Warning: Rated M. This is a study of King Joffrey's sexuality. It is a portrait of a sadist and a perpetrator of sexual violence. It is rated "M" for descriptions of bizarre sexual fantasies, not to mention foul language and gore (and non-graphic references to incest, molestation and animal torture).

A/N: This is based on the HBO show as I have not read the series yet though I have read up Joffrey's book characterization (and so some book canon will be referenced). It's also somewhat A/U (to the show) as I wanted to extend Joffrey and Sansa's meeting scene. I am finding so much inspiration in Joffrey. I'd say it's really fun but that doesn't sound quite right, does it. Please review. I'm pretty proud of this one.

Couplings: Joffrey/Sansa, Joffrey/Ros/Daisy, Ros/Daisy, implied incest (oh, those Lannisters), implied unrequited Sandor/Sansa.

Thanks to C (Tobiume) for listening, suggesting and reading. Oh, and for Sansa/Joff on Valentine's Day and beyond, despite initial hesitance... overwhelmingly awesome.

his two skillful hands

..

harmonic friction

All of the pens in the stable were open but the wide-eyed whores cowered and bleated against their pens like sheep do when they see a fire. They were half-naked and covered in mud and great dirty smears of blood ran down their curvaceous thighs, pooled in the centre of their cleavage lines. "Please," they bleated. "Please. Please. Have mercy. Help us."

A mighty voice rang out from above them with God-like command: "More! Do more! Cut their clothes off! Now!"

"Please, please, your grace! I don't want to hurt them anymore," squealed the whore in the middle, a penknife in her shivering hoof-hand.

"I want them naked," shouted the omniscient ruler, his voice echoing throughout the landscape. His voice rifled through the trees like a storm. "Naked. And dead."

The whores all began crying in unison, begging his mercy. The bitch in the middle heaved a gusty sobbing sigh before nodding her head and stumbling toward the others, her unsteady hand poised for the attack. And then, she was interrupted by an intrusive knock and she faded away into the light.

"Have you fallen asleep yet, your grace? Do you need anything? I heard a wee noise," called an obnoxious voice from behind the closed door of King Joffrey's chambers.

Joffrey bristled and immediately snapped his hand out of his night-clothes. "You're dismissed, you blithering idiot!" he whined out loudly, his eyebrows flexing down hard as he glared deeply in the direction of the maid's tone. "You've woken me up and I'll have your tongue if you don't leave now!" He heard the servant's muffled moan of horror and her footsteps as she made off down the hall. He gave a quiet chortle of relief before he remembered his predicament and groaned loudly. I should rip her tongue out anyway. That's what she gets for interrupting my important thoughts! He gave another groan of annoyance and turned on his side. Lately, it had been a difficult task to relieve himself of tension.

Hardness was easy enough to achieve, perhaps too easy. He found himself getting aroused now more than ever at the slightest of touches or the pleasure in watching a kill taking place. Pride and honorable work roused it and viewing a particularly creative punishment made it stick straight up against his breeches in an instant, forcing him to cross his legs and lean forward with his crossbow placed skillfully over his lap. At the humiliation of others he'd almost hurt with want for release, a small stream of liquid running like a hot brook down his inner thigh and drying there while he tried to make the bulge leave his trousers by focusing on boring things like landscapes, ugly crones and tapestries. He'd sit on his throne and yearn to rub himself off because his brain was screaming at him, disturbed by his groin's demands. Joffrey absolutely hated his body in times like this. It was asinine. He had control over nearly everything in the vast world but himself. How was this fair? It gave him a strong desire to prove himself, a hole burning right through him like a sword wound.

His early fantasies were lovely things. He'd be infatuated with his own ideas and able to amuse himself for hours on end. His earliest memory was a touch sensation. He remembered pressing his cheek to his lady mother's gowns and skirts, all fine velvets and silks, loving how smooth it was. Joffrey adored her clothing, her blonde plaited hair, her dazzling, harsh beauty. He knew he was special to her because she told him so as she rocked him but all that changed when she announced she was expecting another child. That sent Joffrey into a tantrum, wailing and shouting. His mother found him in her dressing chambers, tearing apart her lovely dresses and stomping on them. She screamed so loudly he distinctly remembered the tremor in his eardrums and he laughed through his tears when she slapped his face.

