Poisonous Pleasures Ch. 01

This is set loosely in the world of Dungeons & Dragons, albeit with a great deal of handwaving about the specifics. Thanks to the lovely I_kneel_gently for beta reading and general support.

Aliza Kiliryn, First Princess of the Catacombs, Baroness of Altega and Montregor, High Assassin of the Room of Crimson Silks, etc., was in a mood.

You could tell by the way she stomped down the hall to her temporary quarters. Her stomping made no noise, and was not actually stomping, but her smooth and silent glide very definitely felt like stomping to her.

You could tell by the mask of fury on her face, which consisted of one corner of her mouth almost-visibly twitching, her dark violet cheeks very nearly flushing.

You could tell by the way she was breathing, smoothly and evenly, but with a sense that, at least to her, she was huffing and puffing and panting and gasping. Her short, shockingly-white hair almost fell into the slightest disarray.

And the fact that she was holding a bloody dagger in one hand and had the expression of one who would happily put more blood on it was also a wee little bit of a clue.

She also had a sneaking suspicion she'd know just what she'd find when she entered her quarters, and she was right.

All her little traps were still in place. All the little tricks she used to make sure she'd know if someone had been in her quarters were undisturbed. Not so much as a spider should have been able to get in or out without setting off enough of them to alert her to their presence a dozen times over, and also be violently killed by at least three of them.

But not a single trap had gone off. Not a single spell had registered. Her room was absolutely as secure as it could possibly be.

Which is why the gods-damned mother-fucking smug-ass shithead of a high elf lounging in her bed like he owned the thing was so incredibly infuriating.

Well, that, and his personality. And his posture. And the way the light caught his muscles in a way that made them stand out in a very appealing manner. And the way his hair was so perfectly black and gleaming and looked like it'd be really satisfying to run fingers through. And that he'd gotten undressed down to his smallclothes.

And his stupid fucking punchable face.

He - Kelro Starbreeze, Marquis of Flowingwater and Grand Duke of the Towers Three, Warden of the Frostleaf Wilds, etc. - propped that infuriatingly punchable face up on one hand and looked at her in a manner he probably thought was charming and undoubtedly served to cause the undergarments of those he turned that look on to feel a bit more moist than before, and smirked.

It was a really punchable smirk, too.

"Aliza, dear," he said. "Or should I call you your majesty? Your Baronessness? I can never keep track of all the protocol."

He could, in fact, keep track of all the protocol, and they both knew it.

Punchable.

"You can call me," she snarled, "bloody fucking annoyed."

"Annoyed?" He asked, his face a mask of comic innocence. "Whyever for? Didn't you just complete a successful mission? Isn't that terribly unpleasant wretch of a tiefling dead, just as your mistress commanded?"

"You know damn well he's dead," she growled.

"Do I?" he asked, sprawling back on the bed and making a show of stretching. "However would I know something like that?"

He looked quite nice stretching wearing nothing but a loincloth. Smooth, pearly skin she could stroke for days. Muscles that weren't just for show. A very nice-looking bulge beneath tha-

"You know that," she said, holding up the bloody dagger, "because when I got to him, which involved a great deal of effort and time and expense, I found him already dead with your bloody fucking dagger stuck in him."

"Oh, I wondered where that had got to," he said. "You know how it is, things get misplaced."

"With," she added, "a note attached, that you stole out of my letters case."

"I mean," he said, "it wasn't that secure a letters case. And your mistress did order you to leave that note on his corpse."

"That's not the inf-" she said, and paused, started again, "that's not the most infuriating thing about it."

"Oh, really?" He asked. "Do tell. What's the most infuriating thing about it?"

"The most infuriating thing," she said, "is that you didn't just leave the note. You first corrected the note's grammar."

"Oh yes," he said, "Infernal script is quite tricky with reflexive ver-"

That's when the fight started.

First she threw the dagger straight at his head, which really ought to have taken him in the sparkling and handsome right eye that she could gaze into for days, but instead he moved his head just so and let the dagger stick in the bed's headboard.

Then she threw three of the darts that were concealed in her cloak. She'd had five, but the tiefling had had two guards and now she had three and the dead tiefling had no guards.

Math.

He moved just enough to let two of the darts smack into the wall behind him, reached out and caught the third. He leaned in, sniffed appreciatively.

"Spider's Kiss," he said. "My, my. I didn't think you had a steady supply of that."

"Fuck! You!" She growled. Actually, she used a Drow term that doesn't exactly translate, but it would be along the lines of 'may every member of your family be simultaneously buggered by syphilitic minotaurs'.

"Kinky," he said.

Then he blew her a kiss.

The fact that she then blushed, she wished to note, was entirely coincidental and due to the heat of battle and had nothing to do with those perfect lips, the merriment in those deep blue eyes, or how nearly naked he was.

Nothing at all.

He reached out casually, picked up one of her own throwing daggers that she'd left behind on the table, and flung it at her. It was a good throw, too, and would've caught her in the liver if she hadn't slapped it out of the way, open-palmed, letting it come to rest point-first in a priceless oaken owl.

She drew out a nasty little surprise, a device that looked like a flute but should, when breathed into, take the head right off his shoulders, and it was decidedly annoying that a second dagger from her own stash went straight through it.

"I can always tell when you're really horny," he said. "You go straight for the deadly stuff."

"Maybe," she growled, drawing her rapier, "this time is different,"

"Maybe," he smirked, "you're so wet you could scream."

She was. That was not the point. That was very much not the point.

Well.

It was not the only point.

She took a step forward as he grabbed one of his vambraces from beside the bed, hurriedly slid it on, and then she thrust and he parried, knocking the blade out of line. She brought up her free hand, which now had a dagger in it that really ought to have disemboweled him, but he caught her wrist.

Then he leaned in for a kiss.

It was a nice kiss too. Warm and wet and passionate.

Then he gave her a good shove backwards and snapped his fingers and one of her own traps - her own traps - erupted and suddenly she was attached to the wall by unbreakable spidersilk strands.

She struggled against them, but there wasn't really any point. She'd set the trap up herself, she knew how impossible it was to wriggle free, but she wouldn't give this smug fuck the satisfaction of surrendering early.

"Now," he said, bringing his hands up to cup her cheeks in a decidedly-patronizing way, "let's see what other surprises you have, shall we?"

"Eat shit and die," she growled. She added on a term that, while short, translates from Drow as 'one so low as to be subservient to the cockroach crawling across a dead goblin's ass'.

Drow can be a very expressive language depending on what, exactly, you want to express.

"Temper, temper, your majesty," he said. "Is that any way for a princess to speak?"

