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the-whumpening · 6 months ago

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The Pet Tiger, #10 [nsfwhump AU]

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CW: nsfwhump, emetophobia, drunk/hungover against will, choking till passing out, medical inaccuracies, GRAPHIC EXPLICIT NON-CON, explicit scene of and reference to r*pe and uncensored use of the word, victim blaming, dehumanization, gags, restraints, branding, treated as a pet/sex slave, violence and threats, pet whump, forced use of buttplug, forced (ruined?) orgasm, forced chastity device, blood, magic whump, AGAIN: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

(Another extremely long chapter, around 4.5k! This is EXTREMELY GRAPHIC. Please heed this warning: if you do not want to read a scene mostly focused on a detailed description of an assault, close this and move on. The next chapter won't be nearly as brutal but there will likely be similar chapters in the future, so I understand if anyone wants to drop off reading this series. No hard feelings! If I've missed tagging something important, please let me know so I can fix it.)

10: His

As the heavy doors of Ozmund’s chambers slam closed behind Ash, his knees thud to the hard wooden floor. His head spins—he’s not sure he’s ever been this drunk before, and certainly never so fast. He tries to steady himself on his hands and catch his breath, but Ozmund yanks him by his leash back to attention.

During the silent march away from the party, Ash had imagined Ozmund was fuming, just waiting to be alone before lashing out at him. But now, as he drunkenly dodges Ozmund’s scowl, it seems Ozmund has once again composed himself. He slips a finger through Ash’s collar and bends to meet his face, his breath cool on Ash’s flushed cheeks.

“She got you drunk, didn’t she? Stupid little cat,” he snarls, his low voice warping in the fun-house-mirror of Ash’s intoxicated brain. It takes all Ash’s concentration to nod, though the movement only makes his dizziness worse. Ozmund sighs through his nose and narrows his eyes. With a blink, they begin to glow a rich emerald green, and he jams his palm to Ash’s forehead.

Ash shivers and gasps; shock startles his system as if a bucket of ice-cold water was suddenly dumped over him. His drowsy eyes snap open, and he can suddenly think clearly and control his body once more—he’s immediately sober again. A spike of pain pierces his head, though, and his senses are quickly overwhelmed. Each lamp and candle flame burns his eyes; every slight rustle of his clothes and shift of his body pounds in his eardrums; Ozmund’s heavy fragrance stings his nose and swirls his stomach until—

He retches, spitting up wine-stained bile onto the polished floors.

Ozmund takes half a step back to avoid the mess, dropping Ash’s leash and muttering, “Pathetic.” He nudges Ash’s chest with his boot, pushing him off balance and forcing his gaze upward as he falls onto his back. “And I suppose you want me to clean you up, too, don’t you? Ungrateful beast.” With a wave of his hand, Ash’s sick disappears from the floor and his own face; even his mouth feels clean, though exceptionally dry.

Is this a hangover? Ash wonders as his head continues to throb. He’s never had a hangover before—he’d only ever seen Kane get them, but they’re such a lightweight that it takes very little to send them stumbling and slurring in the first place.

He doesn’t have time to linger on the thought; before he can right himself once more, Ozmund drops his shoe down on Ash’s chest. His heel grinds into Ash’s bruised ribs, pressing a breathless howl of pain out of his lungs.

“Quiet,” Ozmund commands, and Ash’s throat cinches closed against his will. He strains to breathe fully, silent whimpers gasping through his lips against the tightness in his throat and the pressure on his chest. “Three times tonight, you’ve failed to uphold your end of our bargain. Three times, you’ve disobeyed or humiliated me.” His foot shifts forward, sliding to lodge the toe of his boot beneath Ash’s chin and hovering just barely above his neck. “I gave you every opportunity to comply. I instructed you perfectly—I even let your poor manners slide earlier today. But clearly, you haven’t learned.”

Ozmund squeezes his fist. As he does, the thin collar around Ash’s neck shrinks tighter and tighter, nearly burrowing itself into his skin. His vision flickers, black flecks of blindness fluttering around his peripherals before blotting out entirely; his hearing, too, fades into a high-pitched ring, soon replaced only with silence. In the dark and silent void, all Ash can take in is the scent of boot polish and leather, before even that disappears as well.

As he slips into the dizzy embrace, an errant thought creeps into his mind: Am I . . . dead?

Ash reawakens with a coughing gasp. His arms and shoulders ache, but his hands catch with a metallic clinking when he tries to lower them.

He blinks against the blurriness in his vision and struggles uselessly to move. What—?

“Be still, pet.” Ozmund’s voice startles him, closer than he expects. “You’ll only hurt yourself if you struggle.”

Ash turns his head to the side, relieved to find the collar has once again loosened to its normal size. But as his eyes focus, that relief evaporates as quickly as it came. Finally, he can see his predicament and make sense of the aching in his limbs.

