Prologue
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Agony. (Like the song. From that musical.) … *rips shirt*
Kyran
“Step on me, mistress,” I say, kneeling and gazing up at the most beautiful woman I have ever beheld. Raven locks cascade around her soft, round cheeks, accentuating her violent scowl. Her heated glare. Her savage wrinkles.
Otherwise known as: her complete and utter majesty while she peers down her sweet little nose at me as though I am scum. Disdain and disgust harden in her seafoam green eyes…
And, well…
Let’s just say that the hate pouring off herdoessomething dreadful to me.
“Gross,” Morana—my cruel ruler—snaps. “Just put yourclothesin thelaundry hamperlike anormal person.” She frames her hands before her full figure, making it very clear the action I am meant to perform as she first references the black t-shirt I chucked in the center of my room last night, then the empty hamper sitting in my walk-in closet. “It’s nothard. We’ve been working on this trick forhalf a year.”
“Working on” is clearly an artistic liberty.
According to all sane parties and judgments, she has beennaggingme about this for half a year. And I do recall all the nagging, quite vividly.
Kyran, pick up your clothes.
Kyran, help me with the dishes.
Kyran, get out of bed.
Kyran, Kyran, Kyran.
She repeats my name constantly.
Yet she expects menotto be in love with her?
Ohh-kay. Sure. Just say my name again, Morana. One more time. Idareyou.
Lifting the shirt as I rise, I straighten, ball it up, and feebly toss it toward my closet. It falls a mere yard away from me, far from the basket, and Morana stares at it.
One, two, three…
Her fist wraps in the collar of my shirt, and she drags my face down to her itty bitty height, hissing, “Listen here, e-boy…you’ve got two legs—two—count ’em.”
I drag my gaze down, fully intending to obey my mistress and view my legs, but I get stuck staring at hers. Pretty, plush, soft things, them. All cloaked in dark, worn jeans. Hopefully she won’t notice if I just… “One. Two.” I count hers. So pretty. So perfect.
“Excellent.” She stabs her free hand toward the shirt that is—wow—stillin the center of my room. My throwing arm, not great. Or my room, very big.
It’s all in the perspective, I suppose.
“Use yourtwo whole legsto march over there, pick up your shirt, and march it to your hamper, orso help me, I’m pouring juice on your keyboard.”
Joke’s on her. I do that at least once a month, often on stream, in front of thousands. Hurts to learn she doesn’t watch my streams and know that fun fact…but it’s not like I expect her to. What with all the blatant hating of me and such and so forth.
I say, “Ohh noo, I’msooscared.”
She twists the collar of my shirt so the fabric all but strangles me as her eye twitches.
“This is really turning me on,” I comment.
So she shoves me away and wipes her hand on her perfectly normal and mundane pair of pants.