Joffrey got a sister first, and then a brother. Both were stupid, naïve little creatures but they proved to be good for some things, like experiments and games that Joffrey liked to think up as not to become bored. He couldn't stand boredom. Hurting and taking apart animals served a purpose for awhile. Bothering and touching his siblings was once exciting but soon became commonplace. No one complimented his skill in peeling off the layers of things to show how beautiful they were inside; no one could comprehend the subtle genius that went into torturing his young siblings for hours until they finally broke, crying for their parents. His mother hardly reacted, and when his father did, it was never to praise his skill. No one saw his potential back then, and he had vowed internally he would make them see it when he ruled the land. He kept looking around for new hobbies but the world was so dull. Then, something changed.

He felt the change when he awoke at age nine after a particularly vivid dream about his lady mother. She was in the bath rinsing blood out of her beautiful blonde hair. Joffrey had awoken in a cold sweat, surrounded by lots of wet. This was a secret, beautiful thought, and it held him off for months as he began to realize what his body was really for. His hobbies became lusty instead of experimentally childish and they held great purpose: release. But soon, his first passionate dream grew as stale as stable air.

At age ten, inspiration hit again. A young girl had visited King's Landing. She was a few years under him in age and the daughter of some advisor or consort. Myrcella had been tasked with the business of playing with her and Joffrey watched from the crack in his sister's doorway as the two acted like idiots together. They played with dolls and pretended and giggled. It was difficult not to reveal himself by breaking into laughter at their stupidity but Joffrey held it in. The girl was pretty: pale and black-haired with long eyelashes. Finally, he could not wait and burst through the door with a monster snarl, making them scream. The screaming caused him to tense up and go hard immediately. Filled with want he could not explain, he burst into forced laughter and ran away while shouting, "Scared, scared, scared, ha, ha, ha!" He was able to use the screams as a means to release for a long while after. Sadly, that soon grew old. He had to keep re-working and warping his designs like a painter who'd lost inspiration. He needed a new model, a new muse. He needed somebody he could push to new levels of terror.

Only months ago, he thought his problems were solved. He thought he'd got it all figured out. Joffrey had once believed, because his mother told him so, that he could fall in love and gain excitement from his queen- whoever she would be. He figured this would change him and age him, that he would feel romance and that coming would be easy then. He prayed that the fantasies wouldn't need to be altered so often, that he'd be satisfied with marriage and duty.

When it was announced to him by his mother and father that he had a betrothed, and that she was a gorgeous little thing, he was almost excited. Joffrey liked that he had a betrothed. A girl, an attractive girl—all for him. Joffrey liked new toys, shiny and unbroken. Things that were his and his alone—not shared toys. He liked them without flaws, without stains or missing parts. He liked to be the one to break in a new thing, he liked to use it first and then smash it when he was bored. Joffrey liked things that were his. And his new toy's name was Sansa Stark, they said, and she was going to bear his children and make him a happy king one day. Joffrey had hoped that in Sansa, he'd find his muse. At first, it seemed he had.

He spotted her the second he stepped off his horse in Winterfell. She was the only pretty sight in that eyesore, that ugly, barren hole of shit. Sansa was graceful and pretty. She had hair of deep red, and she saw him, too. She didn't just see him, no. She saw him with moons, suns, and stars in her wide eyes. As they smiled at each other knowingly, Joffrey thought, I can do this. I can overpower her and make her mine. He stared at her all during supper, his eyes shining with greed as he imagined their bodies connecting in dim candlelight, his ears filling with the surreptitious slapping sound he'd heard from his father's chambers, the things you did in the dark with your women. She caught his glassy green eyes with her starry ones and he smiled charmingly. Her face burned the color of ripened cherries and she looked away. That night in the guest lodgings, he'd gotten off quickly and quietly at the simple thought of her face.

The next day, he gallantly introduced himself to her and took her arm. She giggled at his jokes and nodded her head at his comments, making her crimson hair swing to and fro. She allowed her arm and shook with anticipation as they strolled. She followed his every move with her mouth slightly open and though he was a stranger to physical affection with women folk, he was struck with the realization that Sansa Stark was dying to be kissed. The power was in his grasp. This made it even more invigorating. He gestured and her eyes wandered to his focal point. He smirked and she laughed with those blood cherry cheeks. He lightly grazed her arm with a careful finger and she breathed hard. He could lose himself in her adoring gaze; he felt sure of this fact. He felt ready to take on dragons and full armies, maybe more.