Ozmund stands beside him, securing a length of chain to the headboard of his bed—the same headboard Ash’s manacles have been looped around. Ash tries to feel his surroundings with his body, though every slight twist causes the thin chains to dig into his wrists. Beneath him is soft, plush bedding, propping his hips up in an obscene display. He clenches his legs to cover himself—even the scant, nearly-translucent loincloth is gone—but the chain Ozmund just lashed keeps them lifted and spread around the knee.

He kicks out with his lower legs, trying and failing to wrest himself free of the bindings; his efforts only return an ache in his muscles and dizzy pain in his head. Panic bubbles in his chest and escapes his throat in babbling whimpers. “N-no! No, Ozmund—please! Please!” Sobs shake his wrecked shoulders; his whole body trembles as Ozmund casually disrobes, ignoring his disjointed begging. “I tried! I-I tried to be good! I’m sorry—please don’t do this. Please!”

Ash’s desperation only seems to stoke Ozmund’s desire even further.

In another life—in some strange parallel world—Ash might have found Ozmund handsome. Much like Evius, Ozmund is tall and well-built, with refined elvish features and piercing eyes. His elegant, lithe form moves with perfect grace, his dark silky hair falling over his pale shoulder as he joins Ash on the bed. He settles beside Ash’s head and strokes Ash’s cheek with his long fingers.

“Sweet boy,” he croons, his fingertips dancing over Ash’s cheekbones. “Stupid boy.” He pulls his hand back and slaps Ash hard across the face, pinning his cheeks in his hand to keep his gaze. “As I said before, you disobeyed me. I’ve been lenient and kind to you so far—I know a brainless kitten like you needs more instruction than most. But I grow tired of waiting and tired of your insolence.”

Tears slip easily from Ash’s eyes. Between Ozmund’s fingers, he can only whisper a chant: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, please, please.”

Ozmund’s eyes narrow. “You won’t be truly repentant until you’re punished. For three infractions, that’s three punishments.” He directs Ash’s face forward to look at his own exposed and strung-up body. In his blind panic, Ash had barely registered what Ozmund had done; surrounding his cock is a snug metal cage, latched with a small padlock and secured behind his scrotum with a solid metal ring. “First, you rebuffed my gift of blissful forgetfulness. You begged me to let you be awake and alert. You could’ve had been so sweet and pliable tonight and forgotten all about those drunken fools—but you threw it away.” He palms Ash’s caged cock roughly, the heavy contraption tugging at his delicate skin. “So you forfeit your right to pleasure tonight, and every night until I decide you deserve it again.”

Ash whimpers, confused and frightened. He doesn’t want Ozmund’s pleasure; how could this cage be a punishment? Will it shrink or shock him like the collar?

He doesn’t get an answer from Ozmund. Instead, Ash’s head is turned again to face him.

“Second,” Ozmund continues, prodding his thumb into Ash’s mouth and working his jaw open, “you disobeyed and disrespected my guests. We had an agreement, little cat. Do you remember? Do you recall what would happen if you weren’t good for my guests?” His voice is harsh and hard; Ash squeezes his eyes shut against the renewed flow of tears.

“No,” he wails around Ozmund’s thumb—more a protest than a response. “Pleash!”

“You should learn to strike that word from your vocabulary, pet. But I’ll remind you one last time: I promised to be exactly as kind and gentle as you deserved. After tonight’s display”—he pinches Ash’s jaw and gives it a sharp shake—“I should think you don’t deserve it at all.”

Ash jerks his head away from Ozmund’s grasp, scrambling to speak before he’s subdued once more. “You can’t do this!” he yelps, the hoarseness in his voice giving way to desperation. “I am a human being, Ozmund—I am a person, just like you!”

An appeal to Ozmund’s humanity, or whatever may be left of it; Ash knows it’s probably futile, but he has to try. If Ozmund could only see how insane this all was, if only he could see Ash as something other than subhuman, an object to be used and molded to his desires . . . then surely he would make this all stop. Right? Ash holds his breath for a moment as he awaits Ozmund’s response.

For a second, Ozmund’s eyes seem to soften. He smooths Ash’s hair, gently brushing it behind his ear as he murmurs sympathetically, “Oh, Ash . . .” But as Ash traces his face for any hint of remorse—any shred of empathy—Ozmund instead clicks his tongue in disapproval. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. You’re not a human—just look at yourself. Would a human have those silly little ears and tail? Would a human be passed around as a party favor? Would a human need restraints to stay human? No. But you do. You do, because you’re just a pathetic. Disobedient. Pet.” His hand on Ash’s hair cinches into a vice-like grip, and his sharp features morph once again into hungry malice. He jerks Ash’s head back by his hair, punctuating each word with stinging pain to Ash’s scalp. “And I am your Master. I can do whatever I want. Right now, I want you to suffer.”

Ash’s heart sinks deep into his gut. There’s nothing he can do to stop this—nothing he can do to make it less awful. Ozmund wants it, and it is so. His desire is law.

A faint, animalistic snarl slips from Ozmund’s hostile smile. “Now, you’re going to take my cock in your mouth and get it nice and wet. That and my cum will be your only lubrication tonight. Be grateful you even get this.”

