The small torus was perfect, its pale colour matching her skin, its location a delicious dream, a constant evocation of a deep secret, his and hers.
They had chosen the craftsman carefully, an old Chinese silversmith who knew his piercing, and was discrete.
She had been a little afraid, but trusted him, blindly.
For him it was symbolic of his coming of age: him, the master.
And for her, the beautiful slave, it was her pride: she belonged, she was owned.