But it was soiled when Sansa's drowned rat of a sister decided to stomp on his dreams by making a fool out of him in front of his new toy, his adoring bride-to-be. He'd faltered there in front of all of them. Him. Their prince. He'd been bested by the son of a peasant, a stupid girl who played like a boy, and worst of all, his future queen. This was not how these things were supposed to play out. Not at all. The pain of embarrassment surged and pulsed throughout him like a pungent poison. If there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that he hated being teased or publicly made a spectacle of, and all of this happened and more in a matter of seconds.

Suddenly, he detested Sansa. It wasn't her fault directly but she made it worse by existing. He deplored her for witnessing his one weakness and he especially couldn't stand her for acting so damned nice about it. Surely she secretly was put off by his display. She didn't have to go and whine at him, blather at him as if he were her child or brother and not her betrothed prince! His voice had come out in a decaying snap and he just wanted to be left alone forever in the shade of his canopied bed to claw at his tearful eyes and be comforted by his mother. Restitution came while gazing upon the fear and sadness in his lady's eyes at the news of her dire wolf's impending execution. As Sansa screamed, he was able to smile again. That night, he got off thinking about slapping Sansa's face repeatedly until she'd forgotten what she'd seen. When he came, his own jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. He knew then that the only cure was causing pain because pain would earn him all the respect he deserved.

Joffrey used to play his own games with pain before he recognized where his preferences lay. He used a belt once at age eleven, swung it over his head and brought it down hard on his own fingers. Tears had sprung in his eyes and he swore with words he'd heard his father use in moments of rage. He'd tried again another time, cutting himself with a sword. Not deeply, but enough to feel a hissing burn of pain. He liked the look of the red little river that popped up between his thumb and pointer finger, but he was not excited. Not like cutting other things, not like watching with wide, happy eyes. He loved pain but pain was not to be used on him. Killing animals and men was alright as an appetizer, but watching gorgeous women in pain was what caused Joffrey's silent, vicious arousal. Pain and pretty women went together like whores and brothels, mothers and babies, horses and stables, like kings and crowns.

After he recognized that causing women pain was the answer, life was clearer. His fantasies were well-formed, purposeful thoughts but he hadn't yet gone all the way. When it came to the cunt, he was a novice. He'd seen books, viewed very daunting illustrations, but he'd never touched, never put his parts inside. He was still waiting for Sansa, despite how much she enraged him now (perhaps the rage made the fondness stronger; this he did not know). Some days, he still looked very forward to marriage. He liked envisioning the prospect of taking Sansa's maidenhead. If the mood struck, he could even get off imagining himself filling her with his seed. He'd think about slapping her and kicking her (you're mine, you're finally mine!) before shoving her against his bed and penetrating her until she was crying his name into the mattress. But most of the time, it made him physically sick to consider what would happen if he couldn't perform right. What if he fumbled again in front of her again? What if he made some mistake? This was something he had to do on his own and it was a dangerous thought.

Joffrey shook his head, snapping out of these wandering thoughts of the past. He couldn't dwell. Not tonight. Not when he was fully erect and quivering with the anticipation of coming. He flopped on his back and shut his eyes, trying to lose his way in the darkness.

A new scene unfolded. A flickering fire glimmered and a maiden with red hair stood before it, warming her hands. "My lady," the tall, muscular king said grandly, and the maiden jumped. When she turned around to face him, he took in her beauty, all curves and silky skin. Remarkably she looked a lot like his betrothed but her body was fuller, far more luscious. Before his eyes, she blossomed into an even more gorgeous creature. She was narrow-eyed and tall and her bosom was ample. Her red hair dissolved into curls of gold, her blue eyes turned green...

Joffrey sighed out loud and applied harder pressure, moving his hand up and down with vigorous slaps. He imagined the maiden disrobing before him, plucking the ribbons of her corset out until she was nude and ready to be overtaken. The splendid king fit his long hand between her legs and jutted two fingers in, and then four. The maiden was moaning at first but then her face contorted into a painful grimace. "Your grace," she whimpered. "It's too much. It's too hard." The king took this as a cue to shove his entire hand in, moving it in and out of her in a strong rhythm. "Please," she shouted, "it hurts!"

"Yes," Joffrey muttered aloud as his hand rode his shaft harder and harder, "yes!" He thought about the king shoving his hand in harder and harder until the blonde-haired beauty was shrieking with pain, globs of blood beginning to flow down her legs. He imagined how that power would feel, how delightful it would be to have red-stained hands and know he'd made her experience extreme pain that she would never forget. Extreme pain she would never forget.