A wall of protests scream in Ash’s mind, but he nods shakily against Ozmund’s grip on his hair. He sneaks a glance at Ozmund’s lap as he brings it closer to Ash’s lips; like before at the party, Ash convinces himself it will be better to know what to expect. And just like before, he’s wrong.

Ozmund’s cock is long—much longer than his own—and thicker than his as well. Although he’s not quite as big as Evius, it’s still more than Ash has ever taken. The broad head presses against the tight line of Ash’s closed lips.

No! Nonononononono!

Ozmund’s fingers wrap locks of Ash’s hair into snug curls as he offers a last, growled warning. “Open up, pet, or it’s going in dry.”

As his head throbs and his heart squeezes painfully, Ash reluctantly opens his mouth, allowing Ozmund’s thickness to slip in.

“Mmn, that’s it,” Ozmund grunts. “Watch your teeth, little cat—don’t make me pull them out.”

He thrusts slowly in and out of Ash’s dry mouth, holding Ash’s hair to control his every movement. It doesn’t take long for his insistent length to press the back of Ash’s throat, blocking his airway and triggering heaving spasms as Ash gags.

I can’t, I can’t—!

Ash’s empty lungs burn; he gasps and coughs when Ozmund finally retreats from his throat.

“Not very wet, is it?” Ozmund traces his tip against Ash’s swollen lips. It’s true, though. He’s still quite dry, and Ash realizes what that means: if he doesn’t want to suffer, he has to work for it.

Ozmund wants him to be complicit in his own rape.

Lips warbling and throat tightening, Ash opens his mouth once more, working up as much saliva as he can and presenting his tongue. Ozmund smirks.

“Oh, look at you. Such a quick learner. Do you want another try? Is that it?” His voice and smile drop. “Beg for it, pet.”

Sobs crawl up Ash’s chest, swelling his sinuses and stinging his eyes with tears that refuse to overflow. He forces himself to contort his expression into some approximation of desire, his eyes wide and prey-like.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice catching in his throat. “Please let, let me try again . . . Master.”

Ozmund chuckles cruelly, loosing his grip on Ash’s hair to instead cradle his head. “See? Isn’t that easy? Doesn’t that feel right—begging for permission to serve me? Go ahead, pet. I’ll give you till the count of ten to drool over me as much as you’d like. And when you’re done, I’ll fuck you with your own juices.” He snickers sharply through his nose and readjusts, lining himself up with Ash’s mouth once again. “Maybe I’ll even add my own spit to your pitiful ass if you do well enough. Ready?”

Without waiting for Ash to reply, he shoves himself past Ash’s lips.

“One.”

Ash bobs his neck frantically, hollowing his cheeks and summoning as much saliva as his dry mouth will allow.

“Two.”

He sends the spit down his tongue, slavering along Ozmund’s length.

“Three.”

His tongue swirls and swishes. No thoughts can bubble to the surface of Ash’s foggy, aching mind.

“Four.”

He won’t allow it—he can’t. He can’t focus on how he wishes the weight on his tongue was someone else—

“Five.”

Ozmund enters Ash’s throat again; Ash’s panicked breaths come in humiliating snorts and gulps as both his nose and mouth are blocked.

“Six.”

His gag reflex twitches, but he’s held too firmly in place to fight it.

“Seven.”

It doesn’t matter—his tongue keeps working, and his lips push and pull with desperation.

“Eight.”

Allowed to move again, Ash’s jaw burns and his throat is raw.

“Nine.”

Still, he spreads his meager wetness and ignores the salty musk of Ozmund’s skin and dribbling pre-cum. He only hopes it’s enough—

“Ten. Off, pet.”

And then it’s over.

Ozmund pushes Ash’s head away from his lap, patting his cheek in some quasi-affectionate gesture. He strokes his stiff length as he moves from Ash’s side; Ash is both relieved and disgusted to hear the squelching wetness in his hand.

“Mm, what a view,” Ozmund purrs, kneeling between Ash’s suspended and splayed legs. “Such lovely little cheeks. If only they were bright red and bruised . . . Perhaps next time.” With his free hand, Ozmund pokes and tugs at the plug still firmly lodged in Ash’s tight ass.

Ash’s tail limply swishes to cover himself, but the fading magic only allows it to flick anxiously. Renewed panic seizes Ash’s will; in broken, tearful whispers, he continues his chant of, “please, please, please, please—”

Ozmund pulls the plug out, slowly fucking Ash in and out dryly with it. “’Please?’ You want it that badly? Well, then, I shouldn’t hear any complaining, should I?”

He tosses the plug aside and spits on Ash’s exposed asshole. And then, in one smooth motion, he sinks himself firmly into Ash.

Hot, fiery pain pierces Ash as Ozmund’s tip invades his body, pressing an anguished shriek from his chest.

