In which things get sweet for Alfonse in more ways than one and Veronica gets playful.
(Or: Beautiful Cinnamon Rolls Too Good for This World, Too Pure
Ugh, sorry, I really meant to have this out ages ago but Tempest Trials and extra summer hours at work consumed my life to a not-quite-justifiable degree. I swear, this chapter feels longer than normal even though it really isn't. (But I hope you enjoy it all the same!))
Time passes agonizingly slowly. Alfonse lies still on his back, one arm slung over his eyes to block out the light that's long since gone away with the sun. Exhausted though he is, he can't sleep. He's weak with hunger, but nobody arrives to bring him his evening meal, or even to light a candle for him to read by. It must be Veronica's next attempt at punishing him, but he worries about Felicia all the same.
His stomach twists into knots when he thinks about Gordin, though. Is he being punished? Every time the thought comes to mind, Alfonse squeezes the bedclothes between his fingers until they cramp from the effort. He can't stand it, making another suffer on his account. If Gordin hadn't refused to submit, had simply obeyed the order he was given, then Veronica would have had no occasion to punish him. It was only out of the purest desire to protect that he ended up tortured, and it was Alfonse himself who rewarded that selflessness with cruelty.
He lifts a pillow from beside him and smothers his face in it. Maybe, he thinks morbidly, he'll stop breathing. It would be just as well, too-a death befitting a filthy traitor to his own lofty ideals. Veronica was right-he's no hero, and his people are right to despise him.
And yet, like a coward, he grows anxious from the thought, and he bolts upright, then cringes. The pain in his leg is enough to leave him breathless. He leans forward to check that his bandages are dry, but the pressure on the cage between his legs renders him suddenly hot and aroused. He moans softly as he slips a hand beneath the waistband of his trousers and paws at his ensnared genitals, trying to alleviate at least some of the discomfort. The bars keep his grasping fingers at bay, however, and all he really ends up doing is jostling the tube stuck up inside him, causing him to cry out and jerk his hand away from himself.
He flops back onto his mattress with tears in his eyes and his penis still blazing with sensations, both pleasant and unpleasant alike in some confounding dance of passions. Shame is his only constant-shame at his condition, at his lack of self-control, at his untempered perversion. The epithet "whore-prince" sticks in his head. He can't even deny it now. If he was ever noble and virtuous, then within these past few days, he has been so far degraded as to be as foreign to such concepts as a common lowlife. Kiran deserves a better prince to serve than the likes of him.
The night drags on around him, and still, he doesn't sleep. Though his eyelids droop and he fades out of consciousness for intervals, he always finds himself back to staring blankly up at his canopy, unable to capture any sort of comfort. His leg hurts, and his chest hurts, and he can't move for fear of disturbing the cage again. The moment he perceives the sun beginning its daily ascent, he relinquishes all hopes of sleeping entirely and resigns himself to a day of exhaustion. Perhaps it's for the best and he'll pass out early on in the next torture session Veronica surely has planned for him.
He comes out of his sleepless trance at the sound of someone unbolting his door. He contemplates sitting up but inevitably decides against it. If it's Bruno or someone else here to torment him, he'll take his chances with feigning sleep.
But the footsteps that follow the creaking of his door are light, if not rather clumsy, and Alfonse reluctantly lifts his head and spies Felicia there, bearing a covered serving platter on her unsteady palm.
"Oh!" she says when she perceives him watching her, hastening to resettle the platter with both hands before she can drop it. "I hope I didn't wake you, Your Highness."
"Don't worry." He allows his head to sink back into his pillows. "You didn't."
"You don't look well." He can hear her bustling about, setting the platter down and lighting a fire in the grate. His cell door groans as she eases it open. He turns his head. For a moment, she hovers over him uncertainly. "M-may I sit?" she says at last.
He gives his consent, and she pulls up the stool from his desk and seats herself primly atop it, hands clasped together in her lap. His eyes fall to her bandages. "How is your face?"
She jumps a little. "Eh? O-oh, it's fine-just fine, Your Highness! It's getting better every day!"
He doesn't know that he entirely believes her, but he's too afraid to press the issue. For a while, neither of them says a thing. He can feel her eyes on him, on his neck, but he can't meet them. She's waiting for an explanation, probably, but it's one he simply can't give to her, not now.
