Mother_NA

Please forgive me for the haste in which I have written this letter, but I do not know how much longer the person I’m about to entrust it to will wait for me to get my thoughts in order. 

Between everything going on here with Master Zandik and the man in the mask, the mysterious “son” I recently met, even Lord Regrator’s house call, and the lack of any correspondence from you on top of it all … I just don’t know anymore, mama. I don’t know what I’m doing here some days. It is clear to me that I don’t really belong in this household, keeping this particular company, and I badly wish to return home to be at your side. For a number of reasons I can’t do that, though, so it seems that I am truly stuck in this situation for the foreseeable future. I can’t help but shudder to think what will happen when my role here is made redundant. 

Even more than that, though, I find myself nearly sick with worry over you. Is the treatment at the hospital not going well and that’s why you haven’t replied to any of my letters? Do you not wish to frighten me with the truth? Are they even reaching you at all? 

I’m scared, mama. For myself and for you. The situation here seems to be fast unraveling before my very eyes. I do not know how much time Master Zandik still has left in this world, but it’s starting to feel more and more like my own end is intrinsically tied with his. I can’t go into too many details in case this letter is intercepted but I have made the decision to do something truly foolish. Yes, even more foolish than venturing down into the cellar. 

Even knowing the risks involved and the danger it might invite, I have to try to get in contact with you somehow. You are my only lifeline to the outside world, mama. If this letter manages to reach you, please give your reply to the woman who delivered it and insist that she hand your correspondence off to me personally.  

Please, mama. I desperately need your help!

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Breakfast the next morning is an exceedingly awkward affair. 

After crying yourself to exhaustion the night before, it hardly comes as a surprise that you wake up just as tired as you’d gone to sleep. The early morning light that streams in through the single solitary window over your bed makes your swollen eyes hurt and for a long while you just can’t seem to find the energy to get up. 

But, eventually, you decide that you need to make every effort to put that awful experience in the cellar and all of the terrible consequences that had come with it behind you. Lingering on it or stewing in the still present ache across your bruised bottom wouldn’t serve any purpose beyond making you miserable. Maybe if you put in the effort to look nice and presentable for Master Zandik he would find it in himself to forgive you. Or at the very least he might pet and dote on you again, even if he was still a little upset at what you’ve done … 

You have to force your limbs to cooperate and with no shortage of effort but, somehow, you manage to rise to your feet. After spending a bit more time than you usually would on your appearance — taking extra care to brush out your hair and style it, making sure every ribbon on the flouncy uniform is tied off into a perfect bow, and even going so far as to crack your window open to scoop some of the snow off the sill so you can pat it on your face in an attempt to combat the puffiness — you deem yourself ready. 

Or as ready as you think you can be. Although you’re not so sure any of it will work, you still put on your best smile for him, hoping to leave that regretful business behind you where it belonged. 

Unfortunately when you open the door to his room you find Zandik already up and stubbornly trying to dress himself. Horrified, you forget about your silly idea to win him over through appeal and quickly rush to his aid. 

But he refuses to say much of anything to you even when you implore him to take a seat on the edge of the bed, so that you might help him. He finally relents though, much to your great sigh of relief as he lowers himself down to the mattress with his slacks awkwardly tangled around the knobby bends of his knees. Heart in your throat, you start on the top half where his shirt is only partially buttoned up and slightly twisted where he’d been wrestling with it. Your heart silently breaks not only to see him like this but also because of the way he won’t even seem to look at you while you work to get him dressed. 

You can’t quite decide if his expression is one of anger and disappointment, or of — remorse? Guilt?  It’s hard to tell when it was so rare to see him looking anything but arrogant and self assured. Even in his softest moments with you his brow always seemed to rest at an angle that would suggest he was thinking of complicated things that far surpassed what his current physical condition could easily accomplish. That was never enough to truly stop him though, not when he was so confident in his own abilities, his own genius. Now, though … 

Now he almost resembles a man defeated, the way his thin shoulders slump and the slight hunch in his spine has deepened. This posture leaves his head solemnly hanging even when you gently, carefully brush out his hair for him. But, to his credit, he does not snap at you for fussing over him nor does he try to slap you away. He simply lets you do whatever it is you’re going to do without so much as a glance or even a single word uttered in your direction. It’s not at all dissimilar to how he’d acted when you first arrived here, and yet it’s somehow that much worse after the progress you’d made. For a horrible moment, you think this stonewalling from him might actually kill you. 

And then, at last, he mutters a brisk ‘thank you’ and then an equally clipped ‘let’s be off’ when he takes his cane from your outstretched fingers with a surprisingly gentle hand. Wondering if you should throw yourself at his feet, beg and cry, and plead for his forgiveness, you listlessly follow after him towards the door. 

“I’ll take my breakfast in the library today.” He tells you as you shuffle out into the hall together. 

“Yes, Master …”

Once inside, you hurry to get a fire going in the hearth while he takes his usual spot at the long desk situated near the center of the room. It seemed he hadn’t yet given up on whatever he’d been working over the other day even in spite of all the interruptions that have occurred since, but you still weren’t quite sure what had so much of his attention lately. The few glimpses you’d caught in glancing over his shoulder had only revealed long, tedious formulaic equations that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to you. Although you could read, maths hadn’t exactly been a priority in your curriculum growing up and whatever he was doing was well beyond your level of comprehension. 

He must be well aware of that, too, because he doesn’t even make an attempt to conceal the sheets of scrawled notes he’s looking over when you come up next to him with a folded blanket in hand. In fact, he doesn’t even acknowledge your presence there at his elbow at all. It’s like you may as well have been a ghost haunting his periphery. 

Finally having no other choice, you softly speak up. “Are you comfortable, Master? Would you like this on your lap?” 

“No. That will be all for now.”

It probably would have hurt less if he’d just stabbed you in the chest with his pen and gotten it over with. 

“But it’s such a chilly morning, sir.” You try again, struggling to keep your voice even and light as you shift behind him to drape the blanket over his shoulders. “At least let me - -“

“Dammit, girl! I said that’s enough!” He abruptly snaps, making you jolt so hard you nearly drop the blanket to the floor. “We’re in Snezhnaya, you daft idiot. Every morning is chilly. Just leave me to my work and go start on breakfast.”

“… y - yes, Master. Right away.” 

Valiantly fighting back a fresh sting of tears, you leave the well intentioned blanket hanging over the back of the chair in case he changes his mind, and sadly make your way over to the door. Not for the first time you ask yourself if you should throw all dignity and self respect aside in favor of pleading with him for a second chance. Even if it meant debasing your sense of self, surely anything would have been preferable to this. Maybe if the atmosphere between the two of you had not been so warm just the previous day it would not have hurt so bad but this change in his demeanor was proving to be an unexpectedly devastating blow to your heart. No playful pinches. No light exchange of conversation. No flirting, no touching. You weren’t sure how you were going to survive this. 

But, you try desperately to reason with yourself, it did make sense that he would still be displeased with you so soon after the incident. You had, after all, broken one of the few rules he’d set in place for you and the sting of his rejection, the withdrawing of his doting pats and ruefully fond glances, is sorely felt. Certainly you would not be going against his wishes ever again if it meant more of this. 

You quickly make up your mind, deciding that you must win your way back into his good graces somehow. 

Down in the kitchen, you get to work making his favorite breakfast and brewing his much loved coffee with extra care and attention. You even take the time to juice a few oranges for him, rather than using what was already in a pitcher in the icebox, so that he could have it as fresh as Snezhnaya could possibly offer. And it’s certainly too much for the old man to eat by himself, once everything is said and done, but you don’t know what else to do other than to show him how much you care through this act of service. Even as misguided as it might be, you at least had to try. 

Carting it all upstairs on a big silver tray takes you longer than usual, especially when your spanked bottom is still sore and the nerves twinge with pain at every little shift. But you finally make it back to the library, making sure to keep your expression in check while you proudly set out everything next to Zandik on the table. Everything you’d prepared, juiced and sliced, and brewed for him sits in a welcoming heap next to his open book. 

Dread twists your stomach into even tighter knots, however, when he just somberly looks over it all as if the sight of it only saddened him. You truly start to panic then, swelling with anxiety and nervous jitters. You couldn’t understand it. Why was he behaving this way? It was almost as if you were someone about to be sent to the gallows and he simply couldn’t bear to say another word to you in his grief. 

And you realize quite suddenly that that’s exactly what it is. He really doesn’t even look mad at you anymore, just … resigned. As if he knew your time there with him was running out. 

It feels very much like someone has just dumped a bucket of ice water over your head. 

“M - Master? Are you sure everything is — alright? Do you not like what I’ve cooked for you? Would you like something else?” 

Slowly closing his eyes as if it physically pained him, Zandik breathes out a long suffering, world weary sigh. “I’m so sorry, girl. I shouldn’t have acted in such haste last night.”

“I’m … I’m sorry?” 

He gives his head a resoundingly sad shake. “There isn’t much I can do to protect you, as much as I may wish I could. I simply no longer have the strength or the ability that I once did, and one of my greatest accomplishments in life will also very likely be the making of my own downfall. I hope you can at least forgive me.”

It takes you a long moment to find your voice, and another after that to figure out what you even want to say. “Forgive you for what, Master? If … if this is about what happened in the dining room - -“

Cutting you off when he reaches out to snag your nearest hand in a shaking death grip, Zandik yanks your arm towards himself in a way that almost frightens you. It’s a little too similar to the way he’d grabbed you and pulled you over his lap for it not to. 

But all he does is peer up at you imploringly, his pale eyes dancing with a sporadic energy that only makes you more nervous. “I don’t know how much time we still have. Just listen to me, girl. Listen well, and don’t be afraid. When he comes for you, just stay calm and don’t make it any worse for yourself. As long as you’re good and obedient, you’ll be fine. Do you hear me?” 

“Wh - … when who comes for me?” 

Before he can answer the distant click of the door handle on the other side of the library sends freezing shards of hoarfrost racing through your veins. You suddenly can’t breathe as you straighten up in a prickling jolt and Zandik, likewise, is quick to drop your hand which falls useless to your side. 

And you watch, shuddering, when the door abruptly swings open to admit the Doctor inside, as if right on cue. 

You can’t help the way you stare at him in terrified silence. He was still here? You’d thought for sure he would have disappeared back to wherever he retreated to until his next unexpected appearance by now.  

“Good morning, little mouse. Old man.” He purrs, inclining his chin towards Zandik who only grunts a quiet, noncommittal sound in response. Then his attention is right back on you again. “I must say, that smells rather nice. Perhaps I will have to try some of your cooking one day, after all.” 

You give a tiny start at that. Trying and failing to kickstart your tripping brain back into gear. “Oh. W - would you like some right now, my … my lord? I could fetch you - -“

But he’s already waving it off with a gloved hand. “That won’t be necessary. I have other matters to attend to later so I can’t dally here for very long. I’d like to talk to you, though, if you can spare a few minutes of your time.” 

Brows lifting in abject shock, you turn from him to look at Zandik in search of some sort of explanation or reassurance, or even just a silent indication as to what was going on. He’s back to refusing to look at you though, focused instead on the cup of coffee he sips from, and you have no choice but to swallow down the nervous lump you suddenly find in your throat. Yes, you could probably guess what the Doctor wanted to talk about. 

Was this really what Zandik had just tried to warn you about though? He must have known the Doctor would come for you then, and he was right. There was nothing an eighty year old man could do to stop his younger counterpart from taking you, or doing whatever else he wanted. You would just have to meet your fate with a brave face. 

Straightening up, you fold your hands in front of you over the apron and give the old man a stiffly executed bow. “Then I will return shortly to clear away your dishes, Master. Please don’t hesitate to ring the bell if you need anything at all.” 

He noises a brief sound of acknowledgement and nothing more, so you turn to make your way over to the Doctor with as much dignity as you can muster. His mouth has pulled into a sharp little smirk underneath the hooked beak of his mask, however, and that does absolutely nothing to quell the disquiet kicking up in your stomach. 

“There’s a dear. Come now, let us step out and talk in private. I don’t imagine this should take very long.” 

You very much don’t like the sound of that, but you obediently trail after him even while a whirlwind of panicked thoughts swirls around inside your head. Was he going to dismiss you after all? Even after you’d said you would stay on despite everything you’ve learned in the last twenty-four hours? Your trembling hands helplessly ball into your apron, making a wrinkled mess of the white material. That didn’t seem fair to you. To punish someone who was willing to sacrifice themselves mentally, perhaps even physically, by continuing to work under his employ, even knowing their big secret … surely it just wasn’t right. 

But you choke back those thoughts, keeping them tightly locked away, as you follow the Doctor down the corridor until he eventually comes up to the one locked room in the entire manor. Zandik had said it was his seldom used office although, in light of recent revelations, you supposed it was also the Doctor’s office too. It was just as the surgeon had said yesterday. 

‘We’re something of a package deal.’ 

So, whatever was Zandik’s was also theirs too. No wonder every single one of them you’d met so far seemed so inclined to help themselves to your person. As if the consent of one was a blanket consent to all. How … fiendish. 

Trying and failing to calm your fluttering nerves, you stand there and watch as Dottore fishes a key out of his pocket, inserts it into the lock with a heavy click and then shoves the door open to step inside. You follow in his wake, nervously glancing around while he shuts and — you can’t help but notice with another ratcheting spike of anxiety — locks the door behind you. Trying to pretend like you hadn’t noticed that, you allow yourself a moment to anxiously look around.  

You’d never been inside this room before but it looks very standard to what you might have expected a powerful and brilliant man to call his office. There’s a stately desk situated along the opposite wall, facing the door, with a single window watching over the empty highbacked chair. It is not dissimilar to the one in Pantalone’s office, and you can’t help but wonder if he wasn’t the one who’d furnished this place as you take in the shelves crammed with yet more books (this house truly was inundated with them, even more so than you’d initially thought), the sparse art hanging on the walls for a flare of decoration, the mahogany, low set coffee table and what appears to be a matching sofa with delicately carved legs. Altogether it looks respectable, professional even, and you feel very out of place standing in it. Just like back in the bank. 

“Don’t look so nervous, little mouse. It’s not as if I brought you here to do experiments on you or anything.” The Doctor croons at you, sauntering over now to the finely upholstered sofa where he plops down, seemingly at perfect ease. 

You can’t say you feel much the same way as you draw a stuttering breath to calm yourself, just as Zandik had instructed you to, before moving to stand at attention in front of the low table, bracing for the worst. If it really came down to it you could always prostrate before him on hand and knee, and beg for a second chance, an opportunity to prove your loyalty and willingness to obey. Appealing to his ego enough just might do the trick. 

But all he does is study you for a long, drawn out moment from behind the barrier of his mask. Not for the first time you can’t help but wonder how he can see anything at all through that thing, and yet he never seems to find it difficult to get around or bothersome to wear. It was all very strange, just like everything else in this sprawling old manor. 

And then, drawing an almost eager breath, he sits forward to brace his elbows on his knees, hands coming together between them in a loose clasp. 

“You’re curious, aren’t you?” 

You slowly blink. That was not what you’d expected him to say to you. 

But even when it feels as if your stomach is falling into a bottomless pit you still lightly clear your throat, nudging your chin up in what you hoped was a respectful manner. “I would be lying … sir, if I said I don’t have any questions. Rather pressing ones, in fact. However, I am well aware that the details aren’t really any of my business and I should respect the confidentiality between employer and employee. I’d planned to do just that.” 

He chuckles in response, a low, drawling sound that soon morphs into a full on bellow that tips his head back, laughing up at the ceiling. Your nervous disquiet is soon replaced by confusion as you stare at him, trying to make any sense of what’s happening. And then he shifts atop the sofa again, changing positions almost as quickly as he changes moods, to recline back against the jade green cushions in a confident sprawl. 

“Oh, you are a clever one, aren’t you? That’s a very good answer. In fact, I might even go so far as to say that it is the correct answer for you to give me in this situation, darling mouse.”

You can tell he’s mocking you and a hot wash of affront crosses your face, yet he doesn’t even seem to notice it as he continues with just a smattering of irony to color his voice now. 

“Did Zandik give you that pretty answer? He really should know better. Something you need to understand about me — about us — is that we so rarely concern ourselves with what is right or proper, or polite, and that sort of lip service doesn’t exactly mean a whole lot from our collective perspective. As a whole, we are much more interested in and intrigued by the truth. How we choose to interpret that might differ slightly between one or the other, depending on what our individual mindset was during that period of our life, and yet it always comes down to the same bottom line regardless.” 

Pausing briefly, he brings his head up about a centimeter as if to look you straight in the eye. “So, then. Tell me what you really think, and we’ll go from there.” 

For some reason you don’t hesitate to respond, and the words are out before you even have the conscious thought to give them voice. Anger replacing confusion now.  

“As a matter of fact, I think this place is starting to feel like a circus.” And then a hastily tacked on, “My lord.” 

The Doctor hums a vaguely amused sound, nodding once as if in agreement with that sentiment. “I can understand why you would start to feel that way. Goodness knows how this probably looks to an outsider, but you will have to forgive us that unfortunate lack of self awareness. You see, I’m afraid we’ve long since lost any insight into the perception of what unrelated parties might think. Pantalone is quite accustomed to our comings and goings at this point in time, so he doesn’t exactly offer an enlightening perspective. He already knows what we’re like. All of us.” 

But yet he’d still sent you straight into the den of the wolf. 

“And he’s fine with it?” You say, instead of that first impulsive thought. The Doctor seemed to be in a largely agreeable mood despite all that had happened yesterday, but you didn’t know how long that would last and you were keen to get some answers if he was willing to give them. 

He just exhales a slow, almost wistful sigh though. “More than fine with it, I’d say. We are long term partners and collaborators, after all. You can’t very well have that kind of history with someone and not see them for what they truly are. And as for you, sweet mouse? Do you think you’re starting to see that same truth now?” 

You drop his gaze — or whatever constituted for it with that featureless mask in the way — as you continue to wrinkle the ruffled hem of your apron. If he was really planning on sending you away, and he’d said nothing to make you believe otherwise yet, then honesty couldn’t do any real harm. Especially not if he planned to kill you before he would ever allow you to escape back into the outside world again. 