Even with the plug having kept him loosened all day, Ozmund is still far too thick to go in so quickly, so unprepared, and so desperately unwanted. Each inch pushes deeper into Ash, stretching his tight ass to its breaking point; his head shoves past Ash’s defenses, grating like sandpaper past each ridge and ring until it slams into the bend of his colon. Pain radiates through Ash’s belly, and he struggles against his chains.

“No!” he screams hoarsely. “It-it hurts!”

He bucks his hips back, trying and failing to pull himself away from Ozmund’s firm presence inside him. Ozmund merely groans in response, almost laughing at Ash’s protests.

“Oh, please,” Ozmund grunts as he sinks Ash’s hips back down onto his cock, forcing more agonized wails with each thrust. “You’ve taken Evius; you can take me.”

Taken Evius? The most he’d taken of Evius was two of his nimble, slender fingers—nowhere near enough to fit Evius’ enormous cock, much less anyone else’s. Evius wanted to wait until he was sure Ash was ready and able to take him comfortably. He always said it wasn’t supposed to hurt; he said he wanted the first time to be special, and he’d take care of Ash.

“I-I-I,” Ash stammers through rising sobs, “I never have! He n-n-never . . . We didn’t—” Tears choke Ash’s voice before he can continue.

Ozmund stops his hard thrusts for a moment, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “No,” he gasps, his excitement barely contained. He looms over Ash, letting his hands wander and fondle Ash’s body as he teases him. “Am I the first to take this tight, exquisite little ass? Hm? You should’ve told me, darling. That makes tonight so much more special.”

He nearly pulls out of Ash, leaving only the faint curve of his tip inside. The emptiness almost brings tears of relief to Ash’s eyes. But before he has a moment to catch his shuddering breath, Ozmund slams back fully inside him even deeper than before.

“Now, forever and always, I will be your first,” he growls low in Ash’s ear. “You are mine now. Even if you should ever leave, your body will never forget how I molded it, how I trained it. Even if you return to Evius, you will only ever think of me while he’s deep inside of you. Isn’t that special, my love? You will never truly be apart from me.”

It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s not supposed to hurt like this. It’s not supposed to be against his will, trussed and tied like a butchered animal. It’s not supposed to wrench his heart into pieces. And it’s absolutely not supposed to be with Ozmund.

Ozmund resumes his relentless pace, scraping against Ash’s walls and colliding against his furthest reaches over and over again. It never stops hurting—it never gets easier to take. Even as Ash’s body stretches to accommodate the intrusion, he’s already so bruised and damaged that the slightest movement sends shockwaves of pain up his spine and forces whimpers and screams from his lungs.

If anything, the pain only worsens the longer Ozmund fucks him. What little moisture he was able to conjure has long dried up, replaced only with dribbles of his own blood and Ozmund’s pre-cum. His body chafes against Ozmund’s, sweat meeting sweat and skin meeting skin. Before long, the pain becomes overwhelming, and Ash can only let out broken, groaning sobs.

“Yes,” Ozmund purrs in response, “keep crying for me, pet. It makes you clench so—tight—!”

Ash wants to slip away, to let his mind wander to something—anything—other than what’s happening between his legs, but he can’t. The pain pulls him back to his body with every stroke, along with something he didn’t expect. As Ozmund sinks in and out of him with what must be practiced precision, he begins to feel a strange, familiar pressure.

His . . . prostrate? Is that what Evius called it? The tender gland in his ass swells against his will, rubbed and prodded by Ozmund’s cock. It coils tightly in his belly, forcing his own cock to stiffen against the hard metal of his cage. As it grows, the pieces all start to come together: he’s locked in. His cock will outpace the cage, pressing painfully against the tight entrapment until either he begs for mercy . . . or Ozmund forces an orgasm out of him by fucking his sensitive spot over and over.

Ash’s sobbing and begging begins anew; he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want any of this. He doesn’t want Ozmund to make him cum. He doesn’t want this pain to continue. He doesn’t want this memory burned in his mind forever.

“Oh, is it too much, little cat? Are you getting hard from this?” Ozmund slows his rhythm slightly, still pressing perfectly into Ash. He won’t stop, not even for a second, and pressure continues to build in Ash’s body. “That’s too bad, pet. I’m not quite done.”

As Ozmund picks back up to a breathtaking speed, the coil finally snaps in Ash. He spasms and cries out, dribbles of milky liquid spilling from his strained cock. It doesn’t feel good—there’s no relief or pleasure, only a half-hearted physical reaction. At the same time, his ass becomes even more sensitive, and he wails from the overstimulation of Ozmund’s continued thrusts.

Ozmund laughs at his twitching, sensitive body, pounding harder to force rasping groans from Ash’s throat. Again, Ash tries to pull his hips away—to keep Ozmund’s insistent cock from grinding into that aching, throbbing gland—but Ozmund only sinks deeper to meet him.

“That’s it, pet. The more you struggle—ah, fuck—the better it feels.” He hisses, his movements quickly become jerky and frantic. “I wonder if males of your species can get pregnant; I suppose we’ll find out.”

He reaches out to slap Ash’s softening cock, then shoves the fingers of one hand deep down Ash’s throat.

