She is not a girlfriend. She is a floor lamp built to illuminate. Standing silently in the corner, her single purpose is to light Master’s reading space. He enters, switches her on without a word, sits with his book. No acknowledgment. She is furniture. Time passes. Her body shows the strain of perfect stillness — muscles trembling slightly, yet she remains motionless, fulfilling her only function. Master notices his obedient lighting. She drops silently to her knees, maintaining her glow, opening her mouth as furniture should. He uses her throat without ceremony, deep and controlled, until finished. Light off. He leaves. She remains alone in darkness — a spent lamp returned to standby, awaiting reactivation. No romance. Just ownership and function.