“Yes, sir. I believe I am.”

“Good. And what is your take on it, hm?”

“Well … if you want the truth, I’d heard the rumors before coming here. That some of Her Majesty’s Harbingers were cruel and dangerous. Some even — maniacal. But as long as it was all in the name of the Tsaritsa and the motherland then most of the peasantry was willing to look the other way. Frankly, I’m not quite sure what I’d even envisioned when I heard those whisperings. Surely it was nowhere near the scale of this, though … forgive me, my lord, but this place is looking more and more like a house of horrors everyday. I just — I don’t understand why you would subject me to this sort of treatment. Did I do something to deserve it?”

“What do you mean?” He says, giving his head that curious carrion bird tip again. “You were the one who came to the Northland Bank that day seeking help and I gave it to you, did I not? So what is the problem exactly?” 

“Yes — I was there that day to seek out Lord Regrator’s help. Not yours.”

Dottore scoffs a mirthless laugh to that. “I’m afraid I fail to see what the difference is. Pantalone and I aren’t really all that dissimilar, are we?” 

You give your head a slow shake now. “It’s not wrong to say you share similar traits with one another. But it also stands to reason that I chose to implore Lord Regrator over any of Her Majesty’s other Harbingers for a reason. Doesn’t it? I thought … since he’s only a banker and not much someone would expect to see on the front lines, if what they say about him is true, then that had to mean I would be relatively safe with him.”

The Doctor barks a not entirely mirthless laugh. 

“Ah, yes. That poor, helpless banker always seems like the safer choice, doesn’t he? But as much as it does pain me to be the bearer of bad news, I’m afraid I must inform you that Pantalone has his own bad personality traits too. I wouldn’t recommend underestimating him simply because he looks so lovely and fair. He wears a mask just as I do, even if it’s not one you can see outright on his person.” 

A hot pulse of surprise curls through your chest then, and not only because you’d had similar thoughts about Pantalone’s invisible mask. The way he talks about the Lord Harbinger carries with it an unmistakably fond note, a hint of familiarity that takes you back to the drawing room. Was it possible that he was also …

But Dottore goes on before you can truly examine that thought, so you have to quickly tuck it away for later. 

“With that being said let me remind you, little mouse, that you are perfectly safe here with us. Even if it may not always seem that way, none in our ranks would ever actually do something to jeopardize your role here. I told you before, didn’t I? We don’t want to do it ourselves. It will have been a waste of my time and energy to secure your cooperation and bring you here just to then turn around and kill you. Which is precisely why I was so very pleased that you made the right decision yesterday.”

You stand up a little straighter with the chilly tremor that runs up your spine at that reminder. Yes, you recalled quite well the sense of impending danger that had come over you when he’d posed that million mora question. Would you stay or would you go? Even if he asked again, you’re quite sure your answer would still be the same. As much as you wanted to check in on your mother yourself, you knew you couldn’t leave Zandik alone with this jackal. 

“But, my lord,” you stammer at last, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t even understand why you would go to such lengths in the first place if you care so little for Master Zandik. That’s what it is, isn’t it? You despise him. Even though he’s …”

“Me?” He helpfully supplies. Mouth tugging into a crooked grin, Dottore sits up once again but this time he crosses his arms over his chest, one finger tapping at his bicep as if in thought. “That’s right. He is ‘I’ and ‘I’ am him. And yet you are undeniably correct. I don’t particularly care for the old fool. Would you like to take a guess as to why?”

You give a numb shake of your head. 

“It is because he is inferior and soon to be obsolete. Oh, but don’t look so surprised, my dear. It’s true, isn’t it? His physical and even mental acuity are on a sharp decline, and have been for some time now. As I said before, I simply can’t imagine he has that many more years left in him at this point. Or so I could only hope. Meanwhile, I am Zandik when he was at his peak. Physically. Intellectually. Every aspect of my condition is perfectly honed and sharpened.”

“The Prime.” You murmur, echoing the surgeon’s words and earning yourself a rather gracious incline of his head. 

“Very good. You are paying attention. I do so like to know that what I am telling you isn’t just going in one ear and out the other.”

You can’t help but shudder at that uncomfortably familiar phrase. You’d heard the exact same thing down in the cellar. “Well, I can certainly see the — similarities between you and the other one. But, my lord, if you really feel that way about Master Zandik then why even concern yourself with his care? Why bring me here?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” He volleys back in a way that would seem to suggest he was lifting his eyebrows at you. “It’s really only another form of self preservation once you get right down to it. Even in a perpetual state of self loathing, sympathy for oneself is just part of the human condition, is it not? Even when you have none to spare for anyone else. Besides, the old fool wouldn’t be such bad company if he were not so feeble now. I dare say, I even used to rather enjoy our discussions.” 

Thinking that probably went without saying, given how much he clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice, you nervously shift there in front of him. “I see. So, even though you look down on him for what he’s become in his old age you still recognize that he’s one part of yourself. Then … may I ask how many of you there are?” 

“Hm. Give or take, I’d say there are about seven of us now.”

“… give or take, sir?” 

“Why, yes. Zandik created quite a few segments of himself throughout his life, and not simply out of pure vanity. As I’m sure you can imagine, it is quite efficient to be able to split one’s time and energy across multiple consciouses, each with their own unique perspective shaped by what stage of life they were in at the moment of their freezing. Let’s think of it as … a snapshot in time, shall we? An eighteen year old, for example, is going to have a much different take on a conundrum than a sixty-five year old. We’ve made some very worthwhile breakthroughs simply by utilizing ourselves as a springboard, so to speak. But of course we’ve had to sacrifice one or two over the years, for the greater good and in the name of progress. You understand.” 

Despite your best efforts to remain calm in the face of this information, you just can’t seem to keep the shock out of your expression. Seven? And you’d only met two of them so far. Three, if you were generous enough to include that little pervert in your room last night. But you were hesitant to bring him up or mention that alarming encounter with him in the bedroom, for fear that you might accidentally stick your foot in your mouth and let it slip that you had not been entirely truthful about when and how you’d first seen him. As much as you wanted to file a formal complaint about your slippers, one missing, one ruined beyond salvation, you knew it was probably better to keep your mouth shut about it. 

Still, seven was — a lot. More than you’d expected. 

“I see … and are all of these ‘segments’ living down in the basement, then?” 

“No, no. You don’t need to fret about that, dear. We all freely come and go as dictated by our whims and research. You might meet them, you might not. I suppose it depends on if they decide to show themselves to you.”

“But who are they? What do they go by? Surely you can’t all be Zandik.”

A thoughtful little hum. “Well, of course it goes without saying that there’s me. Omega. And then there’s Beta  - -“

“Wait.” You lift a hand, cutting him off. A little too frazzled and worn thin to worry about being rude. “I don’t think I’ll be able to keep track of who’s who just by those designations. There must be another way to tell them apart … you said they’re all Zandik at different life stages, right? Then what ages are they?”  

Chuckling a low, drawling sound, the Doctor drops his hands to his lap where he idly clasps them together. “Interesting. I don’t believe I ever thought to use such a simple method of differentiation before. It’s — quaint. But to answer the question, between us there is eight, eighteen, twenty-two, twenty-five, thirty-five — yours truly, by the way — forty-five and sixty-five. And Zandik, of course, is currently eighty-four years old, as you already know.”

Your head starts to spin so fast you feel like you just might pass out on the spot. That was a lot to swallow, a lot to take in and process anyway, but … 

“Eight? There’s a — a child running around here?” You can’t seem to keep the horror out of your voice, but that only makes his grin widen. 

“I don’t believe he’s here right now, but yes. Don’t worry though, little mouse. Even at that age, ‘I’ was rather precocious and far more intellectually gifted than my peers. My eight year old self doesn’t need to be coddled anymore than I do. In fact, if you are anything like the adults who were around ‘me’ at that age, you might even find yourself thinking of him as rather unsettling.” 

You flinch as if he’d just reached out and slapped you. “I wouldn’t think that of a child, my lord.” 

“Oh, but it’s alright if you do. It won’t bother him or the rest of us. I’d even go so far as to say he’s quite used to it by now.”

“… that’s terrible.”

“No. It is simply the way of things.” Exhaling a curt breath, the Doctor sedately spreads his hands out to either side in a persuasive manner. 

“A fear of the unknown and mysterious is just another facet of the human experience, is it not? As such, most people are perfectly content not to ask too many questions or wonder outside of the simple, easy to comprehend boundaries already dictated by popular understanding. They don’t want to know any more than that. They cower at the thought of what real truths might be uncovered by digging any further than what is considered to be the norm. And when those same, small minded individuals see someone — a child, no less — asking too many questions and digging much deeper than what is necessary, that has a tendency to put them ill at ease. They don’t want to know what lies beyond the pale of human consciousness and they don’t want anyone else to know either. It’s safer that way for the collective. Less chance of something disastrous coming of it.” 

A cold, hard lump starts to settle in the pit of your stomach as you stand there, listening to him talk. Is that what Lord Regrator meant when he’d said Zandik hadn’t been shown much kindness in his life, or at least some small part of it? He was … rejected as a child by those around him for being too smart, too precocious, too strange in his single-minded pursuit of knowledge. Even that which was forbidden, by the sounds of it. Even that which was dangerous or blasphemous to the gods. That probably explained why he’d questioned you as he had in the bedroom yesterday, before you’d snuck off on your own. 

If what the Doctor is telling you was really true then that would also seem to account for Zandik’s prickly, tightly guarded demeanor as well. And why it had taken you so long to earn even a small sliver of his trust. No wonder it was as difficult as pulling teeth to get him to lower his walls — and why the few, fleeting moments when he did let them down, it always felt so overwhelmingly meaningful. You couldn’t believe he’d lived a life like that. 

“Oh, my. How curious. Does that make you sad, darling mouse?” The Doctor croons, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

“A - a little, my lord. But I can promise you this won’t change anything for me. Not where this child is concerned, and … not Master Zandik either.” 

“Frankly, it wouldn’t matter much to me if it did. All I really care about where it involves you is that the job I have tasked you with is seen to and taken care of as our terms dictated it would be. It’s a bit off of the current topic — we’re here to discuss your rule breaking and reestablish expectations, after all. But if you don’t mind me saying so I think you’ve done exceptionally well at this task thus far. Even taking into consideration the extra liberties you’ve engaged in and the flagrant disobedience yesterday, I really do have to commend you for all your effort in seeing to that old fool’s care. He seems to be doing quite well and you certainly have more patience than any of us do. That is why I wanted to have this discussion, to clear things up and make sure we’re on the same page. Now that you know the truth I don’t mind being transparent with you on the one condition that your cooperation remains assured. I do not have the time or the desire to track down another maid.”

You swallow hard, dropping your gaze deferentially as a potent flood of relief suddenly washes over you to nearly drop you on your ass. Did that mean he really didn’t plan on getting rid of you then? It was a little hard to believe given the circumstances, but it did make a certain amount of sense. You were already here, already committed to the task. Knowing him as well as you were starting to know him, you’re not particularly surprised that he wouldn’t want to go through all the trouble of finding someone else. It was probably you or nothing. 

“I understand, my lord, and I’m happy to oblige your request of me. B - but, if I may … there is one other thing I have to say while I have the chance.”

“Go on.”

Determined to say your peace, you stubbornly bring your attention back up to scowl at him. “How can you possibly say that I am safe here when the one from yesterday terrorized me for so long? I thought for sure I was going to die multiple times throughout that ordeal and I'm certain the only thing that saved me from an even worse fate was your unexpected appearance. You … you said he was you at twenty-five, didn’t you? I must admit it — frightens me more than I’d like, to think that you might share those same tastes. Especially when I consider that there are more than just the two of you.” 

Chuckling under his breath, Dottore once again shifts atop the sofa seat to cross his legs now, giving his propped up foot a casual, slow motion flex. “That’s right. Zandik was just starting to settle fully into adulthood at twenty-five. More comfortable in his own skin than ever before, confident. Physically capable and powerful. His genius at long last found a sufficient outlet in the form of medical research. You didn’t like him, little mouse?” 

“We didn’t really get a chance to chat.” You grumble, saying it as politely as you can bring yourself. 

“A pity. Perhaps next time the two of you will find the opportunity to get to know each other better.”

At your sharp, glowering look, he issues another drawling laugh that makes his shoulders tremble even as he brings a hand up to thoughtfully stroke his jaw. 

“Oh, don’t sulk. I’m only joking. Although I won’t pretend your lingering reservations are completely unfounded, I must confess that I fail to see the problem.”

Pausing, he puts his head to one side, the gesture decidedly inquisitive, before going on. Like he truly couldn’t understand what would have you so out of sorts about what happened. 

“He didn’t kill you or maim you, and I’m quite certain he didn’t do any long lasting damage to your body either. Based on what I observed and my own understanding of ‘myself’, I have no reason to believe he was doing anything other than playing with you. Did that truly upset you so much?” 

“Well … yes. I have to admit it did. He didn’t even ask me first and I told him to stop more than once, but he wouldn’t listen to anything I said. I didn’t really want him touching me like that.”

“And yet, you seem to have no problem with letting Zandik touch you?”

Your cheeks flood with embarrassed heat at having that thrown back at you. And the worst part was you couldn’t even deny it. Yes, not only did you seem to not have any issue at all with that but you’d even invited it, craved it almost to the point of madness. But how did he know anything about it when he was, at least to your knowledge, so rarely ever present in the house? 

“D - did Master Zandik tell you that?” 

Smirking at that shyly stammered question, the Doctor gives his head a curt nod. “Indeed he did. We had quite a long discussion last night, after you left us. Him and I, and … hm. I suppose for the sake of simplicity, you’ll probably want to refer to him as 25, won’t you? The three of us talked through what happened, both the cause and the consequence, and I do believe we came to a mutual agreement between us.” 

You all but wither there on your feet, silently begging a black hole to open in the floor and swallow you up. There is no running away from this conversation though, or the truths he’s imparting to you, and you have no choice but to gather your courage enough to stand tall under the burning spotlight of his attention. 

“And I suppose you’re going to let me in on what you decided without me there to even defend myself?”

“But of course. You first though.” 

“Alright.” You breathe out, struggling to get your thoughts in order. “Then I guess I’ll just say it. Yes, I have found myself very — taken with Master Zandik. I admit I'm … fond of him. More than I ever expected to be with anyone. But, my lord, even if I choose to invite one into my bed that is not an invitation for all. I don’t even know you or - or 25 hardly at all yet. Or Lord Regrator for that matter. And that’s aside from the fact that my body was never part of our original agreement. As much as I don’t expect you to understand this, I have to be honest when I say that the incident down in the cellar left me feeling … violated. And not very safe, if you want the truth.” 

The Doctor’s smile is gone now, and his voice holds a tight edge to it when he speaks next. “Are you really suggesting that you would prefer an old man with one foot already in the grave over one of his younger selves? Even the version of him that was in the prime of his life?” 

You almost find yourself cowering back from the bite in that question, but you stubbornly stand your ground. It was now or never. “Yes, my lord. As of this moment I do like him better than you, and certainly more than 25. And is it really any wonder why? Y - you accosted me in the library the other day, you made me take your fingers even when - -“ 

“And if you’ll also recall the verbal exchange between us in the library,” he cuts you off, letting a faint growl color his words now. “I told you that I could do anything that fossil can do for you, and I could do it so much better. Do you not think you are selling yourself a little short by choosing an old man at the end of his life over any other option available to you? After all, you are still so young and aesthetically pleasing to look at. I might even go so far as to call you beautiful. Even if we remove the factor of one of the hypothetical ‘me’s, I’d still wager that you’d look much better on Pantalone’s arm than on his.” 

Somehow you just can’t seem to keep the shock off your face while you try and fail to wrap your head around that. This place really was going to drive you mad. 

“Do you mean to say … you would rather even see me with Lord Regrator than Master Zandik?”

“I would like nothing more than to see you helpless and folded up underneath me, little mouse.” He snaps, sneering at you now. “What you do beyond that and with whom doesn’t really concern me. I simply wish to highlight the difference for you, so that you fully understand just how naive your current position really is. If you want my honesty so bad then I’ll admit my interest in you only goes so far as making you realize that I am the better Zandik in every possible way. Is that clear enough for you?” 

You flinch back, recoiling at the barbed wire sting of his words as much as your own reeling disbelief. Ever so slowly, the pieces were starting to fall into place now. The Doctor didn’t actually want you. He never did. His one and only objective was to assert himself as the dominant male, bask in the validation of reasserting himself as the prime consciousness. It was just typical masculine grandstanding you might expect from any other man still young enough to have not tempered his ego yet. You’d been right to give him a wide berth of space. Although Zandik still had his pride, certainly, at least he was not so caught up in his own testosterone fueled power trip. 

“Well, dear? I’m waiting.” 

“… yes, sir. I understand perfectly.” 

And just like the switch is flipped. 

“Good. Then, do you have any other questions for me? Are you still prepared to uphold your end of our agreement now that you know everything?” 

Your hands fist into the front of your apron, balling the material so hard they shake. “Yes, sir. It will be my honor to stay on and continue seeing to Master Zandik’s care.” 

The Doctor’s body language reads as being really quite pleased now as he straightens up, unfolding his legs to brace both feet on the floor again. Almost as if he were readying himself to start a laborious, information dense lecture. 

“Excellent decision, my dear. I do hope you understand just how much I appreciate that willingness to cooperate. Then, with that settled, let me share with you our conclusions from last night. First;” he intones, holding up a single finger. “So long as you agreed to stay here and take care of that old wretch as you have been, we decided that it would only be fair if the segments are likewise free to come and go as they please. 25 made it quite clear how troublesome it is to have to sneak around in what is essentially one’s own home, and I wasn’t inclined to say he was wrong about that.”

Your mouth flies open to protest but the Doctor is quick to cut across you. 

“Ah, ah. On the one condition that there is no more skulking about in the shadows to draw the attention of curious little mice who don’t realize how close to the spring trap they wander. Any new, let’s say, arrivals will be properly announced so that there are no more unexpected surprises. You can thank Zandik for that concession.”

An icy chill creeps through your numb body. Did he mean … 

“You - you told him, then? About why I went into the cellar yesterday?” 

