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Tacitus Torquatus Taurus, the bull of the Amphitheatrum Caesareum, was sold to a noble’s daughter after completing 8 years of servitude in the games.
He earned the name Taurus from his stature and sheer might in the Colosseum that reminded the spectators of a powerful bull. He stood tall and broad, muscles bulging, shaved head hidden by a helmet adorned with two horns. Everything about him resembled a bull, his rages that only showed when his bloodlust sang and the spectators cheered, the thickness of his neck, and his distinctive bellow as he answered the cheers.
Valeria Aelia Tertia, the third daughter of Valerius Aelius, was a young maiden when she begged and pleaded her way into owning her very own gladiator. She was high born, but of little to no importance. Her two other sisters were already married off, had born sons and daughters. She was left to her worship at temple, left to her paintings and singing. Trapped in walls high, with little entertainment to be found with the usual slaves and strangers in the market. She was mousy, with a half lidded bored expression that her mother often complained of. Always styled with the latest fashion and expensive perfumes and adornments.
Valeria’s boredom was strong, and she insisted to come to watch the games. She saw one, then two, then three. And every time she saw the great Taurus. She felt her blood thrum, in the same way when she worshiped Venus in her bedchamber.
She was on a mission.
“That one. Father, I want that one.” She insisted. It took weeks of talking. Begging. Pushing at every moment when her father was in the same room. Explaining the logistics of feeding and housing the object of her desire.
Her father was irritated at this sudden obsession, but given as she was growing restless, he figured it would do well, long as she was a strict Mistress. Her mother tried to turn her daughter’s eye to other more ‘appealing’ objects of desire. Taking her to the slave market, taking her to friend’s homes to seek a more worthy slave. One that was more delicate, more pleasing to the eye.
Not a creature like he was, unsightly, just waiting to stir up judgement on their house. He was hulking, much like the minotaur. With missing tooth in his underbite, scarred ears, a large ugly puckered scar along his stubbled head, and heavy brow bone.
Valeria, her tongue clever and her eyes wet, managed to loosen the ties of her father’s purse. She sacrificed her own jewelry, sweetening the deal to his handler. The deal was hard, but not impossible. Long as her father went alone and didn’t elaborate on who exactly the gladiator’s new owner was.
By the time the mighty bull Tacitus was led back to the house, he had realized that he was a gift to the man’s third daughter.
“Father! Oh—“ Valeria came rushing, red dyed hair catching the firelight as she ran.
“Calm yourself. Don’t come any closer. He’s filthy. Let the slaves wash him. I don’t want your hands dirtied by his blood and grime—“ Her father scoffed, displeased at his daughter’s display.
“But Father, he’s not….well maybe a little…” She trailed off, her face turning red as she looked upon her new pet.
Tacitus made a face. His face was usually stony, but the girl’s display was confusing. She was cooing at him like he was a pup. And he wasn’t used to seeing such opulence up close, nor someone so small seemingly unafraid of him. Only when he was occasionally lent out by his handler for the wives of curious senators to sate their appetites for violent coupling.
He was led, ragged clothes taken, his metal chains still binding him, toward a bathing pool in their sprawling home. He’s scrubbed down by two slaves, the daughter sitting and watching shyly. He was fairly hairless, his body scarred and rough from dry dust and air. Rough sleeping, gruel, training, hot sun, blood, and iron were what he knew.
“I can’t wait to see how you’ll look in a few months. They starved you, didn’t they?” Valeria said, forgetting herself.
He looks at her, pinning her with his steely gaze. He’s close to huffing his nostrils, much like his namesake in the arena.
She caught herself, “I’m Valeria Aelia Tertia. I’m your new mistress. I intend to bring you up to health—“
“That right?” He says. His voice makes the slaves almost pause in their work. His voice is unusual, the cadence slow and timbre like a rock slide.
“Yes.” She said, finding her voice. She wasn’t intimidated by him. Maybe a little. She was feeling hot in her face, her heart pounding from his gaze, breaths heaving a bit—
“Hm.” He answers.
“What is your given name, Taurus?”
“Tacitus.”
“Tacitus. ‘Mute’. Interesting…”
“Didn’t cry as a babe, I guess.” He grumbles.
She teaches him his place. First she leads him by his chain to her bedchamber, having bedding for him at the foot of her bed.
