The Vanquished

Chapter Three: Outside

I am confined to his room for days, perhaps weeks even. It is difficult to keep track of time. I do not sleep in his bed; he has a small bed made for me at the foot of his, where I go when he is finished with me for the evening. There are shackles that keep me there, presumably to prevent me from trying to hurt him as he sleeps.

In the morning, he wakes me with a tug at my chained wrists or a rough shove at my side. His cock is in my mouth before I am fully awake. If I am not alert and sucking at him quick enough, a few slaps to my face wake me up fully. Damien is no gentler in the morning than he is anytime else. He forces me to take his length entirely into my mouth and down my throat, hand on the back of m head, gripping my hair as I choke helplessly.

When he is done, after he has come in me or on me as his fancy suits him that morning, he drops me back onto my bed, tucks himself away, and leaves. A guard will unchain me, and I will spend most of the day alone.

It is the best part of my day.

As much as it is boring, it is also safe. And I have discovered a small library's worth of books in trunks stored in the corner. I have not been told not to touch, so I assume it is alright. They are not all to my taste, but they give me something to do.

Sometimes he comes by around noon, but generally I do not see him again until evening.

He fucks me every night. On the bed or the couch or the floor or against the wall. Sometimes I am tied up or told to struggle against him, while others I am to act eager. Those are the most humiliating, when he makes me ride him, makes me act like I want it.

Some days, he does not leave, and plays with me all day. He'll leave me tied up for hours, just waiting for him to feel like fucking me. He threatens to have the guards come in and watch. He threatens to have the guards come into fuck me, two, three at a time. He hasn't, yet, but I have a feeling he will, eventually. When he runs out of ideas for just the two of us.

The worst thing about it all is the unpredictability. I do not know what mood he will be or what he will want to do. The full days do not come with any sort of regularity, so when I wake up with his cock in my mouth, I have no idea if he'll be gone in a few minutes or if he has some new game for us to play all day.

One day, he comes in around noon followed by Cilla, who holds a bundle of cloth and a silver chain. I pull off my robe and heel as he approaches, a little uncertain about what to do when he's not alone.

"Stand," he orders, and I do. He gestures at the old woman, who comes forward.

The cloth is a garment of some kind, purple and white. The colours make me flush. Not only are they the colours of my family's crest, but purple is well-known to be used to indicate the location of brothels. And white, of course, symbolizes purity. Virginity. To be worn by a blushing bride.

And it is sheer. The flowing garment leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. It is clothing only in the most technical sense. I look at myself in the mirror with growing horror because there is only one reason to dress me up like this: to show me off.

The princess whore. The royal slut. Not valuable enough to be a bride because her family's all dead.

The final piece is what the silver chain was attached to: a collar, inlaid with rubies, like glittering drops of blood around my neck.

Damien takes the chain in his hand and dismisses the old woman. He winds the chain around his hand, making me come to him. "Kneel," he says, and I do.

I look up at him, waiting for another order. He pulls the chain up, forcing me to strain upwards. The collar presses into my skin, almost painfully.