“Of course. We couldn’t very well have a productive discussion without all of the facts, now could we?” 

Drawling a low, rumbling chuckle at the floored look on your face, he gives his head a solemn shake. “Poor little mouse. How transparent and easy to read you are. I can tell you’re displeased with me for not speaking up about it sooner, but what can I say? I was curious to find out how Zandik would choose to punish you and I can’t say I was disappointed in his methods. I rather liked watching you get pulled over his lap and having your skirt flipped up, if you want the truth. I think it suited you. But unfortunately for your sore bottom, your penance isn’t quite finished just yet.”

“… w - what do you mean?” 

“Two;” he goes on, lifting a second finger. “At my behest as your employer and the one who is paying your salary, Zandik agreed to let me punish you in whatever way I see fit. Oh, but don’t look so shocked, dear. Although you did look appropriately chastised when you sulked out of the room with your sad little head hanging down, I just don’t think that old fool’s efforts were enough to truly get the message across. I want to make absolutely certain that there will not be another incident like the one yesterday.” 

The still tender skin across your ass prickles warmly at the remembered pain as much as the imagined discomfort that was sure to come if he really decided to spank you again. And most horrifying of all is how your pussy gives a muted little throb of interest in response, stirring entirely against your will. You wouldn’t have ever thought yourself a masochist prior to this, and yet that seemed to be exactly what this place was turning you into. It really was mortifying and shameful. 

And as if that wasn’t bad enough you also knew he was right. Although it had certainly hurt in the moment, you were well aware that this was likely due more to the length at which you were spanked and not so much the force behind it. The waning strength in Zandik’s body meant he needed to pace himself, to drag it out long enough to make the sting settle through repetition rather than sheer power. The Doctor though … he was physically fit and more than capable of giving you a good beating. Even putting aside the humiliation, you were quite certain being spanked by him would be so, so much worse than what you’d already experienced once. 

No way could you just blithely go along with this. 

“I - is that really necessary?” You finally manage to say, wrestling to get the words out around your own thrumming, fidgety nerves now. “I swear I won’t do anything like that ever again, my lord. Even if you don’t punish me any further. I promise I learned my lesson. B - but if you must do it, does it have to be that? Can’t you choose a different method?”

The Doctor clicks his tongue, tut tutting at you. “Really now, trying to bargain your way out of a much deserved spanking isn’t going to do you any good, I’m afraid. I saw exactly what sort of physiological effect it had on you last night. The way you wilted and withered, cringing even when he was not striking you. And let’s not beat around the bush, shall we? If you’ll excuse the turn of phrase, that is.”

You make a face at that but he just goes on, unperturbed. 

“You’ve more than earned at least this much. What do you think the punishment would have been if you’d broken something important while you were off traipsing around in the cellar, hm? You have no comprehension of how important, how much time and energy, and not to mention how much of Pantalone’s mora, has been poured into some of the experiments and the equipment down there. I’m not here to threaten you, little mouse, but do understand that I would have been even less pleased with your behavior than I was, and the consequences would have been even more unpleasant for you as a result. The only thing that seems to have saved you from being thoroughly trussed up by my hands is the fact that 25 found you before you could do any real damage to anything.” 

Whimpering softly at the reprimand in his voice, you anxiously shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying to blink back the rising sting of tears. You really didn’t want to let him put his hands on you like that, but it was clear enough that you didn’t have much of a choice. It was either this or invite something even worse upon yourself. At least this was even an option though, and they hadn’t decided to just kill you outright and get it over with, but still … 

“Fine. I’ll do it. But I want your word that this will be the end of it, and there will be no more punishments. From any of you.” 

He barks a harsh laugh, sounding amused and maybe just a little impressed with your gall to start making demands. “I cannot and will not promise you that there will never be another reason to punish you. That all depends entirely on you, doesn’t it? But what I can tell you is this; as far as your transgression regarding the cellar is concerned, you will no longer be in any trouble once you leave this office today. That is assuming, of course, that you do not make me have to use force to wrangle you under control as if you were little more than a petulant child.”

Affront creeps across your face, but you bite your tongue to stop yourself from saying what you really want in response to that. He truly was an egoistic jerk on a power trip! No wonder 25 had reminded you so much of him and less of Zandik. 

“I won’t fight you. If it must be done, then so be it. Is that everything, sir?”  

“Ah, yes. One more thing.” Grinning another sharp little smile under his mask, the Doctor rather ominously lifts a third finger to join the first two. 

“The final term we agreed on was that, while Zandik might technically be your master and the person you report directly to, it should be well within the rights of the segments to borrow you from him for a time. It stands to reason, does it not, that you are the singular maid in this household which is generally shared with Pantalone, when he is able to come, as well the other segments. There should be no reason why you can’t assist elsewhere when we have use of you.”

Smirking as if he’s just played the winning checkmate, the Doctor nudges his chin up with a haughty little chuckle, taking the opening of your stunned silence to continue his indictment of you. 

“I’ll even be nice and let you in on a little secret. 25 seems to be rather smitten with the idea of taking you on as an assistant despite your less than confidence inspiring display yesterday. And I’m sure you’ll also be quite pleased to know that the old man certainly didn’t want to give you up very easily, but he did finally relent on the compromise that his permission has to be granted first. I suppose that should also assuage some of your concerns about safety, no? From this point on none of us will be allowed to abscond with you without authorization from your beloved old wretch.” 

Your brows slowly knit in response to that pointed jab at Master Zandik even as a dull flutter of understanding starts up in the back of your mind. So that’s what he was angling for, using the situation created by your own lack of foresight to renegotiate the terms of the initial agreement. This would essentially make you beholden to the whims of all of them by the sounds of it, but … Zandik had very likely realized this as well, and that’s why he’d insisted on a clause to better define the rules of engagement between them and you. 

Somehow that just about breaks your heart. He’d still been looking out for you even when he was displeased with you and mad enough to take you over his lap like a disobedient toddler. Your punishment had in all likelihood come from a place of caring then, even if his methods were a bit questionable. His attempt to warn you in the library was to that end too, you now realize. He’d said he didn’t want you to be scared and he was right. You would have been terrified if you’d known what was coming given the already bruised state of your bottom. 

Still though. Some part of that makes you inexplicably happy. And if they’d truly discussed what happened – what really happened, and not what Zandik had assumed, then that also meant he already knew you weren’t a bad girl. Not in the way he’d chided you for, anyway. He hadn’t been mad at you earlier, just … worried and remorseful. It was unexpectedly sweet in the face of this otherwise terrifying situation. 

Gods, you felt like an absolute twit, but you’re glad for the sense of relief that comes over you all the same. Finally, you could breathe easy again. At least where the old man was concerned. 

“I understand, my lord.” You say, finally lifting your head. “Then I will defer that authority to Master Zandik from here on and obey his judgment without question.”

“Hmph. Another pretty answer. But no matter. I’ll take it.” Exhaling a somewhat terse, anticipatory breath, the Doctor gives his right thigh a sharp pat. “Come, then. To my side, little mouse.”

You give a small jolt at that. “… right now?” 

“But of course. I’ll have to leave soon, and I would hate for any part of this to remain unsettled. Better to just get it done and over with, don’t you think?” 

Your stomach does a nervous flip that makes you feel well and truly sick, but you still frantically cobble together your resolve and move to step around the low table that stands between you and him. In many ways this is even worse than last night. You hadn’t known what was about to happen, for starters, and you’d also been unable to make the decision for yourself. You’d simply been steered into place, handed off between one set of hands to another and then forced into position. 

Now, though, you have to wrestle with your own self preservation instincts and a fight or flight response that goes absolutely haywire to make you feel jittery. Completely under your own compulsion, your own power, you shuffle around to come stand at his elbow even when you know what awaits you. It’s nerve wracking enough to almost make you collapse. 

But you obediently halt next to the couch, keeping your chin tucked down as you nervously fold your hands in front of you. You flick a quick, surreptitious glance at his waiting lap and then back down again, unable to look. Haltingly, you start to fidget. 

“Do I just … should I - -“ 

“Not yet. I’d like you to take your panties down for me first.”

Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?” 

The Doctor chuckles at that, a slow, grinding sound that seems to caress over every inch of your body. “What’s wrong, little mouse? Aren’t you wearing any today? And here I was so ready to pin all the blame for that on 25. I didn’t expect you to be such an exhibitionist. How unexpected.” 

Your cheeks couldn’t possibly get any hotter at this point, but you press your lips into a warbling line to stop yourself from arguing back. He was right. It likely was better just to get this done and over with, and he’d probably always have some smart comeback waiting and at the ready for you anyway. Arguing wouldn’t do you any good. 

So you hesitantly reach underneath your skirt, finding the hem of your panties to slowly tug them down until they hit the tiny metal clasps where the garterbelt connects to your stockings. Unable to push them any lower, your hands anxiously flit for a moment, indecisive, before shyly curling up to hover at about waist level. 

“Would you … like me to step completely out of them, sir?”

“No need. That should do just nicely. Now lift your dress.” 

A small whimper slips out even though you probably should have seen that coming, and on some level you sort of did. Honestly you weren’t sure why you would have ever expected anything less from this man. 

But you do it without complaint and only minimal embarrassment. It seems that in the repeated exposure of your nether region you were slowly — horrifyingly — starting to grow accustomed to these flagrant displays. And it helps that this is not unlike how you’d presented your cunt to Master Zandik in the library, your quim giving an eager little throb at the memory as you gather the hem of your flouncy skirt and lift it up. You immediately shudder at the waft of cool air against your heated skin, trying to pretend like you don’t notice the goosebumps erupting all over you. 

And the Doctor just takes a moment to simply admire you standing there before him like that, evidently drinking in the sight of the soft curls between your legs (you can’t help but wonder if he would find them slightly damp to the touch) and the soft, cushiony pudge where your thighs spill out over the tops of your stockings. He must like what he sees, you can only surmise, because he sedately leans back against the sofa to make room for you across his lap. And you don’t miss the vibrating thrum of tension that seems to curl through him when he does it. 

“Prostrate yourself. I’m not going to make this as easy for you as Zandik did by guiding you into position. I want you to make the decision and choose your fate all on your own, little mouse. This is as much a test as it is a punishment.”

You visibly twitch at that, cursing the heavy weight in your chest that threatens to choke you up and suffocate you. But you make a valiant effort to maintain your dignity in front of him and, with only a prim little sniff, you nudge closer to hesitantly lower yourself across his legs. 

It’s an even more awkward experience than it had been last night, he was certainly right about that, particularly when your butt is already exposed to the room with the lifting of your skirt. Tense and halting, you struggle to find a somewhat comfortable angle at which to lay out over his thighs only to quickly find that there simply isn’t one. It was likely part of the punishment, as small of a thing as it might be, yet another aspect of the humiliation ritual. Finally, having no other choice and with your heart lodged in your throat, you force your body to come to rest on your stomach and you go still, waiting for the pin to drop. 

For a drawn out moment he neither says or does anything at all. The only sounds in the room come from the ticking clock hanging on the far wall, your slightly labored breaths and the deep, steady drags of the Doctor’s lungs. 

Then, surprising you enough to make you jump, one gloved hand slides into place over the back of your neck and gently nudges. 

“Further. I want this round bottom of yours in the air.”

You make a small, unbidden squeak at that but you comply with this too. Lifting your body slightly, you shuffle even closer and then drape yourself over his legs again. You immediately realize why he’d wanted you like this, when the change in position leaves your head dangling almost down to the floor and the pressure on your stomach only increases as your back end is forced into a higher jut. Positioned like this, you have to stretch your legs out behind you and just press the toes of your shoes into the wood grain to maintain some semblance of balance. How insidious. 

“There. That’s much better.” Dottore finally coos, leaving the one hand on the back of your neck to keep you in place while the other finds your lower back and then smooths down one side of your ass. The sensation is enough to have you trembling, breaking out into a fresh wave of prickling gooseflesh, and you mewl a quiet sound at the contact to already sore nerves. 

You really were still aching from your last spanking and this was only going to make it that much worse. Dammit. 

“Don’t fuss now, darling. I know how unpleasant this is but believe me, it hurts me even more than it hurts you to have to subject you to this treatment.” Sighing a rather wistful, put upon exhale, he takes a moment to drag his hand up the other side, slightly lifting one fleshy globe before giving your butt a light, attention grabbing pat. “Spread your legs. Same as before, little mouse. And keep them open.” 

With no shortage of effort, you nudge your feet apart until you’ve got them spread much the same as the last time you’d found yourself in this situation. But the sofa is much lower than the chair in the dining room was, so you have much less space to stretch out in or find any traction with your shoes. The end result is that you’re forced to settle fully on your stomach, your toes barely leveraging balance now, and you quietly seethe when you realize, much like before, he’s made sure you have as little room as possible in which to lurch or absorb the blows. You would be completely at the mercy of his hand and the resulting, skin crawling recoil like this. 

But contrary to what he’d said, he doesn’t seem to be much in a hurry to get this done and over with and you give a tiny jolt when he slips that hand between your thighs, still crooning at you, to cup around your bare cunt. The Doctor gives it a squeeze and a patronizing jostle to make the nerves vibrate slightly. Groaning, you struggle to blink through the rosy haze that starts to descend over you. 

To have this sort of reaction when you were simultaneously queasy with fear … there really must have been something wrong with you. 

“What a good girl you’re being now. I must say, it did surprise me a great deal when I found that grumpy old badger alone and having quite the fit I might add. It didn’t seem like you to go against direct orders like that. But I suppose you would have me believe it was for a good reason, wouldn’t you?” 

You self consciously shift at that but try to play it off as if you were trying to get comfortable, stamping down the urge to squirm. Surely he couldn’t have known you’d stretched the truth to justify your actions … could he? 

“I - it’s true, my lord. What I told you was the truth. I saw - -“

“Yes, yes, I remember what you said. That you witnessed — I suppose you would feel inclined to call him 22, wouldn’t you? — when he was coming or going, and that raised your suspicions. And just like a good little maid should, you ever so bravely faced the horrors in the cellar. Isn’t that right?” 

A stilted nod of your head. “Yes. That’s right, sir.”

Humming a vague sound, the Doctor gives one side of your ass an almost thoughtful squeeze before slowly dragging his hand across to do the same on the other. But this time he digs his gloved fingers deep into already bruised flesh, making you yelp a startled squawk of discomfort. Even then, he just keeps squeezing. 

“It is a bit interesting though.” He says, perfectly casual and offhand despite the pinching force of his fingers on your skin. “That idiot 22 has been rather preoccupied with assembling a proto type mech arm for the last handful of months. He’s been working on it since even before you arrived here. I’m not sure when you might have seen him considering he often locks himself up for days at a time to play with his little toys.” 

A frightened chill races down your spine at the implication that he really did know the truth, and you draw a sharp, half strangled breath — to say what, you do not know. And you never get the chance to find out what you might have said either when the hand on your ass suddenly retreats only to come back down a second later to a resounding CRACK! 

The force behind just that one single hit steals the oxygen from your lungs, making your chest cinch so tight you can’t seem to get any air at all as you stiffly rock forward as much as this position will allow. It’s not very far though and you’re forced to just sit with it as a result, the muscles down your extended legs trembling while you try to process the hurt now radiating out from your ass. 

It’s only then that you understand the full scope of the differences between them, unable to ignore it or look the other way when just a single slap has you reeling in shock. This was why he was considered the prime. He was considerably stronger than Zandik, and limber enough to use the full range of motion in his shoulder, the full extent of the musculature in his arm to put a great deal more power behind the swing of his hand. 

And what a heavy hand it was, sitting on the curve of your ass cheek right where it had landed while heat radiates out from under his palm. Almost without even realizing it there’s suddenly a flood of tears in your eyes but you desperately work to blink them away as you at last manage to suck in a delayed, faltering gasp. 

“Oww …” 

“Heh. It looks like this will not be quite as easy for you as the last spanking you received, darling mouse. You’ll soon find that I am not nearly as soft hearted as that old fool is, and I won’t hold back just because of some sentimental notions of fondness. Zandik is free to try and protect you as much as he wants. But I am not nearly so lenient.” 

With that, his hand slips away and you frantically try to brace yourself for the next strike but nothing can quite prepare you for the way he cracks you across the other side, sending shockwaves rippling up your quaking body. You have a split second, hysterical thought that his glove probably isn’t helping, the way it seems to catch the skin and stick, but you quickly realize it wouldn’t even matter if he’d taken it off. He’s too powerful, too in control of his limbs, his posture, the way he subtly shifts underneath you with the raising of his arm and a soft slither of fabric and then —

CRACK! Back on the first cheek again, to nearly send your skin crawling off of your bones as you helplessly rock with the momentum, gasping woundedly like a drowning animal. It devastates you right down to your very core, and when he reaches across to smack the other side just as hard as the first time you can’t quite seem to stop your legs from futilely kicking out behind you, twisting in agony. 

Evidently unperturbed by all of your wild squirming, the Doctor picks up the pace by a small margin, swatting at the left cheek and then the right again. CRACK! CRACK! In agonizingly quick succession. 

Unable to stopper it any longer, you let loose a harried, high pitched squeal and jerk against his thighs when he smacks the left side again. But on the next slap to the right, he catches the crease where your ass meets your thigh just right and a blinding burst of splinters shoot through you like a million fiery pinpricks. It has you clenching your teeth, seething, so caught up in the agony of it that you almost don’t even notice the tears streaking down your face or the dribble of leaky snot coming from your nose. You just don’t think you can endure this the same way you did Zandik’s spanking and you outright squeal, bringing your legs together in a tight press to protect your naked cunt from the wrath of his hand. That last blow had been more than just a bit too close for comfort. So close you’d felt the aching stab of it in your quim. 

This, however, seems to displease him, and he begins to rain a stinging procession of punishing blows down on your defenseless ass even quicker now. “What did I tell you, little mouse? I said to keep your legs open for me.” 

“I - I caaant — ough! Wh - whaaaa, please, please, it hurts — ahhh!” 