To steady her nerves, Valeria rambles. She speaks about giving him a better collar, about better bedding, more pillows, finery for him. He tunes it out, stretching out and promptly closing his eyes. He pretends to sleep, convincing her. In reality, it’s much too quiet. Only the sounds of wind and crackling of fire. No sounds of dozens of other men snorting and grumbling in their sleep, tossing and turning.
In the morning, his lessons begin. He’s dressed in a tunic and belt.
“When I say sit, you kneel.”
He doesn’t protest, but a vein throbs in his head. He does so, down on one knee and then another, his mighty body still a head taller than her despite his posture, leaning back on the heels of his sandals.
Valeria coos, holding a small bowl of figs, “See? Here.” She hands him the fig, as a treat, rewarding him.
When he reaches out, she tuts. His brows lower and furrow. She brings the fig to his mouth, and he snatches it with his teeth.
She walks him around the house, giving him commands. Training him like a mutt. When he pleases her, she hand feeds him a fig. She does this until the bowl is empty.
“Good boy!” She says, a slave coming back with a fragrant plate of dried pork. His mouth waters, and she brings the piece to his mouth and steps closer, reaching out.
He chews his meat, enjoying the way it wasn’t overly dried, still with some give, and with some cracked pepper on the surface. He groans at the treat, and watches as she reaches out toward his head.
He rears back a little, a flinch. His head is vulnerable. He misses the helmet he couldn’t bring with him. His scar on his crown shows how his head already was nearly split in two, and it was mentally a bit of a sore spot.
“It’s alright.” She coos again. Her voice is soft and honey sweet. Like the figs.
“Careful. I bite.” He sasses. He knows it’s improper, knows that he’s still a slave, one who could lose his luxuries he barely got a taste of if he displeases his new mistress.
Valeria doesn’t cry out in displeasure. She doesn’t tut in cold annoyance. She doesn’t whine like the spoiled maiden she is. With a different master, he would have been beat for his insolence.
Instead she giggles in delight and amusement. She doesn’t reach out to pet him again.
Tacitus learns to be a pet.
He’s perhaps lower in status to the slaves of the house, but not in an unfavorable way. He eats separately, not at the table, but with Valeria hand feeding him after her own dinner, bringing him his meals or having other slaves bring him a bowl.
He’s fed more meat than he’s had in years combined. Pork, lamb, and goat. Mussles from the sea coated in garum and herbs. Beans and finer bread. Nuts and fruit. Generous portions from Valeria’s own plate that she brings him, along with other scraps. She isn’t supposed to, but there has been no complaint yet. He feels full more often, and slowly forgets what starvation feels like.
All the while, Valeria speaks to him softly, which he first hates. He is annoyed by it. He misses combat, misses training, misses the rough life that he’s known for over 8 years. Almost misses the sun and dust and smell of blood and entrails. He trains in the house and outside. Valeria sometimes watches him, sometimes leaves him to his own, turning to her worship and crafts.
It’s an adjustment, but as the weeks go on, festivals pass, and he feels his scars and aches, he knows that it was either this or death. He was one slow step or one missed strike from catching his death in the arena. He still wakes at the foot of her bed sometimes, sweating and wrestling an opponent in his dreams.
Valeria prays for him, feeds him, teaches him, clothes him, and all the while she smiles at him tenderly. He’s used to people looking at him with disgust and fear. This is….something else.
Valeria’s worship is important to her. Venus, lucky and alluring, has a lavish little shrine in his mistress’s bedchamber. Valeria gives the Goddess seashells, a brass bowl of water, honey dipped pears and pomegranates, sweet incense, rabbit pelts, and violets.
She also pleasures herself in the name of Venus. Sometimes snatches a female slave for her purposes, sharing in the divine pleasure and ecstasy that Venus brings them.
And Tacitus can only watch. He’s never seen worship to Venus like this in a home. He’s only seen her male worshippers in women’s stolas in the arena’s stands sometimes, adorned with cosmetics and jewelry. Only seen other gladiators pray to Venus and Mars before the games, sharpening their weapons and kneeling with fists to heart.
He sits at the foot of the bed, watching his mistress bring a house slave to ecstasy multiple times in succession, proclaiming that Venus bless them. Bring them beauty, bring them fertility, and bring them luck.
