TW: potential trypophobia triggers after the line break (nothing visual, just if you're particularly sensitive to certain descriptions)

She had given absolute power over to him before.

Once.

It was a dream that Sarah never quite dared to let herself think of for long, lest her cheeks catch fire with the sheer force of her shame and lust. A dark and secret dream, but one that danced behind his eyes in every knowing glance he gave her. It hung heavy and unsaid between them – a single drop of venom that threatened every verbal sparring match. That last encounter, where he had shown just how well he was able to control her, was the closest the pair of them had ever come to acknowledging it aloud.

The dream had come to her – to them – a little after her twentieth birthday, frightening in both its intensity, and its clarity. In other dreams, she had experienced more of him as a lover than her guilty conscience could ever admit to. He had pressed her tight, and spread her wide; she had found herself tied up, and found her body bent down low – every filthy fantasy she had thought her mind capable of conjuring. Never before, though, had she ever felt herself become so completely, and utterly his.

She had given him her total submission.

The bedchamber she found herself in was dark and vague around the two of them, giving Sarah no real sense of place, but she could see him well enough. His bed was wide, cool silk sheets beneath her back, and he had her lay upon it, completely naked, and spread open before him. Jareth himself remained fully clothed, and sat opposite her in a high-backed armchair, his legs parted, with one booted foot slung over his knee.

His posture did nothing to hide his erection from her, and, like all of his other gestures, she knew it was intentional. He wanted her to see just how aroused he was, simply from looking upon her, and in turn, watch her as she grew wetter and more needy with just the sight of him. The warm air of the room freely caressed her wrists, reminding her of her lack of restraints, yet she remained bound nonetheless, by means stronger than any rope, or chain, or enchantment. Her wrists, he commanded, would stay pressed to the pillows, for that is where he wanted them, and his desires were bondage enough.

He made her lie that way for a long time, wide open, and wet, and so very vulnerable. She was, of course, forbidden to touch herself – forbidden even to press her thighs closer together, lest it soothe some of her ache, and deny him his view. She knew by instinct that talking would be frowned upon – perhaps meriting its own punishment – and had to stop herself from squirming in her efforts to remain silent. He would want her to beg later. For now, he wanted only for her to obey.

After an undefined time of his own choosing – in Sarah's impatient mind, it had been hours, perhaps even days – he saw fit to come to her, moving with a silent, effortless grace to join her by the side of the bed, standing beside the pillows. The angle meant that she was beneath him, staring up at the way his taut thighs so perfectly framed the hard length of his cock; the unquestionable authority in his stature as he gazed down upon his willing slave.

His smile was devious – the one that meant he was all too willing to tease her without a scrap of mercy. It was one she had seen so often in the past, latched around her nipple, sucking and tugging until she was aching, and moaning his name. It told her that he was most eager to play some new game with her – one whose rules she could only try to keep up with.

Now, towering above her, he slid a gloved palm along her bare throat, the cool leather enough to make her gasp as it moved lower. The rough pad of each leather-encased fingertip grazed her delicate skin, blazing a trail of heat down between her breasts, enough to curl her toes as his hand stroked over her belly. Her muscles danced and twitched as he moved his attention lower still. With the tip of one finger, he parted the downy hair between her thighs, stroking exquisite fire into the inflamed bud of her clit, before he turned his hand, and cupped her mound in his palm. There was no denying the moist sounds of her arousal as his middle finger probed between her slick lips.

"You're already wet," he observed, and though the movement of his hand was for his own benefit, testing and spreading that wetness, Sarah had to shiver at his touch. There was a sense of satisfaction behind his eyes when he drew back, leaving her wanting as he offered that same finger up to her lips.

"Taste yourself, love." When her lips opened to accept the digit, he pulled his hand back slightly, denying her, even as she craned her neck to reach him. "No. With your tongue. I want to see you."