The scene switched again. Instead of the familiar blonde with emerald eyes, he visualized the two whores Uncle Tyrion had bought for his last Name Day. For whores, they had been quite good-looking and their names were Ros and Daisy. Ros was beating Daisy's smooth rear end with the gnarled scepter and Daisy's screams rang into the air. Joffrey could remember those cries for help as though the event had occurred hours ago instead of weeks. This was the most tried and true fantasy as of late; he could very nearly always come minutes after hearing their pained shrieks replaying in his eardrums. No ballad written had proved as pretty. He remembered quotes, exact quotes and the high-pitched tones of horror, too.

Joffrey grunted softly, hand moving in a perpendicular dance, the scene moving behind his eyes. Tears ran down Ros's cherubic face as she smacked Daisy, a pretty red welt growing larger and larger like a red wine spill. He remembered how exciting it had been to watch with supreme rule over all their actions. The divine horror on their faces was completely satisfying as his commands grew more and more detailed. Daisy's arse was covered in swelling ridges like a patchwork quilt of skin and she had stopped screaming ten minutes in, instead sobbing quietly. "Let me do it, then," the king imagined himself saying before dropping his crossbow and arrow to the chair. "She's not reacting!"

"She's dying," Ros pleaded in a way that was almost defiant, but the drama of her words was distracting. Could Daisy have died from those wounds? It was tempting to find out, but Joffrey had wanted her alive. He wanted her to crawl out of his bedroom like a beaten animal would, collapsing on her weak limbs in a poor attempt to get away from his wrath. He'd seen a three-legged dog do something similar once after he'd used it for his own excitement; it whined and fell and struggled in a pathetic physical war with itself before it fell down dead.

"She's crying, not dying," he'd said in a sing-song voice, his volume creeping like smoke up a pub wall, and he smirked before shoving Ros out of the way. He remembered how his heart had throbbed within his chest cavity and how his hardening member had felt so near to Daisy's naked backside. He'd leaned over her and grabbed her by the hair, had moaned in a petulant whine into her ear, "Why aren't you screaming for me anymore?" She looked at him through dull eyes and continued sobbing.

"I'll do it, I'll do it, your grace, I'll keep hitting her," Ros pleaded, gulping down sobs.

"You're doing a shit job," he scowled. "Give me the scepter. I want to show you how it's done." Ros hesitated before handing it over, her hand pulsing with the shakes. Remembering that fear in her eyes and her obvious terror as she passed over the weapon to him, Joffrey pumped himself, shutting his eyes tight and groaning, straining his head back with neck veins popping. He remembered how he'd teased her body with the blunt end of the thing, how she'd squealed like a pig on the butcher's block (don't, don't, don't, don't, please please, don't!). And for that, she was greatly rewarded.

Yes, in reality, Joffrey had let them go right then. They'd needed to be taught the lesson and besides, he was too hard to continue, his stiffness pulsing inside his breeches. He was glad about how things had gone. He didn't want them thinking they'd given him any pleasure or physical response, didn't want them to try to touch him with their dirty little hands. He wanted them gone before he admitted to himself that they had in fact made him hard, more desirous to join in the action than he'd ever been in his life. He did not want to lose control. Control was vital.

Ros had tried to persuade his groin with her hand in the beginning but he'd sullenly told her No. It wasn't that he didn't want to be touched. He had very much wanted to grab her, hear her pleading him to let her go. He wanted to grasp her hand with harsh fingers, his nails digging into her skin. He wanted to put her hand around his cock and tell her what it was he wanted her to do. But he didn't want to be chirped at, stroked like a good boy, a good pet. He didn't want to be treated like an idiot virgin. He wanted his first time to be special; he wanted his first woman on sore knees sucking him off with an aching mouth before he pulled her up by the throat and told her he wanted to stick it in her. Ros and Daisy had been amusing to watch but they did not make him salivate with greedy want like sweet Sansa did. Maybe if Ros hadn't ruined it by taking charge like she did, but she'd made her mistake and Joffrey had made her pay.

Minutes after they'd disappeared, he'd flopped on his bed and brought himself to a crescendo in a matter of seconds and neither of them would ever know they'd had that affect on him. They'd never know they'd almost had the power.

But here in the darkness with only the flickering firelight to witness him, he could retell the story any way he wanted. His bright eyes snapping open and rolling back, he moaned and bit down, clenching his teeth hard as he pumped himself frantically. This part he'd designed over the days since the event had transpired. He could see it all perfectly, so perfectly that sometimes he could convince himself that it really had happened this way.