Tacitus was a hot blooded male. And all he could do was press his palm to his erection and swallow the spit in his mouth.
His mistress was like all noble women. Plump, pale, soft, hair cascading, perfume mixing with the musk of desire.
He hasn’t touched himself in a long time. Usually only to get rid of his pesky erection after a battle, when relief and bloodlust is bubbling inside him.
He relieves his need in the dark of night, after the slave stumbles out, the candles are blown out, and his mistress had finished her ritual and went to sleep.
He makes it quick, licks up the evidence. He doesn’t mean to get caught one night after her ritual.
“Tacitus?”
Ah. So she was awake.
“Yes?” He answers.
She shuffles and peeks over toward him, kneeling on her bedding. His hand is already out of his loincloth.
“You know…you can…bring yourself pleasure. You’re allowed.”
“Oh?”
“Although, it would also please me if…” She trailed off, his heart thudding stronger now at the possibilities, “—if you want to offer it to Venus.”
“Offer it?” He asks, wanting to see where this was going.
“Your seed. I forgot you were still virile, and it would please me if you wanted to thank Venus—“
“That’s—“ He doesn’t know how to refuse. Normally he would bark for someone to back off. It felt odd. Yes, he’s her pet, but her using him for her rituals….
The idea of her touching him wasn’t bad at all.
“Forget I said such a thing.” She says, immediately sensing his discomfort. In another life he would have enjoyed seeing her cowed, but this was his mistress now. And seeing her displeased was starting to irk him. It didn’t suit her.
“O-only if you help me…” He says, his breath huffed in amusement, in jest. Surely she wouldn’t.
“If it’s alright with you…” She said, her voice soft in the dark. He hears her shifting and the sound of a candle wick crackling, the room glowing brighter from the added light.
What?
He finds her climbing from her bedding, her sleep tunic draped along her softness as she straddles her bull carefully.
“Like this?” She asks. She doesn’t sound inexperienced, but merely sounded concerned, like she didn’t want to upset him. He felt powerful in that moment. His mistress hoping to please him, even if it was for a higher power.
His body bucks as her hands find him. Hands so soft, so clean and delicate—-
“Mistress—“ He gasps. He’s going to spill. Just from her softness perched on him, her hands gentle and tugging. It’s been too long.
She grabs his throbbing member, “Blessed by Venus and Mars, you are. Built for love and war, for pleasure and the instinct of a warrior. Strength and —- oh—- ‘Taurus’ is apt indeed. My fighting bull….” She coos, a giggle on her exhale, her hand stroking and squeezing tenderly.
He feels his belly flatten and contract, great breaths in his belly feeling strangled by the pleasure tugging at his loins, so sudden and wild.
She sounds so pleased as he pants, making him spill his milky seed across his bare stomach. Valeria takes drops from her hand and goes to her altar, washing it off and offering it in the bowl of water to Venus. Her hands clean and wet, return with a honeyed fig for him.
“Good boy. Very good.” She coos, kneeling by his panting form. He’s still reeling from his orgasm, like he’s returned from the dead, a man born again.
She’s smiling, the candle making her glowing face even brighter. He can’t tell if he’s delirious, but he swears she looks like the Goddess herself, “You did so well.”
Honey and fig on his tongue makes him groan softly.
That night, she allows him to sleep curled next to her in her bed. A rare indulgence.
“It’s finally here!” Valeria squeals. She has a package, wrapped in linens, delivered to her lap by a slave.
Tacitus merely watches in interest. They’re in the yard, enjoying the sun from the shade. She’s sitting up from her chaise and unwrapping the gift.
“I’ve been waiting so long—“ She can hardly contain her excitement.
What is it? He wants to know. But like his given name, he doesn’t speak much.
The package is shed and a collar is revealed. It resembles something fit for a noble’s guard dog, with fine rabbit fur on the inside, brass ring and studs on the rich brown leather, belt closure on the back, and a braided leather leash to accompany it.
It’s a bit too large for a dog.
His mistress beams before she notices his face.
“Do you not like it?” Her face falls. Worry on her brow.
“It’s—“ He swallows. His chest feels tight. He hates it, he hates it, he hates being a mutt for a spoiled noble brat— but it is damn fine. It’s well made, even he can see the exquisite craftsmanship of the accessory. He exhales a breath.
“I just thought— the collar you have looks so brutish. So hard and cold. I wanted you to have something nice. Please?”