Obedient as ever, she extended her tongue as far as it would go, and touched it to the tip of his gloved finger. Her own honey was sweet and faintly bitter – something she had experienced often upon his lips after he had savoured her – and beneath it was the crisp tang of leather. She licked his glove clean, giving him the visual stimulus he desired, though her lips burned to give him far more. She could only lap at him, and watch the way his eyes darkened, and await his next command.

"Teeth," he said, softly – finally.

Knowing what he desired, she obediently took the tip of the glove's finger into her mouth, and, careful not to graze the flesh beneath, bit down, hard. The leather had by now been warmed through by her own tongue, and by his hand, and she imagined that she could feel his own unique heat against her lips as he drew his hand back, allowing her to strip the glove from him. When it hung from her teeth, he gave it a teasing tug, before taking it from her. He offered up the same finger to her lips, but this time it was bare.

"Suck," he demanded.

Her longing had made her over-eager, and she obeyed at once, drawing the digit into the tight circle of her mouth with a low groan of pleasure. He insisted on eye contact at times like these, and she was mindful enough to hold his gaze as her cheeks hollowed around his finger, sucking and lathing it with her tongue. She moaned when he pulled back a second time, denying her the pleasure of consuming him. Her breath came in hitching gasps as he walked slowly around the bed, to stand between her feet.

It was all but impossible to stop herself from arching up against him as his hand came to cup her between her legs again. She was already soaked with her arousal, and the finger she had moistened for him slid easily between her slick folds, moving upwards to find her throbbing clit. The contact made her mewl with pleasure, but it was far from the friction she was so desperate for.

Still, she waited, needing to hear the right words before they could continue. He had not yet given his permission. She pressed her teeth hard against her lower lip, relishing the dull burst of pain alongside the pleasure below her waist.

"Feel free to make noise, love – you know how it pleases me to hear you moan. Tell me what you want most."

"Ohh … your fingers inside me."

"Mmm. I suppose I could oblige." It satisfied Sarah to see the way his free hand moved to the front of his trousers, adjusting the hard shape of his cock through the thin material. His other hand moved lower on her body, dipping between her slick lips to discover her entrance. His eyes held hers as his finger pressed deep inside her.

Sarah moaned low down in her throat. It felt good, but it wasn't enough, slippery and wet as he had gotten her. She needed to feel him stroke her inner walls – needed movement, and fought to keep from arching her hips to gain it. She waited, and waited, eyes and mouth wide, panting and keening with her desire. After a time, her patience was rewarded.

"Good girl," he purred, and with a smile, pushed that long finger further inside her … and twisted.

Her whole body tensed around him, gripping tightly at what he offered. How she had to fight to contain herself enough to stay still for him – for he would tolerate nothing less than absolute obedience. She begged him with her eyes, waiting … waiting for him to grant her release.

"Move for me, precious," he said. "Let me watch you press yourself open … I want to see you impale that sweet cunt on me."

It was all she needed. She cried out her gratitude, and obeyed at once. Her hips left the prison of his bed and rose up to meet him, bucking against his hand. His finger slid deliciously deep, but it was through no effort of his own. He remained perfectly still, allowing for her to fuck herself on his finger, watching her all the while. His eyes glittered with lust at the exhibition she made of herself, watching desire unravel into desperate hunger.

Sarah didn't care.

Her hips arched and fell in rapid succession, seeking more; craving him. Though she controlled the motion, there was no question of who was truly in charge. It was in his eyes – the way he commanded her gaze, daring her to look away as her body was spread open upon his finger; daring her to deny his power, whilst a part of him remained deep inside her. He had her snared by his sheer will alone, and in that moment, she loved him for it. She longed for his mouth on hers, the solid weight of his body pressing her down into his bed; the hard rhythm of his cock pushing so deeply inside her, as his finger did now. Her anxious hips picked up the pace.

When she began to move too readily for his liking, he chastened her by pulling back his hand, until only the very tip of his finger still warmed her.

"Ah, ah, ah – slowly, now, Sarah," he chided her. "We don't want to seem greedy, now, do we?"