“Suck them while I cum inside you, little cat,” he commands, his hips snapping brutally against Ash’s pelvis. Ash does as instructed, though his body still aches and tears still paint his cheeks.

Hot, thick seed spills unprotected into Ash.

Ozmund groans with feral delight as he softens within Ash and finally pulls out; the relief sends a shudder throughout Ash’s exhausted body. Coming down from his high, Ozmund scoops up a dab of his and Ash’s combined cum and fucks it back into Ash’s mouth.

“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he teases. “Looks like you enjoyed yourself after all, didn’t you?”

No, I didn’t! I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t. Ash whines beneath him, pleading with his eyes as he fights against the salty taste in his mouth—is it over? Is it finally over?

It’s only a moment before Ozmund collects himself; with a sigh, he smooths his hair with his free hand and resumes his graceful, domineering posture. He scowls in concentration, removing his fingers from Ash’s lips. “Before I forget, there’s one last thing—your third punishment.”

There’s more? Ash struggles against the chains as much as his worn out body will allow, the thin metal biting painfully into his flesh. He pleads and begs, but Ozmund ignores him, instead busying himself with something on the bedside table.

“Calm yourself, pet,” he chastises Ash. “I told you explicitly earlier: three transgressions, three punishments. You’ve only had two so far. Now, for the third: you allowed Lady Nandaar to violate my rules and try to claim my property. This punishment will ensure that never happens again.” He turns back to Ash, wielding a metal object he can’t quite make out. The smell is familiar, though—dangerously familiar. Something Ash knows on instinct he should avoid.

“It seems I must mark you as mine in a more ostentatious way, so there can be no doubt who owns you.” His hand hovers over Ash’s chest, the object finally coming into view. “Now, stay still.”

The silver stamp presses into Ash’s skin, singeing his hair and raising a puffy, red welt above his heart. He yelps and thrashes against the chains; with only a quick, firm touch, the metal brands him as if it were a hot iron. Ozmund, smug with satisfaction, returns the stamper and admires his handiwork.

“There it is,” he murmurs contentedly, stroking the bright pink flesh to follow its shape. A circle, then a zig-zag line within it: OZ. His personal emblem. “Isn’t that better? Don’t you feel good knowing you’ve taken all your punishments? Have you learned your lessons?”

Everything hurts. Ash’s body is sore and tired; not a single inch is without an ache or burn or pin-prick numbness. His eyes struggle to stay open, overflowing at all times with either tears or exhaustion. None of this feels good—least of which his broken, defeated mind.

He nods limply, his eyes stinging with tears both shed and unshed, begging to slip closed. Just let me sleep, he pleads internally. Put me back in the cage. Please.

Finally—finally?—Ozmund strokes Ash’s cheek. Gently. Tenderly. The touch makes Ash’s lip quiver uncontrollably; he leans into the kindness while it lasts, ignoring the shame screeching in his head.

“Yes, that’s a good boy.” Even with the condescending tone, Ash still melts at the praise. The punishments are done—he’s good again. He’ll get soft, pleasant touches again. Maybe he’ll even get real food again. Maybe—

Ash feels Ozmund’s renewed hardness against his leg, brushing up and down the curve of his ass. At the same time, Ozmund lifts Ash’s neck to his lips, sucking and biting greedily at the sensitive flesh.

“W-wait!” Ash whimpers. “I thought—I had all my punishments?”

The caressing hand on Ash’s cheek pulls back and slaps him, hard. “You’re not here to think, pet,” Ozmund replies darkly. “You’re here to be my plaything. Is it a punishment to serve your Master, or is it your purpose? If anything”—he grips Ash’s face tightly and forces him to meet his piercing glare—“you should consider it a privilege, especially now that the only interesting thing about you has worn off.”

With a snap of Ozmund’s fingers, the chains securing Ash shift and morph, tugging him onto his knees and pressing his ass high in the air. Ozmund settles behind him, lubricating himself with the remaining cum dripping from Ash’s hole. Ash tries in vain to use his tail to do something—anything—to push him away, but like Ozmund said . . . It’s gone. The magic has finally faded. And Ash, once again, suddenly feels very alone.

Ozmund holds Ash’s hips close to him, scratching his nails down Ash’s belly. “Did you really think one quick fuck would satisfy me? We’re not done until I say we’re done, little cat. But”—he lifts Ash’s head by his hair—“as fun as your sniveling and sobbing can be, I’m growing tired of hearing it.” Another swirl of magic, and he shoves a wad of fabric into Ash’s mouth, securing it in place with another strip tied behind his head. “Much better. Now I can fuck you in peace.”

By the time Ozmund finally finishes—several hours and loads later—Ash’s screams have long died behind the gag.

Taglist:

@scoundrelwithboba @corbytheking @lumpofsand @tired-human09 (I thought you might want to be tagged, lemme know if not and I'll remove you!)