He hates it even more when she’s displeased. When did that happen? His gut roils in confusion like a storm.
He finds his old collar and chain removed and even enjoys the freedom she allows him, letting him rub at his neck and feel the lack of weight on him.
When he’s ready, she holds out the collar.
“May I—“
“Yes, Mistress.” He says, his voice deep and serious. He means it. And that shocks him.
She is gentle, putting it on. There’s no lock, just a belt closure. And she runs fingers between the leather and his neck, making sure it’s not too tight. The rabbit fur lining is softness that he hasn’t felt in some time. Practical, with hints of opulent flair. The weight is remarkably lighter than the metal, despite the heft of the thick collar, built for an intimidating beast such as him.
A bull turned into a lap dog.
Every dog needs walks. And she starts to take him out. She ensures he’s cleaned and perfumed, dressed in his finery and collar, leash in her hand. She starts to pay more attention to his appearance.
Sometimes she leans into his brutish appearance, dressing him down to his loincloth, leather straps affixed to emphasize his new healthy physique, muscles bulging bigger than ever, scars on display. Sometimes, she has him wear gladiator finery that she had given him, only the collar and her own perfume oil on his skin showing the public that he belonged to her.
She often touches him freely, tucked against his side. The top of her head reaches his lower chest, as he often has to lean a little to hear her soft voice in the bustle of the street.
They didn’t go out often, but it was usually to just visit the market or go to temple. She brings him to the temple Venus Felix et Roma Aeterna, and has him wait outside, his leash limply tied around a tree branch, trusting him to stay put like a loyal dog while she prays.
She returns outside, and finds him kneeling or standing where she left him.
Most citizens have forgotten him, or cannot recognize him without his signature horned helmet. But his stature stands out, causing some stares. He’s used to it, but with the collar around his neck it somehow feels different. Like a spectacle, for such a beast at the beck and call of such a small noble woman.
He is recognized some days. He’s sure of it, given the eyes that linger too long on him, whispers hidden behind hands. He almost wants to snort in displeasure at their eyes. Pluck them out and dash them on the stones for good measure. But then, his mistress is the one who returns their stares with her signature half lidded expression, one that is unamused and haughty, daring them to speak.
“Why must you do that?” He asks, muttering.
“Because. They are rude. Staring like so. What could they want…?”
“Nothing good. Makes me want to…” He trails off, holding his tongue. Such words would probably upset her.
“Tell me.” She says, a little pleading, her voice lilting with curiosity.
“It’s nothing kind…” He says.
“I know it’s not. Tell me anyways. I’m small but I’m not that delicate.” She insisted. Her clever tongue winning him over.
“Makes me want to pluck their eyes.” He blurts.
“Ah! Yes. Your justice would be had, indeed.” She says, lightly, like she’s amused, dark enjoyment in her eyes as she leads him to a corridor, shaded from the sun, “Would you do it if I bid you to?”
“Yes.” He says it without thinking.
“Naughty pup.” The words fly from her mouth, surprising him, her voice lilting and pleased. “You’d like it too.”
“Y-yes…” He says. Violence was his nature. But seeing the odd hunger in her eyes was making him question himself. The name also makes his eyebrow twitch, a bit in annoyance, but also pleasure, that she sees him as harmless as a playful puppy. He doesn’t want her to be afraid of him.
“I like that.” Her words make his belly twist, and heat up like coals, “But you know I would just simply stare back at them. Let them talk. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed—“
“I’m not—“
“Course not.” She purrs, tugging at his leash, urging him to lean down, his body like a parasol to shield her from eyes, his broad body looming over her. “Because you’re mine now. And they will never have a taste of the life I bestow upon you. Pity them. For they must toil and spend their coin on whores and taxes.”
Her words quell him. Only for a stuttering breath to be trapped in his lungs as she drags a hand along from collarbones to his hip, leaving a trail of fire and a throbbing under his loincloth.
She starts to take over his bathing. She first asks him, which is novel but appreciated. He’s gotten fat and happy. Content, a layer of healthy softness around his middle from her sumptuous hand fed meals. He doesn’t deny her. He finds himself unable to as the months have passed.
She oils him and scrapes the grime, then rinses and cleanses. She shaves him too, keeping his bald head and face groomed. It feels almost like worship in a way.