She was quick to apologise, desperate for him to let her continue. "S-sorry … I'll be good."

"Of course you will, precious." His finger slid deeper. "Resume," he said, his strong hand, and dark wanting eyes urging her on.

He let her move for a long time on him, lifting her hips in steady rhythm to drive his finger as deeply as it could go. She could feel her body drawing close, so incredibly close, but it wasn't enough. She bucked, and writhed, and moaned, striving for that blissful release, but in the end she had no choice but to beg. She needed to have him buried inside her.

"Please, Jareth, please!"

He smiled. It was what he had waited for. "Please, what?"

"Please … I need you …" His gaze was hot upon her, and she knew he would not relent until he had heard it from her lips. "Please, fuck me."

"And you know what I need, now don't you? Tell me exactly who you belong to."

There was no question of denial; no time for second thoughts. She said the words, and felt their delectable burn all the way down to her toes. "You. Please, Jareth, I belong to you … I'm yours – I've always been yours. You've held power over me from the minute you came to me, all those years ago."

"Mmm. Yes. How right you are, love." He took his time in undressing, letting her see all of him, letting her long for him. He draped his body over hers in the most delicious way, possessive yet graceful as his weight came down atop her; pressing hotly between her thighs. "Now, tell me just how much of my power you want inside you."

She had awoken, gasping, immediately after, her skin hot and slick with sweat.

The urge to submit was not something she had ever known she possessed, but that dream had left her in a near-frenzy, so very hot, and wetter than ever. The idea of being so completely at his mercy was almost too much to bear. She had been pulled so suddenly from the moment where she had pleaded with him – begged him – to fuck her, that her body had already been so very close to orgasm. When she brought it about by her own hand, she had whispered her appeal into her pillow – 'Please, Jareth, please,' – seeking his permission even then, and loving it.

Though in the dream her pleasure had been their ultimate aim, when it finally came, it would be at his discretion, and her dream-self could not have been more thrilled by the idea. Awake, it was the ultimate contradiction. She had proven herself worthy by beating his labyrinth; told him once that he had no power over her – surely, to relinquish that so willingly after all these years had to be madness? At first, she had found the idea of him having power over her terrifying. He would keep her for his own – a prisoner to his lusts. Though there was at least some sexual appeal, given the way she had dreamed of him for so long, she would nonetheless be trapped against her will.

Now, though, the thought frightened her in entirely new ways. To be chained to his bedposts was one thing – to have given over her wrists to be locked so willingly was another matter entirely; one she was not certain she could handle. It was bad enough to want him; to want his power was unforgivable.

Her ultimate submission was what the Goblin King desired most, and he had orchestrated their brief time together so perfectly to suit his purposes. Now, just thinking of it left her cheeks flaming. He had asked her to hold the rope – to give herself over freely to him, and she had surrendered with barely any attempt at protest. How powerful a reminder it was of that dream, showing her just how easily he could make her submit, if he so wished. Yet, as he had held her against him, giving her the release she had needed for so long, he had surrendered a part of himself too, and it was that knowledge that made her most afraid of all.

As dark as it had always been in her dreams, his lust was welcome – his adoration, she was not so sure of, particularly now, when it was quickly becoming clear he had far more than mere sex in mind. When exactly it had become clear that he did love her, she didn't know – only that the knowledge had awakened something she was struggling to keep caged beneath her breast. Their last encounter had damaged the bars of that cage irreparably, and she wasn't yet ready to deal with the fallout. Easier to imagine her foe as the dark, seductive God of her fantasies – a temptation, but a danger, nonetheless; one that she had less than four hours to defeat.

As difficult as it was to focus, tired, and confused, and heartsick as she was, she turned her attention back to the labyrinth.