If he could do it all over again, he wouldn't have let them go in order to teach Uncle Imp a lesson. He'd have enjoyed them until his hunger was completely satiated. Joffrey didn't much care for broken, used things, but the older and more heavily treaded they were the easier they were to snap in half.

Once he'd played a game with Tommen, a game he'd called Will It Float or Won't It Float. He'd asked Tommen to gather up things he loved, any things—dolls, toys, birthday presents, pets—and then Joffrey would say Will it float or won't it float and he'd test the objects until Tommen realized what was happening and began to let out some superior earth-shattering sobs. Before Joffrey could test Will it float or won't it float on Tommen's pet kitten, Tommen had let the animal free. Joffrey, seized by the uncontrollable rage of being bested, grabbed Tommen by the spindly arms. "Well then," he had said, all clenched teeth and flashing eyes, "so, how about you. Will you float or won't you float?" Tommen had shrieked and shrieked. The King found the boys then and grabbed Tommen out of Joffrey's arms where he'd been dangling over the water's edge. Then he smacked Joffrey repeatedly on the back of the head and let loose a string of curses and insults that even seemed unfit for a seedy bar against a grown man. Joffrey had just smiled calmly at his father.

After all, he didn't care what happened to other people's things. And Ros and Daisy, they were other people's things. Not even things people loved, like Tommen's prized possessions.

Joffrey cleared his mind, getting back into the decadent thought of what he could have done differently with the two unloved toys. He could imagine this invented scene so perfectly that his skin crawled with the anticipation of his impending orgasm. It was so, so close now!

He saw himself disrobing and gripping Ros by her auburn curls, bringing her face to his hardness and forcing her to suck him off while Daisy unwillingly used herself with the scepter. He could see the fear in her eyes and he could even smell the blood. Oh, the blood. By this time, it would have run all over the sheets and he'd smack Ros over the ear before shoving her onto the bed with a command to attend to Daisy. He'd watch them, readying himself as they tumbled and pressed mouths together on the crimson circle. As soon as it was evident they were enjoying themselves too much, he'd shove Ros out of the way and take Daisy first. He couldn't imagine this as perfectly as he'd like to, but it was a cheerful thought all the same.

After all, he knew in theory how it worked: he'd caught his father once or twice but he couldn't block him out so he'd looked away and tried to forget. He didn't want to look like his father while he had a girl; he wanted to look brilliant and self-assured, not drunk and fat and stupid. He wouldn't roll with her, laughing and bouncing merrily. No, he would take her hard and fast, his hands around her neck until the light completely faded from her face (he was so close now it almost hurt). He'd take Daisy until she bled out there on sheets. Joffrey sputtered and pumped harder and harder. He'd discard her and finish up with Ros, staring her intensely in the eyes and shouting at her to make him come, make me come, do it, do it.

It was a furious chant, so booming loud in his head that he could hear himself saying it, his mouth moving to the beat. He threaded his thumb and pointer finger over his hot head and finally finished with a yowl, perspiration sticky on his forehead beneath his golden bangs. He gasped for air, fell back on the pillows in a spent heap, and his breathing was loud and desperate. It came out in short puffs as a satisfied smile curled on his lips, all dimples and a mouthful of sharp, serpent teeth.

However, doubt lingered in his mind as he rose and cleaned his hands in the basin. It was the same old pattern. Last time, he'd been able to relieve himself right when Daisy died on his bed. And the time before, he didn't even need to use his imagination; he'd simply replayed the scene as was. This was becoming too difficult, too unreliable. Sometimes, and this was a real problem, he even went soft if he couldn't replay the screaming. If he was too stressed or distracted to hear the cries in his ears, he'd frown in the muted dark and punch his pillows in immense anguish.

Grown-up responsibility had all but shattered his sense of wonderment. Joffrey's mind wandered back to the bleak thoughts, the worries. He missed being a child; he'd been so much more satisfied with the small pleasures. In simpler times, pulling apart dead sparrows had granted him hours of entertainment. Soon though, this grew tiresome and he shot them down himself. They'd lie shuddering in the grasses bathed in his shadow. Where has my sweet boy been? his lady mother would coo, kissing his neck, and his father would shrug. This boy is good at occupying himself! Thank Gods for that. He lost interest in the sparrows and touching his siblings just as he'd moved on from nursing or crawling.

Responsibility was not all bad. Joffrey had been having a grand time as King. He could do exactly as he pleased. There were beheadings. Demanding people to hurt each other, watching them bleed and die so easily before him. Naked girls bent over, armed with weaponry. Making orders. Demanding punishments for stupid people. Blood and guts and wreckage, all of it gorgeous to his artistic eye. Such excitement! Such fun! But it all grew boring so fast.

