An Assistant is left outside while their owner is on business, left with nothing to entertain themselves except the collar around their neck. Non-con mind control, dystopian themes. Second-person. ~500 words.
You had previously questioned why it was required, to which your Mistress responded with "it isn't". "It's just tradition", she said, mentioning that it was how Assistants were controlled before the mental interface chips, and that she preferred it. You had no room to argue, especially since she had revealed that the internal latches of the collar had no ability to open, a pair of thin seams the only clue that it was ever separate pieces.
You rub your fingers over it idly as you're reminded of its presence. Wearing it every minute of every day meant that its existence as a separate object faded -- it was almost a part of you, and the feeling of it had become incredibly normal in the months since it was locked shut.
It was almost like Mistress had left you alone to think these specific thoughts -- she left you with nothing to distract yourself while she attended to business inside the building, leaving you to inevitably fidget with the symbol of ownership she placed on you.
"Assistants have to stay outside." She said when she left you here, outside the Ministry of the Primus building. You raised a finger to question this as you saw a Personal Assistant with their owner walk through, but she already knew what you were going to say. "Don't question my rules. Go find somewhere to sit, until I'm done."
You found a park bench by the side of the street, in clear view of everyone walking by and every transit car that went past, and sat.
The collar was embarrassing at first, but you have mostly got over that. Now, though, those tinges of blush returned to your face, as free Avians gave you the occasional glance. Collars were relatively common on Personal Assistants -- at least the ones you knew -- but it didn't help the slight squirms every time you thought safe.
"Assistant." Mistress says, snapping you out of your daydreaming. "Home, shall we?"
"Yes, Mistress." You reply, standing up from the bench and holding the leash out to Mistress.
She takes it, wrapping the fabric around her hand a few times, keeping your leash short. You know where you should be -- just a step behind Mistress, letting her lead the way -- and you stay there the best you can.
As common as collars were, being led on a leash still got the occasional stare from an Avian here or there. When you noticed the eyes on you, your cheeks would inevitably flush red, and you would try and hide behind Mistress.
You got a sharp tug on the leash when you attempted it this time.
"In step, Assistant."
You do as you are told, falling back behind her.