In which Felicia is adorable and Alfonse learns a hard and nonsensical lesson.

(Thank you so very, very much to all of the lovely and encouraging comments! Your kind words make me blush more than writing this kinky stuff does! I can keep Nino-ing thanks to your support!

This chapter contains elements of dubious consent, which we would call rape in real life, but since this is Fiction Land and we're all adults, we know that we can indulge in our sick, sick fetishes purely in the context of fantasy.)

Alfonse can't remember the day his father died. The news didn't reach the castle until almost two full days later, when the messenger sent ahead tore through the front doors in hysterics with his eyes full of tears and the news that the king had been slain.

He remembers that day. He remembers the hollowness, the empty surprise, the fear, the sadness, the anger. He remembers Sharena crying and their mother fainting. He remembers wondering why, and how, and what would they do now, what would he do?

He remembers feeling powerless for the first time in his life, and cheated. Father didn't fall to the Emblian Empire, who warred with them even then. It wasn't some grand battle that took him in a blaze of honor and glory. He was slain by a barbarian from a small nation in the lawless wilds when he went to negotiate peace. It was a single arrow to the skull that did it-such a small thing. The Akran army crushed that nation soon after, but what did it matter? The land was inconsequential. It didn't bring Father back.

For a time, Askr was robbed of its empathy, and Alfonse knows his would have been taken from him, too, if not for Sharena's resilience and patience and love. Mother didn't fare as well. She lost her hope and succumbed to a malady of the heart. Though Sharena nurses a faint hope of restoring her, Alfonse has long since given up on it. Ever since Father died and Mother became indisposed, he has shouldered a king's burden, inheriting all the duties required of that post. Perhaps Sharena can hold to optimism still, but he must face reality for what it is.

But he won't end up like Mother. For Sharena's sake more than anything, and for Anna and Kiran and the Order of Heroes and all of Askr's people, he must continue to be a pillar of strength, even if he has to take every grievance, every discontent, every kernel of hatred and malice upon himself. Even if he's despised or ridiculed or humiliated-

"Prince Alfonse!"

Alfonse stirs. The blankets are so warm that he doesn't want to move.

"Please wake up, Your Highness!"

He doesn't want to. Something bad will happen if he does. He wants to stay like this where it's safe and comfortable forever.

"I'm very sorry, Your Highness, but you need to wake up! I have your breakfast!"

He is hungry; his stomach feels weak and queasy. He shifts on the bed and reluctantly opens his eyes.

"Felicia?" he says groggily, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. The young maid gradually comes into focus behind a row of iron bars. His stomach lurches, and he sits up.

"Good morning, Your Highness!" Felicia says cheerily, her smile cut in half by the bars. "Did you sleep well?" She sets a collapsible table bearing a loaded tray onto its legs and lifts the key ring hanging from a cord around her neck. A fire is burning in the grate outside the cell, creating a paradoxical coziness within the room.

Alfonse watches her languidly, fingers clenching around the bedclothes. "It was... restful," he says at last. He wishes he could return to sleep and banish this curse of awareness.

Felicia's smile falters, and for a moment, she looks troubled. She recovers quickly enough, though, and fiddles with the key ring, dropping it once before she manages to unlock the cell door. Alfonse doesn't move as she enters with the tray and sets it on the desk. She hovers there for a moment.

"Your Highness, you should eat," she says, nervously, "since you didn't last night."

Alfonse forces a smile. "Yes, I'll do that. Thank you for your concern, Felicia."

"Y-yes, of course, Your Highness!" She backs out of the cell, pulling the door shut behind her. She hesitates, then adds, "Would you like me to leave?"

"If you wouldn't mind," he says gently. "I need a few moments to make myself decent." Or, he thinks angrily, as decent as this humiliatingly revealing garment will allow for.

Felicia bows. "Then please use the handbell when you are finished. I will be right outside the door."

Once she's gone, Alfonse slides out from under the covers. He tugs on his gown, trying again to lengthen it and growling in frustration when it refuses to stretch. It wouldn't be as distressing if only the princess would allow him some form of smallclothes. If he finds her in a lighter mood today, he determines to make the request again.

