Months in, they brought a stool - wooden, low, with a hole. "New job," Amir said. They tied me under it, head through the hole, hands bound with straps. My knees bent painfully, back screaming. Naree sat first, her sweaty yoga pants crushing my face. "Our seat," she said, laughing. The smell - sweat, fabric - filled my lungs.
Nightly, women sat on me - heavy, wet, post-workout. They'd stuff socks in my mouth, strap them in, jaw aching. Amir tied dumbbells to my arms, smirking, "Stronger slave." I was a thing - a seat, suffocating under them.