His hands came down to her corset and started casually unlacing it even as he held her gaze. Her eyes flashed with fire. His were calm and smooth and placid.

She wanted to stick daggers into them.

After she had her brains fucked out.

He tugged loose the last string, pulled open the corset, revealing her lovely, dark-nippled violet breasts. Her nipples were hard and really liked being touched and he knew it.

Damn it.

"Well, well," he said, holding up the corset, tossing things out one at a time. "Let's have a look, shall we? Lolth's Sting. Garroting wire. Oooh, Midnight Tears, fancy. Dagger of venom, dagger of venom, dagger of venom, really, what problem were you expecting to run into that would take three daggers of venom?"

"I have five," she said, struggling against the silk that held her wrists to the wall.

"Seems a waste of effort," he said. "I mean, tonight you could've just shown up to my bedcha-"

Her response to that was quite long, and quite vehement, and was only ruined a little by the way he broke out in giggles when she was about a minute in.

"Such a filthy imagination you have," He said, smirking. He reached out, cupped her breasts, teased her nipples wickedly, then pinched them just the way he knew she liked.

The asshole.

"I want," she growled, "to poison you with limbrot."

"Do you?" He asked. "I want to slide my fingers under your pants and edge you until you beg me to let you cum."

"Don't you dare," she said.

It turns out that he dared. He was really, annoyingly good with his hands, too.

Long-fingered hands slid slowly down her body, sliding smoothly beneath her close-fitting leggings, fingertips dancing gently, leaving warmth where they went, and he wasted no time going just where she wanted him to go and lots of time being just too light of a touch to get her where she wanted to go.

It was aggravating.

It was infuriating.

It made her even wetter and hotter and hornier, which shouldn't have been possible.

"Something wrong, Madam High Assassin?" He asked. "you haven't threatened to have me killed in almost a minute."

"I want," she said, "to use your bones to decorate my chariot."

"That'd be nice," he said, "I'm very decorative."

And his fingers were very infuriating. Sliding down over her soft, eager sex, parting just so they came down each side but didn't quite give her clit any attention, then coming back up with his middle finger right over her dripping, horny slit and then that finger lifted just enough that she could feel his nearness without feeling his touch right where she really, really wanted to feel his touch.

Again and again he did this, teasing her with how close he was, then tormenting her with how close he wasn't, and she felt herself being worked up and up and up until she could very happily have strangled him.

Well.

She could have very happily have strangled him anyway. Maybe not the best example.

"I can't understand why you seem so... tense," he said. He leaned in close when he said it, whispering into her ear. "I mean, your target is dead, isn't he? And your very grammatical note has been delivered, hasn't it?"

"I'll use your scrotum for a coinpurse," she snarled, shifting her hips, trying to get his fingers just a tiny little bit this way, but every time she went this way he went that way, and every time she went that way he went this way, and she was just playing right into his hands by helping him to tease her.

"It's almost," he said, "like something else has you all wound up. Like you're just... pent-up and desperate for some kind of release. Perhaps you'd like to talk about feelings? You Drow are always reluctant to discuss feelings."

"I feel," she said, "as if your head would look nice on a spi-"

"Or," he purred, "perhaps you'd like to ask me to put your collar on. You know, the one that signifies you agree not to try to kill me for the rest of the night?"

"Fuck! You!" She roared, thrusting her hips forward just as he retreated just enough to make the gesture pointless.

"Ah well," he said, "if that's really how you feel about it..."

He drew his hand back from her pants, reached out, slid his own loincloth down and off. His cock was standing proud and erect and just looking at it made various bits of her inform her mind that they would really like to feel it inside them, or cumming on them, or find out how it tasted when she ran it over her lips and then gave it a good proper sucking.

"Such a shame," he said, "but if you're so sure you're not in the mood I suppose I can just leave you tied up there. The silk should melt away with the morning's light. You... don't mind if I pleasure myself a bit, do you? I'm quite hard for some reason."

He had the gall to look sincere as he asked the question, too.

"Wait," she said.

He didn't. He brought one hand and started stroking himself. Long, smooth strokes, too. Same hand he'd been teasing her with. Her own wetness was lubricating him. He wasn't taking his time, either, clearly driving himself towards a climax hard.

"Wait," she said again.

"Whatever for?" He asked. "I mean, if you're not going to ask for that collar I can't possibly think of why you wouldn't want me to be gone sooner rather than later."

He paused then, holding her gaze.

"You're... not going to ask for that collar, are you?" He asked. "Because I'm pretty close. I think I'll cum all over your breasts if you don't mind. They look so nice with my messy wet seed splattered all over them."

He didn't stop stroking as he spoke, and she could tell he was very, very close.

"Get the fucking collar," she said.

"What's that?" He asked, putting his free hand up to his long, pointed ear, "I can't hear y-"

"GET. THE. FUCKING. COLLAR. YOU. FUCKING. ASSHOLE!" She yelled, carefully enunciating each word.

"Oh," he said, "well. If you're going to order me around like that, your majesty..."

He reached up over her head, and she glanced up, and she saw that he'd taken the collar from where it normally lay and had put it on a nail over her head.

The gods-damned smug prick asshole shithead fuckwit scrotum-brained frog-fucker had had it hanging there in advance, knowing he'd put her in this position.

God, that made her hot.

She'd never ever tell him that.

No tortures on this plane or any other would get that out of her.

"Lift your chin," he said, "and lean forward just a little. And smile."

She lifted her chin.

She leaned forward.

"Kiss. My. Ass," she said. She was very definitely not smiling when she said it.

"Well," he said, fastening the collar securely about her neck. "Two out of three's not bad."

She leaned in off the wall, breathing heavily. He smirked at her, bringing a fingertip up to run it over her lips, his finger still wet from teasing her. His finger felt lovely along her lips, sensual and soft and teasing, and her own scent and taste upon it only made it better and worse.

Gods, he was aggravating.

"I'm glad you asked for the collar," he said, his soothing blue eyes twinkling merrily. "But some little bit of me sort of wishes you hadn't. It would've been fun spurting all over your breasts and leaving you tied up 'til morning. Hot and horny and utterly helpless..."

"I want to eviscerate you," she growled.

She did, too.

She also wanted rather a lot of other things to happen first, though.

"Do you?" He asked, smirking. "That's nice. I want to fuck your brains out and I want you to remember the whole time that I stole your kill from you and then broke into your room and bound you to the wall. That... wouldn't be humiliating for you, would it? To have a man overcome you?"

He leaned in, nuzzling her cheek, pressing kisses just below her ear, the junction of her neck and jaw, his lips doing really remarkably nice things and feeling lovely on her skin.