He relieves himself in the chamber pot, casting paranoid glances toward the door while he does, though nobody disturbs him. It's only when he moves to the desk and perceives the repast laid out for him that he remembers his hunger. His stomach twists as he takes in the sight of fresh eggs and bacon, fruit and yogurt, grits, buttered toast with jam, bits of fish, fried potato, and coffee.

At least, he thinks as he rather crassly stabs into the eggs with his fork, he's being fed well now. He can use his hands and utensils to feed himself today, and that puts him in slightly better spirits. He finishes in less than a quarter of an hour, feeling comfortably full, if not faintly disappointed in his own breach of etiquette.

Though he's clean from his bath last night, his hair is a tousled mess, and he has to card his fingers through it several times to get it into even a passably presentable state. They took away his hairpiece back when they stripped him on the battlefield, and now his hair hangs loose on the left side to match with the right, framing his face. He can't explain why, but the change makes him uneasy, like he's lost just another bit of his autonomy. With a heavy heart, he stands and traipses over to the window.

It appears to be well past morning; the sun is already high overhead. He doesn't bother looking out-what he sees will surely only depress him further. He picks up the handbell on the sill and gives it a quick, sharp ring. Almost instantly, Felicia reappears, poking her head cautiously in, as if afraid she's misheard him and is intruding. On receiving permission to enter, she does so and then beams when she catches sight of his nearly empty tray.

"Did you enjoy your breakfast, Your Highness?"

Her enthusiasm is a little bit infectious; he manages a small smile this time. "Please offer my compliments to the chef."

"I'll be sure to pass them on," she assures him. Then her face sobers again. She's gripping a pair of shackles in her left hand, which she miserably holds out now. "I'm so sorry, Prince Alfonse," she sighs, shoulders slumping. "I have to put these on you today. Sir Bruno told on me, and Her Majesty scolded me severely this morning."

With a pang of guilt overriding his disgust at Veronica, Alfonse brushes her apology off. "It isn't your fault. I don't want you getting into trouble on my behalf again, though, alright?"

"I truly am sorry," Felicia says sullenly, unlocking the cell door and stepping aside so that he can come out. "If I could get away with it, I would, but this contract..."

"It's binding," Alfonse finishes for her. "I understand. Do what you must."

Felicia kneels before him, careful not to lift her eyes past the hem of his gown, and slips the shackles around his ankles. She doesn't tighten them much at all, which he's quietly grateful for. When she stands, she reaches out as if to take his arm, then seems to think better of it and clasps her hands before her instead.

"Then, if you'll please follow me," she says, and he takes a tentative step forward. The chain between the shackles is only long enough to allow him to walk, and even then, it's more of a shuffle. Thankfully, Felicia moves slowly, pausing without comment whenever he stumbles. They remain on the fourth floor, which is a small relief-Alfonse doesn't even want to imagine traversing stairs-and eventually end up at an ornate mahogany door, left slightly ajar. They stop here, but before they can enter, Felicia freezes, and after a moment, Alfonse realizes why. Two distinct voices can be heard from within-Veronica's and Bruno's, he determines after a moment-and it sounds as if they're quarreling.

"-need to take this seriously, Veronica. Do you truly think I would tell all of this in jest? You must see reason, or-"

"You are such a fool, Bruno, to be taken in by a children's storybook tale like that!" Veronica interrupts. "But I am not so easily deceived! You can invent whatever malady you like, but I still-"

"I am speaking the truth, you idiot girl!" Bruno returns explosively, and Felicia flinches; clearly, she, too, is taken aback by Bruno's sudden callous, familiar demeanor. "I have tracked down writings from other worlds and cultures, and all of them point to-"

"Enough," Veronica snaps, and Bruno stops mid-sentence. "If you are going to grow soft like that woman and suggest that I withdraw from this war, then I will have you, too, ejected from this palace! So I suggest you mind your tongue!"