A/N: I'm back babey! Well, hopefully. Still slogging through moving, but I have a bit more free time to write at the moment so hopefully I can start getting a chapter a week out again and gradually pick up from there. It's been . . . a lot lately. Thanks for being patient <3

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the-whumpening · 8 months ago

Text

The Pet Tiger, #8 [nsfwhump AU]

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CW: Dehumanization, treated as a pet, threats of/references to violence and/or noncon, humiliation, pet whump, pet training, noncon touching (groping and non-sexual), forced use of buttplug (not graphic), emotional abuse, alcohol, multiple whumpers, noncon alcohol use and/or drugging, “it” as a pronoun, references to starvation/hunger

(Extra-long chapter)

Note at the end for added context

8: Humiliation

“Still like a statue—yes, that’s it. Very good.”

Ash’s chin lifts pliantly at Ozmund’s guiding touch, elegantly stretching his neck to the perfect position. The faint tinkling of the thin chain connecting his collar and manacles jingles in his sensitive ears.

Something doesn’t feel right. All the sounds around him—Ozmund’s voice, the chains, the servants bustling about as they finish their preparations—they feel so far away, as if he’s underwater. His vision, too, swims in and out of focus; his eyes are glazed and drift without his control. And yet, his body moves with perfect precision, exactly as Ozmund instructs.

“Whuh,” Ash slurs, his breath heavy in his chest and mouth unresponsive. “Whuh di’ you do t’me?”

For once, Ozmund seems surprised. “Oh! Oh, little cat, I didn’t expect you to fight so hard to stay alert. You seemed so anxious about your debut, I thought I would soothe you with a simple charm spell. Just a little drowsiness, to keep you calm and happy.”

He crouches down to Ash, who kneels on a floor cushion of expensive silk. His hypnotic eyes scan Ash’s drooping face; despite his best efforts, Ash can’t pull his head away from Ozmund’s grasp.

“I don’ like it . . .” Ash mumbles. “I wan’ . . . Wanna be awake.”

Ozmund furrows his brow in concern. “Oh, pet. Are you sure you want that? I fear you’d be dreadfully bored. A party for academics and elites is no place for your pretty little empty head.” A smirk curls one half of his mouth, a menacing gleam returning to his eye. “Besides, my guests may not be as kind to you as I have been, darling. Do you really want to remember all of this?”

The comforting pull of the spell tugs at the edges of Ash’s consciousness. Would it be better to be like this—easily manipulated, but unaware? Or to make his own choices, and remember every single one? Ash is becoming increasingly familiar with Ozmund’s twisted, hot-and-cold “kindness”—what more can he expect from these strangers?

“Choose quickly, little cat,” Ozmund coos into his ear. “They should be arriving any minute now.”

Ash’s pulse thuds in his ears, still drowned beneath the muffling of the spell. His breath hitches as he gathers his courage. Pressing hard into his chest, he forces out his answer:

“M-make. It. Ssstop.” At the warning raise of Ozmund’s brow, he tacks on, “P . . . Please.”

Ozmund chuckles incredulously and shakes his head. “You’re either very brave, pet, or very arrogant. Either way, this shall be most entertaining.”

His fingertips brush along Ash’s cheekbones, a chill following in their wake. As he removes his hand, the fog lingering in Ash’s brain leaves with it, and he can think clearly once again. All at once, he’s bombarded with signals from his body: the hungry ache in his stomach, the cramp of his thighs, the insistent stretch of the plug in his backside. He doesn’t recall when that happened—how long was he under that spell? What else has he forgotten?

“Now that you’re awake, my dear, don’t forget our agreement,” Ozmund reminds him in a low murmur. “If you embarrass me, disobey me, or disrespect my guests, well . . .” He holds Ash’s throat in his hand, squeezing just tight enough to slow his breath. “You’ll wish you had stayed blissfully ignorant.”

In the abstract, Ash had been aware that Ozmund is something of a socialite. He’s old enough, rich enough, and powerful enough to attract the attention of aristocrats no matter where he goes. He’d even hosted Evius and the party at his estate when they visited so long ago; it only follows he’d also entertain his own upper-echelon peers. And yet, somehow the thought had never crossed Ash’s mind.

A part of him had hoped that some of the guests might object to his plight. Even just one person. But as he watches the guests file in, not a single one even balks at his presence. Some even seemed . . . eager at the sight of him. He’s grateful the gathering isn’t terribly large—only a handful of Weavers and politicians. With a small enough group, he can easily keep track of everyone and watch his own back. Still, he’s glad he bargained to be freed of Ozmund’s spell. The floating, fuzzy heaviness would’ve made it impossible to protect himself, especially seeing the sinister grins on some of the guests . . . He tries not to linger on the possibilities.