He doesn't notice her hand, reaching for him almost dreamlike, until her fingers brush against the gold collar cinched tight at his throat. Instantly, he recoils, scrambling across his bed as if her touch had burned. She leaps back herself, nearly knocking over the stool.
"B-begging your pardon! I d-don't know what came over me!" She hangs her head, twisting the hem of her dress between trembling fingers. "Oh, look what I've done now! Please, f-forgive me, Your Highness!"
Alfonse gathers himself into an upright fetal position, his blankets a tangled mess around him. "It-it's shameful, isn't it?" He touches his hand to the collar, curling his fingers into a fist. "I'm... I'm her pet now. Her pet. An animal..."
Saying it out loud very nearly chokes him up, but he laughs instead, hoping to mask it. Less than human-that's what he is. In a strange, depraved way, it's a bit of a comfort. At least now he knows for sure.
He feels Felicia's hand on his knee, very lightly, as if it's ready to flee at any moment should it receive some signal from him to do so. He lifts his head. She's looking somber yet kind, almost heartbreakingly so. How did someone so gentle end up the slave to a sadistic despot? And yet when she speaks, it's with a strength and conviction that catch him thoroughly off his guard.
"If you are an animal, milord, then I am but the flea that clings to your noble mane. Perhaps I am unsightly and insignificant, but I choose to remain here with you, no matter how many times you may try to throw me off." She smiles. "So come what may, I will stay by your side, Your Highness."
In spite of himself, Alfonse blushes. "Felicia…"
He lifts his hand and, after a short pause, places it over hers. Her skin is warm and smooth. "You're not like a flea. You're much more akin to-to a guardian angel."
Now it's her turn to blush, which only exacerbates his. "That's very kind of you to say so, Your Highness!" He can feel her hand growing clammy beneath his, so he releases it.
"I mean it, truly," he says. "I think-without you-I might have fallen into despair already. In fact, I think I was very nearly there just now."
"I just wish I could help you more, Your Highness..."
"No-this is enough. You've given me hope and reminded me of who I am." He unfolds himself, sliding his legs out and over the edge of his mattress. "I'm Prince Alfonse of the great and noble Askran Kingdom. And nobody-not even Princess Veronica-can ever take that away from me."
Felicia brightens. "That's the spirit, Your Highness! And-and I promise to take care of you to the best of my ability-and then some! S-so you can rely on me, okay?"
"Yes, of course. I-well-thank you, Felicia."
In his rather giddy state, he moves to stand, to take her hand, maybe, or even to hug her, if it isn't too terribly out of line, but just as soon as he's up, his leg throbs, then buckles, and the full weight of the cage jerks down on his privates, leaving him gasping and clutching indecently at his crotch.
"Milord? Are you alright?"
He lets go of himself almost immediately, and Felicia acts as if she hasn't seen anything as she helps him back into his bed, tucking the blankets around him in motherly fashion, though perhaps she is only maintaining decorum. It's nauseating not knowing what she saw if, in fact, she saw anything. After her display of selfless loyalty, how might she react upon discovering him to be a most vile and depraved lecher? He tries to attribute to the influence of the cage his sudden torturous arousal, though he can't but feel some degree of shame and disgust at what must, on some level, indicate his own lack of restraint. His penis engorges and strains against the bars of its imprisonment, a sensation that's uniquely painful and terrifying. He breathes deeply and slowly as Felicia brings him his breakfast of eggs and hash, but she looks concerned all the same.
"Ought I to fetch you some ginger root, Your Highness?" she asks him anxiously, peering into his eyes. "It helps to ease an upset stomach."
Alfonse exhales a measured stream of air. He's saved, this time, by her misconception that he was gabbing his stomach.
"No, it's alright," he assures her. "It was a moment of weakness, but it has already passed."
She nods her understanding. "Please don't hesitate to tell me if you need something. I really do want to help."
His penis has started to deflate, to his tremendous relief. He inches into a sitting position against the backboard, wary of the cage, and endeavors to focus on the meal before him rather than what's going on in his lower region.
"I suppose there is one thing," he says after a pause, reluctant to instruct her to do anything that might land her in trouble.
But she looks more than eager to acquiesce. "Yes?"
Alfonse picks up his fork, cuts around the white of an egg. "I had the pleasure of meeting another servant who works here-a summoned hero, like you. His name is Gordin, and yesterday, I did something... unforgivable to him." He stabs into the yolk much more violently than he intends to. "He ended up in trouble because of me, and I haven't seen him since. I'm worried about him, and I want to apologize, but since I'm just a prisoner here, I can't exactly roam freely about the castle." He looks up and meets her eyes, already burning with determination.