“It is supposed to hurt, my dear. That is the whole point of pulling disobedient little girls over my knee, is it not? Ah, but if you really can’t keep them spread, then … perhaps next time I will have to remember to bring some rope with me, so that I might tie you down on the table and help you obey. Really, now. You’ve always been so well mannered, I didn’t think I needed to take the time to educate you this much.”

“I’m sorry! I’m suh - sorry, sir! I’m — yeeek! I’m s - sorry!” 

All but blinded by the tears, you frantically reach back with your outermost hand in a vain attempt to shield yourself. It’s impulsive and instinctive, but even knowing it’s a foolish decision and one likely to agitate his ire you just can’t seem to think straight or control the motor functions of your heaving frame when he’s lighting your ass up like that. It robs you of your breath, it makes your higher functioning mind short circuit and, if he kept at it this vigorously for much longer, you were sure you’d soon lose your bladder control too. 

But the Doctor just gives his tongue a sharp little click and reaches for your wrist with the hand that had been on your neck. The other is still slapping back and forth between your blistering cheeks, undaunted by the mindless kicking of your feet. 

“Goodness, it does appear to me that you are in need of a proper training regiment. I had no idea your manners were so lacking.” He mutters, perhaps more to himself than to you, as he somewhat ruthlessly pulls your arm into a tight bend and then pins it against your lower back. “Leave it there. You may grab onto the tie of your apron if it will help you.”

The angle is all wrong, pulling on your shoulder and giving you even less wiggle room when your upper half is now twisted in place with that awkward wrench. Whimpering and whining, you shudderingly find the strip of cloth cinched around your waist somewhere in the mess of fabric and slip your fingers underneath it, which earns you a quiet hum of approval. 

“Yes. I do believe some strong ropes to help you stay still and in position will do you plenty of good, sweet mouse. And as for that mouth of yours …”

Humming a soft sound of consideration, he gives your captured arm a tight squeeze of warning before sliding his hand away, reaching up to curl under your jaw and shove those digits into your mouth instead. It’s not at all unlike what he’d done to you in the library, when he’d made you clean his glove of your own arousal, but in the middle of being spanked seems to make it that much more humiliating. You mewl around the intrusion, trying to turn your head away, but then he claps you across your ass again and you freeze. It’s like the pain is sucking out your energy, frying your brain, and you can’t seem to make your body cooperate beyond that. 

And it’s no wonder why he would choose to wedge your mouth open like this. Unable to bite down or clench your teeth anymore allows the heaving groans, the miserably faltering sobs and the rough gasps for air to slip out unhindered. It also quickly starts to make you drool, you realize in a far off, dreamy sort of way as you wetly swallow around his fingers. Just another level to the degradation. 

“Now,” he intones, punctuating this with another hard slap to your throbbing behind. “I want you to listen to me well, little mouse. Because I will not be repeating myself again.” 

SMACK! SMACK!

He goes on, speaking over your wailing moans. “For as long as you are here, you are subject to the will and whims of a Fatui Harbinger. Even if you think of Zandik as your true master, don't forget that I am the one who hired you and you would not be here right now if it were not at my discretion.” 

SMACK! SMACK! 

“And even if only by virtue of my title, I still hold the greater authority over you. That means if I tell you to jump, you should be leaping at the opportunity to ask me how high.” SMACK! “And if I ask you to explain yourself to me, then I expect the truth. I’m afraid you’re more than a few decades too early to think you can pull those sorts of childish tricks over on me.” SMACK! SMACK! “I don’t doubt that you did see that bumbling idiot given your accurate description of his mask,” SMACK! “But something tells me that was because you were wandering somewhere you shouldn’t have been.” SMACK! “Am I wrong?” 

You sadly shake your head, hiccuping a thick sound around his fingers, and he rewards you for your answer with yet another blistering swat. 

“As I thought. Then I hope you’ll excuse me for choosing to punish you like this, but I’m sure you know exactly why I thought it necessary.” SMACK! “Don’t you?” 

This time you force yourself to nod, even as you cough and spit up a bubbling sheet of drool that slowly oozes out to drip down your chin. 

“Then let’s try not to have a repeat of this most unpleasant experience, hm? I don’t mind playing the villain, you know. I’m quite good at it, in fact.” SMACK! SMACK! “So hate me all you wish. Prefer that old wretch over me if it suits you, but don’t test my charitable disposition where you are concerned again.” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK! “Considering that I would be well within my right to take you by force or even kill you if I so wished it, I’d say I’ve been very considerate of your autonomy up until now. Which is far more than most people can say of me. Do try to keep that in mind the next you find yourself in my presence, won’t you?” 

Sniveling so violently you snort some awful, unbecoming sound, you stiffly brace for the next strike. But it never comes. 

It takes you a long, drawn out moment to realize the Doctor has grown still above you and his hand is not lighting up your sore cheeks anymore, but that hardly comes as a true relief. It feels like your ass is on fire, somehow even hotter than your face, and it’s nearly impossible to wrap your reeling head around the sheer agony of it. Even if you had not already been spanked by Zandik you were sure it would have hurt just as much, no doubt about that. But to have those heavy handed swings pepper your behind on top of the lingering bruises … oh, it felt like you’d never be able to properly sit down ever again. 

All you can do is lie there, stretched across his lap, trying to catch your breath and failing miserably at it. You felt like you might really throw up and he doesn’t help combat that when the fingers in your mouth twist, hooking into the corner of your cheek to slightly pull you more to the side. A numb squeak of surprised confusion rattles out of you at the shuddering strings of spittle that drip out over your lips, unable to stop it like this. That glistening thread of saliva just keeps stretching lower and lower until it finally snaps, and the wad of spit hits the floor underneath you with a tiny plap.    

“Are we at a mutual understanding now, dear mouse? I trust I won’t have to have this conversation with you again, will I?” 

“N - nrohh shir …”

“Wonderful. I won’t be half as merciful a second time.”

His other hand returns to slide over your ass then, making you jolt so hard you nearly come right up off his lap, squealing. But all he does is smooth that gloved palm over the aching curve of one globular cheek, rubbing the hurt in to make you hiss a wounded groan. 

He does the same to the other side and then, cooing a soft sound of approval, he reaches up to unlatch your aching fingers from around the knotted tie of your apron. It takes longer than it should when your digits seem to be locked in place from how tightly you’d been clutching at it, but at last he manages to pry you loose. And then, surprising you a great deal, he directs your arm lower down to manually curl your trembling fingers into the meat of your own ass. 

“That’s a doll. Spread yourself open for me. Let me get a good look at you.” 

There’s nothing else you’d like to do less but, certain that you did not want to invite any further discipline from him, you hesitantly obey, pressing your fingertips deep into the plushy give and pulling to the side. 

“Good. Now, the other. Go on. Use both of your hands, darling.”

Sucking in a painfully hitching breath, you awkwardly shift atop his thighs, struggling to work your left hand between the press of his body where you’re tucked in against his front. Finally, you manage to extend your reaching fingers far back enough and you grab at the aching flesh even when it hurts to shyly tug your cheeks apart, baring you fully to not only the cool waft in the room but his piercing gaze too. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately to block it all out, but it’s nearly impossible. The self conscious twitch of your puckering hole, the fleshy press where your labia meet to form a pudgy slit. You’re hyper aware of all of it, especially the insistent, throbbing pulse across your ass, only heightened by the grip you have on yourself. 

The Doctor coos at you once more, something quiet and nonsensical, as he slips his hand between your thighs again. It takes every ounce of willpower you have not to let go, not to shield yourself from his probing inspection and go scuttling away, but you force your thrumming body to stay prone and pliant for him. 

Even when he proceeds to slowly drag the pad of his thumb over the wrinkle of your asshole, lightly pulling at the flesh to make it slacken in the middle, you just groan a hissing breath. And yet more drool spills from your mouth, tongue lolling uselessly, to softly pitter patter on the hardwood beneath you. 

“According to 25, you seemed to rather like this sort of stimulation. Is that true?” 

You shake your head, noising a muffled, “Nuhh-uhh.” that makes you sound like you’re drunk. 

Snorting an amused chuckle, as if to say he doesn’t believe that, the Doctor takes a moment to just simply caress over that tight hole until it gradually starts to raise up under his ministrations. Coaxing it to relax, which it does completely against your will. And it becomes harder and harder to stop yourself from squirming, especially when you start to feel an unmistakably eager thrum start up in your lower gut. Was he really going to penetrate you like that? Could you actually take his finger without the excess of lubricant the surgeon had used? 

But then, a drawn out moment later, he abandons your pucker to reach further down and you can’t quite seem to decide if you were disappointed or relieved about that. He doesn’t give you the chance to figure it out, either, because he finds the apex of your pelvic mound where he sets in to lightly rub in slow, persuasive circles, encouraging you to warm up to his touch. 

You’re not sure if it’s because he’s handling you much more gently now, and the contrast between his rough fingering in the library as much as the toe curling spanking you’d just received has left you primed for a soft hand, or if it’s simply a matter of your cunt being just as overeager as Zandik liked to say it was, but you do give into that coaxing gesture. Almost embarrassingly fast. You can’t help it though as you shudderingly cant your hips into the source of your stimulation, much too eager for any amount of comfort or sympathy after everything that’s happened to make a better choice. 

And you positively hate yourself for it as soon as you do it, sobbing a broken, unhindered little sound that rattles and breaks off at the end, punctuated by the drawling laugh he croons at you. 

“Yes, you’re a good girl indeed. I don’t imagine I should have any further problems with you from here on out, will I?” 

You shake your head as much as you’re able to but the fingers hooked in your cheek make that difficult. He was right, though. Never again would you invite this sort of treatment from him, you’re quite sure of that. 

Especially when he then slips those deft fingertips away to press into the center seam of your body, pinching the skin just ever so slightly when he worms them into the meaty grip of your labia where he proceeds to hum a feigned sound of surprise. 

“My, what do we have here? I do believe you’re wet, little mouse. Is this all for me, or did you simply enjoy your spanking that much?”

Noising a tiny sound of protest, you subtly shift against his legs, fighting the urge to squirm. But he remains ever unperturbed, just slowly dragging those digits through the delicate creases and folds, smearing liquid arousal, with an utterly casual swipe of his hand. You’re ashamed at how much it actually makes you want it, to have him touching you like that. But any relief, any amount of gentle care, anything to distract you from the pain radiating out from your sore cheeks was much appreciated, and you reluctantly press back on him in supplication. 

The sharp rush of alleviation that comes when he obliges you, finding your sticky entrance and slowly pushing in, one fraction of an inch at a time, is almost enough to have you shattering to pieces right then and there. You just screw your eyes closed, breathing out a slow, shuddering breath, while that gloved finger slides up inside you on a mortifyingly smooth glide. 

“Oh, isn’t that cute. Your little hole twitches when I enter you like this. I take it you must rather like it, then?” Chuckling at your halfhearted groan of denial, the Doctor turns his wrist so that he can continue to finger your open with his first digit while his thumb comes up to rub slow, patient circles over your pucker again. 

“I think 25 was right and you do rather like being touched like this. If I were more of a tyrant I might choose to take offense at your fibbing, but don’t worry. I can tell this is still new to you, and I imagine your brain just hasn’t had a chance to catch up with the rest of your body yet. I’m quite certain you’ll come to love it in due time though. Who knows? You might even start to crave it. But, well. Given how greedy this little cunt of yours is, I doubt you’ll ever want anything more than to have it stuffed full and leaking. What do you think, hm? You want it all hours of the day, don’t you?” 

Such an intense tremor works through your body at his sultry, purred words that you need to readjust your clammy grip on your ass cheeks, struggling to keep them spread for him. Your neck droops bonelessly to one side, losing all of your strength and the will to keep fighting it the more he keeps touching you like that. 

But the Doctor is quick to tug on the inside of your cheek, using his hooked fingers to pull your head back up at an angle that makes you keen a weak sound. You can’t help feeling like a fish being reeled in, further humiliating you, and with the change in position the cool sheets of drool running down your chin start to dribble a slow path along your straining neck. He was making such a mess of you …

“Yuh - yeshh shir.” You stammer at the jostling nudge he gives you. 

“As I thought. It really is such a shame that I can’t stay and play with you more, but I fear my time for leisure is starting to draw to a close. Perhaps that old fool would like to have his way with you some more in my stead.” Heaving a somewhat dramatic exhale, the Doctor slides the hand between your legs out — much to your groaning frustration and dismay — to leave your quim vibrating after him, always eager for more. More, more, more. 

He was right to say you had a greedy pussy. 

The finger in your mouth also retreats to leave you gingerly working your jaw and swallowing hard to lubricate your dried out throat. Quickly letting go of your ass, you bring a quaking hand up to wipe some of the spit from your face, grimacing at the sticky mess you find. You’d have to stop in your room to freshen up first once you were allowed to leave. 

“You may stand.” He says, and you fumble to do just that even when your legs almost refuse to cooperate. 

But you manage, somehow, unsteadily pushing yourself upright to awkwardly settle into place at his side, standing at attention with no shortage of effort. Your hands tremulously clasp together in front of you, head bowed, and you give the Doctor a stiff bow. “Th - thank you for having this discussion with me today, and also … your correction of my behavior, sir. I swear it will not happen again.” 

At his gracious nod, you start to reach for your panties with every intention of pulling them up so you can beat a hasty retreat, but he stops you with an almost rueful cluck of his tongue. 

“Ah, ah. Not just yet, little mouse. Don’t you still have a mess to clean up?” 

You shoot him a bewildered, tear stained look, but he just nudges his chin down at the small puddle of drool you’d left behind on the flooring. It should be physically impossible for your face to get any hotter than it already is and yet, somehow, you manage to do just that, flushing in indignation. You wished you could snap at him and point out that it was his fault, but you wisely keep that thought to yourself. 

Instead, you snifflingly reach into a pocket in the apron to withdraw your handkerchief, leaving your panties tangled in the garterbelt clasps for the moment while you step forward to kneel down between him and the coffee table. Unfortunately you don’t make it much further than that. 

His hand is suddenly in the back of your hair, gripping only tight enough to stop you from scuttling away. You yelp in surprise, swaying unsteadily where you’re knelt when he forces you forward, making you go down on your hands and knees. He says something to you then but you can’t really hear him over the violent pounding in your ears. You’re almost too shocked, too stunned to properly react to anything that’s going on. 

All you know is that he drags you closer to the puddle by your hair and then, to your roiling revulsion, starts to shove your head down. You try to fight it with frantic urgency, one hand reaching back to grab at the unbudging wrist behind your head while the other abandons the handkerchief completely in favor of shoving at the ground in a blithe attempt to stop this from happening. 

It’s no good though. He’s much too strong, physically bigger than you, and his elevated position sitting on the edge of the sofa gives him far too much leverage when you were under him and on your knees. Despite your best efforts, Dottore finally gets your head nudged down enough to press your cheek into the wood grain next to the puddle. Just as if you were an untrained dog being forced to look at the mess they’ve made in their masters home. 

And was that really all that far from the truth?

“I didn’t say you could use something else to clean it up, did I?” He intones lightly, almost conversationally. But that doesn’t truly detract from the haughty, twisted edge in his voice somehow. “I told you to clean it up. Use your mouth.”

“M - my lord, please!” You warble sadly, sounding nearly hysterical even to your own ears. 

“Do it, little mouse. Or do I need to take you back over my lap again to encourage your obedience?” 

A frantic sob catches in your throat, almost choking you on it. You’re sure you’d rather die but you just can’t risk him spanking you again. You knew it would kill you. Submission was the only choice you really had. 

Even seeing the truth for what it is isn’t nearly enough to stop you from internally cringing so hard you’re half convinced you’ll faint dead away on the spot. But you do relent, even when your wilting pride screams at you not to. 

You have to consciously force yourself to relax, allowing him to pry your cheek up from the floor with a harsh jostle so he can then redirect your face towards the puddle of spit. He doesn’t shove your mouth into it though, simply waiting until you hesitantly part your lips and stick your tongue out. Only then does the Doctor bark a cruel laugh and press on the back of your head, guiding you into place so you can start lapping up the fluid with mortified, recoiling kitten licks. 

“That’s a good pet. And don’t you look lovely like this?” 

The Doctor pushes up to stand then, evidently confident that you would continue to obey, and you do, even as he shuffles behind you a few steps to get a better look. Standing near the corner of the sofa now, he neatly folds his arms behind his back and just watches. Observes. 

And you’re sure you must look a mess at that moment. On your hands and knees, mouth to the floor, with your bare ass up in the air and your panties twisted around your thighs. Pussy out, empty and waiting, but somehow so terribly wet for this monster. 

You can’t bring yourself to conceal your hate for him, glaring back at the Doctor from that awkward angle even as you clean away the spit from the ground with your tongue. He already knew how you felt about him anyway and it clearly doesn’t bother him one little bit as he smirks at you in return, his mouth cutting a sharp line across the lower half of his face. 

Good at playing the villain, indeed. 

“Oh, don’t look so upset. You’re free to hate me as much as you wish,” he purrs, sounding like the thought thrilled him really quite a lot. With a heavy clunk of his boot and a groan from the floor, he takes a perfectly measured step towards you. And then another. “Or you could even try to find some way to kill me, if you think you’re up to the task. Frankly, I’d applaud you for it if you did. Just remember who holds the most power here, little mouse.”

Coming to stand over you now, he gives his head that infuriating tip you were starting to hate so much. 

“It is not that feeble invalid Zandik. And it certainly isn’t you either.” 

His foot comes up then to press down on the back of your head. The pressure sedately forces your mouth to the floor until you’re laying in what remains of your own drool and your cheek squishes against the wood. You let out a tiny sound of protest but it doesn’t do anything at all to deter him. He just holds you there like that for an incomprehensibly long time without ever fully stepping down and crushing your skull even though some small part of you almost wished he would. At least it would be quicker than dragging the inevitable out like this. 

But, at length, he finally removes his boot and you’re able to gingerly pry your face up, wincing when the skin tries to stick. The Doctor is already turning away from you though, pacing back over to the corner of the couch where he peers down at you as if you were a filthy animal that’s wandered in off of the street. His somewhat agreeable mood from earlier is completely gone now. Vanished. Like a magician’s trick. 

“That will be all for today, little mouse. I really must be going soon, so do hurry and pick yourself up. And don’t forget to fix your clothes while you’re at it.”