Bruno lets out a laugh that sends chills down Alfonse's spine. "You will do no such thing, Veronica," he says, "for you are far too lonely to let go of the only-"

"Shut up! I have my heroes, and they are all that I need!"

There's silence for a moment, and then Bruno sighs. "Is it really slaves and toys that you want, Veronica? Don't you truly yearn for-"

He stops, and Alfonse feels his heart slide into his stomach as their eyes lock through the gap in the door.

"We have company," Bruno says tonelessly. Veronica whips around.

"Eavesdropping, are you, you stupid maid?" She stomps up to them and throws open the door, capturing a fistful of Felicia's hair and dragging her into the room beyond. Felicia cries out but doesn't struggle, allowing Veronica to kick her to the floor.

"I'm very sorry, Your Majesty, it was not my intention-" she starts, but she squeaks and falls silent when Veronica presses the toe of her boot into her stomach.

"Don't hurt her!" Alfonse shouts, stumbling into the room after them, and Veronica raises her eyes to glare at him.

"Your audacity knows no bounds, Prince Alfonse!" she huffs, stepping forward to grab his wrist and then pulling him to the ground as well. "Tell me, what is the meaning of this?" She lifts her foot and presses it down onto the crown of his head, forcing him into an awkward bow.

"Don't blame us, Your Majesty," he growls, struggling to keep his head up in spite of the mounting pressure bearing down on it. "You were the one who sent for us, not the other way around!"

Veronica is quiet for a moment, and then she removes her foot. He's almost relieved until she grabs him by the hair and jerks his head up, crouching down before him so that their eyes meet. With her free hand, she deals him a stunning blow to the cheek.

"If you want me to gag you," she murmurs, "you need only ask. Or, if it's a more permanent solution you seek for that smart mouth of yours, I can arrange to have your tongue plucked from your head. Well?" she adds, pulling harder on his hair, making him wince. "What will it be? Will you comply?"

"Yes," Alfonse gasps, fearful that she'll pull his hair out by the roots.

She smiles then and releases him. Turning her attention to Felicia, who has gathered herself into a low bow, she says, "Leave us, maid."

Felicia scrambles to her feet and hastily excuses herself, closing the door fully this time. Once she's gone, Veronica returns her attention to him.

"Get up," she says, tugging at his hair again. "Onto all fours. Don't make me wait."

Alfonse hastens to obey, eager to get her to release her hold on him. She does once he's on his hands and knees. He tries to stand only to have her push him back down by the shoulders.

"Stay," she says, like he's her dog. "I need to get something first."

Her words cause dread to well up within him, but he's relieved to see her return with a mere book in her hands, and not even a spell tome. She flips through it leisurely, though her eyes rarely linger over the pages. From her vantage point, she can surely see the outline of his backside through the fabric, possibly more; in this position, the gown only barely covers it. He drops his head between his arms, letting his hair sweep over it with the faint hope that she won't see his flushed face. On top of everything, he doesn't need her seeing the effect her abuse has on him.

He isn't expecting it, and so he almost collapses onto his stomach when she suddenly sits on the bridge of his back.

"What are you doing?" he cries, struggling to keep himself upright while supporting the brunt of her weight.

"I needed somewhere to sit," she says simply. "Bruno took the sofa, and I don't want to be next to him while I read."

Alfonse looks up, and sure enough, Bruno is seated on the quilted sofa across the way, engrossed in some tome. But it's far from the only piece of furniture in the large room.

"There's an armchair there," Alfonse bites out, nodding in the direction of it. "Right by the fireplace." Veronica is heavier than she looks, and he isn't at the pinnacle of health at present; his leg is weak from the wound to his thigh, and his chafed wrists burn from the strain of holding himself up by them.

"It isn't very comfortable," she sniffs in response.

"My back can't be very comfortable, either," he argues.

"It's a bit bony," she admits. "But I'm certain you must also have some beautiful muscles beneath your clothes." She traces a finger along his bare neck, and he shudders. "Shall we check?"

"Don't," he says, but she starts to peel back his collar anyway. "Princess, please! You mustn't-"

She silences him by clapping a hand over his mouth, tightly gripping his jaw. "Shut up. Who gave you permission to speak, hm? Not I."