"I. Hate. You," she snarled, and if there was a little moan at the end it was one she'd never, ever admit to.

"I know," he smirked. "And you love it. You love being overpowered by someone you hate. You love being tied up by a man. It gets you hot and wet and horny as fuck."

It did, too. She was squirming, writhing back against the wall, her cloak trapped between her body and the unyielding oak, her wrists and ankles hauling hard on the spidersilk bonds and finding no give in them at all.

"If I had you in my baronetcy," she growled, "I'd have you bound hand and foot and take whatever pleasures I wished from you before having you tortured to death for days."

"Mhmm," he said, his hands coming up to the fastening of her cloak at her throat, just below her collar, "and instead... you're about to be stripped. Naked. By a man. And a high elf. You know, two things you're supposed to loathe. You do loathe it, don't you?"

His fingers drew the strings of her cloak taut, tugged, started to unravel the knot. She glowered at him, unmoving, unspeaking, unable to intervene.

"Or perhaps," he said, "you like it? Maybe your naughty purple cunt is getting all the hotter, all the wetter for what I'm doing? Maybe you have your pride and your wicked little sex likes seeing your pride stomped into the mud."

"Tortured," she snarled, "for days. I've been breeding a batch of lava scorpions just for you. Their sting causes blinding agony."

"Something to look forward to," he smirked. "You know. Like you can look forward to being stripped and me seeing just how fucking wet you are, your majesty."

She hated it when he used her titles in moments like this. Hated it. Hated it. It was humiliating. It was demeaning. It was degrading.

She really wished it didn't make her this fucking horny.

He tugged hard on the cloak's strings and the knot fell free. She spitefully pushed back into the wall, holding the cloak to the wall with her behind, knowing full well it wouldn't matter, and it didn't.

He reached out, casually encircled her neck with one hand, and squeezed, hauling her up as far as her bonds would permit, up and out, until she stood on tiptoes, forced to extend herself to her full height. His biceps barely even moved as he did it, but looked very nice for all that.

Her cloak fell to the floor at her feet as she was forced to lean forward, leaving her wearing nothing but her gloves, her boots, and her leggings and smallclothes. He held her there, rigid, unmoving, forced to maintain a posture that very much put her on display for him.

"Oh, your Divine Serenity," he purred, using one of her nominal terms of respect for one of her many offices, "you seem to have lost your cloak. I hope you don't mind."

"Your ancestors," she snarled, "bred only with the least intelligent of orcs."

"And yours," he smirked, using his free hand to casually fondle her breasts, teasing her nipples wickedly, cruelly, deliciously, "must have fucked plums. Good choice, too, lovely coloring resulted."

"Fuck o-GGNNNNNNN," she moaned, her words trailing off as he pinched her right nipple cruelly, fingers tightening and pulling downwards even as he held her throat in his unyielding grasp.

He smirked, infuriatingly, and released her nipple, worked his hand down her body, down, down to the waistband of her leggings, slid beneath.

And stopped.

He still held her at her full height, her toes aching from maintaining the posture, her breathing made harder by his grip, harder but not impossible, and he stopped.

"Oh, dear, your baronessness," he said, deliberately mangling her title just to watch hatred flare in her eyes, "I've just remembered something. Isn't this... against the law?"

She tried to speak and he squeezed his hand around her throat and all that came out was a choked, spluttery sound. He'd timed it perfectly, leaving her gasping for breath when he relaxed his grip just a little, permitting her to breathe but not to breathe easily.

"Any man who strips a Drow maiden - that's you," he said, clearly quoting, "with or without her consent shall be condemned for his impertinence and publicly flogged. And any Drow maiden who permits herself to be stripped, even by a lover, rather than disrobing herself, shall be stripped of title and land and forced to walk the streets as a commoner."

He stopped then, watching as she met his eyes with mute fury.

"Awful, isn't it?" He asked. "Knowing that I'm going to strip you naked and that that will make you a criminal in Drow eyes? A criminal and a commoner?"

He pronounced that word with absolute relish, knowing full well it would sting worse than a whip, and in a more sensitive spot, and it did. It hit home, lashing her ego violently, and she shook in place, red-hot anger pouring through her and meeting red-hot lust coming the other way.

"I'm not permitting this," she snarled.

"Oh?" He asked. And then he did the worst thing he could do.

He released her throat and stepped back.

She roared. She screamed. She let out sounds of raw, primal fury that left no doubt in the minds of anyone who heard just how much she hated him.

He smiled fiercely at it, relishing her suffering, bringing his right hand down to stroke his cock, using his left to stroke his chin as if deep in the throes of philosophical inquiry.

"I wonder," he said, "just how expansive that law is. I mean, I certainly took your top and cloak off, but did you really permit it? Other than moving so slowly and clumsily that a kobold could have overcome you, I mean?"

"I'll gouge out your eyes," she screamed, "and pour molten silver into the sockets!"

"Because," he said, "if that's all it takes, I mean, you're already a criminal and a commoner then, aren't you?"

"WRETCH!" She roared. "FILTH! FREE ME!"

"I don't take orders from commoners," he said. "Even commoners whose breasts are such a delicious shade of purple."

Her breasts were heaving, her body rigid, shaking with lust, with need. She was violently aroused, and he knew it, and she knew that he knew it, and watching him casually stroking that really delicious-looking cock was not helping her composure at all.

"I think," he said, "that if we want to really ensure your downfall, in your own eyes even if nobody else ever knows about it, you'll have to ask me to strip you. Either that... or I could stroke myself to climax, and then leave. And leave the door open so anyone who comes in could find you like that."

She drew in a sharp breath, appalled at the thought.

And not any less wet and hot and furious at the thought.

"The humiliation," he said, "would be unbearable, wouldn't it? Being found half-naked and bound with cum glistening on your breasts. They wouldn't know who did it, of course, but I could take great care to be seen leaving and... whispers would be whispered..."

"Asshole," she gasped. "Degenerate. Swine!"

"Peasant," he said, pleasantly. "Now... I think it's time for me to cum all over those nice, purple breasts of yours. Do hold still, I don't need a moving target for this."

She opened her mouth to respond and he leaned in, wrapping his free hand around her throat, pinning her to the wall even more firmly, leaving her nowhere to move at all, gasping for breath as he stroked his cock harder and harder, working himself rapidly towards his pleasure, malice and mirth in his eyes.

She squirmed. She shuddered. She felt her arousal roaring in her mind, her arousal and her frustration, each whipping the other on, each feeding the other's flame.

And then he came.