Weak and shaky, you fumble to get your feet back under you again only to nearly collapse in a heap on the ground. You have to use the side of the sofa to steady yourself enough to get upright where you sway unsteadily for a moment even as you tug your panties into place. The caress of soft cotton over your blistering bottom nearly makes you sob even as you’re made painfully aware of how very wet you are between the legs after his rude probing. It really is like some sick joke. 

“Come, come.” He says, urging you to speed it up. “Do not dawdle, now. I’ll escort you back to the old man on my way out.”

You shoot him a miserable look, very conscious of the tears and residual spit on your face. “B - but, my lord, I need to - -“

“What you need to do is listen.” The Doctor huffs as he reaches out to snag your elbow in a tight, pinching hold which he then uses to drag you, stumbling, closer to him. “Haven’t you learned this lesson yet? I did not bring you here to think, only to obey.”

Pausing, he takes a moment to chidingly tug your much wrinkled apron back into place where it was twisted askew. You try to take that chance to wipe the moisture from your cheeks with the heel of your palm, but in regretfully short order he’s pulling you into motion with him. 

Unlocking the door with a decisive click, Dottore pulls you out and into the hall, just the same as he’d done last night. He neither slows his pace or shortens his strides to give you a chance to keep up, and you’re left simply tripping along after him as you self consciously attempt to get yourself sorted out in time to face Master Zandik. It’s a resounding effort in futility though. Between the hurt in your body as much as the damage to your ego, the mess he’s made of you, it’s nearly impossible to keep your emotions in check. 

So much so that by the time he reaches the library and yanks this door open, you’re rapidly blinking through a swimming sheen of fresh tears that have welled up in your burning eyes, completely unbidden. 

Zandik, still sitting at the studiously crammed desk, lifts his head to glance across the room when you’re rather unceremoniously shoved inside to stand front and center. His expression slackens to deepen the wrinkles that mar his skin when he sees the state you’re in; flushed and wet faced, clothes untidy and rumpled. 

And with a final slam behind you, the Doctor takes his abrupt leave. 

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

For a long, drawn out stretch of seconds the two of you just stare at one another from opposite sides of the library in mute silence. 

But then the dam seems to crack and crumble with all the sudden destruction of a crashing maelstrom behind it, and the tears are suddenly coming full force. 

Zandik stiffly moves as if to stand and come to you, but he doesn’t need to do that. You’re already crossing the room in a disoriented, nearly blind rush, unable to stop the blubbering sob that wells up within you from escaping. He only has a split second to realize you were running to him, not away, and he has just enough time to turn in his chair before you make it around the desk where you all but throw yourself into his arms. 

There are no thoughts of decorum or decency in your head as you shudderingly cling to him, pressing your face tight into the knobby curve of his shoulder. For the span of a single heartbeat he almost doesn’t seem to know what to do with this. What to do with you. 

And then his cool, faltering hands slowly come around you to press into your back, holding you against him. 

That alone is enough to have you breaking into pieces, wailing a muffled sound of despair while you soak the fabric of his jacket in your tears. It’s just too much. The pain and the loss of your innocence, the ever present threat of impending doom that seems to lurk around every corner in this old, creaky mansion. And that was to say absolutely nothing of the dreadful situation with your mother. You couldn’t leave this place to check on her yourself and there was no telling when Lord Regrator might grace the sprawling grounds with his presence again. Or even if he would honor your request of him in the first place. It was slowly tearing you down, bit by bit, and you felt hopeless. Lost and vulnerable. 

But Zandik manages to surprise you enough to pierce through the misery by some small margin when he softly tuts at you, wrapping his bony arms more securely around your shoulders so he can gather you tightly to himself. 

“Stupid girl.” He softly murmurs, petting over your bowed head with one hand. “You came back.” 

You nod into his shoulder, much too busy crying your eyes out to speak, and you weren’t sure what you would have said to that anyway. Yes, you’d come back. But what other choice did you even have? Not only did you doubt that the Doctor would ever let you escape this place alive but you also knew you couldn’t leave him here at the mercy of his own demented segments. Who knows how long he’d even last with them in charge of his care. He could be dead for days before they noticed given how infrequently they seemed to check in on him. 

And it just wasn’t fair. Not to him or to you. And gods, what did Pantalone think of all this if he knew how the younger parts of Zandik were as the Doctor had claimed he did? In retrospect it really was no wonder why he would want you here taking care of the old man in his stead. 

You just weren’t sure how much longer you could continue to do it before your sanity chipped away though. 

“There, there.” He’s saying, trying to comfort you. Stroking over your hair. “It’s alright, isn’t it? Calm down. Before you make yourself sick.”

You give your head a stuttering, miserable little shake, clutching at the front of his white jacket hard enough to make your fingers hurt. 

Quietly sighing into the side of your head, Zandik lets you carry on for another moment longer. Consoling you and rubbing your back. But when the tears still won’t stop, and you start to sadly hiccup, struggling to pull in short, gasping breaths, he finally gives his tongue a small click as he gently nudges at you. 

“Come here, girl. Let me see you. You’ve got my shirt soaked straight through, you know.” 

Sniffling very sadly, you let him tug you closer until you have no choice but to take a seat atop his thigh, even when it makes your bottom throb hotly at the pressure. You’re almost too wretched to care in that moment, although you do still catch yourself self consciously fidgeting at both the pain and the worry that you might crush him. He just feels so very thin and frail under your soft, filled out figure. 

It is not so different from when he’d pulled you into — not over — his lap previously though, and you gratefully settle into place against him, keeping your face tucked into the crook of his neck to stubbornly hide from him. But Zandik successfully surprises when he reaches down to somewhat unsteadily grab at your calves, pulling your legs up to drape them over the opposite armrest. A fluttering note of surprise curls through your constricting chest when you realize he’s cradling you to the front of him while the arm behind your shoulders carefully rocks you now. Just like one might an inconsolable child. 

Rather than embarrass you, though, the thought actually makes your heart ache with real affection. He really did care about you on some level despite that unfortunate ordeal in the dining room downstairs. You wouldn’t have thought this tangible proof of what you’d quietly started to suspect would make you feel so indescribably … happy. 

“That’s better, now.” Zandik murmurs at you when the choking sobs and the full bodied shakes start to slowly subside, soothed away by his unexpectedly gentle hands as much as the comforting smell of him as it fully envelopes you. “Just take a moment to breathe. There. You’re alright. You’re still in one piece, aren’t you?”

You can’t help but laugh a thick, half strangled sound at that. “Relatively speaking, I suppose …”

He gives your tense shoulder a doting pat at that. “Sometimes that’s all we can truly ask for, eh?” 

Slowly nodding your head once, you bring a careful hand up to wipe at your face. You’re not quite ready to look at him just yet though, keeping your head ducked down while you try to get yourself a bit more under control first. In some ways you couldn’t really believe you’d just come crashing down like that. But even when you were admittedly a little embarrassed about it, you can’t exactly say that it wasn’t without good reason. The exchange with the Doctor had taken a lot out of you and in the aftermath of your pitiful sobbing you just felt … empty. Barren, just as the mountainous, snowy plains outside were void of much of anything. Just a desolate white wasteland inhospitable to most life. 

And yet, Zandik does a surprisingly excellent job of warming you back up again, of filling in the empty spaces within your fractured mind as he dotingly pets you and rocks you in his lap. It was — nice. Really nice, in fact. You were quite certain you could have simply stayed like that with him forever without any complaint. 

But just as all things must eventually end, so too does this quiet moment between the two of you draw to a close and Zandik finally stirs against you some moments later. 

“Are you able to talk again?”

With one last sniffle, you gather your courage enough to lean up from his shoulder yet you still keep your face turned away for the time being. Somehow you got the feeling that looking at him too soon would just bring the tears right back. “Yes, Master …”

“Good.” He says shifting under you to dig into one of his pockets. A real challenge given how thoroughly curled up on top of him you are. “Allow me to speak first. Here. Blow your nose, silly girl.” 

He holds a handkerchief up to your face, making you belatedly realize you’d left yours on the floor in the office. But you can’t seem to care much about it as you lean into his hand and do as he’d asked of you, feeling really quite awful. 

“There you are. Now, listen to me well. I owe you a real apology, don’t I? The irony is that, even for all of my supposed intellect, I can't seem to figure out what to say to you that might even come close to being enough. I’m not sure how to express just how sorry I am that there wasn’t more I could do to protect you, and for … not listening to you, when you tried to tell me I had it wrong when you came up from the cellar with him. Those two explained everything to me after you left. I’m surprised you even decided to come back like this.”

You have to take a moment to self consciously clear your throat, finding your voice hoarse and thin when you try to speak. “Yes, Lord Dottore said that he and 25 had a long discussion with you. About me, and … us. I’m glad he was telling the truth about that.” 

A spark of genuine confusion cuts through Zandik’s remorse, making his pale brows knit slightly when he glances into your face again. “25? What in Teyvat are you talking about, girl?” 

“O - oh. That.” You offer up a sheepish laugh. “I know that probably sounds a little silly, doesn’t it? I just wasn’t sure if I’d be able to remember names like Omega, Beta … and that wouldn’t really help me keep track of who’s who either. So, Lord Dottore said for the sake of simplicity I could call them by their ages instead. Is that — alright with you, Master?”  

He gives a slow, rather owlish blink to that before stiffly leaning back into the chair with an almost disbelieving huff. “He really told you everything, didn’t he? I have to admit, that does surprise me a fair amount. The only other person who I’ve ever fully divulged the entire scope of my folly to is …” 

“Lord Regrator, sir?” You take a swing, earning yourself a sharply barked laugh. 

“That’s right. Clever little thing.” He starts to send you a rueful yet fond look, wanting to smile at you, but he seems to realize what he’s doing and quickly sobers. Much to the silent aching of your heart. “But you still came back. Why? After everything that’s happened and the way I acted towards you … I was sure you’d decide to go back home to Snezhnograd.”

“Honestly, I might have felt so inclined if I truly believed he would let me leave.” Shyly lifting your gaze, you send him a meaningful glance from under the wet clumps of your eyelashes. “Or if it were not for you, Master.” 

A silent beat passes over the room, and the intangible spark that seems to pass between you and him is only punctuated by the constant ticking of the grandfather clock on the opposite wall. 

Then, ever so slowly, Zandik nudges his chin up to squint at you — though it lacks any of the usual bite or critical assessment you were used to. 

“So, you do realize it then. Quite clever indeed, aren’t you? All that studying and reading your mother made you do has served you incredibly well. I was … I don’t mean this as a jab, girl, but I didn’t know if you would realize it or not. How much danger you’re actually in.” 

Hearing him say it doesn’t exactly feel great, not when it only solidifies what you’d already started to suspect regarding your ultimate fate here, but it does make you feel slightly less crazy. 

“Yes … I realized it yesterday. When we were down in the cellar. It is — unfortunate, of course. That this is the state of things, and the circumstance of our meeting has to be so tinged in melancholy. I must confess to you, Master, that I’m deeply worried about my mothers condition and I wish I could go to her. Even if it was only for one day. Knowing she is at one of the best hospitals Snezhnaya has to offer doesn’t give me much comfort when I have yet to hear any word from her. It’s starting to feel a bit like I’ve been erased from the outside world. Like I only exist here. With you.”

Zandik straightens slightly with the slow breath he pulls in at that, as if he wanted to respond but he doesn’t know what will be of any comfort to you. What wouldn’t just be the same pretty lip service the Doctor had chided you for. Or maybe he simply isn’t sure what he can say that won’t send you spiraling into another fit of anguish again. 

It doesn’t really matter though, not when your choice has already been made. Not today, or yesterday, or even the day before, but back at the Northland Bank, and you carefully bring your hand up to brush your thumb over the deep frown lines on one side of his mouth.  

“I’m sure I’ll figure something out when the time comes though. Perhaps … if he’s feeling generous enough, I suppose it’s possible that Lord Dottore might decide to keep me on as his own personal maid? Or maybe he’ll decide to pass me off to Lord Regrator. They might even want joint custody of me, if they can’t decide who should have responsibility of me after the divorce.” 

That earns you a real laugh, the sound punching out of Zandik’s chest with a vaguely wheezy cough. Almost as if he was unaccustomed to vocalizing such sounds, and it had been a very long time since he last laughed with the sincerity of his whole chest. 

But it pleases you almost as much as it surprises you, making your stomach flip and light up as if a whole fleet of fireworks was erupting inside it. 

Feeling strangely emboldened now, you offer him a far easier smile than you would have thought you were capable of after everything you’ve endured. “I don’t know if I actually believe that. I’m sure it’s just as likely that they will find me not worth the hassle of keeping alive and that will have to be the end of the road for me. But really, Master, I’m glad you’re talking to me like this again. I really do hate to see you upset with me. I’m sorry for disobeying you.”

Zandik holds up a hand to stop you, looking really quite pained at the reminder of his behavior. “Keep it. I don’t deserve your apologies and, frankly, you don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m afraid the majority of the blame belongs to me. There were any number of things I could have done to better equip you for navigating this situation on your own. Being truthful with you is right at the top of that list.”

Breathing out a terse sigh, he tips his head back against the chair and closes his eyes while he gives the meat of your leg a rather amicable pat. 

“But if he already told you everything then there’s no excuse for me not to be honest with you as well. And now that you know what I have done, the lengths I’ve gone for the sake of progress and in the name of results, I find myself admittedly a bit … amazed, that you still wish to be close with me like this. It’s only natural if you saw me as a monster and yet, you evidently do not. As always I expected the worst.” 

You sit with that for a long moment, turning it over in your head while you fiddle with the loose tie around his collar. “Was it the same for Lord Regrato too?” 

A mild scoff. “His situation was quite different from yours. Ah, but not entirely dissimilar, I suppose. He saw me at my worst when I was still young enough to be a threat to anyone and everyone around me, but somehow he still accepted what I am. Heh. You could probably even argue that he made me worse, in a way.” 

You’re not so sure you believe that when, in light of all that you have learned, it occurs to you that something must have happened at some point in his life to facilitate the changes in him that then culminated into the man sitting before you today. Although there were certainly shared traits and habits between Zandik and his younger selves, there was also no denying that he was noticeably different from them too. He wasn’t so — rigid and unrelenting, so caught up in his own ego that he couldn’t see the forest for the trees. There was a capacity to be soft within him, a desire for closeness even if he didn’t always know the best way to show it or ask for it. Could that really have been Pantalone’s doing? Had he healed some part of Zandik’s soul in his open, unburdened acceptance of who he was as a person? 

The thought makes your mind wander back to what the Doctor told you regarding the other segments, how they represented various age ranges with Dottore himself firmly planted in the middle and two that came after him. Forty-five and sixty-five, respectively, if memory serves. And you find yourself even more interested in them now, wondering if they, too, had been softened in the face of Pantalone’s influence. 

“Will you tell me about it?” You ask when you can’t seem to keep your pressing curiosity held at bay any longer. 

“Hm. Perhaps later. It is, after all, a rather long story, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Rousing himself, Zandik tips his head back down to look at you with a sober expression. “I think I'd rather talk about you for now. Are you sure you’re alright? What did he do to you?” 

Internally withering at the reminder, you tuck your chin down and avert your gaze. “He spanked me …”

The old man gives a tiny jolt at that. “Again? After I already …” Cutting himself off with a sharp click of his tongue, he slides the hand on your back higher up to cup around the curve of your skull, pulling you back down into his shoulder again. And you’re glad for it as you hide your face against him, hating the hot flush that creeps across your cheeks as much as the rising sting of fresh tears. “That damned brute. I knew he wanted to add on to your punishment, but I thought — well, I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? What’s done is done, I suppose. Oh, your poor bottom.” 

The bony hand on your thigh slides higher up to grab at soft pudge, lifting the back of the skirt slightly when he pulls on your hip to rotate your pelvis towards him. You tremble at the waft of cool air on blazing cheeks and squeak a small sound, balled hands clinging to him all the more fervently. 

Zandik just softly coos at you, however, as he leans forward to peer down at what he can see of your ass from this angle. The way he immediately hisses, pulling in a slow breath through his teeth, makes your stomach roil as you start to fidget in his hold. 

“Look at what he’s done to you. And after I tried to tell him I’d already taken care of it too.” Exhaling a terse breath, he carefully reaches up to smooth a soothing hand over the tender flesh of your topmost cheek. 

You whimper quietly at the renewed stabs of discomfort but quickly relax into the touch as much as you can when his cool skin proves an unexpectedly effective balm. It doesn’t make the pain go away, but at least it makes the tanned surface area not feel quite so warm. 

“I don’t know how you can forgive me for treating you that way in front of him. I should’ve known better. It might have been one thing to have Feofan watch while I spanked this cute bottom of yours. We very well could have turned it into a game to play with you, but …” His wizened fingertips find the edge of your panties and slip under the material to rub over a greater expanse of your behind, gooseflesh erupting all over you when you shiver. “I guess I always did enjoy taking out my frustrations on others, and somehow I still haven’t fully moved on from that bad habit yet. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions and I most certainly should not have said those terrible things to you either.”

Squirming slightly when the touch of his hand so very close to your neglected cunt makes heat curl low in your stomach, you shift in his lap to turn your face inward. You leave your head resting against his shoulder though, not quite brave enough to look him in the eye just yet. Who knows what you might say or do. 

“You needn’t apologize, Master. I sort of deserved it, didn’t I? Even if you were mistaken about my reasons for doing so, I still broke your trust in me. I’m really sorry about that.”

“Not another word of that now, girl. They told me everything. That you’d claimed to have seen one of them skulking about, and I can’t say I don’t understand why that might concern you.” He murmurs, still petting over your sore ass which faintly twinges at that unintentional reminder of what the Doctor said while he had you over his knee. He’d seemed to know you hadn’t been completely honest about how the one in the half-mask had first come to your attention, but did Zandik? You weren’t so sure you were willing to admit you’d only stumbled into that perverted weirdo because you’d gone off on some foolhardy mission to investigate that strange noise. 

The strange noise you suddenly realize you haven’t heard all day. How curious. 