Her thumb finds his cheekbone and digs into it, and he grunts in pain, then again when she allows her book to fall from her hand, bouncing off the top of his head. She leans over his upper back, shifting her weight onto his shoulders, and whispers into his ear, "Don't forget-you belong to me now."

With her weight so unevenly distributed, he can't hold her up any longer; his arms wobble, and then his wrists give out, and a moment later, they're both on the floor, he with his cheek bruising against the marble and she tangled up in her own limbs on top of him.

Bruno looks up from his book at last, and Alfonse swears he sees him smirk. Then he's on his feet, lifting Veronica gently by the shoulders until she, too, is standing again. There's a bit of blood on her lower lip where she must have bitten it, and that's the only thing Alfonse feels sorry for. Her expression is furious and yet somehow gleeful, and the contrast puts him on edge. With her index finger, she swipes the blood from her lip and licks it away. Then she steps on his left hand, pressing down harder until he hisses with pain.

"You're not a very good sofa, are you?"

He only sets his jaw, saying nothing. She puts more pressure on his hand until she drags another noise out of him. "I suppose that calls for a punishment, then."

Alfonse goes cold. "But I'm injured!" he says, feeling ridiculous for even having to indulge her senseless logic. "You couldn't possibly expect me to-"

He stops when her boot finds his mouth and nudges against it warningly. "You're making me really want to put something in there," she says, tapping his lips with her foot. "You know, like most men, you would be much handsomer if you couldn't speak."

Alfonse doesn't dare respond, and she continues, "Can you imagine it? Your cute little cheeks all puffed out, a strip of cloth between your teeth… No, but not today." She lifts her foot off his hand, retreats to the sofa. "Today, I want to hear you squeal like a stuck pig. Bruno! Bring him here!" She kicks out an oblong, crème-colored footstool from the sofa. "Lay him over this."

Bruno picks him up under the arms and drags him across the room. His leg chains trail discordantly across the polished marble, almost deafening in the absence of other sounds. Bruno drapes him over the footstool on his stomach, though he's too tall to fit comfortably over it; his head, neck, and arms hang off one end while his legs, knees slightly bent, extend well past the other. Veronica clambers onto him, and, to his mortification, throws her legs around him, straddling his hips backwards so that she has full dominion over his lower half. He's about to protest the arrangement when he recalls her threat and grudgingly keeps his mouth shut.

He can't keep in the whimper that escapes him, however, when she brushes his gown up to his lower back, exposing his bare bottom to the open air.

"Not bad," she says, and he jolts when she lays a hand on his naked flesh. She giggles at his reaction, then cups his plumpness between her fingers, kneading and squeezing it.

"No-please," he says before he can stop himself, but that only serves to encourage her. With her index finger, she draws a line down his crevice, ending somewhere hot between his legs, and he snaps them shut as best he can around the footstool.

"I suppose it's time for your punishment now," she says, and before dread can even fully take hold of him enough to wonder what exactly that will entail, she brings her hand down hard against his backside. Despite having such a small hand, the force with which she administers the blow is not lacking, and he yelps in surprise.

"Wow!" Veronica laughs. "That even stung me a bit-which means it must have hurt you quite a lot! How about twenty more to make sure you've learned your lesson, then?"

"No," Alfonse pleads, panic taking root. "Princess, this isn't necessary! I told you that I would comply, so please-argh!"

She hits him again, this time more on the tailbone than the backside, and it hurts even worse than before.

"Oops, I missed!" she snickers, and her next strike lands squarely across his crevice. The pain is such that he can no longer hold back the tears that have gathered in his eyes, and they fall to the floor in drops.

"What am I even being punished for?" he demands, his voice cracking at the end when she reaches out and rolls a bit of his smarting skin between her thumb and forefinger.

"Shush!" she says. "It's your mouth that gets you in the most trouble, you know! So keep it shut, and perhaps I will show mercy to you."