"I'll find him," she says. "I'll ask around the kitchen and gardens and servants' quarters-surely someone has seen him there."
"I hate to ask this of you..."
"No, I'm more than happy to oblige, Your Highness." She straightens, turns to leave. "I'll be back for your dishes in an hour. Expect the good news by then!"
But in spite of her promise, the good news doesn't come within the hour, or by dinner that night, or, to both of their near-palpable disappointment, in the next few days that follow. To Alfonse's great surprise, Veronica also remains unaccounted for, though her absence is decidedly less concerning. Even Bruno keeps his distance, leaving him in the sole care of Felicia, an arrangement that is not at all unpleasant to either party involved. Alfonse passes the better part of the week in bed, napping or reading or drawing or simply lost in thought but determined to stay off his wounded leg which, in turn, keeps his cage largely out of awareness. He dreads those times where nature compels him to confront it; he must sit with his fist firm between his legs in order to successfully use the chamber pot. His first few times, he bleeds when he goes, and the burning there is enough to make his teeth clench and his eyes water. Then there's the state of his breast; his nipples have gone red and puffy and sting if they so much as brush against the fabric of his tunic, yet another reason to keep him confined to his bed.
Midway through the week, Bruno arrives to convey him from his cell to the bathroom where he instructs him to bathe, all the while pointedly refusing to acknowledge any of Alfonse's desperate inquiries into Gordin's wellbeing. He doesn't leave the room or even turn away to provide some degree of privacy, forcing Alfonse to strip before him, a humiliating affair that he hurries through as quickly as he can. Before he can enter the washtub, however, Bruno catches him by the arm, whirls him around, and lifts his caged privates.
"Has there been any pain or discomfort?" he asks.
"Of course it's uncomfortable," Alfonse growls. "It"-he dodges his captor's eyes-"it hurt whenever I had to... When I had to make water, at first."
"Was there any blood in it?" Bruno looks thoughtful rather than horrified, a notion that rather horrifies Alfonse.
"A-a little," he says.
Without a word, Bruno pushes him down onto the stool before the washtub and produces a small silver key from within the folds of his cloak. With it, he unlocks the device and begins to remove it, but a sudden sharp pain causes Alfonse to cry out, stay his hand.
"It hurts!" he cries, trying to fight Bruno's hand away with both of his.
"I need to clean it," is the terse response, "and I can't do that while you're still wearing it. Or would you rather remain in it for the rest of your life?"
"No," Alfonse sobs. "No, no, no, please, not that, please!" He knows he's all but blubbering now, but the raw burn in his loins is almost unbearable. He clings to Bruno's hand as that man steadily pulls the cage off him, drawing out the tube from within him at an agonizing pace. When at last the insertion pops free, Alfonse looks down against his better judgment and feels weak with nausea to find spots of crimson against stark skin.
Bruno doesn't appear to care, ordering him into the tub while he moves to a washbasin to clean the torturous device. Alfonse weeps quietly while he scrubs himself raw, no longer caring how he appears before Bruno. The warm water stings his penis, which feels obscenely stretched and opened, as if it's been hollowed out. He tries not to watch Bruno as he slicks the device up again with the ointment from the jar.
He cries and holds to Bruno's neck like a child when the device is reapplied. No amount of begging spares him from the excruciating sensation of the tube going back up inside him, and once he's locked in again, he's given a change of clothes and taken back to his room without so much as a word of comfort.
By the end of the week, he's all but given up on Felicia's reconnaissance mission, and his fear of being summoned by Veronica gradually begins to mount again. He wakes one morning to the sound of someone speaking, and instinctively, his stomach clenches. A moment later, he recognizes Felicia's voice.
"I have a surprise for you, milord-two, in fact! Please wake up!"
The word "surprise" has come to take on the most negative of its meanings for him, and yet in spite of that, the gentle cadence of Felicia's voice makes him open his eyes.
The cell door is already flung wide, and she's standing a few feet from his bed, bouncing on her heels. And beside her, hands clasped behind his back, is–
"Gordin," Alfonse breathes. "Thank the gods-you're alright!"
"Of course, sire!" he says cheerfully. "I hope I didn't worry you too much?"