His cock twitched in his hand and spurted, spurted out over her breasts, splashing her with his messy, sticky seed, cumming again and again until he was temporarily spent, spent and looking quite pleased with himself.

"That was delightful," he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "You know what it's like to really need to cum and not be able to for the longest time? You get a bit... pent-up and frustrated, you know?"

"I'll have you impaled," she said, "and then placed in the center of a banquet ring and host a fucking party as you're there, suffering for the whole crowd to see."

"Perhaps you will," he said, his tone infuriatingly placid. "But first... shall I get dressed and leave, leaving the door open for you to be discovered like this? Or will you ask me to strip you and promise to do whatever I want until the sun rises?"

She hesitated, didn't answer immediately, the feel of his cum dripping down off her breasts and over her body making her heart pound, her mind pulse.

He started to dress, taking his time, clearly relishing her torment. Loincloth and breeches went on, then his boots, then he picked up his tunic.

"Time grows short," he said. "Once I fasten the last button I think I'll have decided to leave you to be found. So if you want to avoid that fate..."

His eyes glinted cruelly. He slid the tunic on over his shoulders, reached down to the first of three buttons, fastened it in a flash.

"... you'd better speak fast."

"You miserable-" she began, and his fingers buttoned the second button, lightning-fast, coming to the third and beginning to fasten it.

"WAIT!" She cried.

"Oh, I don't think I will," he said. "If you want to break, you'd better break now. Otherwise this whole city will be alive with rumors soon, rumors and scandal."

She breathed in hard, exhaled.

"Strip me," she said.

"What's that?" He asked, toying with the third button. "I'm not quite sure I heard you. You'd... better break completely if you want to break. Make it good. Or trust yourself to the mercy of your fellow Drow when they hear what happened."

She shuddered, drawing in a hard breath, trying not to be quite so aroused by her predicament, by his mockery, by thoughts of revenge, by fear of what would happen if her rivals had even the slightest inkling of what would come out.

"I want you to strip me," she said, "and use me for your pleasure until the dawn's light. I will comply with any request, no matter how humiliating, until that time."

"Any request?" He asked.

He stepped forward, dragged his finger over the top of her breasts, making it sticky with his cum, then bringing it up to her lips. She opened her mouth, took the finger inside, sucked it clean, made a show of swallowing.

"Any request," she said.

She tried not to relish the taste of him. She tried not to enjoy the humiliation he was subjecting her to. She tried not to be so fucking hot and wet and eager for what came next.

And she failed.

"Well then," he said. He reached into a pocket, pulled out a scroll. She looked at it distrustfully, and then his lips moved, whispering words of magic, and suddenly...

... suddenly everything else she was wearing, her boots, her gloves, her leggings, her smallclothes, everything but the collar, disintegrated completely, falling into dust, and the dust evaporating, leaving her naked and collared.

And free from her bonds, which disintegrated along with her clothing.

"Those were priceless," she snarled.

"And now," he said, "they're worthless."

She sputtered for a moment, rage overcoming her thoughts, and he turned and walked to the bed, sat upon the edge of it, facing her.

"Now, peasant," he said. "Come to me. But do not walk. Crawl."

She stared at him, hatred and passion twining in her mind, rage and need, lust and loathing.

Then she fell to her knees. Dropped forward to her hands.

And crawled to him.

Step by step she moved towards him, making a show of wiggling her violet hips left and right as she crawled, her knees and hands brushing over the carpeted floor, her breasts swaying beneath her, his cum dripping from them.

It was humiliating and arousing, detestable and delightful, making her boil with rage and simmer with lust, and when she reached him she knelt gently upright, waiting for his command.

"Spread your legs," he said, and she did so without hesitation, even as her cheeks raged with a humiliated blush. Her thighs spread wide, exposing her eager, dripping, dark-lipped sex, the evidence of her arousal utterly undeniable.

He could have held her gaze, but he made a show of looking her over, with an expression that was frankly appraising.

Gods, it was hot to be looked at like that by someone who had her in his power. Gods, she hated it. Gods, she loved it.

"Tell me, peasant," he said, "did you enjoy being stripped? By a man? A man you hated?"

She considered lying, but wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He'd know. Somehow he'd know.

"Yes," she snarled. "I enjoyed it. You fucking asshole."

"It aroused you?" He asked. "Made you even more eager to cum?"

"Yes," she said. She wondered if she'd be ordered to pleasure herself for his amusement. Her dripping sex cried out for pleasure, but she held her hands rigidly in place on her thighs.

"Perhaps," he said, "we should see if I feel the same way. Strip me. But you shall keep your hands behind your back. You may only use your mouth."

She breathed in hard, breathed out, trying to calm herself and failing. To have her pleasure acknowledged and then ignored like that, to be his servant, his plaything, his toy, made to do his bidding...

It was exasperating. It was humiliating. It was intolerable. And it was intensely arousing.

She crossed her arms behind her back, lifted up off her knees, leaned in. She brought her lips to the two buttons fastened on his tunic, managed to get one unfastened quickly, but the second was stubborn. She had to take hold of it with her teeth and lift her head just so, and as she did he reached down and stroked her hair.

As if she were a pet.

An infuriated blush raged on her cheeks. Her thighs quivered. Her hands clenched into fists.

And her sweet sex tingled.

"Good servant," he said. "Good peasant."

"Rot in all the nine hells," she snarled, as the final button popped free.

He was leaning back on the bed, and she stood awkwardly to remove his tunic, leaning in to tug at the neckline with her teeth, drawing it down one arm, then having to lean around him to draw it down the other. She had to lean in over him to do it, and maintain balance while holding her arms behind her back, and he did not make it any easier for her.

He just reclined there.

Smiling that smug smile.

Enjoying watching her obey his humiliating commands.

Gods, she wanted to cum.

She finally managed to get his tunic off, stopped to see if he would so much as lift a finger to help her with his breeches, and he didn't.

He met her gaze, raised his eyebrows, giving every indication that he was enjoying her predicament, her arousal, her humiliation, and she gritted her teeth and set to work.

She knelt again, leaned in, caught up the laces in her teeth. She could have tried to untie them but she let frustration get the better of her and clenched her jaw tight around the slender laces, feeling them give beneath her teeth, letting her rear back and snap them cleanly apart. She leaned in again, pulled at one side of the breeches, then the other, drawing them apart around the pleasant bulge of his cock beneath his loincloth.

It was aggravating work, every motion having to be thought out and then performed in the most clumsy manner possible, and the whole while she was conscious of his eyes on her, drinking in her frustration, her hatred, her lust. It was almost a physical sensation, his gaze lighting on her skin like the heat from a fire, and she wanted to be warmed by it and she wanted to extinguish it completely.