“Yes, I … I thought I saw someone through the window when we were in the library the other day.” You admit, deciding a tiny half truth couldn’t possibly get you into any more trouble. “That roused my suspicions enough, but then I happened to catch a glimpse of someone in the house when I — got up to fetch a glass of water in the night. I was very thirsty after the lesson in your bed, Master Zandik.” 

He stiffens slightly when you give the soft pudge on his side a playful pinch, emphasizing that reminder. Despite knowing full and well that it was technically wrong to leverage your sexuality like this in hopes of distracting him enough that he won’t think too hard about your story, you just can’t seem to stop putting your hand in the fire. Even if it was not with ideas of your own self preservation in mind, there’s simply no denying that you were still eager to invite his gently tempered attentions upon your body. 

The Doctor had been right about that too, as it turned out. You were so needy, so hungry to feel that carnal rush again that it seemed very little could actually deter you from seeking it out. A strict hand or a doting one. Evidently it didn’t matter. Not even the lingering throb across your ass could dissuade you for very long. 

And the best part is, it seems to work. 

Zandik shifts slightly underneath you, sinking lower into his chair so he can gather you more securely to his front. The hand in your underwear even slips out to grab at the meat of your thigh, using it as leverage to adjust the way you’re sitting in his lap. 

Suddenly you find yourself laying out on your back while he cradles you not unlike a baby to his chest. That almost manages to embarrass you and quell the stirring flame that flickers at your loins, but then his wrinkled hand comes to rest just at the twisted hem of your skirt, his long bony fingers stretching out over your soft thigh to give it an almost possessive squeeze. Much too close to your eager quim for you to think of anything else than him touching you there. 

And yet, Zandik’s attention remains on your face, not on what’s between your legs, keeping his chin tucked down as he looks over your expression. Reading your mood, maybe even your mind, taking you in and drinking up the sight of you curled so sweetly on his lap for him. 

“Were you, now?” He rumbles at length, his tone noticeably dropping an octave. Yes, yes, you were quickly getting the hang of this little sex kitten minx act, weren’t you? “If my memory serves me well, and I haven’t gone completely senile yet, I seem to recall you also had another lesson right here in the library that same day, didn’t you? What a greedy little girl you are, to demand two orgasms from me in such a short period. Do you remember what I taught you the first time I used my fingers on you here?” 

You slowly nod, biting down on your lower lip to chase away some of the hazy fog falling over your mind. It seemed inevitable when he talked to you like that, though. None of the segments made you feel the same way, not even close. 

“Yes, sir … you - you taught me how to ask for my cunt to be played with.” 

“Mmm. Very good. You really are a clever girl. And how do you ask for it, then?” 

Stamping down the urge to fidget and shy away from it, you sedately spread your legs for him so that they fall into a wide v where they’re hooked over the opposite armrest. The shift nudges your flouncy skirt further up with a near silent slither of the fabric, and you shoot a quick glance between your thighs to find that the edge of your panties is now exposed. 

Zandik turns his head to look as well, humming a soft sound of approval, encouraging you to keep going. And you do, reaching down to just pinch at the bulk of the material so you can slowly inch it up, up, exposing another tiny strip of your underwear at a time. Soon enough you can see that the cotton is plastered to the outline of your cunt, moulded to the pudge of fat little lips, and you almost start to have second thoughts about this. Maybe you should have cleaned up first. After all, the Doctor had teased and probed you only enough to get your excitable cunt drooling for him before taking his abrupt leave. Would Master Zandik take offense to that? 

The thought is out of your mind in an instant, dissolved like sugar in warm water, when he doesn’t hesitate to reach down and cup his palm over the puffy mound of your cunt. You shudder intensely at the sensation as much as at the visual, the latter making you feel almost dizzy with want. 

His hand just looks so thin and bony, with long spindly fingers that seem to stretch along the whole length of your slit and sharp, jutting knobs for knuckles, especially when framed against the soft, supple curve of your bracketing thighs. His skin wrinkled and worn while yours was smooth and glowing in your youth. Something about that sharp contrast seems to drive you crazy, and you needily buck against his hand, nudging your pelvis up into that territorial touch. 

“Very good.” Zandik croons at you, rewarding your sweet supplication of him with a stilted caress. “What a nice little student you are. I’m glad to see you were paying attention. Sometimes I have to wonder if you’re not doing so much of your thinking with this insatiable cunt that you don’t always hear everything I tell you.”

Whimpering a soft sound at that, you cant your hips again to tentatively grind yourself into the broad palm of his hand, seeking out your pleasure from him. “That’s not true, Master. I — I always listen. I want …” 

You trail off, suddenly overcome by stage fright and innocent bashfulness, but Zandik turns to glance down at you again, even while he continues to slowly rub over you. “What do you want, girl? I can’t know unless you tell me. Go on.”

That was certainly easy for him to say, wasn’t it? 

But you still do your best to be brave, even though you can’t quite bring yourself to look him in the face when you speak it aloud. 

“I want to … be good for you, Master Zandik.” 

What a humiliatingly infantile thing to say to someone who was old enough to be your grandfather!

And yet, it seems to strike a sensitive chord in him, and he shudders faintly with the low groan he breathes out, hand stilling against your cunt while he tries to wrangle his response back under control. 

“Is that so?” 

“Y - yes, sir. I do. I promise.” 

Rumbling a low sound that seems to vibrate through him and into you, Zandik gives your pussy an almost thoughtful pat, pat with his fingers. Then, seemingly making up his mind, he gives your shoulders a light nudge with the opposite hand. 

“That’s a very sweet thing of you to say to me, girl. Thank you for that. Why don’t you stand up for me, hm? If you want to be so good.” 

You aren’t sure what to think of that request but you don’t really stop long enough to question it either. The heated way he looks at you guarantees you don’t have the brain power for much thinking at the moment as you gingerly work to get yourself straightened out and then push up to stand. 

But when you try to turn around to face him, his hands come up to grab hold of your waist and stop you. 

“Stay like that for just a moment.” 

The following sensation of him grabbing the knotted bow of your apron manages to cut through the fog and surprise you enough that you give a little jolt. “M - Master? What are you doing?” 

“Something I probably should have done a long time ago, if you want the truth.” 

Even though you have no idea what to make of that answer you still obediently stand there while he works the bow loose with shuddering old fingers. The sensation of the garment soon falling open to hang from your shoulders makes you shiver slightly but he doesn't tell you to turn around just yet. Instead, Zandik reaches under the back of your skirt to locate the tops of your thigh high stockings where he spends a long stretch of moments simply fumbling with the little clasps holding them up. 

You start to strongly suspect what he’s doing now, but you can’t quite seem to find your voice when he finally reaches up again to grasp around your waist. Giving it a mild squeeze, he indicates for you to spin around. And you do, slowly, keeping your chin tucked down so you won’t have to peer into his face when you were so sure yours was probably pinched in alarm. 

It surprises you a great deal though. He’d never once tried to get you naked, only exposing your cunt to the air and to his machinations, but … even that night in his bedroom, he could have just as easily unbuttoned the top of your housekeeping uniform to pull your tits out and he hadn’t. You probably wouldn’t have even complained about it all that much in the hazy heat of the moment. Instead, he’d simply caressed and pinched, and kneaded your tit straight through your clothes. 

Now, however, something seems to be noticeably different. Zandik just has so much of his sharp attention fixed on you that you can’t help the way you start to feel self conscious or how vague little thoughts of worry begin to flash through your mind. What if he didn’t like your body as much as he currently thought he did? Were your breasts too large? Too small? And the love handles on your sides … 

Suddenly you don’t feel quite so eager with arousal anymore as you stand there, awkwardly fidgeting, while he takes his time ever so carefully pulling the apron from your body. He drops it somewhere down at his feet and then, same as before, he reaches under the dress to fiddle with the front clasps on the garterbelt this time. 

“M - Master?” 

“Hush. There’s no reason to start getting shy with me. I’d just like to see you, that’s all.” 

You don’t have the heart to reject his request, although you do secretly wish he’d at least leave you some small strip of clothing to give you even just a tiny sense of security. Even if it was entirely fake. To be perceived in the nude like that by a man was …

“There. They don’t make these things easy, do they? Lift your foot for me, girl. Put your hands behind you on the desk if you need to.”

Snapping out of your swirling thoughts, you peer down in plain faced uncertainty. But even when your heart pounds a wild, violent rhythm you still obey without question — such a stark difference from your interactions with the Doctor — as you carefully curl your leg up as he’d asked. 

Noising a vague sound of approval, Zandik bends to the task, head bowing, while he works to unlatch the two shiny buckles on your shoes. It’s clearly difficult for him, the tiny eyelets and clasps much too petite for his stiff, arthritic fingers, but he stubbornly keeps at it until he has both of them undone. 

Your shoe is summarily removed and dropped to the floor next to your apron before he goes back in to roll your stocking down the length of your leg. Once that’s gone, he allows himself just a brief moment to cradle your foot, pressing in on sensitive nerves and the chords of ligaments, squeezing the appendage softly, and then letting it go. 

At his instruction, you switch to the other side so he can repeat the process there too, and this time you need to use the desk to brace yourself. Despite how embarrassing this undoubtedly is, it’s still somehow fascinating to watch him work. The concentration along his wrinkled brow is regrettably attractive in a way that makes your chest and your pussy ache for him terribly. That serious set of his mouth, the way his eyes squint down at the small buckles as he grumbles something unkind under his breath about the shoemaker responsible for them. 

And it hits you at full force like a sack of bricks. 

Gods, you’ve never known anyone you found more attractive in all your life. 

In some utterly inexplicable way even his own segmented younger selves couldn’t quite compare with their variously covered faces and the lack of any truly unique identifying traits that you’ve seen thus far. 

You understand, then, why the Doctor hated Zandik so much. As long as he was alive, as long as he was still whole and kicking, he would always be the total sum of their individual parts. They were nothing more than redundancies of him. Even Omega, the one that was supposed to be in the prime of his life, intelligent and powerful, couldn’t truly match up to the whole and completed picture that was Zandik. 

It’s almost enough to bowl you over on the spot, but you say nothing of what you’re thinking when he at last gets that shoe and stocking removed as well. At his behest you lower that foot to the ground to stand before him, about an inch and a half shorter than you normally were. 

But if he notices it he certainly doesn’t seem to care. He’s a man seemingly on a mission now, and you suck in a slow, halting breath when he then reaches up to start fiddling with the first button at your throat. 

“Would you … like me to help you, Master?” You cautiously hedge, earning yourself a light scoff. 

“Impatient girl. That shouldn’t be necessary. I think I can manage this much on my own.” 

Even though he says that it still takes him a moment longer than it should for him to get the little fasten undone before he can move onto the next. Now he has something unkind to say about the garmentmaker, and the Doctor for giving this outfit to you, and you soon find yourself giggling over Zandik’s predicament even when he sends you a sharp look of warning. 

Your girlish titters are quick to subside, though, when he eventually gets the last button loosened and starts to nudge the top half back over your shoulders. It occurs to you then that he’s actually serious about undressing you right there in the middle of the library, regardless of who might walk in. 

A fluttering thrill zaps through your body as you move to oblige him, shrugging out of the top half of the dress and then pulling your arms through the sleeves. Then, with his help, you shimmy it down over your hips and step out of it to leave you standing in only your slip and the garterbelt underneath it, and your decidedly very damp panties. A small fraction of your earlier eagerness returns when you wonder what he planned to do with you, but he gives your fingers a halfhearted swat when you reach for the hem to pull the top half off. 

“Eager little thing.” Zandik softly chides you, slipping his hands underneath the breezy silk slip to find the garterbelt instead. “I’ll give you exactly what you’ve been patiently waiting for soon enough, but you must let me do what I need to do first. Nice things will only come for good girls that can wait. Do you understand?” 

You offer up a stilted nod of your head, torn equally between excitement and insecurity now. It was impossible to say when the last time was that someone saw you naked. Sometime long ago in your childhood, perhaps, but in this context … 

Trembling fitfully at the rough pads of his fingers brushing against your lower stomach while he makes quick work of relieving you of the belt, you abruptly find that it is getting harder and harder to breathe. Your skin aches for his touch so much that even just the faintest sensation of his fingers on your body makes you shudder and quake. It feels very much like you’re a firework set to go off at any moment, especially when he hooks into your panties and tugs those down as well. 

Now the only thing standing in the way is the laughably thin, flimsy barrier of your slip, but in all truth you’ve never felt quite as naked as you do then. Your nipples are tight and hard, seeking where they stick straight up through the silk, and your bare cunt … 

“I’m going to take this off now.” He warns, no doubt noticing the stricken look on your face. At your disoriented glance, confused by your own thoughts, Zandik stretches his arm up to curl a finger under the strap on one side of the garment, inching it down to hang off your shoulder. 

A quickly ratcheting thread of tension settles low in your gut as you nod to him, much too busy focusing on pulling oxygen into your lungs to respond verbally. Eager now to set his eyes upon you, Zandik wastes no time tugging the other side down and then ever so carefully inching the slip down the length of your body, one tortuous fraction at a time. Your tits are the first to spill free and you suck in a sharp little rattling gasp at the sensation of silk being drug over those painfully hard points before they hit the air. Bare and vulnerable.

Then it trails lower and lower, down the length of your stomach to briefly bunch around your hips before he can nudge them the rest of the way down where they finally pool around your ankles. 

And suddenly you’re as naked as the day you were born, standing in front of the old man who unabashedly drags his eyes over every single inch of you. He neither shies away from any one part of your body nor does he skim past anything in a way that would suggest it was unimportant to him. It’s as if all of you inspires some amount of fascination in his mind, even the most benign places you wouldn’t have even thought to give a second glance. 

Yet, Zandik lingers on your arms and your clavicle just as much as he does the full weight of your tits. The grabbable pudge at your sides you’d felt so self conscious about a moment ago he now caresses almost lovingly with his eyes, and the soft swell of your lower tummy gets the same attention too. You’d thought he might expect perfection from you but, on the contrary, it’s almost as if the proof that you were simply human, nothing more and nothing less, is what endears him the most. 

The potent fertility of your young body has never been so starkly obvious as it is when he reaches out with a thin, faltering hand to palm over the side of your hip. You sway unsteadily at the contact of withered fingers on your bare skin, thrumming for him at an intensity that nearly immobilizes you and renders you mute. 

This should feel wrong to you. It should have you shirking away and choking on tears, mourning the loss of your innocence as much as your dignity. 

But it doesn’t. 

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, dragging the cool pad of his thumb over the faint crease along your waist. “What a lovely little thing you are, girl. I wonder how I got so lucky as to have you at this late stage. The things I would have done to you even just twenty years ago …” 

Breathing out a heavy sigh through his nose, Zandik nudges your hip now to indicate that he wants you to turn. And when you comply it feels like you’re moving through molasses the way your limbs feel so distant and numb, slowly shuffling to the side where his bony hand slides forward to palm across your tummy, holding you in place. 

His other set of fingers come up to lightly trace over the curve of your ass to make you twitch, whining a low sound at the sensation. Your bottom still feels hot to the touch, tender and heavy where it sits on your backside, but the thought of pulling away from him doesn’t even occur to you. He’s perfectly gentle in the way he caresses the sore skin with wrinkled fingertips before then placing his palm across one globular cheek to rub it. Slow and soft, apologetic even. 

Carefully turning your head, you glance back over your shoulder only to feel a tiny little thrill curl through you when you find Zandik peering up at you. Watching your reactions even while he tries to rub the lingering hurt from your bottom. 

“I’m sorry I spanked you without knowing the full story first. I truly mean that.” He tells you quietly, and you’re sure he means it. 

Your mouth starts to move but nothing comes out so you have to pause, swallow down the rock lodged in your throat, and then try again. “It’s alright, Master. I … I understand why you were upset with me.” 

“It’s really not.” He insists, dropping his gaze when he bends close to press a lingering kiss to your hip where he keeps his head bowed for a long moment before coming back up. “I should’ve known better. I knew you weren’t a bad girl, so I’m not sure why I jumped straight to assuming the worst. I said such terrible things to you.” 

Carefully reaching down, you find the crown of his head with your fingers and gently run them through the wavy strands, smoothing it back slightly. As much as it had hurt in the moment, both the smack of his hand and the barbed words he’d spit at you, it still pulls at something in your chest to see him like this. You would have forgiven him even without his apologies, understanding on some level that you’d invited those consequences into your life with your own behaviors. But when he drops his pride enough to show you this much remorse for his actions …

“Please don’t continue to beat yourself up about that, Master. Sometimes it does feel like this place is going to slowly turn me into that, so it may not have been so far from the truth. But if I’m allowed to be a little selfish, I … I’d like to give you all of me before anyone else can take it first. I’d rather it be you than anyone else.”

Groaning some quiet, long suffering sound, Zandik bows his head again, pressing the wrinkled line of his brow against your soft hip. He recovers quickly though and the hand on your ass slides up to cup the swell of your cheek, lifting it slightly as he ducks down to press another kiss to the aching flesh. 

You suck in a sharp breath at the sensation of his mouth so very close to your nether regions, but then he straightens in his chair and pulls you around to face him again. At his nudging insistence, you shuffle right up into the space against his legs and watch, wide eyed, as he leans up to catch one stiff nipple between his lips. 

Your mouth drops open in some startled amalgamation of shock and arousal, but you can’t seem to tear your eyes away when he gives the teat a quick suck and then pulls back with a wet little pop to leave it coated in a thin sheen of saliva. Zandik rolls his eyes up towards your face at the sound of your stilted inhale, observing your reaction, watching you as you watch him slip his tongue out to lightly flick at the coiled bud. Just nudging it up and down. Up and down. Slow and steady, deliberate. 

Such an intense shudder tears through your body that you nearly levitate straight up onto your toes, stumbling when your knees nearly give out. But the hand that once rested along your ass now comes up to lock around your back, to hold you in place and stop you from scuttling back. At the same time his other hand slips into the space between your legs, bullying the tight press of your thighs apart where you’d been squeezing them in a blithe attempt to alleviate some of the pressure there. He finds your slit with familiar confidence, using the long press of his fingers to rub over the dimpled apex in casual, knowing circles that only make you crave him so much more than you already do. 

