Collared (Masters of Desires)

The small taverna in the outskirts of the city was owned by an elderly couple who’d moved from Athens to New York in the late sixties.

It was favored by many Greek Americans as it was the only authentic Greek restaurant in the whole state. It was the closest one could get to Greece without flying over the Atlantic Ocean.

Damario had made sure his restaurant represented the best of Greece’s culinary tastes. His menu ranged from gyros to avgolemonos to moussakas and wine.

Irina, on the other hand, focused on the ambiance of the taverna, decorating the walls in whites and baby blues, and adding mustard pots with pink and red flowers to the outside. She’d knitted and designed the Greek key-pattern cloths that covered every table and painted the chairs the color of the Mediterranean Sea.

For all intents and purposes, this small restaurant was their olives and olive oil, supporting not just one, but three households.

The Mikos consisted of two daughters and the mother hen. Damario, the poor old man, was the only male in the family, carrying the weight of the three loud women who made his life a roller coaster.

The blonde woman stared ahead, watching as the evening rush brought ravenous customers to her front steps.

She took a minute to reminisce to when Ambrosia was an unknown eatery. The taverna had been so unpopular she thought herself lucky when a tourist came in to ask for directions.

At the time, the economy had been unwelcoming to the family to the point where their olives and olive oil sat on a pile of debt, sinking like quicksand. If it hadn’t been for her favorite customer, her family wouldn’t have been as well-off as they were today.

Irina could still remember the day a businessman walked into her small restaurant. She was stunned that such a prestigious man wandered into her taverna that she offered him a sample of everything on the menu.

After that day, the man became a regular, going several days a week to eat late lunches or early dinners. He’d sit at the same table every time and ordered the savory dish of moussaka. For his sweet tooth, he’d always ask for a box of loukoumades.

When the man heard they were going to close the family business, he offered to pay their debts and became a silent partner.

Now the business was booming, so much so, that customers reserved a table a month in advance. Who wouldn’t in a restaurant that housed only ten tables?

A customer who never had to call in advance was Mr. Preston Trice.

The bell above the door rang. Irina’s face lit up with a beaming smile. She stopped what she was doing and greeted Preston who was more like a son in her eyes.

“Damario! Damario!” she called out to her husband. “Our boy is here.”

At the time, Damario was making a yogurt gyro dip. When he heard Preston was in the room, he let go of the blender and rushed to the front desk to welcome him.

Never having had the blessing of a son of their own, the couple saw their regular customer and business partner as a member of the family.

“We were beginning to think you’d forgotten about us,” Irina joked in Greek.

Preston wasn’t a man of hugs or anything that resembled affection, but for the Mikos, he’d reserved a special place.

In Damario, Preston saw his late father Giorgio Dimitriou. Both men had the hands of a worker and the stamina needed to survive in the world.

“Never, Irina. You know how much I indulge in Damario’s food,” he answered her in a quick string of Greek.

He didn’t need the couple to take him to his usual table, but they followed nonetheless, asking why he took so long to visit and if he was alright.

As much as Preston liked the family, he couldn’t deny they overwhelmed him and were extremely clingy. Everything he hated in a person he found in the Mikos. The stereotypical loud and carefree Greeks.

Preston despised questions. It was something he loathed with a passion, especially when it came from his overbearing mother. But for some reason, it wasn’t as annoying when others asked. Whereas his mother inquired for her own benefit, Irina and Damario asked with genuine interest.

He tried not to think about the reason why his routine changed abruptly but the image of a young siren kept sliding through his mind. As Preston sat at one of the two tables on the outside space, he counted the hours until he had her naked in front of him again.

Two.

Finding it disrespectful to imagine a woman naked while talking to an elderly couple, Preston told the Mikos he was too busy with work, which wasn’t a lie. He needed to start sketching if he wanted to spend the weekend free of work.

He ordered his usual and was left just as he liked it, alone.

Sitting alfresco, he inhaled a breath of air and pulled out a sketchbook from the briefcase he sometimes carried. He sharpened a pencil and drew new designs for the house of a famous Italian mogul.

Francisco Esposito wanted his house on the island of Capri to look like a yacht floating over the sea. It was an easy task for Preston, yet it’d taken him several days to sketch a simple draft. This time would be different because he was sitting alfresco, listening to classic Greek music, and not in an office overlooking the bustle of New York City.

He brought pencil to paper and began making lines that soon turned to curves. He erased the arch and turned it back into a line. But his hand wanted to draw a different image his mind had been trying to chase away.

And so, he let his hand do what it knew best. The curves returned. The sterile pale was besmeared in golden hues. The house managed to grow hair that flew like it was part of the wind. A pouty mouth and big gray eyes, begging to be fucked stared back at him.

Fuck!

Preston jumbled the paper and threw it in the middle of the table. At this rate, he was going to be bald before he turned forty. He needed to get his shit together. It angered him how such a small girl had the power to seep into his mind and control his world.

It’d been a couple of days since his disastrous scene with Lauren. Wanting her to be Abigail, he’d hurt her so bad her injuries were going to take weeks for Elliott to heal.

With Lauren out of the picture this weekend, Abigail would have to care for her wounds on her own. Served her right for being a minx.

On the days that followed their meeting, Preston had used his mind to think of the many ways he could hurt her as much as she was hurting him. But where Abigail did it from far, Master Trice would do it inches away. He’d not only inflict physical pain but psychological too. And that hurt more than paddles and knives.

He knew what he’d do to hurt her. He knew she wasn’t going to get any pleasure out of their scenes because bad girls didn’t get rewarded. They got disciplined.

Finishing up his moussaka, he took a bite of his favorite dessert.

He wondered if Abigail tasted as sweet as loukoumades.

A sinister smile split his face. He didn’t have to wonder anymore. Pulling out his phone, he called his chauffeur.

“It’s time to get my new slave.”