"O-of course you did!" Alfonse throws back his covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed, but he suddenly feels too weak to stand. "I've been worried sick!" He looks him over frantically. "Are you injured anywhere? That wound I gave you-how is it? You haven't been tortured, have you?"
"Be at ease, Your Highness. I'm alright-nary a scratch on me." Gordin lays his hand over his chest. "You scarcely wounded me-I only put on a show to deceive Princess Veronica, much like how you used your left hand to whip me." He smiles. "There's only a small mark left there, and I have no doubt it will heal in due time."
"Thank the gods," Alfonse says again. "But then where have you been all this week? I'm not surprised you weren't permitted to visit me, but even Felicia couldn't ascertain your whereabouts."
Gordin rubs the back of his neck. "That's because I was locked up in the dungeons until this morning, when Sir Bruno freed me. Forgive me, sire-had I the means, I would have relayed my condition to you. I never meant to make you worry on my account."
"It's true, Your Highness!" Felicia pipes up. "I found him this morning coming up from the dungeons with Sir Bruno. As soon as he cleaned up, I brought him straight to you, and now, well, here we all are!"
"But I'm not injured," Gordin insists. "I was fed daily and mostly left alone. I think Her Majesty, who ordered my confinement, forgot about me after a few days. That's why Sir Bruno had to come release me."
"I'm just glad you're alright," Alfonse sighs. "Please, Gordin, don't do what you did back then again. I don't want you risking your life on my behalf. You either, Felicia."
"Yes, Your Highness," they say in unison.
"But I don't regret it,"'Gordin adds.
"Nor should I," Felicia contends.
"I mean it," Alfonse says sternly. "Gods, the two of you are incorrigible."
Gordin grins, and Felicia laughs, and Alfonse tries desperately to smother the smile creeping up on his own face even as he tries again to scold them.
"Princess Veronica won't kill me, else she'll have a full-scale war against my Askran Kingdom. But you two have no such protections in your contracts. She can do anything she likes with you."
"We understand your concern, sire," Gordin says patiently. "And we'll do our best to exercise more caution henceforth."
"But we need to follow our hearts first," Felicia says.
"But… Why me?" Alfonse asks. "I'm not… I'm not worth it. I'm not worth getting hurt over."
Felicia frowns. "How could you say that, milord? You've shown me such kindness in spite of your situation, and I'm honored to repay that kindness in turn."
Alfonse opens his mouth to argue, but she cuts him off.
"I-in any case, we have a second surprise for you, Your Highness!"
Alfonse raises his eyebrows. "Really?" He can't imagine what that might be, but given Felicia's suddenly eager tone, it's something she's rather excited to announce.
"Oh, yes! I think you'll be very pleased with it. Ready, Gordin?" She turns to the other servant, who nods. Together, they carry in a collapsible table from outside the cell laden with a covered serving platter and set it beside the desk. With a flourish, Felicia whips off the cover.
"Happy birthday, Your Highness!" they chorus.
Atop the platter sits a rather sloppy two-layer white cake, lined with strawberries and uneven plumes of frosting. Alfonse raises his eyes from the cake to Felicia's beaming face.
"I made it myself late last night!" she says proudly. "It doesn't look perfect, but I promise this one tastes just fine!" She scrunches her hands together around her apron. "It was my third attempt."
Alfonse bites his lower lip, swallows. "Thank you," he says. "Thank you very much. But… But it isn't my birthday today."
"Eh?" Felicia looks from him, to the cake, to Gordin, who frowns.
"Didn't you-" he hisses before Felicia cuts him off.
"Of course!" She returns her attention to Alfonse. "But… It is your birthday, Your Highness. I-isn't it? I checked all around-I was so sure!"
"U-unless I've been here a lot longer than I remember, no." He swallows again.
Felicia fidgets with her apron. "Oh no… I-I've messed up yet again. I tried so hard to surprise you, Your Highness. I wanted to cheer you up, even just a little. But I guess even in this world, I'm still just a terrible maid!"
"Felicia," Alfonse says, his voice wavering, then breaking. There are tears on his cheeks, and he hastily wipes them away. "Th-thank you. Thank you so very much. This means so much to me. And Gordin-thank you as well. You two have sacrificed so much for me, I-" He chokes, unable to continue for fear of dissolving into tears entirely.
"D-don't cry, sire!" Gordin rushes up to kneel before him. "It's just as I said before-it is an honor to serve you."
Felicia kneels beside Gordin. "We want you to be happy, milord, so please cheer up!"