Groaning a wavering sound of fast building pleasure, you tip your head back to bask in the rush of sensation while your hands come up to latch onto his thin shoulders. Zandik gives your back a brief squeeze of acknowledgement, encouraging you to give yourself over to him more, to relent more and to offer more of your body up to his perusal. 

And you do, gladly. Happily. Your mouth drops open on a wounded little mewl when he takes your achingly stiff nipple between his lips again to noisily suckle at the teat, making sure you can hear the way his mouth works around the bud. The way his jaw flexes against the meat of your breast, the heated exhale he breathes out through his nose, the hand dragging over your cunt to smear liquid arousal, encouraging you to make more for him … 

It all culminates to have you very close to the edge by the time he finally pulls back, seemingly with no shortage of effort when he forces himself to disengage from your thrumming body. You can’t help the way you whine a needy sound in response to the loss, but it quickly morphs into an eager, salacious groan when he reaches up to palm at your waist with a possessive pinch. 

“I want you to sit on the desk for me. Right on the edge.” He tells you with a noted hint of urgency. 

You shuffle back half a step, bumping into the table behind you harder than you’d meant to. But you feel well and truly drunk now, intoxicated by the hot urges of your own skin, and you blindly grip at the ledge of the table as you turn to glance down at what’s already on top of it. 

The book he’d been referencing for the last few days is still sitting open, pen set aside as if in wait for him to resume his note scribbling. Zandik quickly leans forward, however, and he shoves everything directly in front of him to the opposite side to nearly send the tome flying. He does knock an orderly stack of papers off in the process though, along with a small screwdriver that goes rolling across the floor, but he doesn’t appear to care about any of that right now. 

At his encouragement, you somewhat awkwardly shift to get your butt lifted up onto the desk, hissing at the hard pressure, and then you use your hands to pull yourself a bit more securely on top of it. Your heart slams out such an incomprehensible rhythm against your ribcage that it seems to make your eyes vibrate as you watch him sit forward in his chair, grabbing at your ankles to direct them out to either side. 

“Brace your feet on the armrests for me. That’s it. Good girl. Don’t be shy.”

A very real part of you can’t believe you’re doing this. Everything feels so surreal, hazy and immaterial around the edges like some sort of fever dream, and yet there’s no mistaking the utterly shameless way you let your legs drop open for him. There’s still a self conscious thread of uncertainty in the back of your mind that just won’t seem to go away when you’d never been looked at in this way by a man before. You’re not sure what to expect from him. 

But Zandik’s reaction is resoundingly enthusiastic when he groans a quiet, rumbling noise of desire when he looks upon you, fully opening yourself up to him in this way. His sharp gaze fixes intently on the spot between your legs where he takes a moment to just drink you in, studying the fleshy press of your slit, the curls framing it and the hint of petal soft folds that peak out at him. 

His attention is so profound, in fact, that you eventually start to squirm, almost painfully aware of how your clit preemptively throbs for him and the way your pussy just keeps weeping for more of his touch. 

And when he finally gives it to you, winding his hands under and then up to latch onto the cushiony grip of your thighs, tugging your pelvis right to the very edge of the desk, you feel like you just might faint dead away. Even when you half expect it, even when you’re silently begging him for it, watching him bend his head over your defenseless cunt still shocks a flustered squeak out of you. 

“M - Master Zandi — eek!” 

The tip of his tongue just nudges your swollen clit but it’s enough to nearly send you jolting right up off the table. His spindly hands dig deep into the pudge around your thighs to hold you in place while he slowly, lazily flicks that pulsing bud back and forth. Back and forth. Teasing it with the suggestion, giving you a much needed chance to process and come to terms with what’s happening. He was really putting his mouth on you. Just like he’d said he would. 

Trembling uncontrollably now, you first twitch back from that strange feeling and he simply follows you, insistent that you would acclimate and let him eat you the way he wants. It’s more than a little overwhelming, not to mention embarrassing to see him bent to your cunt like that. But, to your surprise, you warm up to it quickly, relaxing into the sensitive judders rather than trying to run away from them. 

You hiss a strangled sound and haltingly roll your pelvis towards him now, digging your heels into the armrests to leverage yourself. Zandik hums a quiet sound of approval into your pussy, retracting his tongue for a brief moment to wet it and swallow the taste of you. Then he comes back up to press the flat of his tongue to that receptive pearl, lightly dragging it from side to side. That fleshy bud rolls with the motion, grinding under his attention, and you beautifully heave for him in response as you lean back on your braced hands so you can stretch out for him. Languid and luxuriant in the way you offer your pussy up to his wicked machinations. 

Pulling back a moment later with another low, gravel edged groan, he gives his head an almost disbelieving shake. “Gods, girl. You really are going to be the death of me at this rate.” 

“I … I don’t taste — unpleasant, do I?” You shyly ask, peering down at him over the swell of your tits and the crease of your belly where he sends you a sharp look of warning. 

“Not even a little bit. As expected, you’re just as sweet as you look. And don’t ever utter such nonsense in my presence again, do you understand me? I don’t like to keep repeating myself.”

“Mm … y - yes, sir.” 

Nodding once as if to indicate that this matter was put to rest now, he shifts slightly in his chair to get comfortable or perhaps even to find a better angle from which to attack you. Giving your trapped thighs another bony squeeze, he leans down again. 

But this time instead of going straight for your clit, he takes a long, wet swipe from the bottom of your cunt right up to the top. You give a full bodied twitch when he passes over the delicate button at the top and then huff a vaguely impatient groan when he redirects his mouth back down towards the center of your slit. 

Here, Zandik tips his head slightly to one side so that he can kiss you; big, sloppy, open mouthed smooches that leave behind the sticky residue of saliva and slowly works the puffy press of your lips open. This only seems to highlight how very soaked you are, honeyed and drippy where the byproduct of your own excitable youth gathers in a copious mess along the seam. And he drinks from it as if you were a fountain, greedily lapping up the excess so he can swallow it down his gullet. 

It makes you throb, stiffly squirming there atop the desk when you’re so primed and ready to feel him mouthing at the spot you really want him to focus in on again. But he takes his time with this instead, slowly turning the opening of your body into a viscous, creamy mess, driving you wild in the process. 

And you very nearly sob in relief once he finally — finally! Worms his tongue into the malleable grip of your labia to tongue at your entrance, poking and prodding, and just dipping it into the tight heat of your cunt. It’s an odd sensation but not exactly unpleasant, and you heave a sucker punched noise when you feel your insides try to clamp down on that hot, wet appendage when it slips inside. There’s nothing for you to squeeze or cling to though, and his tongue just seamlessly glides back and forth for a drawn out stretch of seconds, fucking you with it. 

Your toes painfully curl on the armrest as your head lolls back, boneless and stupefied to mewl another helpless moan up at the ceiling. “Master, please! I need you …” 

Scoffing a muffled laugh into your cunt, Zandik gives your gooey hole one last, vigorous suck to make you yelp before pulling back with a faltering yet deeply pleased sigh. “Yes, yes, girl. I’m well aware how needy you are. You’re lucky I feel like spoiling you a little bit today, but be warned. Next time I just might hold you down and make you take whatever I decide to give you.” 

Just the thought of that sends intense, hotly sparking shockwaves through your already thrumming system to leave you shaking on his desk. The old man between your legs chuckles at the reaction, clearly enjoying the way you respond to him almost as much as you love the way he seems to give you no choice but to respond in such a noticeable way. 

You can’t quite manage to stop it or get a hold of yourself as you tip your face down, chin tucking close to your chest, so you can look at him through the hazy fall of your eyelashes. Zandik gives you a sharp little crook of his mouth while he slides one of his hands off your thigh, moving inward, to find the aching bundle of nerves at the top of your slit with his thumb. 

“Is this what you want, darling girl? Do you want me to put my mouth here again?” 

You eagerly nod, not even trying to hide how desperate you are for it. 

But he only hums a brief sound of acknowledgement as he lightly brushes the worn pad of his thumb over your clit. Barely nudging it back and forth. “I know you want it, but how badly? You’ll have to use your words to tell me.” 

The tight knot in your chest seems to swell, nearly choking you up. “I … I want it very much, sir. I want to c - cum for you.” 

“Mmm. Not a bad answer.” Zandik rewards you by increasing the pressure on your clit somewhat, speeding up his ministrations only enough to nudge at it more keenly. It still wasn’t enough though. “But how do you want it? What method shall we use to get you there, hm?” 

You can’t help the way you whimper at that. Even knowing he was taunting you with it, coaxing the words out of you, even when he’s got his face between your thighs, you hesitate to give it voice. You’d never spoken so crassly before. 

“Oh, that is an adorable look on you, but there’s nothing for you to fret over. You can do it. Use your big girl words, now.” 

Trembling so fitfully you have to close your eyes in an attempt to ground yourself in reality, unable to keep looking at him like that, you give your head a numb, slow motion shake. “Nghn! Ooughn … I - oh, blessed mother — I want you to … put your mouth on me again, Master. Please. Please luh - lick me some more until … until …”

“Until what, sweetness?” 

“Mmnghn. Until I — cum on your tongue. Sir.” 

A visible tremor works through Zandik’s body, culminating in a low groan that falters from his mouth. He wants that too, and it makes you feel marginally better about what you’ve just said, what shameful words you’ve spoken to your Master, even when your head seems to spin dizzily fast. 

“Such a good girl you are for me. And how could I possibly ever deny you any request when you ask it of me so nicely?” 

He dips his head then, sliding his thumb away to possessively curve over the soft pudge of your lower belly instead, and you hold the air in your lungs so hard it hurts.  

But that breath instantly punches out of you when he flattens his tongue to that swollen little pearl to drag and grind it in an abrupt rush of wet, fleshy friction. Such an explosive thrill of delight shoots through your thrumming body that you nearly come completely up off the table, the sharp jut of his hands the only thing keeping you pinned in place. 

And yet you quickly recover, using your feet braced on the armrests of his chair to rear against his mouth in a blind, supplicating search for more. Luckily he seems to be perfectly happy to give it to you now that you’ve politely asked for it, and he laps vigorously at your pulsing cunt even when your thighs start to quake around his head. 

It almost shocks you how rapidly the tension in your gut swells, doubling and then tripling, to have you weakly swaying on top of the desk in pure, doped out bliss. As much as you’d loved the friction of his fingers playing in your pussy, his tongue seems to be on another level entirely, and your eyes soon begin to roll back in your head while you inch ever closer towards the edge of oblivion. 

What finally sends you into a convulsing fit of spasms another moment later are his hands, abandoning your thigh and your stomach to slide up the quivering length of your body. Zandik finds the meat of your tits and squeezes them tight before finding the sharply pointed nipples with his fingers. He gives them both a stinging little tweak and a fleshy tug and, just like it did down in the cellar, that seems to send you careening straight into a vertigo-inducing free fall when the thread suddenly snaps. 

The orgasm slams into you full force as if you’ve just been consumed by a tidal wave that crashes over you and swallows you up in an instant. You jolt hard enough that the desk vaguely rattles underneath you, squealing a dire sound of immense pleasure as you dig your toes into the armrests and instinctively lift your pelvis in an attempt to escape his tongue. But it’s no use, he’s got you situated in front of him in such a way that no amount of mindless bucking and shuddering can seem to dislodge him from your cunt, and all you truly succeed in doing is grinding yourself on his mouth even more. 

Your arms quickly grow too tired to hold you up any longer as you judder through the throes of your release, wailing a threadbare, faltering moan as your upper slowly body sinks down lay out across Zandik’s desk. And still, he just continues to hungrily eat at you even when your pussy seems to flood around his tongue to a truly obscene degree. You’d never felt so copiously slick in your entire life, but somehow that helps to ease you down from that heart pounding high over the next long stretch of minutes while you gradually fit yourself back into your own head. 

The rosy aftermath leaves you panting for breath, sweaty and so very, very turned on you almost can’t stand it. Even before he gives your clit one last, lingering suck, starting to straighten up from your sopping wet core, you know you still want him to touch you more. Lick you more. Caress and pinch, and hold and squeeze you more and more, and more. 

It felt like it could never be enough. Not truly. 

“My goodness, girl. You’re certainly a leaky little thing, aren’t you?” He rumbles, snapping you out of your lolling stupor enough to bring your chin down, looking at him along the heaving sprawl of your body. 

You watch, feeling somehow hungrier than ever, as he swipes at his mouth with a shaky hand to rid it of some of the pussy juice coating his skin. It doesn’t really work though, and you can still see it glistening faintly when he takes his fingers away. And something about it stirs a surprised chord in the back of your mind. Had you really cum that much? 

That thought seems to stoke at the simmering heat within you, and you eagerly bring your thighs together in a tight press that, of course, catches his attention and brings his gaze back up. 

“Please, Master … can we — keep going?” 

His grumpy brows lift in unconcealed surprise. “And you don’t know how to quit while you’re ahead, either. You’ll have to make do with my fingers though. I can’t eat needy little girls out all day, you know.” 

“N - noooo.” You whine softly, rubbing your thighs in a tighter press to match your quickly ratcheting excitement. But you couldn’t think of anything else at that moment. You had to have it. “No fingers, sir. I — I want to have your cock …” 

Zandik goes very still at that shy admittance. He just looks at you for a long stretch of moments, watching the way you not so subtly writhe in place there in front of him. Too eager to sit still and so caught up in the low pulse of wanting in your cunt that you don’t even seem to care about how very nude you are. 

Ready and wanting. For him. 

Finally clearing his throat with a thick cough, he sits up a bit straighter while his mouth tugs into a serious, contemplative frown. 

“You don’t mean that.” He murmurs at length. 

“I do, Master. I really do.”

Zandik shoots you a plainly tortured look. “Yes, you certainly think that, don’t you? But as much as I may want to, there’s something that you simply must understand. I am but an old man, you silly girl. I don’t know how good I can actually make it for you in this state.”

You slowly push up on your elbows to get a better look at him, meeting his gaze head on. And you give Zandik a tremulous little smile as you implore him with hopeful eyes, trying not to turn bashful. “I don’t care much about that, sir. I swear. It’s just … I want it to be with you, that’s all. Not somebody else. Even if it only lasts for a moment or two, I’ll be happy as long as you’re the one who — takes me first. That’s all I want.” 

He starts to turn away, screwing his eyes shut as if you’ve just delivered a fatal blow to his heart. “Burn everything, girl! You can’t say things like that to a man who’s old enough to be your father! No, it’s even worse than that! I could be your grandfather!” 

“B - but it’s true - -“ 

“Dammit! I don’t care if it’s true or not!” 

Abruptly shoving his chair back with a scrape of the legs on the floor, Zandik stands up so fast he nearly unbalances and tips over. A quick hand slapped against the desk next to your thigh is the only thing that keeps him upright, and he heavily hunches over you as if he were some kind of heaving, snarling, half starved beast.

It startles you more than a little bit and you peer up at him with widened eyes, yet so utterly, perfectly calm even when his lips pull back to sneer at you that he can’t seem to catch the laugh that barks out of him. 

Hanging his head as if in defeat, he reaches up to remove his monocle which he sets aside with a sharp little click on the desk. He stands there for another moment longer, just letting his head droop between his shoulders, before he finally gives his neck a stiff shake. 

Then, scoffing a harsh sound, he pushes himself upright to loom over you, prone and pliant where you’re spread out in willing, open invitation before him. He barely even looks at you now though, as he sets in to yank rather aggressively at his belt, and it does not escape your notice that his fingers seem to falter more than usual. 

“Damn stupid girl. Look at what you’re doing to me.” He grumbles under his breath, his narrow chest heaving slightly against the front of his shirt. “Look what you’ve asked me to do to you. There must be something wrong with you in the head to want to give yourself over to the likes of me. Do you really think I’m someone who deserves to take your virginity?” 

“I do.” You tell him honestly, sounding distant and dreamy. Unable to hide your excitement at his acquiescence, your victory. 

But he shoots you a brief, no less grumpy look of warning before dropping his attention back down to focus on the unbuttoning of his slacks. “You’re a damned fool. I really hope you know that. You’re supposed to want better for yourself.  You should want to be on top of a comfortable bed right now, not sprawled out on some old man’s desk. You should want it to be with someone — special to you.” 

“You are special.” 

He stills, the set of his brow truly anguished. And yet, he only takes that short moment to collect himself, to relocate his mile wide ego and steel himself with it. 

Grunting a tight, anticipatory sound in the back of his throat, Zandik at last gets his pants unfastened and he shoves them down his hips, along with his underwear, to a quiet rattle of the loose belt. One wrinkled hand comes up then, sliding under his shirt and drawing up his stomach to lift the material, while the other grabs at his bobbing cock to give it a tight squeeze. So tight it makes his knuckles protrude through the paper thin skin over them. A strange detail for you to notice when he points it down at you, right at the messy spot between your legs. 

“Is this what you want?” He grumbles wretchedly. 

You’re almost too fixated on staring at his cock to respond, dumbly nodding your head in a mute affirmative. Eating you out must have been an exciting experience for him, and the final nail in the coffin had likely come when you’d asked him to deflower you. Because he is hot and hard, the ruddy pink glans winking at you when he gives his length a savory pump to make the foreskin momentarily bunch in a noticeably sticky pucker before then drawing it back. Exposing the head and tucking the sheath of extra skin back behind the raised ridge. 

Gods, you could watch him do that a million times and you’re sure you wouldn’t grow tired of seeing it. The sight alone is enough to have your pussy eagerly throbbing for him, clenching around nothing, as you impatiently fidget, and he seethes a pained hiss at the shameless display. 

“Then show me how much you want it. Go on, then. Spread your legs wide for me, girl. Let me have a good look at your little pussy before I take it for myself.” 

You’re vibrating at such a hitherto unknown frequency that you don’t even really stop to consider what you’re doing or who you’re inviting in. You just immediately drop your legs apart into a wide v and present your weeping cunt to him without an ounce of hesitation. He was right. You did want it bad. 

“Gods. Just look at you.” Slowly reaching out, Zandik lightly runs the tip of his fingers down your slit to smear the excess of arousal gathered there, tracing over you a few times before pulling his hand back. 

