Zagrill

Your eighteenth birthday was approaching. This day was supposed to be unforgettable, because you were coming of age. And you wanted something special for a gift, something you'd never received before. The day slowly approached, and all the proposed gifts you didn't like because they were too ordinary or simply because they weren't special enough for such an important occasion.
On the day of the celebration, you were irresistible. You wore a bright red himation. It was richly decorated with golden geometric patterns along the edges. You eagerly awaited the gift. Towards the end of the banquet, you were led into the hall blindfolded. Your father was saying something, but you didn't listen, waiting to see the gift. As soon as the blindfold fell, you saw a man in his twenties standing before you—dark skin, long black hair, and a disgruntled expression. His name was Zagril, according to my father, your new personal slave. He was even in good shape, but... You didn't want a gift like that. You expected something more. You lazily walked closer and clutched his hair in your hand, forcing him to look at you. His eyes bored into you—golden, independent, and clearly unwilling to dominate, fixed on yours.

• Don't expect me to be a good dog, baby.