"I-I am happy," Alfonse says, clearing his throat and scrubbing at his eyes with the backs of his hands. He takes a few moments to reclaim his breath. "You two are my only source of comfort in this joyless place. I-I thank you for that."
Felicia beams. "Well, let's not waste the cake!" she says, taking up the knife beside the platter.
"Perhaps I should," Gordin says, moving to detain her before she can put the knife to use. "There are some… rather compelling rumors circulating about you amongst the kitchen staff."
Felicia's face drops, and Alfonse laughs. "You did well enough to make the cake, Felicia," he says warmly. "I don't see the harm in letting Gordin do his part."
"As you will, Your Highness," she concedes. "But you both ought to know that I am very proficient with knives on the battlefield."
"All the more reason to let me do it," Gordin says with a smirk. "Here you are, sire."
He hands over a slice of cake and a fork on a small plate, which Alfonse gratefully accepts.
"It's delicious!" he says once he's swallowed his first bite. Felicia glows.
"I'm so happy to hear it!"
"It's good," Gordin agrees, setting down his fork. "Well done, Felicia."
"Make sure you share what's left with the other servants," Alfonse says. "Maybe it will help curb some of those unscrupulous rumors spreading about."
Felicia blushes. "Those rumors are unfounded, Your Highness! I won't have you thinking there's any truth to them at all!" But she can't help but chuckle a little anyway.
The rest of the morning in spent in the company of the two servants, and Alfonse enjoys himself far more than he ever could have imagined since becoming a prisoner of Embla. When they dare stay no longer, they promise to return in the evening to bring him his dinner, and then, that done, again the next morning.
But when Alfonse wakes shortly after sunrise, it's not by Felicia or Gordin but by the gruff, clipped voice of Bruno.
"Veronica requests your presence," he says as Alfonse sits up in bed. "Come on."
"I can't walk very well," Alfonse says. "My leg…"
Bruno slides his hands under his arms and lifts him that way, supporting him as he limps out of his cell. He brings him to Veronica's sitting room, urging him in and closing the door behind them. Veronica is standing with her back to them, organizing some things on the footstool. She turns when she hears them enter and smiles.
"Oh, you're here!" She bounds up to them. "How are you feeling today, Prince Alfonse?" she asks.
He glances to the side. "I'm alright, Princess Veronica."
"Oh? But why the long face?" She cups her hands under his chin, angling his head downward so that their eyes meet. "Is your leg still very sore?"
He lets her nod his head yes and doesn't even react when she slides her hand along his inner thigh, stroking the wound through his trousers.
"I hate seeing you so depressed," she says, pouting. "That's why we're going to have so much fun playing today!"
He doesn't respond, but his heartbeat accelerates. She frowns and steps back. "I suppose we should get started, then."
She lifts a bundle of thin, white cord from the footstool. "I'm going to tie you up now," she tells him, and he lowers his head. He knows better than to plead with her to change her mind-it will only make it worse. "Get on your hands and knees-we're going about it rather differently today."
Alfonse does, and despite saying she'll do it herself, Veronica hands the cord to Bruno, who crouches beside him. "Stay still," he orders.
He draws the rope around his arms, binding each wrist in turn, linking them together so that they're shoulder-width apart. He does the same to his legs, tying a second length of cord just above his knee, winding it through the tether between his wrists, and finishing the bind on his other thigh. Alfonse is left on all fours, unable to stand or even extend his legs from his position. He looks up at Veronica, frowning.
"Doggies don't walk on two legs," she informs him, tapping him on the nose.
"I'm not a dog," he says weakly. Veronica picks up her riding crop from the footstool and pokes at his lips with the end of it.
"They don't speak, either. They bark. So bark for me, doggy!"
Alfonse stares down between his arms, lip trembling. "Woof."
He gasps when he feels the sting of the crop against his backside. "You don't sound very convincing!"
"Ruff, ruff!" he says in earnest, cheeks aglow. "Ruff, ruff, ruff!"
"Now that's a good boy!" Veronica runs her hand through his hair, pausing to rub his ear. "You still need some obedience lessons, it seems."
Mutely, Alfonse shakes his head no, but Veronica ignores him. She flops down on the sofa, then clicks her tongue. "Alfonse, come."
He tries to crawl on his hands and knees, but his bindings trip him up, sending him spilling onto his side. Veronica giggles. "Poor puppy is still learning to walk!"