He doesn't trust her at her word, of course, but determines it might be in his best interests to heed her advice at present. She is, after all, happy to hurt him irrespective of all reason, and so he has no choice but to play by her twisted rules.

So he bites his tongue when she brings her hand down again, the sound of skin on skin resounding throughout the room. The pain is nearly unbearable, but he forces himself to muffle his cries into his hand as she begins her countdown. One, two, three, four, all in rapid succession. Of course she doesn't count the previous blows-she wants him to suffer, even if she has to bruise her own hand to prolong his anguish.

He makes a strangled noise on the fifth slap and outright screams on the seventh. He starts to bite his hand when she beats him eight, nine, ten times, saliva pooling at his lips and dripping to the floor. He moans on eleven and twelve when she strikes the tops of his thighs. A strange and not altogether unfamiliar sensation between his legs presents itself to him on thirteen, growing stronger on fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. In a moment of cold fear and disgust, he realizes his body is responding entirely inappropriately to his abuse.

"Seventeen," Veronica says, whipping across his left side and causing him to buck and shove against the footstool. His problem is worsening, the friction between the fabric and his exposed privates only contributing to it.

"Eighteen."

She hits his right side. He sobs, tears and saliva mixing in his hands as he holds his mouth, trying desperately to quiet his voice. His penis strains against the footstool, demanding release. He can't understand why this is happening, but it will be the worst possible situation if Veronica discovers it.

"Nineteen."

She hits him between the thighs again. She must feel the warmth that's spreading there. Perhaps she mistakes it for the hot glow of his beaten skin. He can't close his legs entirely with the footstool there, so he prays that she doesn't investigate further.

"Twenty."

A shuddering cry escapes his lips as the final blow lands on the fullest part of his bottom. His eyes are wet and red, and his backside blazes with hot pain. Further, his problem has not dissipated like he hoped; in fact, it seems to have only gotten worse.

"I should have used a paddle," Veronica laments, blowing on her hand. "That hurt quite a lot. You must feel it as well, right, Alfonse?"

Shakily, he nods his head, still biting his hand. He needs to get out of here, get her to return him to his room. Perhaps if he acts compliant, she will grow bored with him and banish him from her presence for the day.

"See?" she exclaims, patting his head almost fondly. "A good punishment was all that was required to remove that detestable attitude from you!" She rubs her hand along his abused backside, and he cries into his hands, nearly overcome by a sickening amalgamation of pain and embarrassment.

She pets his bottom awhile longer, aggravating the wounds there, which he's almost certain is her aim. Her fingers travel progressively lower, though, and once they reach the entrance of his thighs, he can stay silent no longer.

"Please, please, don't touch me there!" he implores, and her hand freezes.

"I can touch wherever I like," she responds coolly. "After all, you are mine." Her hand slides forward and almost immediately stops again.

The next thing he knows, he's being rolled off the footstool and onto the floor, landing hard on his back. The blow to the back of the head momentarily dazes him, and it takes him longer than it should to realize his front is fully exposed and Veronica is gazing at it, aghast.

"No, not there!" he moans, drawing his legs up with some difficulty (his stinging thighs don't want to cooperate) and thrusting his hands over his pelvic area, but it's already far too late for that.

"You disgusting creature! Veronica shrieks. "What is that? Have you become aroused by your punishment? Filthy, vile masochist!"

Alfonse shivers. "N-no!" he says weakly. "I-I'm not-!"

"Bruno-pick him up and set him on the stool with you!" she interrupts. "And hold his arms!"

Bruno does, stooping to retrieve Alfonse from the floor and drawing him up by the already sore wrists. He seats himself on the footstool and pulls Alfonse into his lap, pinning both hands behind his back with just one of his. Alfonse can see the state of his arousal now, and it makes him balk.

"No-no, please! Don't look!" He fights against Bruno's hold on him, but even the slightest movement triggers an intense pain in his bottom, and he's forced to stop.

"I see it already, stupid prince!" Veronica snaps. "What we must determine now is what to do about it!"

