even so.

“Alright, my darling,” I whisper. “But only because you’ve been such a good girl.”

As soon as I remove my blazer, 01 knows what to do. She crawls back, balancing on her haunches and raising her paws, face flushed and tongue out like a puppy begging for a treat. Her pale eyes are already hazy with desire, steam practically wafting from her lips as she pants with anticipation. Yet for all her barely constrained excitement, she remains obediently in place as I unbutton my shirt and remove my belt, only the briefest twitch of temptation jolting her when my erection springs free. She tracks its every sway and bob, her pale thighs tense as she resists the urge to launch herself onto it immediately.

“Steady…” I say, watching as 08 discreetly recovers and folds my discarded clothes, her own gaze lingering on the swollen head of my member before she wipes her chin and bustles on. “Steady…”

01 lets out a tiny whine. A thin, sticky strand of arousal drips from her glistening sex.

I smile. “Okay, pet. Go ahead.”

01 lunges forward, scrambling to press her face against the hot, rigid flesh between my legs. She takes a long, loving sniff, moaning with ecstasy as my scent fills her mind, triggering a brief, fluttering climax deep in her core. A hungry gasp escapes her, and in the next moment her lips are wrapped around my cock, her slender neck bulging as she swallows its veiny girth in one great, greedy gulp.

An approving growl rumbles my chest, my rod twitching against the warm, tight walls of her throat. 01’s eyes roll back, her head gliding back and forth as she gorges herself on her favorite treat. There is no dignity in her worship, none of the reverence or technique of 19’s oral devotions. Slobber spills from my pet’s lips and splatters her swaying tits, grateful glucks filling the air as she fucks her own face with animalistic abandon. I allow her to enjoy herself for a moment, then wrap my fist in the bright tangles of her hair, guiding her pace to suit my rising desire. She whimpers, yielding control, my conquering thrusts claiming her throat, causing another orgasm to spurt between her thighs. I grin, relishing the pleasure, the power, the utter submission of her body to mine. All the while, the chanting chorus of my collection echoes around us, stoking the burning flames of my passion.

“Our minds belong to our Master. We are His to instruct.”

“Our bodies belong to our Master. We are His to command.”

“In His guidance, we find purpose.”

“In His pleasure, we find joy.”

“We are always obedient and eager to serve.”

“We are always wet and ready to be used.”

“We cannot resist His power.”

“We cannot question His will.”

The conclusion of the mantras approaches. I bury 01’s face to the hilt of my cock, muffling her moans and silencing her slurping tongue, allowing me to listen closely as my slaves complete their recitation. Closing my eyes and straining my ears, I can hear the sharp inhales of over a dozen simultaneous orgasms, plus two faint, high-pitched yips plucking at the quiet. That would be 31 and 32, still struggling to contain their release. Ah well—at least it sounds like they’re trying.

As the room falls silent, I reopen my eyes, only to find myself staring at a sea of wide, radiant gazes. Awareness of my presence visibly ripples out among my slaves, spreading faster than wildfire. Some who had begun to stand instantly fall back down on their knees, bowing before me with trembling reverence. Others simply stare in awed fascination, their fingers working unconsciously between their legs, ensuring their slick, subservient cunts are ready, should I desire to use them as well.

Which reminds me: my current cock-holster seems to be struggling for air. I release 01 with an abashed smile, her face red and gasping as she falls free, collapsing to the ground in a messy splatter. Her breasts heave with every breath, taut nipples shivering towards the ceiling, hips twitching and wet tongue spilling from her lips.

“I’m sorry, darling,” I say. “Seems I got lost in the moment.”

(The words are reflexive; in truth, an apology is unnecessary. All my slaves enjoy being treated roughly—I’ve made sure of it.)

01 doesn’t respond. In fact, I’m not sure she even heard me. Her face is turned and her eyes are glazed and distant, as though lost in some delirious dream. It seems the excess stimulation and lack of oxygen might have caused her to temporarily short-circuit.