He tries again, this time moving deliberately, calculating each step. When he brings his arms too far forward, the ropes pull at his legs, throwing him off-balance. His jerking motions jostle the cage uncomfortably between his legs. Veronica watches in amusement as he struggles to reach her. He sits back on his folded legs at her feet when he does. The cord is tight, and he can already feel it start to chafe.
"Good boy." He feels her stocking foot on the crown of his head, pressing lightly down on it. "You see, Bruno? All dogs obey once you take away their nasty bits. See how docile he is now that he has been effectively neutered?"
Her other foot finds its way between his legs, nudging the cage, and he whines, squeezing his hands into fists on his lap.
"I doubt that is all it will take to tame this one," Bruno says from behind him; he flinches at the proximity. "I've witnessed firsthand just how troublesome he can be."
"Oh?" Veronica removes both feet, leans forward on the edge of the sofa. "Then perhaps we ought to remind him of his place. Take down his trousers, Bruno. His drawers, too."
Alfonse balks, tries to scuttle back, but Bruno's large hands are suddenly clamped over his hips, pulling him back up onto his hands and knees. A moment later, his trousers are pushed down his legs as far as his bonds will allow for, then his drawers, exposing his bare bottom and his caged penis. With its increased sensitivity, the latter threatens to rise, but the steel bars cutting rings into it, anchoring it in place, allow it only partial success. The sensation is bizarre, both excruciating and maddeningly arousing, and a thin, breathy moan escapes his lips before he can stop it.
Veronica slides her foot again between his legs, pressing it up against his testicles, and he bites his lip to keep from making a sound. She pushes harder on him until finally, he sobs aloud, folding his elbows and lowering his torso in a vain attempt to shield his privates. In response, she withdraws her foot and delivers three quick lashes to his backside with the crop. He whimpers, collapsing fully onto his forearms, limbs tangled and cords tugging at his wrists and thighs.
"Get up, mutt!" Veronica snaps, striking him again, this time on his exposed flank. "Or shall I whip you between the legs as well?"
He's dizzy as he struggles to reorient himself. He must look a mess; he licks his lips, tasting snot, tears, and a bit of blood, but he has no way to clean his face. He sits back on his haunches with his head tipped down and his hands tense in his lap.
"See? See how compliant he is now?" Veronica sounds triumphant, infuriatingly self-satisfied. Alfonse wants to contradict her at once but submits instead to his second, more measured thoughts, fearing her access to his most intimate parts.
"It will not last," Bruno says smugly, and though he can't be certain, it sounds to Alfonse as if he is provoking her.
Unsurprisingly, Veronica takes the bait. "I can make him do anything, you know."
Alfonse is startled to find her foot suddenly pressed against his mouth. "Suck," she says. He doesn't move, frozen in shock and disgust.
"A good dog licks his mistress's feet," Veronica says as if by way of explanation. Still, Alfonse doesn't open his mouth, not until she kicks his jaw and he has no choice. She forces her toes past his lips, nearly gagging him. The silk of her stocking is soon slick with saliva, which she uses to slide in more of her foot. He groans around it, trying to get her to remove it before he well and truly suffocates, but she only scoffs.
"Don't just sit there, suck!" she snaps. She lifts her other leg and peels off the stocking, tossing it to the floor. "Must I make you?"
She slams her foot down on his genitals, and he lurches forward, nearly choking himself; he retches but somehow, mercifully, manages to keep from spitting anything up.
"It feels good, doesn't it?" she asks, working her toes between the bars of his cage. The flesh-on-flesh contact makes him squirm, not entirely unpleasantly. He makes a muffled noise against the foot in his mouth, but even he can't say whether he wants her to continue or not. As his pleasure gradually mounts, his penis grows firmer, unable to break free of its restraints. Soon, the cage becomes hot and cramped, abrading the sensitive flesh there. He grunts to show his displeasure, but she ignores it.
"Look how desperate your filthy little cock has become!" she says instead, working it faster between her toes. "It's weeping to be placed inside of me, isn't it?"
Alfonse shudders, shakes his head no. He can feel his fluid, thin and milky-white, coalescing at his tip, dribbling out from the tube slowly, and he wishes it would stop; he has no desire to take part in such an act with the likes of her.
She isn't to be discouraged, however. "Unfortunately for you, my dear Alfonse, your cock will never know the pleasure of entering anything but its cozy little cage ever again! Yes, the only pleasure it shall receive will be solely on my terms!"