She finished what she could and sat back on her knees, legs spread wide.

"If you want me to do more, you'll need to stand up," she said.

"And if I want to watch you squirm?" He asked, his tone utterly infuriating.

"Then you can die in a fucking fire," she snarled. "Burn slowly. Scream loudly. Let me watch."

"I could," he said, smirking, standing. "Or I could do something that'd make you feel like you'd rather burn than endure it..."

He brought his hands to his unlaced breeches, slid them slowly down.

"I want you," he said, "to smear my cum all over yourself and give me a dirty speech. I want you to make it filthy. I want you to debase yourself for me, peasant. You promised to obey any request. Keep your word. Make it hot."

He kicked his breeches off, standing in just his loincloth, and then lowered that slowly, taking his time, and she couldn't help but look again, see that cock that she really, truly, desperately wanted to feel inside her, throbbing and erect, so close and yet so far.

He stood naked, looking down on her, with the most patronizing expression possible on his face.

"Go on, commoner," he said. "Serve me."

She knelt in place for a moment, frozen, and then managed to unclench her jaw as the insult, the humiliation, the degradation of his command sank in. It was cruel, and it was malicious, and it turned her on, and he knew it, and she knew that he knew it.

And she'd agreed to this, and he knew that, too.

She brought her hands around to her breasts, rubbing his messy, sticky seed over them, squeezing them, cupping them for his viewing pleasure, pinching her nipples between thumbs and forefingers, drawing forth a soft gasp from herself as she did.

"I want you," she growled, her words erotic, her tone hostile. "I want to fuck you. I want you to fuck me. I want to feel your cock inside my cunt, my mouth, my ass. I want you to use me, use me for your pleasure, and I want you to enjoy it. I want you to be so satisfied that you can't help but try to conquer me again. And I want you to fail."

Her hands dipped lower, rubbing his cum into her stomach, over her thighs, then her hands moved between her legs and she rubbed her sweet sex, using both hands, one on top of the other, giving herself a teasing massage, seeking to put on a display rather than provide herself true satisfaction.

"I want," she whispered, "to bring you back to the Drow court in chains, as my conquest. I want to deliver you to the Priestesses of Lolth and see what punishment they mete out to you. I want to visit you in your dungeon cell the night before your execution, and I want to strip myself naked in that cell and make you watch me as I pleasure myself to your impending demise. I want you to think of this body as you're flayed, or devoured, or destroyed."

She rose then, rose unbidden, to stand, feet apart, raising her hands high over her head and turning slowly before him in order to show off her body from every angle, giving him a good view of her backside. She brought her hands down, delivering a sharp strike to both sides of her ass as he watched, leaving handprints on each side.

"I want you to enjoy my humiliation," she growled. "It will only make me hungrier for your downfall. For your demise. For your end. Use me. Pleasure yourself with my body. Take all the joy you can from me. I'll relish it all the more as I watch you suffer."

"The pleasures of your body," he said, his voice clearly amused by her threats. He stepped forward before she could complete the turn, holding her by the back of the neck, his hand beneath her shock of blindingly-white hair, "are mine this night. But you aren't the only one who can make threats, commoner."

He hauled her to a table in the center of the room, forcing her to walk on the balls of her feet, holding her neck too high to permit a normal gait. He bent her over the table, sturdy oak, unmoving, and held her down on its smooth, polished surface.

"Legs apart," he said. "Arms extended above your head."

She obeyed grudgingly, feeling how exposed she was, her glistening sex bare and on full display. She was naked but for the collar, naked and utterly in his power.

Then he made things worse.

He reached out a hand, whispered something, and vines erupted from the table, wrapping around her wrists and fastening hard, holding her firmly in place. More vines lashed up from the floor, wrapping around her ankles, trapping her completely.

They were tight, but not uncomfortably so, holding her in place. If she had her tricks and gear she might've had a chance of freeing herself, but trapped like this? Naked and in his grasp? There was nothing she could do, nothing at all.

Knowing that very nearly made her climax right there and then.

"You dream of having me executed," he purred, bringing one hand down to stroke along her sex, rubbing her wickedly from behind, making her quiver and squirm. "I don't share your dreams. I wouldn't have you killed. I wouldn't need to. All I'd have to do... is drop the right information to the right people and your court would do it for me."

She cried out at that, at the words, at the idea, at the feel of his fingers, which chose that moment to reach up to stroke her clit wickedly once, twice, three times. She was on the edge, perilously close to her climax, and they both knew it.

"Can you imagine?" He asked. "If one of your rivals came into the knowledge that you'd been involved with a high elf? Let alone a direct rival? If they knew that you'd permitted yourself to be stripped by him? Worse, that you'd had him in your power and not killed him?"

His fingers were not teasing this time. They were driving her on relentlessly, and there was no way for her to evade them, no way for her to avoid the pleasure she'd been seeking for so long even if she'd wanted to, and she did not want to. She gasped as his fingers sought out her clit, and then he brought his free hand down beneath the other and drove two fingers deep into her molten, quivering cunt.

"First," he said, "they'd torture you. They have spells to make you speak the truth, but your kind likes to reserve those until after the torture. They'd do all sorts of things to you, some of the things you've threatened me with, even. They'd make you suffer. They'd make you scream. And then they'd make you confess. To. Every. Wicked. Thing."

She moaned, cried out, and then his fingers sought out her clit again and did not move away and there was no more holding back and she came hard, came screaming around his fingers, bound to the table, powerless and helpless and utterly in his control.

And he did not stop. Did not stop fingering her. Did not stop speaking. He treated her pleasure as beneath his notice, beneath his contempt, and that only made it sting worse than a hundred lashes and please better than a thousand kisses.

"Some of the torture would be public," he said. "And all of the confession would be. They'd drag you out, naked and in chains, and force you to tell the entire court that you'd indulged in all manner of sexual pleasures with your enemy, and worse a male enemy, a male high elf enemy, who you had sometimes submitted to sexually."

She quivered, writhed, screamed, his fingers on her oversensitive sex far too much for her to take. It was too much, too fast, done too well, and he knew it, and his words only added fuel to the fire, sting to the pleasure, joy to the pain.

"You'd be a disgrace," he said. "Execution would be too good for you, but they'd do it anyway. They have so many wicked methods, and you've only listed off a few. They might invent new ones just for you, peasant. You'd have to capture me in order to execute me publicly, but all I'd have to do is whisper a few words in the right ear."

She shuddered, hauled against the vines, tried to free herself from his bonds and his fingers and his words, but she couldn't free herself from any of them, let alone all of them.