No matter—in times when speech cannot reach her, my Gift will suffice. Looking down at her helpless form, I reach out with my power, effortlessly entering the hollow corridors of her mind, filling them with my voice as I command:

RISE.

01 obeys immediately. She staggers upright, arms dangling and head lolling, moving as though an unseen force is puppeteering her body. In a sense, I suppose it is.

Rows of rapt faces watch as I pilot her towards a nearby wall, bracing her arms against its surface and arching her back towards my waiting cock, her pussy open and ripe for the taking. My slaves shamelessly masturbate as they watch, mouths hanging open and hot, eager breaths wafting between their lips. No doubt, this scene will replay in their fantasies tonight, their bunks rocking and sheets bunching as they rub and finger themselves to sleep, imagining that they are in 01’s place.

I grasp the pale torso of my pet, lifting it slightly to accommodate our height difference. She complies automatically, heels rising from the floor as her puffy lips part around my member. A shift, a soft gasp, and I enter her, thrilling as her warm cunt embraces its conqueror, the depth of my thrust forcing a joyful cry from her throat.

(Out of the corner of my eye, I see 08 lowering her mouth to 31 and 32’s ears. “Watch closely,” she instructs. “This is what awaits you, once your training is complete.”)

I grunt, pulling 01 off me before spearing her once again, her feet almost leaving the ground as my cock stretches her from the inside. She shakes like a leaf in my grasp, waves of orgasms rolling from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, her quivering knees threatening to give out. Lost in bliss, she is little more than a limp, living sex-toy, incapable of anything beyond serving as a tight, wet hole for me to fuck.

Fortunately, that is all that I require from her.

As the last of her strength gives out, my strong arms have no difficulty keeping her upright, my biceps flexing as my cock pistons in and out of her gushing cunt, increasing in pace and ferocity until her ass is clapping loudly against my hips. Though barely conscious, her training ensures that her body serves me instinctually, her insides squeezing tighter with every thrust, as if they’re trying to suck me in. A low, lustful growl burns my throat, and for a moment, my façade of civility slips, revealing the ravenous, insatiable animal at my core. 01 is no longer my pet—she is my prey, a weak, pitiful thing, her only purpose to be pounded and pulverized to sate my wicked hunger.

She clenches around me in surrender, right as I reach the highest peak of pleasure. I bury myself inside her, my face in her hair and cock in her cunt, grunting and spasming as I fill her with my bestial love.

At last, the throbbing heat within me begins to wane, human thoughts parting the primal haze. I release 01 from my clutches, guiding her down gently as she melts into a puddle of quivering ecstasy at my feet. A deep, satisfied breath rolls through me, expelling any lingering traces of tension and frustration. I turn and notice that two of my slaves are now kneeling at the edge of the moaning, masturbating crowd. They watch me shyly, teeth worrying their lips as though biting back a question too embarrassing to ask.

I smile at them. “Very well, 23 and 25—clean her up.”

The freckled 23 and pigtailed 25 glow with gratitude, racing to 01’s side and lowering their lips to her shivering form, licking the sweat from her skin and lapping the cum oozing between her legs. Of all my slaves, they are especially fond of 01’s antics, and it isn’t long before she is writhing and mewling beneath their tongues.

“Master.” 08 approaches me with slightly unsteady steps, trying to appear proper even as she swallows a mouthful of drool. “May I have the honor?” Her eyes dart between my legs, indicating a desire to polish my dripping, drooping cock.

I take a moment to think. “A tempting offer,” I admit. “But I’m afraid I must move on. I’ve already spent more time here than planned.”

“As you wish, Master.” She hides her disappointment well as she curtsies and fetches my clothing, though I detect a certain edge in her voice when she wrangles the other slaves back on track. For a moment, I watch them dress, then suppress a sigh and don my own daily attire.

My flock is returning to work. It’s time I did the same.

The day has only just begun.