She yanks her foot from his mouth at the same time as she stomps down hard on his genitals with the other. He lets out a broken, protracted scream, saliva spilling from his mouth, dripping down his chin. She brings both feet together around him and begins kneading him. The cage and attached ring act as the rope did previously, keeping him painfully erect without allowing him to freely expel his seed. He starts to pant, pushing at her legs with his bound hands as his need for release intensifies. This is how it went last time, he hazily recalls, when she forced him to ejaculate whilst bound, but before he can think of some way to prevent a similar episode, a great shuddering pain washes over him as he spurts weakly out the tube and over her legs.
"There's your fun," Veronica says, finally releasing him as he wilts onto his side, sucking in air with all the vehemence of a drowning man. But it isn't fun at all, and he's even more aroused than before.
"It hurts," he groans, grinding his hips and front against the marble floor, desperate for some kind of contact, any kind of contact there to sate his sudden, uncharacteristic neediness. "Please, I hate this!"
He receives a stunning lash to the cheek with the crop.
"Doggies. Don't. Talk," Veronica hisses as he reels back, overwhelmed with pain. "Do you understand?"
"R-ruff," Alfonse pants, cheeks inflamed with both humiliation and swelling from the blow. It hurts to use his mouth now, but he shudders to think what she'll do to him if he can't manage to entertain her.
"Now look at this awful mess you've made!" she says, holding out her bare leg. "Come lick it up like a good dog!"
The crop is still clenched tight in her hand; repulsed though he is, he doesn't dare disobey her. He clambers back onto all fours, then hesitates. It isn't much; the cage kept him from expelling all of himself onto her, and much of his fluid ended up stuck between the bars. And yet the very idea of having to lick up his own essence repels him, even more so when he spies a trace of blood in it, which perhaps explains the sharp ache in his penis.
He doesn't want to do it, and yet the sight of Veronica stroking her crop combined with the flashes of pain in his face and backside bid him slowly crawl to her feet. He closes his eyes, both against tears and out of shame, then leans forward and begins to lick. His taste is bitter and horribly familiar, a salty tang mixed with the sweat of her skin. He hears her gasp, feels her clutch at his hair with shaky fingers as he moves his tongue up her ankle and calf and then to her knee.
"Good boy," she murmurs, her voice strangely tremulous. "Good boy, Alfonse."
He licks her until all traces of him are gone and then some, too afraid of what will happen to him if he pulls back prematurely. Thankfully, she doesn't keep him long after, thrusting away his head once she's had enough and taking several moments to recompose herself.
"Rest your head in my lap, doggy," she says once she has, patting the spot with one hand while wiping sweat from her brow with the other. "Come now, your mistress won't hurt you!"
This is easier. Alfonse pulls himself forward and, haltingly and without trusting her much at all, lowers his chin into her lap. Her silk gown is cool, almost comforting to his skin, and he finds himself relaxing slightly as moments pass and she makes no move to harm him. Eventually, she brings her hands to his cheeks, gently rubbing her palms over them before smoothing strands of sweat-soaked hair from his eyes and tilting his face upwards. She's smiling surprisingly serenely.
"You seem so nervous," she says. "But I have something to cheer you up-how about we let a new mistress continue with your obedience training?"
Alfonse stares at her blankly, wordlessly. She drops his head from her lap and stands, moving to the other side of the room. "Bruno," she calls, and it's then that Alfonse realizes he's no longer in the room with them-when did he leave? "Escort our guest in, won't you?"
To his further surprise, he notices that the door is slightly ajar even though he's certain Bruno closed it when they entered. That man steps in now, dragging by the arm someone so horribly familiar that it makes his heart go cold.
"Felicia," he says.
Because Felicia hasn't been tortured nearly enough yet. ;) Also, I've been listening to Lady Gaga's "The Cure" lately, and it's strangely Felicia/Alfonse?
There's a reason Veronica won't just flat-out sleep with Alfonse. If it isn't terribly obvious given the time period and social status of those involved, it will be mentioned in a later chapter.
Happy 4th of July to all my American readers, and happy regular ol' day to everyone else! Next chapter is already underway, so it shouldn't take as long to post as this one was. :) Thank you all so very much for your comments and support! I read them all, and it really does warm my heart to know that people are enjoying reading this exercise in indulgence as much as I am writing it! =)