She cups her chin in her hand thoughtfully and begins to pace before them. Alfonse realizes that he's shaking, but he can't seem to get himself to stop. His penis stands up partway, the tip already damp and beading with fluid. Even as he tries to will it down, he can't bear to look at it-what a sight he must be, the crown prince of Askr sitting on a man's lap on his spanked bottom with his legs parted and his genitals on display for a lady who is not his wife! No-not just any lady but a princess, the princess of an enemy nation, and now she's seen him at his most vulnerable.

"How about this," the princess in question suggests at last, stopping in front of them and clasping her hands behind her back. "I'm in no humor to touch that wretched thing today. But I shall allow Bruno to pleasure you. He will take care of that vulgar problem of yours quite efficiently."

Alfonse stares at her, partially in a daze from the surreality of it all. Pain and need are distorting his sense and reason to the point where her proposition almost sounds agreeable. Still, he cannot allow another man to handle him that way-what would his people say if they perceived their leader behaving as a mere whore? What would Kiran say if he knew?

Wow, Alfonse. As a prince, I thought you had more poise-something like that, perhaps? Alfonse squeezes his eyes shut, but the image of Kiran's disgusted face does not vanish.

"If you choose to decline my kind offer," Veronica goes on after a pause, "then you will be returned to your room in your present state, but your hands will be bound. I won't have you defiling my palace with such uncultured and lascivious acts."

It isn't just the pain in his groin; Alfonse can't stand to have his hands bound again, especially not when they have yet to recover from the last time.

"It's your choice, Alfonse," Veronica says softly, crouching before him and lifting his chin with the tips of her fingers. "What will it be?"

She's too close; his penis pulses with desire, a desire his head can't match. Then it wouldn't mean anything, he tells himself, for Bruno to touch him. He wouldn't be betraying-no. He doesn't feel that way about Kiran. They hardly even have a relationship. He isn't going to get close to him, not like he did with Zacharias. That's what he promised himself, but…

"Alright," he whispers, lowering his head.

"Hmm?" Veronica leans closer. "What was that, prince? Speak up!"

Alfonse swallows. "I-I said alright. He can do it. Just-just please-hurry."

Veronica looks on him smugly. "That isn't how one makes a request of one's better," she says, and Alfonse grits his teeth. "Tell him what you want, Alfonse. Say, 'Please touch me, Master!'"

His cheeks redden. "I-I can't..."

Veronica crosses her arms. "Very well. Bruno, tie him and take him back to his room."

"No!" Alfonse straightens, wincing at the pain that shoots through his spine. "I-I'll say it!" He swallows, but his mouth is bone-dry. "Please t-touch me, Master!"

He feels disgusting saying it, but the relief of Bruno's hand closing around his swollen penis almost makes it worth it. He inhales sharply, thrusts his hips into the touch without realizing it as Bruno starts to rub him up and down. His toes flex and curl with the ministrations of the familiar calloused hand on him, and the pain in his bottom as he brushes against Bruno's lap only heightens his sensitivity.

"Look at you!" Veronica drawls after a time. "You're panting like a bitch in heat!"

Alfonse groans, and she holds up her hand. "Stop, Bruno," she says. "I don't think he likes it."

Bruno obediently desists, and Alfonse gasps, squirms in his hand. "No," he breathes, suddenly aware of the sheen of sweat on his cheeks and brow. "No, please, don't-don't stop. I... I need..."

Veronica smiles, sickeningly sweet. "Hm? What is it that you need?"

He ducks his head, too ashamed to look at either of them, and himself as well. "I need... I need to... Please, t-touch me..."

"Master," Veronica reminds him.

"Master!" Alfonse spits out.

"You have to tell him exactly what you want, Alfonse," she pushes. "Say, 'Please touch my slutty cock, Master!'"

Tears drip from his nose, wetting the lap of his gown. "Don't make me say that," he begs. "Please, it's… it's too much."

"If you don't say it," Veronica says, "then you won't get your release."

Alfonse wheezes as Bruno's grip tightens only slightly. It's maddening, the need to touch himself. He tries vainly to free his hands, but Bruno won't release him.

"Ah, ah, none of that," Veronica says, lightly tapping his cheek. "If you want it, you need to beg for it."