"You dream of pleasuring yourself as I await execution," he said. "I could stroke myself off to the thought of being asked to testify at your condemnation. Of being granted safe passage just to tell a full court of all the vile things we've done to one another, as you hang naked in chains before me, listening to it all and then, at the end, I'd be witness to your fate and then walk home in perfect safety."

She felt her body going tense as a second climax built, built even as the first had barely receded, and she knew full well he was going to drive her to it, drive her to her pleasure and not stop.

"You wanted me to enjoy the pleasures of your body," he purred. "I think pleasure is just what I want to inflict on your body. I think I want to make you cum while you dread that possible fate. I think I want you to remember tonight and think on what your fate might be. I think I'll enjoy knowing that you're aroused by the hatred, and the fear, and the memory."

Then his fingers drove in and curled just so, his free hand tormented her clit just right, and she cried out as pleasure reached up and claimed her as its own.

She came screaming, shuddering, moaning, gasping, writhing against her unyielding bonds, hauling against the table, but the bonds and the table paid no heed. The vines held her solidly in place, the table yielded nothing at all, and she was forced to remain in position, helpless before him.

It was agony. It was ecstasy. It was too much. It wasn't enough. She couldn't do anything. He could do everything.

And he did.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, making sure to slide them right over every bit of her that was screaming at the slightest touch, her oversensitive sex crying out at the sheer saturation of sensation, and when his fingers at last retreated she slumped down over the table, gasping. Her skin glistened with sweat, her body shining in the room's soft light, her wild white hair looking almost like a torch compared to the dark purple hue of her flesh.

That's when she felt the tip of his cock stroking over her from behind.

"No," she gasped, horror in her voice.

"Oh yes," he whispered. "You said I could do anything I wanted, Plums."

She hated that nickname. Hated it hated it hated it. And he knew it. And so he saved it for moments like this, moments when he knew it would pack an extra sting.

"I'll have you dismembered," she snarled.

"Well then," he said. "I ought to have some fun while I can, shouldn't I?"

And he thrust home hard, driving himself into her soaking, protesting, oversensitive cunt to the hilt.

The sound she made was somewhere between a croak and a scream, a sound of overwhelmed, oversensitized, overfucked rebellion, a body and mind being broken by pleasure, broken and then broken again, and again, and again. She shifted her hips right and left as far as she could, but he held her in place, trapped and bound, leaving her nowhere to go, with nothing she could do but suffer the unbearable pleasures he was inflicting.

He withdrew and thrust, withdrew and thrust, drawing back and driving deep. This was no subtle, gentle lovemaking, no tender and prolonged coupling. This was hard, rough fucking and there was no mistaking it. She shuddered at each thrust, her cunt spasming around him, overwhelmed and overloaded, and he drove in again and again, treating her cries and moans as encouragement, his hands settling on her hips to hold her in place even more securely.

She was hot and she was wet and she knew it, knew that she was giving him all the pleasures he wanted and more, and that every time she cried out she only made him enjoy himself the better, but she could not help it. Every thrust of that glorious cock hit every spot she desperately needed to be left alone, and every withdrawal only made the anticipation of the next thrust all the worse.

She was being driven hard to another climax, and it was no subtle and careful drive. She was being forced into pleasure, held beneath the surface of sexual ecstasy, and she knew it, and she knew that he knew it.

She looked back at him, wild hatred in her eyes, and saw his face smiling back at her, serene and placid, with only his eyes giving away the game.

His eyes were sadistic, and cruel, and showed how much he was delighting in this, in their game, in their dance, how much he reveled in having her under his control, his authority.

She loved it too, damn it, but the fires of rage within her burned higher and hotter with each passing second, her need for revenge, for retribution growing within her, built higher with every agonizingly pleasurable thrust, with each tug at her bonds, with each touch of his hands to her hips.

His hands. Holding her hips as if he owned them. As if he owned her. As if he was better than her. This high elf. This man. This wretched, cursed, arrogant creature who should be lower than the lowest slave in her smallest manor.

"I hate you," she growled.

"I know," he said, smirking.

Then he reached out and took a handful of her luminous hair in one hand and hauled back, forcing her to arch her back, to brace herself as best she could against the table, to half-stand over it, her bonds and her body stretched taut. She was completely unable to resist, and when she tried he only hauled back harder, demonstrating his power over her, her helplessness before him.

She knew he enjoyed that. He knew she enjoyed that. She hated that.

"Wretch," she gasped, between thrusts. "Scum. Slave."

"Whore," he said, his tone infuriatingly even, calm. "Commoner. Failure."

She drew breath to respond and he let his free hand move down between her legs to torment her clit, making her shriek, turning her words into a series of sounds so disconnected from language that they may as well have been the mating cries of wild creatures in the caverns of the Underdark.

"I got to your target before you," he said, his fingers busy on her clit. "Killing him was trivially easy. Then I came back here and evaded all your tricks. And I trapped you. I beat you. I conquered you, Plums, and now you're mine."

She roared at that, screaming in fury at his arrogance, his impudence, his infuriating contempt. He drove his cock in again and held it there, held it deep inside her as his fingers worked wickedly at her clit, making her shiver and shake in his grasp, helpless to evade the pleasures he was inflicting on her.

"This is what you were made for," he said, knowing full well the effect it would have on her. "To serve and pleasure your betters."

She bellowed at that, in hatred, in pleasure, in raw, primal fury, and in the middle of that scream she came hard around him, came even as she tried desperately to pull free of his bonds and claw out his beautiful blue eyes.

The bonds did not yield. They held her captive. Helpless. Beaten. Used.

Then he did something frustrating. Infuriating. Malicious.

He pulled out. Slowly. Smoothly, Withdrew his cock a teasing inch at a time as she writhed and moaned, in the grip of her orgasm's aftermath on the table. He hadn't cum yet. He would have been infuriating about that, too.

"Of course," he said, "that would assume you were capable of serving and pleasuring your betters. We do have standards, you know."

"Wretch," she snarled. "Filth. Vermin."

"I must say," he said, "you're awfully insubordinate for a commoner. Perhaps what you need is some punishment. Really show you your place in the world. I feel as if I've been far too lenient with you."

"I'll have you flayed," she growled, "and use your skin to make a saddle so every time I go riding I can enjoy the feel of you cushioning my ass."

"It's a very nice ass," he smirked, leaning in over her. One hand came to her ass and roamed over it in a quite possessive manner, the other grabbed a handful of her blindingly-white hair and pulled back, forcing her to arch her back and expose her collared throat. "Such a nice shade of purple. I had to kill a man in a brothel once, and the swill they called wine was just this color."

