My Slave
by Jonathan Quince
Tuesday, February 8, 2005 10:55:08
Come to me, my servant.
My slave.
Not for you is the lot of the laborer, the gardener, or the common house-cleaner. You have been chosen to attend me personally. And what greater honor can there be for a human than to serve me at my hand and my body?
Carefully did I select you, culling you away from the dreck of humanity. With diligence did I embark on your training, breaking you down to erase old habits and rebuilding you into the image of what I desire. Growing under my tutelage, you have been both molded and upraised; neither my convenience nor your pains did I spare in exploring your deeper potential and forcing you to live up to it. Thus did you arise so you may be exploited to my best advantage.
My efforts in recreating you have borne fruit. In every art and skill with which I schooled you, I have demanded that you to excel past the maximum of your abilities. And you have gone far, far indeed.
I own only the best. Objects of beauty are worthy for my possession; the commonplace and mediocre are not. And it gives me pleasure to keep you as my property.
Every moment and every hour sacrificed in stillness awaiting my command brings unto you its own reward. A lifetime of your freedom would have brought you not the riches bestowed by ten years waiting on my house. And when idyllic days and ethereal nights flow from one to the next with you and your fellow property tending to my requirements, you know that this is the purpose to which you were born.