He can't take it anymore. It's crossed the fine line of pleasure and ended up firmly in pain. He feels every twinge in his backside now, and his penis aches with need. He just wants to lie down and rest. And Veronica won't let him without his pride in shambles.

"P-please," he mumbles, without lifting his head. "Please touch my slutty cock, Master."

The gratification is instantaneous; Bruno pumps him mercilessly, then runs his hand up his length to squeeze the tip until, after only moments, Alfonse is expelling his seed over his fingers in staggered bursts. For half a second, he's euphoric, overcome with both pleasure and relief. Then, as the afterglow fades even faster than it arrived, cold shame and humiliation settle over him.

Bruno releases his wrists and withdraws a handkerchief from the folds of his robes, wiping his hand clean. Veronica, who left them the instant he finished, busies herself at the chest of drawers beside the sofa, searching for something within its depths. Alfonse unconsciously covers his lap with his hands, staring down at them in a stupor. He wants to get off of Bruno, but that involves moving, and he doesn't think himself capable of even that anymore.

"You've given me an excellent idea," Veronica says from somewhere behind him, "since you've proven that you can't be trusted alone."

She reappears before them with a handful of things from the chest of drawers, which she lays out on the footstool. She selects a length of red cord from the pile, and instinctively, Alfonse shies away. "Hold him, Bruno," she instructs, and once again, his hands are pulled behind him.

"What do you mean to do now?" he demands as she kneels in front of him.

"I'm tying this dirty thing," she says, looping the cord around his privates, "so that it has no occasion to misbehave."

He struggles as she ties a snug knot around him, but Bruno wraps a leg around both of his to further restrain him. Alfonse whines in helpless desperation as Veronica begins to wind the cord tightly around him. Her touch excites him, to his disgust, but if she notices, she doesn't heed his distress, continuing to wrap his penis until she runs out of cord. She knots it twice, then stands to admire her handiwork.

"You are hereby strictly prohibited from touching yourself in any capacity. Your body and your pleasure belong not to you but to me. If you are to receive pleasure, it will be from me or on my orders. You do not own this." She gives him a quick jerk, and he grunts, his penis throbbing in its bonds. "Do you understand?"

He doesn't. He doesn't want to.

"Why?" he asks her through a new bout of tears. "Why are you doing this to me?"

She looks at him as if the answer were obvious. "Because I want to." She turns to Bruno. "Stand him up," and he does. She picks up another of the items from before. Looking at it now, Alfonse sees that it's a garment resembling a breechcloth with a pouch and strap at the front and an open back.

Veronica fastens the belt around his hips, then draws the pouch down over his privates and pulls the strap between his legs and up through his crevice before securing it to the back of the belt. The garment is tight and restrictive, the strap between his legs invasive, and it hurts when she forces him to walk.

"Should you attempt to take it off," she warns, pulling his gown back down over it, "then I will have your hands bound and a far worse device applied to you."

He glares through tearstained eyes, but she seems not to care. She glances at the other items on the stool but continues on to the sofa without touching them. "We'll save the rest for another time," she says. Alfonse is only partially relieved.

She orders Bruno to remove him while she goes to recline on the sofa. He's hoisted up onto Bruno's shoulder and carried through the door from which he arrived, then down the hall and back to his room. One-handed, Bruno unlocks his cell door and dumps him onto the bed. He leaves him with the instruction to signal with the handbell a need to relieve himself, then locks him in and departs.

Alfonse throws himself under the covers, pawing at the breechcloth before he can even think to stop himself. Then he cries freely, curling up in the sheets with his head stuffed under the pillows because the less he has to see of himself, the better.

You're such a whore, Alfonse, the Kiran in his head tells him anyway, and now he thinks he really believes it.

Long and lewd chapter is long and lewd. My sick mind went full ero with this. ;)

In regards to reader suggestions, I take them all into account and incorporate the ones that a) I planned to include anyway, and b) I can realistically work into the narrative. Thanks as always for reading and commenting! Let us meet again in the next chapter!