He feels like Mars, his scars glinting from oil, and his own loving Venus pampering him.
He also feels like a dog, subjected to the tender love and attention from his doting mistress.
Eventually she joins him in soaking, them both taking advantage of the water warmed by slaves and healing salts for aching muscles.
First he merely tolerates it, but over the months, he starts to look forward to it. It helps to soothe his aches and scars and the smell of floral perfume grows on him.
“I want you to smell like me. It’s lovely, isn’t it?” She asks, applying scented oil to points on his body.
He likes feeling the sense of belonging to her. He’s gotten used to depending on her presence. Her attention. Her own version of worship and adoration.
He also doesn’t mind greedily looking his fill of her as she bathes. The more time passes, the more his libido awakens from dormant slumber. She offers to relieve him of his burden, and only dedicates his seed to Venus half of the time.
The other half seems to be merely for her own pleasure.
Saturnalia meant the time for feast, abundance, and for slaves and masters to be on equal footing. But it also meant time for private parties. Some of which he wasn’t properly invited to.
Valeria had gone out to a residence, dressed in men’s clothes and mask on her face, to join in the festivities. Venus would be proud, her figure and demeanor of a boyish noble man, her calves strong, her hair tied up and hidden.
The house is quiet, sometimes master and slaves join in feast, but without Valeria, he feels a bit lost. He is allowed to speak freely, but doesn’t have the usual complaints and venomous bite he would have had almost a year ago.
He eats well, he roams, he gambles. Gifts are exchanged.
He still wears his collar proudly in the house.
When his mistress returns, she is clearly drunk. Her hair coming out of it’s thong, mask tilted up to reveal a flushed and dizzy expression as she giggles and retreats to her room. Tacitus sits up from his place at the foot of her bed.
She coos at him, rushing to greet him.
She can’t help but press against him in a hug, cradling his head against her bosom.
“I almost fell off a horse!” She croons.
“What? You musn’t be so foolish—“ He croaks, blinking at the suddenness. Fear for her safety lances him and he clutches at her.
She giggles, all youthful vigor and mischief. He sighs, feeling his joints ache.
She spins away and flops on her bed, beginning to shed her clothing. He watches her struggle with it, the clothes unfamiliar. She is asleep quickly, hair and body splayed out.
He sighs, feeling happy that she’s back home safe.
In the morning, he stirs. He’s hard in his loincloth, dreaming about the sight of his mistress in men’s clothes. Images of her drunken face, her legs spread for him, both man and woman like Venus.
They both start to stir as the late morning greets them. Everyone will be tired from drinking and carousing.
“Dear Tacitus?” She croaks. Her voice sounds raw, no doubt from talking and singing her throat raw the night before.
“Mistress?”
“Oh Goddess, you— you must have been so lonely. Did you have fun celebrating last night?”
“Mm. It was alright….” He says. He missed her. He wished she was home. Or that he was out with her. He doesn’t like her out alone. He knows he shouldn’t act like a guard dog—
She huffs in amusement. She likes his sourness. Like young grapes.
“Come.” She smiles. He does so, crawling to kneel at her side, close as can be.
She hums in pleasure, and the sound makes his belly flutter.
“What do you need?”
“A bath. To refresh myself. Come with me?” She asks him, her sweet voice giving him no choice.
In the bath, a servant left them a bowl of fruits and soft bread, something gentle for the stomach after a night of revelry. They speak in low tones, his mistress content to sit directly in his lap, wishing to be held in the bathing pool as she feeds the both of them morsels from her fingers.
There’s something different about her that morning. The way she can’t stop smiling at him, her eyes warm like a hearth. Welcoming and fond. That strange flutter in his belly growing stronger. She idly strokes his skin, rubbing at his puckered scars. Naked in his lap and he can’t look away.
“Something troubling you?” He asks, unbidden.
“No. Just admiring you.” She says. He knows she means it. By now he knows that her honesty is unparalleled. Her fingers card along his arm and up to run her nails along the scalp by his cauliflower ears. It’s intimate. Everything is so terribly intimate.
It’s no surprise when he grows thick with blood between his legs. Especially with her cooing and touching him as such. This time however, she takes him in hand and he touches her back. Carefully, like he’s afraid any moment she will pull away, order his hands to still.
He keeps his eyes trained on her.