After her frenzied near-detour off the edge of a cliff, he had deposited her safely, though a little disoriented, at the bottom. With solid rock at her back, and curving to her left and right, it gave her no choice but to press on forwards. What lay before her might once have been a vibrant green valley, as rich as the forest from whence she had come, but now it seemed to be crumbling away to nothing. As she walked, her new boots kicked up nothing but grit and alkaline dust.

She had almost stumbled over the scuffed brown things at first, still reeling from their encounter, and beginning to rage at the fact that he had abandoned her, barefoot, in his labyrinth after all. They were plain hiking boots, and held nothing of the delicate beauty of his last offering – they were her own, crafted from nothing more extraordinary than mortal means. They had lain, forgotten, at the back of her old closet for God knew how long, and seeing them here had made her blood boil, just thinking of the casual intimacy he had presumed by magicking her belongings into his realm.

They lacked the comfort of her enchanted boots, but they still fit okay, and seemed at least sturdy enough for the walk ahead. The message they carried was clear – no more kind gestures; no more of his magic. With less than four hours, and a single chance at victory left, she was on her own. If her own two feet caused her to fail, as, no doubt, he intended, she would belong to him. It was a sobering thought as she pressed on.

It was a dry, stony maze, taking her through dead, crackling weeds and past giant boulders that were at least three times her size. She walked through cold and echoing chasms that towered overhead, and one so narrow she had to squeeze through it sideways, conscious all the while of the many tons of rock that hung above her. The only real blessing was that her walk took her past no more enchanted streams.

It soon became clear that the only way forward would be up.

Another great cliff-wall loomed before her, marking the end of the rough path she had followed all this way. When Sarah came to a halt in its shadow, it was tall enough, almost, to blot out the sky. The pale stone walls of the Goblin King's castle loomed beyond it as if mocking her. A fierce determination seized her, as she stopped to lace her boots a little tighter. They had been bought with less adventurous activities in mind than actual mountain climbing, after all, but she had no choice but to try them anyway. She would be climbing again after all. If the Goblin King wanted to stare up her nightgown this time, let him. Her ass would be the last thing he got to see when it came time to walk out of this place, victorious.

Whilst not exactly easy-going, the climb turned out to be smoother than she had expected, at least at first. The breeze was cool as it brushed her bare legs, but not brisk enough for her to worry about, and the grips on her dusty old boots proved sufficient for the rock's rough surface. She had no real idea what she was doing, except for the urge to move upwards, but natural hand and footholds seemed to come readily enough, so that there was no real need to stretch, or struggle. It was only as she climbed higher, far past the point of climbing safely back down, that she began to run into trouble.

Her ascent slowed to a crawl as the rock face grew smoother, and more difficult to cling to – the climb itself now almost vertical. Sarah found herself having to really reach for her next handhold, relying on the uncertain grip of her boots to keep her body stable more and more often. Her arms had begun to ache with her efforts long ago, but the way her fingers now started to shake was new, and worrying. She could feel the trembling in her calves growing more pronounced and threatening to grow into cramps, warning her that if she didn't press on to the top soon, she soon would not be able to move at all.

Looking up – never down – the nearest likely handhold was a gaping black hole in the rock's surface, too deep and too dark for her to possibly see inside. It could be home to any of this place's monstrous creatures, but right then, it was her only refuge – the only way to keep on moving upwards, before she froze entirely. She curled her fingers tightly around the lip of the hole, and with a low grunt, pulled herself up higher.

The rock wall stretched directly upwards above her, and pockmarking its surface were more of those deep black holes, now stretching away to her left and right, and as far ahead as she could see. They looked like the hive of some great insect, and Sarah felt a powerful wave of nausea seize her belly. It was far too easy to imagine things lurking in every one of those holes, just waiting for the poor fool who dared stick a foot, or bare hand in there to disturb them. Her entire body shuddered violently, and made her fear for her grip on the rock.

Get it together, Sarah. If you start thinking that way, this place is bound to fill these holes with something a whole lot worse than bugs. Keep moving.