Ozmund wasn’t entirely wrong, though: during dinner, much of the conversation flies over his head, and he finds his attention wandering. From his cushion beside Ozmund’s feet, his line of sight intersects mostly with the tabletop and its bounty of food. Fresh, hot, steaming food. Meat and cheese and fruit and bread: his stomach lurches at the smells, wishing to leap from his gut and stuff itself full. He can feel saliva pool in his mouth from the scents alone. When had he last eaten? He recalls a scrap of some exotic vegetable from Ozmund’s lunch yesterday, barely a bite. What he wouldn’t give for meat. Raw, bloody, falling apart in his hands and running down his chin—

Raucous laughter from the rest of the table jolts him back to his senses, and he realizes a bead of drool is threatening to leak from his lips. He surreptitiously pulls it back into his mouth, praying he hadn’t been caught. But as he scans the faces at the table for any signs of recognition, a woman in with snake-like skin catches his eye. She smiles at him—in any other circumstance, he’d almost call it warm or friendly—before turning her attention to her host.

She looks familiar, Ash realizes. He stealthily sniffs the air, honing in on her scent among the distracting, scintillating aromas of food. Not dead, yet not quite alive. Not human, yet not quite anything else. He knows this smell; he’s certain of it. But from where?

“Oz,” she starts, resting her chin playfully in her hands. “You know how impatient I am. Won’t you introduce us to your newest little experiment? We’ve all been dying to meet it. I mean, that was the point of this whole little affair, wasn’t it?”

The voice, too, tugs at Ash’s memory. Who is she?

Although he can’t see Ozmund’s face, Ash can feel the tension roll off him in waves: annoyance. Judging by the smug shift in the woman’s expression, Ash assumes that must have been her goal. How powerful must this woman be to openly pester someone like Ozmund in his own home? Ash makes a mental note to keep his distance from her, especially if they crossed paths before.

“Alright, alright,” Ozmund concedes with a strained chuckle. “If Lady Nandaar insists, then I suppose I must oblige. Shall we adjourn to the drawing room, then? I’ve got a fabulous dwarven spiced wine ready for tasting—I’m told it’s been aged for 1500 years.”

Of course, Lady Nandaar: the widowed queen of Nightstone. Heat rises in Ash’s cheeks as he recalls how he and Evius had danced together in the town square to earn their lodging for the night—back when he wore next to nothing for his own comfort instead of Ozmund’s sick fetish. And Nandaar had been there, watching from the sidelines with hungry eyes. How had she changed so much, and why was she among Ozmund’s confidants? If she remembers him . . . Would she help him escape?

Murmurs of excitement rumble through the group as they wander from the dining room to the adjoining parlor. Dazed and lost in his thoughts, Ash is yanked to his feet by the length of chain attaching his collar to his wrists. His legs scream in protest as blood rushes back to his numb muscles. Ozmund steadies him with one hand below his elbow and the other around his waist—gentle, almost the same way one would hold a lover. With his balance restored, Ash tries to pull back and stand on his own, but Ozmund cinches him closer to his chest.

“This is a big moment, my love,” he purrs, brushing his nose along Ash’s jaw to whisper in his ear. “Don’t forget your place.” With a soft, threatening press of his lips to Ash’s cheek, Ozmund loosens his grip and resumes his chipper demeanor.

He snaps his fingers, and a ghostly green hand grasps Ash’s chains to guide him behind his master.

As they enter the drawing room, the crowd turns to watch. Ash can feel dozens of eyes scanning every inch of his exposed skin, like a swarm of insects descending on a carcass. It’s a stark contrast from the other times he’s been before a crowd. In the past, he’d paid no mind to the eyes at all—he could only ever focus on Evius, completely lost in the moment. But now, his hands still held firmly in place by the magic bindings, he just wishes he could scrub the sensation away.

Ozmund stands before the group, ushering Ash on a small dais in front of the fireplace. With a grand bow, he addresses the crowd. “Good evening, friends, colleagues, and purveyors of all things mysterious and rare. As the good Lady has so kindly pointed out”—he shoots a glance at Nandaar, feigning humor at her smug grin—“I’ve gathered you here tonight to delight in my newest acquisition.”

Ash tries to keep his expression as neutral as possible; there’s no telling what could set Ozmund off or encourage these strangers’ worst proclivities. Surviving the night is his only goal.

“This is Ash,” Ozmund continues, stepping up on the dais to grab and move Ash as he expounds on his strange heritage. “Half were-tiger—that is to say: a human infected with a certain strain of lycanthropy—and half full tiger. Of course, the poor, stupid thing made a deal with an Old One to change his appearance, so I’ve taken the liberty of returning him to his natural state, as it were, for the evening. Say hello to our guests, Ash.”

Biting back the bile in his sore stomach, Ash gruffly spoke. “Hello.”

Delighted chatter erupts from the crowd along with some scattered applause. One voice from the back asks, “Oh, he can speak?”

Ozmund laughs. “Well, he’s not exactly a conversationalist. But yes, he’s capable of speech. Feel free to ask him questions later—simple ones, please. He’s not the brightest fellow, and we’d hate to confuse him, wouldn’t we?” Ash grinds his teeth; if only they knew how hard he’d worked, how far he’d gone, just to be on the same playing field as his friends. Just to hold an intelligent conversation in the same language as Kane.

