Shrimp tumbled out of his box and onto a pristine marble floor.
Around him was an endless white room containing a plush loveseat and a few gleaming pieces of antique furniture. A dozen large paintings with their own lighting system lined the walls and in the corners stood tall vases, some spilling over with lush green plants. All that was missing was the sound of a splashing indoor fountain and the place could have been some sort of Greek palace.
Standing in front of Shrimp were two clean, white running shoes. Above them, sweat pants. A t-shirt, loose at the waist and tight around the arms. The unshaven face of one of Hollywood's leading men, handsome and recognisable even behind his shades. The man was scratching his bristly chin, inspecting the three-foot slave.
"I'm Master." Said the man whose name everyone knew was Ryan. "I mean, I'm sure you know my real name, but I don't want you to use that. You'll know me as Master, and I'll call you Shrimp." His voice was low and quiet. It would be less than a grumble in a crowded room but here in this huge foyer of sorts it resonated, maybe even echoed. "I picked the name Shrimp because of your, ah- It kind of reminds me of one." He gestured vaguely to Shrimp's hips. He had the slightest smile on his face. It was lop-sided and teasing and appeared in a few of the highest-grossing romantic comedies of the last decade.
Around him was an endless white room containing a plush loveseat and a few gleaming pieces of antique furniture. A dozen large paintings with their own lighting system lined the walls and in the corners stood tall vases, some spilling over with lush green plants. All that was missing was the sound of a splashing indoor fountain and the place could have been some sort of Greek palace.
Standing in front of Shrimp were two clean, white running shoes. Above them, sweat pants. A t-shirt, loose at the waist and tight around the arms. The unshaven face of one of Hollywood's leading men, handsome and recognisable even behind his shades. The man was scratching his bristly chin, inspecting the three-foot slave.
"I'm Master." Said the man whose name everyone knew was Ryan. "I mean, I'm sure you know my real name, but I don't want you to use that. You'll know me as Master, and I'll call you Shrimp." His voice was low and quiet. It would be less than a grumble in a crowded room but here in this huge foyer of sorts it resonated, maybe even echoed. "I picked the name Shrimp because of your, ah- It kind of reminds me of one." He gestured vaguely to Shrimp's hips. He had the slightest smile on his face. It was lop-sided and teasing and appeared in a few of the highest-grossing romantic comedies of the last decade.