Somehow, she did. Creeping revulsion lined her throat as, once more, she set her feet, and reached for another of those black holes. The moment her fingers dipped inside, she noticed that the rock felt strangely warmer than the last had, as if some unknown critter had until only recently been inside. Fighting down nausea, she moved on as quickly as she could.

The holes all looked identical, rows and endless rows of black, unseeing eyes that glared out at her as she climbed. Some were cold and others felt oddly warm, and she thought that more than one felt a little damp, but otherwise, they betrayed nothing of what may have lived – or still lurked – inside them. Her belly clenched with fear at every new hole she risked, but she carried on climbing – it was all she could do. There was no warning at all when the seventh such hole her left hand grabbed at, grabbed back. Her scream felt loud enough to shake the rock itself.

It was somehow worse than the pit she had been trapped in. Instead of the snakes' looping, scaly touches, she now felt definite fingers – human fingers – gripping her from out of the dark, soft and warm, their fingernails pressing into the backs of her knuckles. It held her far too tightly to break free, which, in her blind panic, might have been a blessing. With the horror of that unknown, yet distinctly human touch reaching out at her from its prison within the rock, she might have thrown herself to her doom without a second thought. Rational thinking all but ceased to be, the moment she heard her stepmother's voice carrying out from the hole.

"I told you a girl your age should have had dates – nice, normal boys your own age – and now look at you! A grown woman, throwing herself at some fairytale fancy-man! You're too old for this, Sarah. You're an embarrassment to your father, and to your family, especially to me. I'm glad you're not my real daughter. You need to grow the hell up."

Though her first instinct was to freeze with her panic, the other woman's cruel words stirred a sense of rebellion in her. Somehow, Sarah found herself answering back. "This place toughened me up in a hurry – more than any 'grown up' world could have – and enough to keep looking after your baby. I spent more time with him back then than you, or dad. Besides, I had dates, and look where they got me – nowhere!" Her voice was thin and reedy with her panic, but hearing it gave her the strength needed to throw off that terribly human hand. Her stepmother clearly wasn't trapped within the rock, but something in this awful place wanted her to think that she was.

Shuddering, she reached higher, grabbing onto another awful hole. This time, it was Toby that grabbed back. Small fingers trapped Sarah's own, and her little brother's high, boyish tone emerged from the hole, sounding nightmarish against this strange, alien environment.

"You're too busy playing his games to play with me! You never loved me – you only love yourself and him! You sent me away to him, and when I was scared and trapped with the goblins, all you cared about was dancing and playing dress-up as the queen! You never should have saved me – I hate you!"

Sarah bit back a sob. "I love you plenty, kiddo. Though you were a massive pain in my teenage butt, I never would have let him have you – I swear." That hand was harder to pull back from, the wall harder to see, even, as easy tears pricked at her eyes.

She realised now, that these holes weren't eyes, as she had first imagined them to be, but horrible, gaping mouths. They were hateful things, cawing throats that would give voice to her deepest, most damaging thoughts, noxious breaths of half-truths and self-loathing. They would seek out what she feared most, and use it to pummel her into defeat, stealing the voices of those she knew, just to add to her torment and wound her more deeply.

Whoever first claimed 'words can never hurt me' clearly never delved into their own mind's despairing, most poisonous chatter, and tried not to give in to the misery it caused … and she was already so very tired. Fighting tears, Sarah forced herself higher.

Her father clawed at her next, and Sarah swore she could still recognise the rough weight of his palm against her knuckles. He had not held her hand since she was nine.

"Never walk you down the aisle now, will I, hon?" His voice carried a vague hint of sadness, but what Sarah heard most clearly was disappointment. "Never going to have the chance to give my daughter away on her wedding day, like a normal father would. You could never just be normal, could you? I never should have let you get so wrapped up in those dumb fairy stories."

She felt a burst of anger, and seized on it at once. "Those 'dumb stories' are what kept me going when my parents both decided to put their daughter on hold, while they looked after their own love lives. Besides," she added, and that hint of bitterness was strangely sweet on her tongue, "I don't think you or mom have any right lecturing me on proper wedding etiquette." She climbed on.