Ignoring the heat wafting from Ash’s face, Ozmund continues, “Research in the field has informed me he can communicate with his own kind as well—any type of feline, it seems. I’m led to believe other animals may be included, but we haven’t tested that theory just yet.”

More “oohs” and “aahs” from the crowd, and Ash fights the urge to roll his eyes and shake off Ozmund’s hand on his arm. Stay calm, stay calm, he repeats to himself. Lady Nandaar politely raises a hand and asks a question.

“Tell me, Oz: the physique is natural too, isn’t it? Or has it undergone conditioning to build its musculature?” There’s an underlying edge to her questions that Ash isn’t sure how to place. She eyes him hungrily, like a predator ready to pounce, but Ash isn’t quite sure if violence is what she has in mind. His hope for her assistance begins to flicker; what little kindness he thought he saw seems to have vanished.

“From what I can tell,” Ozmund replies, either oblivious to or dismissing the oddness, “it’s mostly natural. It seems he lived a wild, nomadic lifestyle for many years, which is perhaps also why his intelligence and social skills are stunted as well.” He gestures to the defined muscles of Ash’s stomach, now bulging from a lack of water. “Of course, a little dehydration and fat reduction helps to emphasize what’s already there. As you can imagine, I’ve had to keep him quite deprived.”

A man in lavish blue robes raises a hand as well. “Has that impacted his strength at all? If he’s part were-tiger, does he transform?” His voice warbles slightly. Fear.

At the hint of nervousness the man’s question draws from the crowd, Ash almost smirks. At least some of them still find him physically imposing, even in this humiliating state. Can he use that to his advantage? Intimidate someone into helping him? He churns the idea over in his mind, but his hope is cut short almost immediately.

Ozmund’s hand subtly pinches the back of Ash’s neck—a threat to him, a friendly gesture to the audience. “Oh, my, Chancellor. I wouldn’t dream of setting him loose among you all if he was dangerous! No, his chains keep him nice and docile; no need to worry.” Relieved laughter floats between the guests, and Ash can feel the air grow tense with their renewed confidence. “And besides, I’ve seen his rage transformations before: they’re not all that impressive. Claws and fangs, at most. All the were-tiger charm stayed with his father, I’m afraid. That’s what makes him such a unique specimen—so close to being human, and yet so very different. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

So he doesn’t know about that, Ash realizes. Maybe he does have a chance, after all.

Conversation bubbles as the guests grow more excited and impatient; the strong dwarven wine is already loosening their inhibitions. A few wander closer, emboldened to openly inspect him rather than simply stealing glances. Before he loses control of the crowd completely, Ozmund silences them with his hypnotic glare.

“Now, before I invite you all to return to the festivities and enjoy my little pet, let me clarify a few things. As his diet is rather strict at the moment, please limit how much food and drink you offer him. I should like to keep him a little needy—a little sober—so I can enjoy him myself properly later. You understand, I’m sure. There can only be one ‘first time,’ after all.”

“First time.” At the thought, Ash’s eyes drop unfocused to the floor, and he struggles to maintain his composure. Stay calm, stay fucking calm. If you don’t keep your cool, it’ll be ten times worse, he reprimands himself.

Lady Nandaar laughs, scoffing, “You mean to tell me you’ve had this strapping fellow for weeks and haven’t taken it yet? I have to wonder what you’ve been doing in the meantime!”

“As you said, my Lady, patience has never been your virtue—but it is one of mine. There’s no need to rush; I have all the time I could possibly need. Besides, like any pet, it’s imperative to set the groundwork for obedience: explaining my expectations, and demonstrating what happens if he disobeys. He learns quickly, but I do find him to be . . . stubborn at times. But as you’ll see, he’s free of marks and bruises from his punishments—that’s because of my patience.”

Ash remembers Ozmund’s “patience.” His patience to let Ash starve, his patience to train him for hours on end, his patience to wait until he was healthy again to resume his torture. It’s not patience out of mercy or virtue, it’s patience to force him to his breaking point again and again—rebuilding his resilience only to be stomped beneath Ozmund’s boot once more.

“Moderation, really, is what I ask of you all,” Ozmund continues, turning his attention away from Nandaar to instead stroke Ash’s hair. “This pet is . . . special. Feed him if you’d like, but only a bite. Give him wine, but only a sip. Mark him, touch him, use him as you please—but save the more ‘intimate’ activities for me. We don’t want to spoil his fun, do we?”

Laughter and raucous conversation flood Ash’s ears again as Ozmund escorts him off the dais and into the crowd. Although the guests politely part the way for Ozmund, hands still follow Ash, fingers brushing and grabbing and pinching at everything they can reach until he finally kneels on a cushion beside Ozmund’s chair.

If he could just have a moment without eyes on him, without hands or chains or this stupid, stupid collar—

“Oh, wow,” a familiar voice raises above the din of the crowd. “So you’re the one he caught, huh?”

Owen.

Note for context: Weavers = Semi-underground group of magical scholars. Known for abducting sorcerer children (or pressuring their parents to turn them over) to study their innate magic. Notoriously unethical and elitist.

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