He knew that soon, very soon, he'd need a new fixation. He ached for action and perhaps he still had hope. Perhaps he still had a muse. He still had Sansa.

Joffrey leered there in the dark, slipping gracefully into bed and tucking himself back in. Even though he'd grown wary of Sansa's brazen ways, Joffrey could not help but feel a certain fondness for his lady. They'd shared several kisses before she'd become so afraid of him but the fear was better than kisses. Certainly, her mouth had gotten saucier since he'd offered her Eddard Stark's head, but she was trapped and so he still had the power. His little bird had nowhere to fly. He'd plucked her wings out ages ago and soon, when she bled, she'd be ready, lying on her back beneath his shadow.

All of these spinning thoughts had given him anticipation for the impending day. Something exciting was going to happen, Joffrey knew it. He'd command it. He could watch his men slap Sansa, watch them toss her back and forth like a freshly caught fish in the marketplace. This was particularly fun since it seemed the Hound had developed a pathetic sort of silent fondness for Sansa, something he obviously thought he was hiding well.

But Joffrey had an eye for treachery. He saw inside of people, even without slicing them open. He could see what they loved and wanted most, and what made them feel. He saw what he could use against them. Joffrey supposed it was normal for a man that pitiable and ugly to want a pretty thing he couldn't have. Poor dutiful Hound. The young king couldn't wait until he and Sansa could finally fuck. That way Joffrey could order the Hound to watch as he rode her, calling out, "Isn't she pretty? Isn't her body so pretty? Don't you wish you were me? Say you wish you were me, Dog." And the Hound would nod, that one bleary eye half-shut, and he'd say in a sad tone masked with ambivalence, "Yes, your grace, she is very pretty."

He could order her clothes to be wrenched from her body. He could order her to be completely naked and beaten for his own enjoyment again. That had been a good slice of fun but next time he'd call for more teasing, perhaps have them tease her with a knife. And this time, he'd make certain Uncle Imp was nowhere to be found. They were always spoiling his fun, everyone, still misunderstanding the brilliance of his orders. No one saw the careful eye, the virtuosity for vehemence. He had a mental list of things, torture ideas, each idea sexier and more delectable than the last. He could not wait to use the list he'd been adding to for months now. Every time he looked upon Sansa, it seemed he had a new idea. Things to try with My Lady.

Item One: He'd still never hurt her face beyond repair, but one thing he'd like to try was marking her as his own in places no one else but them would be able to see. He'd like to slide Hearteater over Sansa's blank canvas of a body and sculpt her, leave his signature so that she would know her rightful owner even when she was alone. They could sit in the bath together after he cut her up and he'd lovingly wipe her wounds with a cloth, mopping the sweet red blood and letting it float around them in the hot water.

Item Two: He wanted to see her strip naked in front of him in their chambers, just the two of them. He was looking forward to having her to himself, bent over, hands on his bedspread. He imagined telling her to shut her eyes and ready herself for a surprise. Then he'd stick the handle of a riding crop between her shut legs and press it against her privates. He could already hear the whimpering pleas, the heavy breathing. Will you be my good girl? Not a traitorous wretch like your conniving father? He'd hold it over his head and smack her good and hard on her rear until she screamed she'd be a good girl, his good, obedient girl forever.

Item Three was what he was most excited for. He was entirely proud of the idea, which was a reinvented version of his childhood game with Tommen. He'd have Sansa sit on their bed and spread her quivering legs, her skirts pulled over her waist. He would arrange a host of objects beside her—wine bottles, goblets, Hearteater, a club, the scepter, a candle, perhaps an arrow—and he'd say, Will it Fit, or Won't it Fit? and then they'd test out his theories. He'd save the sharp things for last because she'd surely be screaming and then he'd be intensely rigid, pulling down his trousers, and he'd say, I know something else that will fit. She'd nod her head, please, your Grace, please, yes, and they'd connect there in the candlelight. There were countless other ideas he had, some involving knives and others ropes, some just his fingers or his sharp words. The things you did in the dark with your women.

Joffrey sighed, sated and exhausted but also expectant for the dawn. It was difficult to contain himself while he waited for Sansa to bleed. For now, he had to be patient. Sansa was still a new toy, just currently wasting away on a dusty shelf. Thankfully, Sansa would belong to him before long and he could use her just as he pleased with his own two skillful hands.

..

fin