Her mother only told her, with the abruptness of a slap to the face, that a child had not been interesting enough to stick around for.

"Yeah, well someone sure seems to think I'm special enough to keep around for a while – he may be a little hard to take in, at times, but he's a little higher up than whatever washed up asshole you're screwing these days." It was petty, but it kept her moving.

Not every hole contained some tormenting terror – she would occasionally find herself with blessed, soothing silence – but many of them did. She faced harsh words and one-sided arguments with everyone that still lingered in her memories, from a stern old kindergarten teacher, to the prick in a construction helmet who had catcalled her only the week before (it was, after all, hard to forget the warm, dulcet tones of the man who'd all but crucified her, just for daring to ignore his 'compliment' about her tits before 8am).

There were voices she barely remembered, and others that pulled painfully at her heartstrings, though she had not heard them for years.

A trusted middle-school friend asked her why she had been so goddamn weird; why she never liked 'normal' things, like bands, and magazines, and books that didn't stretch onto eternity with their silly fairy stories. Maybe it was best that they stopped hanging out together all those years ago, if she was going to end up this way when she was supposed to be an adult. She was strange.

Her best friend asked her why she bothered to keep in touch, if all she was going to do was abandon everyone for the sake of a quick fuck. She was callous.

A current and beloved college professor pondered if she really had the dedication to get through the next semester, the way she was chasing after fairy-men with her head so often in the clouds, and her lack of restful sleep so apparent. Perhaps it would be easier to give up? She was destined to be a failure, after all.

An old room-mate asked if she was ever going to invite a guy back to the dorms. She was boring.

Vicious, angry man-children – the ones she had too often rejected, for dates, and for sex – vented their rage at her. She had refused them what she gave away so freely to a man she hardly knew. She was a whore. She was a prude. She was worthless.

She was crazy to think she deserved any happiness.

Maybe, just maybe, she was just plain crazy.

So much noise – so much hatred, and blame, and negativity – that it slumped her already-aching shoulders into near-submission.

In all, it was a longer, more painful ascent than she could have ever imagined, leaving her exhausted, and desperate for silence. She pressed on, having to fight hard to keep moving, and even harder to keep her sobs locked down. The rock blurred and prismed before her eyes, but somehow, she found she had almost made it to the top. She reached blindly for one of what must have been only a couple of holes remaining, and that was when the worst of all the voices came – the Goblin King himself decided to torment her. The hand that closed around hers was soft, and deceptively gentle. It was his words that delivered the real blow.

"How pathetic. I do believe you've somehow convinced yourself you stand a chance at defeating me. It would be an almost pitiable scenario, had you not proven yourself such a wretched, damnable little tease, testing my endurance all these years … and I must tell you, my patience has now all but run dry."

"Yours and mine both," Sarah growled, and yanked her arm back.

She stretched higher, the top of the rocky outcrop inching ever closer, and if she had been a little taller, she might just have reached safety. Instead, she was forced to trust herself to one last terrible hole. She winced only a little, expecting some other voice from her past to haunt her one last time, before giving her freedom at last. She did not expect the hand that enclosed her to be like iron, cruel fingers digging deep into her delicate wrist. She cried out once, then fell silent as the Goblin King's cool tone assaulted her ears once more.

"You will not dismiss me so easily, Sarah – I assure you of that. You may move on easily from your silly human woes, but never from me. You forget yourself when you address me. I'm not one of your tedious friends, or another of your lowly mortal acquaintances. I am your king and your better, and you will bow to me."

Sarah could picture all too well the ice in his eyes as he spoke. Though she loathed herself for it, she could feel the beginnings of real fear welling inside her, tightening her chest. "Let me go," she said.

He only laughed. "You dare to command me? Sometimes even I forget what a foolish little girl you truly are."

She grimaced and grunted, and pulled, but she still could not free herself. "I'm twenty-one, you condescending jackass."

