I look into the camera, my eyes blown wide. My heart is hammering—half in terror that someone might actually see and half in desperate, exhibitionist thrill that they might.

I let the lens see everything: my flushed face, my messy hair, and the way I’m splayed out on the table like a feast.

Click.

The flash blinds me for a second. He isn’t streaming. He just took a photo... a permanent record of my submission.

“There,” he whispers, dropping the phone. “Now I have proof of how well my maid performs.”

I should be horrified. I should be screaming for him to delete it. But instead, my back arches, and...