She opened her mouth to respond and he brought his hand down hard on her ass, spanking it sharply, and whatever she was going to say came out as a frustrated cry.

"Perhaps that would be a nice occupation for you, now that you're a servant," he said. "You could be a whore in one of the lower-class establishments. Servicing the stable hands and such."

She growled at that, an inarticulate sound that mixed fury and arousal in equal amounts, and she knew full well that he heard both. He brought his hand down again and again, spanking her viciously, repeatedly, and she squirmed beneath his touch, her hips moving left and right as he tormented her.

She was putting on a show for him, and she knew it, knew it and could not stop, could not stop her hips from shifting this way and that, her sweet sex glistening, dripping wet and only getting wetter by the minute, her ink-black pussy lips desperate to be touched, stroked, licked, penetrated.

"Or maybe," he said, "being a whore would take too much refinement. Perhaps we should start you with employment where your personality wouldn't be such a hindrance. How do you feel about mucking out the mule stalls?"

"At least," she growled, "they'd smell better than you do."

He smelled quite nice, actually. A subtle mix of saffron and spice. She didn't know if it was a perfume or his natural scent, and would never ever give him the pleasure of hearing her ask.

"See what I mean?" He asked, clucking his tongue reprovingly. "Clearly you need some discipline. Perhaps a nice stay in the stocks. Or a flogging."

"I have a whip," she snarled, "at home, made of enchanted glass. It was designed to strip the flesh from its victim slowly. Using it on you would be a delight."

"I'll be sure to mention that," he said, "when I'm called to witness your trial. It seems like the kind of thing your dear, sweet upstart of a court would enjoy knowing about."

Then his hand moved down between her thighs, rubbing her sweet, dripping pussy from behind, making her moan in arousal she truly wished she could disguise. His fingers felt so good, smooth and assured and eager, and going right where she wanted them to go and doing just what she wanted them to do.

Then they stopped.

His fingers didn't retreat, didn't give her relief, they just... froze in place covering her sex, letting her feel their smooth, strong presence but not giving her what she wanted from them, what she needed.

"Oh dear," he said, pulling back on her hair just a bit harder, forcing her to stretch just a little past where she thought she could to accommodate him, "you seem to be awfully wet at the thought. Are you dreaming of being placed in the stocks? Publicly flogged? Made to endure humiliation? Do you secretly dream of everyone knowing what a filthy whore you are?"

"I'm dreaming," she growled, her voice clearly strained, "of having you at my mercy. I'll have my pleasures with you and then feed your corpse to the pigs and dine on bacon from them and remember your agonized cries with every bite."

"Oh no," he purred, his voice smooth and low and mocking. "Such vile threats from a drow who can't even secure her own quarters properly. I'm terrified here, Plums."

Gods, that nickname stung.

She tried to wriggle against his hand, tried to get the little bit of stimulation that would send her over the edge, but he moved his hand with her motions and all she did was tease herself, tease herself and put on more of a show for him.

He knew it, too.

The asshole.

His hand moved slowly, slowly backwards and upwards, and she felt his fingers retreating frustratingly, leaving her needy, desperate for more even after what she'd already had. Something about his infuriating presence made it so she simply couldn't get enough, and she had the same effect on him.

She still wanted to murder him, though.

A lot.

Then his thumb came up to tease her tight little asshole and she moaned anew, feeling the tight pucker being stroked by his slick, wet thumb even as his fingers slid over her pussy, carefully working to keep her on the edge of boiling over without quite letting her cum.

"Do you know, Plums," he said, "you always get so fucking wet when I tease your ass. Is it because you've always dreamed of being a catamite, do you suppose? Or do you just like knowing that I can do whatever I fucking want to you, and you're aroused by thoughts of your own slavery?"

"Die in a dung fire," she growled. "Boil in a goblin tribe's cooking cauldron."

"That's it, isn't it?" He smirked, leaning in close. "You like knowing that you've given yourself to me completely for the night. That if I want to fuck your tight little ass I will fuck your tight little ass. You love knowing that I own you."

His thumb was eagerly at work, teasing and teasing and teasing, and his fingers were moving in time with it, stroking this way and that, moving in a gentle, circular motion, and she knew full well that the thought of being taken at his whim was doing no small part of his work for him.

"Enjoy me while you can," she growled. "Take your pleasures. Memories will be all you'll have left when you die at my hand."

"Oh, Plums," he said, his tone one of mocking disapproval, "we're not talking about my pleasure here. We're talking about yours."

And his thumb teased and teased and teased and thrust, driving deep into her tight, eager asshole.

She gasped at the feel, at the sudden, smooth invasion, moaning as his thumb went in, and then his fingers stopped teasing her sex and started stroking properly, putting exactly the pressure she wanted in exactly the places she wanted at exactly the times she wanted and she felt herself hurtling towards her climax, her climax she'd been held back from.

"I own you," he said. "You're mine. I can do what I want with you. And I'm going to."

And he did.

She suddenly found herself trying to hold herself back, hold back from the pleasure she'd been seeking for so long, but it was no use. She'd been teased too much, for too long, with too much skill, and whatever some bits of her mind wanted the rest of her did not care in the slightest. She felt herself taken, used, thrust into her climax, and when it came she could not disguise the pleasure, the sheer, joyful, bliss of an orgasm that rocked her mind and body to the core.

And he was not done.

She came moaning around his thumb, beneath his fingers, felt her sweet sex soaking herself as her climax roared through her, and then he released his grip on her hair, brought his hand to the center of her back, and slammed her down hard onto the table, holding her pinned there beneath his weight.

"That was the time for your pleasure," he said, malicious delight dripping from his words. "This is the time for mine."

He brought his cock up to her ass, withdrawing his thumb, let her feel the tip of his manhood there for a bare half-second, and thrust home hard.

He drove in deep, taking her, using her roughly, viciously, his cock slick with her arousal and more but thrusting without regard for her.

He wasn't just fucking her, he was making a statement. Telling her, showing her, that he wanted her to feel like a conduit for his pleasure, that she mattered only in that she gave him satisfaction.

It turned her on to be used like that and she knew it and she knew that he knew it.

She moaned, cried out, but she was trapped there, by the bonds, by his hand, by his body, helpless and utterly unable to do even the slightest thing to have any meaningful effect on the proceedings even if she wanted to, and in her heart of hearts she did not want to.

Her pussy spasmed, her climax's aftermath and the sudden, joyful, erotic shock of his assault at war within her, the humiliation and arousal that it brought battling in her mind, and he paid neither the slightest bit of attention.