"And how old am I, in comparison, dear? Your human pride and vanity is what will be the death of your kind, in the end, and how we all shall laugh to see you fall. You inhabit this earth for such a short time, and yet you've so stubbornly come to believe yourselves the dominant and all-powerful species. There are beasts of burden whose power I value more. There are parrots capable of outliving you, and, believe me, they flap and squawk far less."

There was something about this Jareth that disturbed her greatly. He had mocked her, and he had revelled in her embarrassment – never had he spoken so coldly of her insignificance. "I … I'm sorry," she said, though the words felt foolish and clumsy in her mouth.

He carried on as if she had not spoken at all. "Do you realise how uninteresting a single human lifetime truly is, Sarah?" She could hear the sneer in his voice – the hint of an unpleasant smile. "Of course not – you have no other basis for comparison. Fear not, I'll educate you."

"You're no more than an ember, really, caught up in the bigger fire, and gone within an instant. Pretty to look at, perhaps, but only for a moment's distraction … and I've had many such distractions over the years. Women in their throngs, virgins and whores alike, who would throw themselves at my feet. I've sought out the greatest beauties your world has had to offer through the ages, making them mine, and then leaving them ruined for any mortal man. And the bold Apollo dared take credit for the unfortunate Cassandra's descent into madness."

His bitter laughter was painful to her ears. "I've been at the midst of the ancient world's most sordid orgies, and most extravagant parties – and the modern one, for that matter. Your 'Studio 54' was quite a favourite of mine. Your human drink and drugs are nothing of what delights I've sampled in my own realm, but they've proven somewhat amusing to me, and I've had them all. I've seen them change over the centuries, just as I've seen your walls and borders surrendered through the changing times. I've seen entire civilisations rise and fall. I saw the soil of Troy turned red with blood, all for mindless pride and vanity. I watched from the sidelines as Nero plucked his cithara, while Rome burned around him. I grow weary of your broken hearts, and your petty conflicts, and your bloated leaders' ceaseless bleating."

He knew so much – had seen and experienced first-hand much more than she could ever hope to imagine, things that had all but crumbled to dust, relegated to mere myth and legend in the eyes of history. Sarah's mouth opened and closed again. How could she ever compare? She had no argument to give him. The poison of his words continued to wash over her, as if sensing her defeat.

"What hope has a mere slip of a girl to keep my bed and my attentions for anything more than a single and quite dull night? What have you to offer me, hmm? The great wisdom of your college education? Your charming yet rather insignificant virginity? Make no mistake: I will win this foolish game, and I will have you – as is my right. I will fuck you any – and every – which way so pleases me. I will make you moan, and I will make you beg, and I will make you scream, long into the night, and then send you on as a broken plaything for one of my kingdom's low lordlings' amusement. You will yearn for the time we had together, and you will dream of me forever, but I will forget you at once. You are nothing."

Hot tears poured freely down Sarah's cold cheeks. She could find no verbal response to his assault, her throat closed and thick with her tears, but somehow, she did find she had the strength left to fight him. She pulled against the hand that held her prisoner, desperate for escape, and heedless for her own safety. She could feel herself growing more frantic as the fingers trapping her own refused to budge an inch. She had all but forgotten her other hand, until she felt that imprisoned, too.

Immediately, the cruel voice ceased its taunts, the sinister hand that bound her losing its grip – perhaps in light of the larger threat than now made itself known. When Sarah looked upwards, the Goblin King himself stood atop the precipice above her, framed by the orange sky. He had bent to take her in his clutches, his pale white fingers wrapped around her right wrist. Fresh fear and panic erupted inside her, at the sight of his cold eyes, looking so sharply down upon her.

He had come to rescue her a third time.

"No," she cried, fighting this captor even harder than the last. "I don't need your help! I don't want it! I can save myself!"

The Goblin King only tightened his hold on her wrist, and dragged her, kicking and protesting, up to join him.