“You don’t need to be shy.” She coos, having bullied him to sit on the stone, legs in the warmed pool, “Touch me. I want you to.”
He reaches out, urging her up.
“Mistress. Please let me taste you on my tongue.” He blurts out. Surely she’ll refuse.
Instead she hums in delight, “Such manners. It pleases me.”
He wastes no time, leaning back to be supine on the damp stone. He handles her to straddle his face and then devours her. It’s been far too long for him, but he’s voracious. Precise and unrelenting.
She almost wishes for his leash to yank him away, for he laps at her like a starving man, making her yip. She had removed his collar to keep it dry. The only times he doesn’t wear it is in the bathing pool.
“Oh— Goddess—“
His mouth and tongue are hers. His mistress, so good and just. His mistress, Venus incarnate, so supple and ripe and full of love for a brute like him. He latches onto her pearl and folds between her legs. He tastes her, the brine of the sea from where she came from, sweetened by honey. So carnal and rich. He feels anointed by her nectar, lapping and drinking from her.
He wrenches himself away from her apex, smacking his lips and moaning. Ripe as an apricot. Tender and sweet.
“Oh—!” She nearly squeals, bucking against his mouth. His broad and gladius-roughened hands gripping the plushness of her hips, breasts, and belly.
She moans, shuddering on his wide tongue, his hand digging in hard as his hips buck at the sound and taste of her reaching her peak.
“Good boy— Goddess you are— so good—“ She pants, sliding down to grab his jaw and greedily taste her own nectar from his lips, “Such a good boy of mine you are.”
It’s a new day at the house, and Valeria is in a reverent mood. She’s planning something.
“The dawn is coming. Will you help me with something? There’s something I want to do.”
He does. He could never deny his Mistress. She changes into different clothes, takes a long bath with his help, ensuring she was spotless and shining. She paid extra attention to her hair.
In the early morning, she goes to the yard, with a platter, shears, a candle, and incense. She brings her figure of Venus. She arranges everything quietly.
Tacitus watches as she performs a ritual on the spot. She hands him the shears and her hair in a thick braid. He cuts as instructed, her hair now above her shoulders, a long length of braided hair in his hand. She places it on the platter and lights the hair and incense. She prays.
Tacitus is a little startled. He doesn’t interrupt. So much of her lustrous hair, gone in the sacrificial flame.
“What did you pray for?” He wonders, only when he feels it’s welcome.
“It was an offering for the Goddess Venus, for gifting me you. Because all I could think about was you. At the celebrations, it was— there was— you weren’t there. And I wish— I wanted—“
“What?”
“Tacitus. I’m so blessed….“ She sighs. Her hair is not very neat where he cut. But it’s…charming. It’s foreign, watching a women so devoted she’d part with such long locks of hair in thanks to her deity.
His chest feels so tight. His mistress feels so deeply for him, it hurts.
“Mistress.” He interrupts, “Please. I beg you. I— I thought of you too. I wished to be at your side. All night, it’s the only wish I had. I feasted and talked and celebrated, but all I wanted was to be at your feet.”
She looks at him with wide disbelieving eyes. Eyes that go wider when he starts to reach out. He tugs her gently by her shorn hair, pulling her toward him. He kisses her, his broad face rough against her soft delicate skin.
Like Mars and Venus, he scoops her up and kisses her. Claiming, devoted. The scent of incense and burning hair still floods his nostrils, mixing with the scent of her perfume oil. He can feel the smile of her curved lips as she kissed him back, arms around his thick neck.
“Mistress—“ He gasps, hands touching her like she’s made of fine spun silk, “Have me. All of me. I’m yours. I belong to you. The life you have given me is beyond anything I could have dreamed of. Have me in front of your Goddess—let me serve you and please you in every way.“
She makes a choked sound, sounding shocked. It dissolves into a needy moan. One he’s familiar with from watching her in the past.
She’s babbling, the morning sun gracing them as he makes her sing. She moans not for her Goddess, but for him. For her loyal dog. When she climaxes, he huffs his breaths, his length hard against his loincloth.
“My fighting bull. My darling Tacitus—“ She pants, her finger hooked into the ring of his collar, demanding his mouth to meet hers.
He indulges her. And he goes where she’s wanted, pleasing her everyday with his mind, body, and spirit. His mistress owns all of him, after all.