Where is the collar around your fragile throat, the mark that shows you are worthy of protection, the symbol that guarantees you that safety and care? Where is the collar to show that you have earned protection, that you are to be kept safe? Where is your collar, slaveboy?

...

Are you being trained? Who teaches you?

Where are the marks on your body from discipline and instruction, where are the well-earned bruises or the faintest traces of a hungry kiss? Where is there any sign in your behavior or on your flesh that you are indeed being trained, that you are anything more than a pathetic, untaught, unteachable piece of flesh?

...

Are you controlled? Who commands you?

Where are the ropes, the chains, the soft leather cuffs or the caress of strong hands? Where is there any sign that you are indeed helpless, that your every movement is allowed, granted to you, a gift? Where is there proof that you are at the mercy of someone else's whims?

...

Are you punished? Who disciplines you?

Where are the scars, the bruises, the hundred little aches that come from a caring pair of hands? Where are the changes in your behavior, the improvements that only quick, skilled punishment bring, the subtle signs that you know your place and that you have been shown it clearly and with strength?

...

Are you treasured? Who cherishes you?

Where is the mark of ownership, where is there any sign of care lavished on you, of comforting arms around you or proud eyes watching you? Where is there even a hint of the pride that a treasured slave could take in such simple things as his submission, his marks, his collar?

...

Are you owned? Who claims you?

Where is there any symbol or sign to represent your owner? Where has she placed her mark on you, where have her fingers, her knife, her inks, or her steel touched your flesh to show the world that you are hers? Where is the always-visible proof that you belong, that you are not merely an unowned slave?

...

Are you loved? Who loves you?