The bike - she would admit with ease - was beautiful.
Sleek and glossy, adorned with scarlet flames, turning with the ease and delicacy of a dancer, it's roar a gentle purring creature.
But she could derive no comfort from the beast.
She could not could not sit comfortably upon the cool leather seat, knowing what it symbolised.
The clothes, fitting like gloves, and accentuating her figure, felt like dreaded sacks of clothing,
They always would.
Because these were not gifts, not mere transportation or uniform.
They were like name tags.
Proclaiming to he and her both that she belonged to him.
His creature, his servant,
That she was a product of his choices and decisions, wished and whims, just catering to his fantasy and doing as he ordered.
It was a mind game.
He was winning.
But she was a sore loser, and would never admit it.
Really short but please - i'm on an exam fortnight, had three exams today, please don't moan,
xx