His hips churned as he withdrew and thrust, withdrew and thrust, setting a hard pace, a pace designed to bring on his own climax quickly, and the utter disregard for her pleasure only made her own fires burn brighter, flames of arousal and hatred intermingling in her mind.

"You. Are. Mine," he snarled, and his voice had a rougher edge now, one he let her hear, one she felt in her bones.

She tried to think of a response, but it was no use. Her body was at war with itself and had no time for her mind, and her mind had no relief from the overwhelming signals from her body. Too much, not enough. No more, never stop. I can't take it, I want it to keep going forever.

She screamed out in pleasure, in need, in hatred, in despair, in glee, she didn't even know what she was expressing or why, only that she needed to shriek and so she did, and again, and again, as he took her, used her, fucked her, and if he noticed her cries he gave no sign.

She could feel the tension in his body, the way all the teasing had taken a toll on him, and knew he was going to climax soon, knew he was going to cum, and she tried to hold herself back, tried not to give him the satisfaction of meeting his pleasure with hers.

It did not work.

He withdrew, thrust, withdrew, thrust again, and he leaned in close and growled.

"MINE," he roared, and he came, and she came with him, came carried along by his pleasure and her humiliation, by his need and her lust, by his command and her body's obedience against her will.

She came crying out, shuddering, shaking, and when he withdrew, spent, she could do nothing but lie bent across the table, her wrists and ankles still bound, her body still on full display for him.

She was a spellbinding sight. Dark purple skin with a sheen of sweat, a shock of lightning-white hair, her ink-black pussy lips dripping wet and her well-fucked ass clenching and unclenching as shivers of pleasure ran through her, rippling through her mind and body.

He took a step back, two, and sank into one of her chairs, sitting happily and watching the show she was putting on, the display she was providing. She glanced back and saw him watching, a smug smile on her face, and her cheeks burned with a fierce blush she hoped wasn't showing but knew he'd sense anyway.

"For someone who claims to hate submission to her betters," he said, "you certainly seemed to enjoy that."

"There is a species of fish," she growled, "in one of the deeper lakes near one of my manors, that feeds on flesh a tiny bite at a time. Tiny fish, and they don't gorge, just take what they need at the moment. Sometimes we put prisoners there and leave them with just their heads above water and let the fish feast. Their end can take days. Weeks, even. I think I might do that to you, and come visit you every day. Perhaps I'll bring lovers there so you can watch what you'll never have again."

"Such an exhibitionist," he smirked. "And all it took to bring it out was tying you up and teaching you your place."

She growled, too exhausted to speak in response, trying to let her body settle down. She tugged against the bonds but the vines were unyielding, unresponsive to her efforts, and at last she gave up the struggle and slumped back down onto the table.

"Free me," she said, spitting the words.

"Oh, you know," he said, making a show of standing up and stretching, showing off quite a lot of muscles that her body responded to quite well, "I think not. Those vines will go away in an hour or two. But... you know..."

He trailed off for a moment, pretended to ponder. She knew she was being baited. She hated that she was being baited. And he knew it, too.

"Those poor bonds," he said, "they look... lonely. Fortunately, I have just the thing."

He reached into his discarded leggings, drew out a scroll, broke the seal to read it.

"Don't you dare," she snarled, not knowing what the scroll would do but knowing full well that it would be another aggravation.

"Oh," he said, "I think I dare."

And he did.

He read off the scroll, words in a language not meant to be heard or understood, and then...

... then she felt the table shake, as if it was almost flexing somehow, as if the table had muscles within it that were at work. She tried to wriggle free of her bonds, but they held her close and did not let her go, seemingly unaffected by whatever he'd just done.

Then, just before her eyes, something green emerged near her right wrist. A bud with a green leaf, from a table that had been in place for a century or more. And then another, and another. She looked at it curiously.

Then the entire table erupted as vine after vine poured forth from the wood.

Some of them wrapped themselves around her, encircling her arms and legs in thick, ropey coils. Some wrapped around her back and pulled, forcing her to flatten herself against the table's top, pressing her breasts into the smooth surface. Some lifted the table up so that her feet were dangling in midair, not that she could've moved them anyway.

And some moved with decidedly more purpose, and those were particularly worrisome.

She saw one emerge and move before her face, the tip lubricated with something that smelled of honey and looked like sap. She opened her mouth to protest, and it thrust inside, driving into her mouth with lightning speed. She shook her head, bit down, tried to dislodge it, but it stayed there, thrusting in nearly to the back of her throat, retreating just enough to let her breathe, then thrusting in again.

She tried to curse him, tried to scream at him, tried to find a way to free herself, but it was all no use. She was trapped and helpless, and all her wriggling and writhing accomplished nothing at all.

That's when she felt two more vines sliding up behind her, stroking over her smooth, purple flesh, getting closer and closer t-

"MMMPH!" She screamed, her cries muffled by the thrusting vine, and as she screamed the two vines behind her thrust home, slick with sap and driven by malign, pleasurable cruelty.

She felt one drive into her oversensitive, overused sex, the other into her tight, abused ass, felt them thrusting and withdrawing in time with the vine in her mouth, felt herself being used with enthusiasm, She struggled, helpless, as he walked around in front of her, taking his time, making a production of watching the proceedings.

"Mmmm..." he said. "You know, I never tested this one out. I'd heard good things, but I must say the rumors don't do it justice. I'll have to find a few more of those scrolls, don't you think? I especially like the way it provided you a vine to suck on, too. You always do look prettier with something in your mouth. I think it's the way it stops you from speaking. Keeps your personality from coming out, and that's a remarkable improvement."

She couldn't speak, but if looks could kill he'd have been reduced to very, very small pieces in a crater. A very, very large crater.

"Time for me to be off," he said, gathering his clothes, putting them on, taking his goddam fucking time doing it. His underthings, his trousers, his socks, his boots, everything went on in an unhurried manner, as if he hadn't a care in the world. He took the longest of the snapped laces to his breeches, tied the top loosely with it, and he was presentably dressed.

The vines thrust and withdrew, feeling rather delightfully good to bits of her body that had undergone rather too much enthusiastic use lately. Those bits protested weakly while still sending the message that they quite enjoyed what was happening.

"The spell will lapse in, oh, two or three hours," he said. "Not too long before dawn, I think. Do remember that we have that ball to attend tonight, Plums. You'll be expected to do quite a bit of dancing. Do try to look like you didn't spend all night fucking a plant, would you?"

He reached over, gently patted her head as if she were an affectionate-but-disobedient pet, and walked out.

He didn't even have the decency to look back at her from the door.

The plans for revenge she came up with during the course of the next few hours were intricate and detailed and gruesome.

But not gruesome enough.