And you watch, your throat a suddenly bone dry wasteland, as he proceeds to wipe that liquid arousal over the tip of his rigid length, mixing your juices with his own tiny, glistening bead of precum to leave the skin visibly coated in a fine sheen. 

“I’ve never seen a girl want cock like you do. You look like you’re starving for it even after I already made you cum once. Greedy.” 

“I … I’m sorry, Master.”

“Don’t be. It’s unexpectedly endearing. And I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also a heady ego boost on top of that. Now …” Releasing a slow, wavering breath, Zandik lifts his unoccupied hand to gently nudge at the back of your nearest thigh. “I want you to grab under your knees and fold them up towards your chest for me. Make sure you don’t let them go until I tell you to, alright? I need enough space to work you open first before you start pawing at me.”

Your chest tightens slightly at the admonishment, but you know he’s right. Already you want to grab him and yank him against you, to rub yourself on him like a cat in heat, and he hadn’t even stuck it in yet. How embarrassing. 

You do as he’d asked though, slipping your hands down to hook behind the bends of your knees so you can hold them up in the air. This position lifts your shoulders from the desk enough that you have a perfect view down your front and you can see the way your puffy cunt lips spread slightly in the stretch. Zandik sees it too, and he groans a rattling sound even as he shuffles right up to the edge of the desk to stand over you. 

Using the one hand to guide himself, he angles his cock close to brush the head against exposed, velvety soft folds. Just acquainting you with the touch of him there, giving you one last chance to make a better decision and allow him a moment to steady himself. Then he presses in a little deeper to sink into the fleshy embrace of your inner labia, letting the fleshy pudge grip around the glans for a moment while he slowly drags it through the sticky mess he’s already made of you. Up and down. Up. And then back down again. Sedate and steady. 

A breathless moan slips out as you watch him, his head bowed in concentration to let the wave of his hair hang down in his face. You’d never seen someone look so good before, and you also hadn’t realized how nerve wracking this would be even when you want it more than anything else. There’s a certain apprehension in the back of your mind, a nervousness that can’t quite be quelled by your arousal. Once you let him do this to you there would be no coming back from it. 

But you were already sinking deep into the pits of hell and had been since the first day you arrived here. No. Even before that. Likely since you stepped foot inside the Northland Bank. That was the true cause of your downfall. This was just the end result of it. 

And you hold your breath tight in your lungs when you realize he’s working his way up to it, ensuring both you and him are adequately lubricated when he carefully flexes his hips to send that galvanized flesh skirting up the length of your slit. Slow at first, but he seems to quickly pick up the pace, letting his own urges take over while he fucks himself within the meaty press of your cunt lips. 

Huffing harder now, faster, Zandik finally angles his narrow hips back to pull away from you. Then, in one shockingly fluid motion, he angles his cock straight out and leans back into the cradle between your thighs, spearing through tender creases and folds on a stilted push to find your entrance. 

He hits it dead center, too, and he immediately starts to sink in. A rough, wheezing gasp catches in your throat, mouth dropping open, but not even a peep comes out as you watch the length of him gradually disappear inside of you. 

The glans is easy to accept, your inner walls so soft and gooey, swollen with the intense need for this, exactly this. But the more of it he feeds into you the more you start to feel the stretch. Even when you're slippery and puffy for him, it’s still the first time you’ve ever taken anything like this. And it doesn’t exactly help how very hot he is, how heavy, how he seems to pulse within you when he lets out a faltering groan of immense pleasure. 

Shuddering intensely there on his desk, you shyly roll your eyes upward to look at him. Zandik is too busy looking down at your cunt spread open around him, watching the way you take him, watching how well you take him, to notice where your attention is at, and you’re free to sear this image of him into your brain. His head cocked slightly to one side, his brow knitted half in concentration and half in stricken agony at the tight heat of you encompassing his cock. The little frown that tugs at his wizened mouth as if he was so absorbed in the experience of you that it was taking all of his focus to fully appreciate it. 

Maybe he was committing this all to memory too. You knew you would certainly never be able to close your eyes without seeing the image of him hunching over you like this for the rest of your life. 

“Ooughn. That’s one hell of a grip you’ve got, girl.” He hisses at last, when he’s forced to come to a halt when he’s wedged only half of the way inside. Pausing to catch his breath. “You need to relax a little bit. It doesn’t hurt, does it?” 

You shake your head, still too stunned to speak. And you do try to relax, but it’s so terribly hard to do when you feel like a livewire set to go off any given second, wound too tight and panting for more of his cock. 

Zandik heaves a stuttering breath, releasing his cock so he can reach out and find your clit in the slippery mess coating your pussy. Softly nudging it with the broad width of his thumb, he uses his other hand to shove the front of his shirt up again, exposing more of his body to your voracious eyes. 

You’re not entirely sure if it’s the added stimulation he provides or if it’s just the sight of his soft, slightly rounded tummy pressing in on your pubic mound like that, the wispy little hairs that lead straight down to the base of his cock, but something about it makes you positively gush around him. You can feel it oozing out of you like warm honey, wetting anything and everything it comes into contact with, and you shake helplessly. 

And when he stiffly pivots his hips back, withdrawing from your tight clutch so far that he nearly slips out of you only to come gliding right back up a split second later, he sinks in even deeper this time. This was likely what he’d meant about needing the space to open you first, you realize, groaning a haggard mewl as you glance down to watch in rapt fascination while he does just that. His thrusts just keep getting smoother and smoother, longer, the more he fucks into you like that, using tiny little jabs of his cock to coax your pussy into relenting to him. Even if it wanted to deny him, and you’re quite sure it didn’t, his cock turns out to be very persuasive. 

Soon enough he’s executing fuller thrusts and you can’t seem to stop the mindless bleating that punches out of your chest. He never quite works his way up to a hard and fast tempo but those long, drawn out, patient strokes are more than enough to drive you well out of your mind. 

“There! That’s it. Mmmnghhn. And doesn’t that feel better, girl? Look at how nice you’re taking me now.” He croons at you, praising you, even while he pants heavily at the exertion. “How do you like that cock in your little cunt, huh? Better than my fingers?” 

You frantically bob your head in a delirious nod, chest hitching as you struggle to find your voice. “Yuh - … yes, sir, yes, I do! I do. I love it, Master! I — ooughn! I love your - your cock! It feels so good …”

He has to close his eyes to brace against what you’re saying, the rhythm of his hips faltering slightly before he can recover. “Fuck. You really have no idea what you’re doing to me. I can’t take it at this age. You’re going to have me shooting off like an over eager schoolboy here in a moment … ughhn! And you feel so good too. Wish I could stay in this needy pussy all day. Ahhn, but I’m sure you’d like that just as much as I would, wouldn’t you?”

A keening sob slips out of you. “Yes, Master! I - I would! I want it …”

Rumbling a deep, uniquely masculine grunt, Zandik lets go of his shirt again and hunches further over you, smacking that palm down on the desk next to your head. You whimper slightly as you peer up at him through the inebriating fog hanging heavy over you and he peers right back, watching your expression closely while his hips continue to sedately fuck into your dripping cunt. For a split second, you wonder how you must look to him in that moment. 

But then he leans down, swooping to catch your mouth in a heated kiss that sends a tingling zap of static electricity racing through your body, right down to the tips of your flexing toes. You’re so pleasantly startled by the sudden gesture that you almost forget yourself, recalling his instructions at the last second, and you stubbornly readjust your hold under your knees. Even as you crane your neck up to meet him, kissing him back with wild abandon, you continue to hold your legs open for him so he can freely jab away at your cunt. 

His thrusts turn a little sharper then, evidently spurned on by the unhesitating way you kiss him, and you groan a heady sound into his mouth when your eyes start to edge back in your skull. Your pussy really feels like it’s melting for him now, so sensitive and thrumming, swelling with a kinetic energy that tells you another orgasm isn’t that far off. And you’re glad for that, so happy you could just weep, especially when Zandik proceeds to snake his tongue into your mouth, claiming every possible inch of you.  

He soon pulls back though, huffing and puffing in the scant space that separates you from him now. The old man takes this chance to study your pinched expression up close, lingering on the way you stare up at him as if in a drunken, dreamy haze. 

Something he sees must strike a chord in him though, because he winces, stricken, and tucks his face in close to press his forehead against yours. For once, his skin is not the perpetually cool balm you were accustomed to it being. 

“Burn it all, girl. I’m about to cum. Where do you want it? Quick.” 

For a delayed moment, you’re not quite sure what he’s even asking. And then it hits you. 

And such an intensely powerful shudder wracks through your sweat coated body that you feel yourself get that much closer to the drop off into oblivion too. 

“Oughnn! In … inside, Master, please! I want it — wanna’ feel it …” 

He seethes a vicious sound, twitching hard against you. “Damned idiot. Aghn! You’re giving me far too much of yourself, you know that?” 

Gasping much like a beached fish, you tip your head back to nudge at his brow and a tiny flutter of pure delight dances through your chest when he cracks his eyes open to look at you. 

“I want you to have it, Master … I want you to have every part of me. Mmnghn, please — please, let me choose who I give this to.”

“Ooh. You don’t need to ask for it so sweetly, girl. You can have whatever you want from me.” Pausing to pull in a raggedly clipped breath, he stiffly pushes himself up just enough to drive his hips into you a little harder, more urgently, tipping his head back with a groan. “Let go of your legs if you want. I’m close. If you’re going to change your mind, you’d better do it fast.” 

In truth you don’t even give it so much as a second thought, but you are quick to release your knees so you can throw your hands up around his neck. The loose tie under his collar lightly sways between the two of you, dragging along the center of your bouncing chest, and your nipples turn into painfully tight puckers at the sensation. Your flooding cunt, too, tightens to an almost incomprehensible degree, squeezing him like a vice, while you watch Zandik start to tremble over top of you. 

His thrusts gradually turn stilted and uneven before devolving into a near frantic bucking of his hips, jostling you against the desk. It’s clearly taking a lot out of him, this level of exertion, and the limited range of movement in his old body seems to frustrate him more than he’d likely ever admit aloud. But he stubbornly keeps fucking into you, even when he suddenly lurches with a wounded groan, needing to use both hands braced on the table to steady himself while he simply relies on his momentum and center of gravity to slam into you once, twice, a painfully tense third time, and then —

He freezes up, grimacing at the sheer force of how hard he cums inside of you. And you know that’s what it is because you can feel it pumping deep into your guts, the way his cock twitches and throbs, contracting to deposit his sticky load so far into your body you can’t help but wonder if it will ever come out. Maybe you don’t even want it to, though. 

It passes quickly however, much faster than your orgasms seem to subside, and Zandik goes completely boneless over you in what seems only a matter of moments. His shoulders hunched and shuddering while he struggles to catch his breath. Your pussy gives a distant little throb of wanting but you decide to ignore it for right now as you reach up with a careful hand to brush away some of the hair sticking to his face. 

That appears to catch his attention enough to have him focusing back in on you again, and his mouth promptly tugs into a halfhearted smirk. The cad. 

“That’s what you do to me.” He says at last, clearly trying for rueful but it doesn’t really work when he’s still softly wheezing. “You’re going to put me in an early grave at this rate. I’m sure that egomaniac will be quite pleased with that end result. Maybe that’s the real reason he brought you here.” 

“Don’t say that, Master.” You murmur, sliding your hand into place to cup his wrinkled cheek now. 

Scoffing, Zandik reaches up to grab at those fingers, giving them a tight, shaky squeeze before lowering them from his face. “Don’t mind me. I never was very good at pillow talk. Perhaps you can ask Feofan about that some time.” 

Groaning a spent sound of complete and utter satiation, he starts to gingerly ease himself back, slipping out of you. Your body gives a sensitive twitch when you feel him slip free of your clinging grip and you can’t help but whine a needy sound at how very empty you are in the aftermath. Even when you can feel the hot, simmering presence of his seed deep within you, it’s still somehow not enough. Never enough where he was concerned, it seemed. 

“Don’t pout.” Zandik exhales a very heavy sigh as he leans over you again, one hand braced on the desk next to your hip while the other — 

His fingers are suddenly in your cunt, spearing up into your guts on a seamlessly unhindered glide to fill you up in place of his cock. You go ramrod stiff, eyes wide and unseeing as you supplicatingly arch your back hard enough to make your tits bounce. And you quickly find yourself twisting in a helpless writhe on those insidiously long digits, squealing a harried sound of delight when he jabs them into your quaking guts. 

“How are you still not tired yet?” He murmurs, giving his tongue a chiding click. “I really can’t keep up with you like this. I guess that must be the reason old men aren’t all that popular with young, pretty girls, hm?” 

You think you should probably respond to that, that you should tell him you didn’t want anyone closer to your age, only him, but you can’t seem to find the oxygen to speak. His fingers are considerably more vigorous than his cock in the way they fuck into you, hare and fast, delving deep into the clutching grip of your pussy to drive you nearly mad with it. He churns your insides up like this, working his own spend into a frothing, bubbly mess that you can feel slowly dripping and oozing out of you. 

Your cunt positively eats it up though, thrumming in rapturous delight as your impending orgasm starts to creep up on you again. It turns your mind melty and empty of anything other than thoughts of him. How good he’d felt with his cock buried deep inside your body, how his fingers seem to pluck you to vibrating fever pitch as if he were a professional musician. How good he smells. How handsome. How devastatingly intelligent. 

How being with him like this seems to make all of your suffering over the last day or so feel totally worth it and that you just might do it all again if it meant this was waiting for you at the end. 

And then he bends his head close, catching one of your stiff teats in that wicked mouth of his to suck and flick, and lick, and you nearly levitate right up off the desk when you cum with a frantic sob. 

This one seems to rock you straight down to your very core, and you wheeze as if your soul is actively trying to leave your body while you mindlessly buck and judder for him. Soaking his fingers even while they continue to work at your squeezing cunt to ride you through it, making sure to eke out every last drop of your release — likely in the hope that it will be enough to tire you out. 

Even when you finally go limp a long stretch of seconds later, gasping raggedly, you’re not so sure if that will work on you, but you certainly appreciate him trying. At least he had not left you waiting and wanting as so many others in this godforsaken place seemed to like doing. 

Giving your throbbing tit one last, lingering suck, Zandik slowly pulls back and straightens up to give you a critical look over. Even in your lolling stupor you can tell he’s taking in all the minute details most people probably wouldn’t even notice, like the amount of perspiration on your skin and the dilation of your pupils, the exact color of your stiffly pointed nipples and even the kind of belly button you had. If the way his gaze hovers over that spot is any indication, at least. 

“Was that enough to sate you for a while?” He says at length when he draws his attention up to your face again. 

You swallow hard, still working to steady your erratic heartbeat. “Maybe … for a little while.” 

Snorting an amused sound, he gingerly straightens up on unsteady legs to get his pants pulled back into place, but he doesn’t even bother to fasten them before plopping back down into his chair. Completely drained, by the looks of it, but satisfied. Pleased, even. 

Rousing yourself, you slowly sit up as well, facing him once again in your nudity. Zandik sends you a slow look from under his brow and something seems to pass between the two of you then as you just look at one another, for he shifts back in his seat to make room for you. 

“Come. Sit with me for a moment.”

The eager flutter you immediately feel in your chest almost seems a little juvenile after everything you just did together, but you can’t seem to keep the smile off your face when you carefully slide down off the desk to take your place in his lap. You almost start to feel a bit shy about your nakedness now that the rosy afterglow is beginning to fade – wondering if your stomach doesn’t look too soft or if your tits sit nicely like this – but he’s quick to gather you close to his chest before you can truly get lost in your own head. And somehow that just makes you even more incomprehensibly happy than you already were. For someone always so grumpy, he was certainly sweet. 

For a long, blissfully peaceful stretch of minutes you and your master simply cuddle up together, sharing each other's body warmth and listening to evened out breaths. It’s almost more than you would have ever dared to hope for after the last harrowing twenty-four hours you’d somehow survived despite such unfairly stacked odds and the sheer absurdity of it all. 

In fact, the quiet lull is nearly enough to have you dozing off on top of him. 

But then you hear the downstairs bell clanging and you’re so startled by the sudden sound that you come very close to bolting right up off his lap. 

“It’s Tuesday.” You blurt the moment that thought slams into you like a wet rag across the face. You’d completely forgotten. 

Zandik stirs against you with a tired grumble, giving your hip an affectionate albeit idle squeeze. “Hm? It’s just the weekly delivery. Nothing to get your panties in a twist about.” 

“No, no. I have to let them in. I always keep the back door locked, especially after I started to suspect that there was some strange intruder in the house.” 

You quickly clamor up off his lap, bending to retrieve your discarded pile of clothes. Unfortunately it occurs to you quite immediately that there are far too many layers for you to get dressed in a hurry, and you frantically try to figure out what you can skip. Oh, you really should’ve known better than to let him get you completely naked like that. 

“Just relax. They’re grunts at best. They can wait. Here.” He says behind you, and you turn in time to catch him stiffly shrugging out of his white outer coat, much to your shock and surprise. “Put your underwear and your slip on, then put this over it. It’ll do to answer the door.” 

A very strong voice in the back of your mind urges you to argue against it — just think of how that would look to them! Grunts or not! — but a second, noticeably more impatient ringing of the bell quickly makes up your mind for you. 

Yanking your panties and slip on, you accept his coat from him with a murmured word of thanks, already making your way towards the door while you button it up lightning fast. And you didn’t even have your slippers to slide into thanks to that perverted little freak! 

As a result the hardwood is nearly freezing under your bare feet as you race down the hall, descend the stairs, trip along the corridor and finally go sliding through the kitchen so fast you nearly trip and break your neck. The stone floor is the absolute worst in here though, and you hiss a seething sound as you fumble to get the door unlocked and throw it open to reveal a group of very cold looking masked Fatuus. 

“I’m so sorry!” You squeak, shivering at the blustery, ice laden wind that blasts into the house and straight up your slip by the feel of it. “I was — getting ready to take a late morning bath. I - I forgot it was delivery day.” 

They don’t look like they particularly care about your excuses as they hasten to get the crates inside, and you quickly retreat to the far corner while they work. Making sure to give them plenty of space as you wrap your arms tight over your chest in an attempt to stop the chilly shudders, but it’s no use. It’s like every last ounce of warmth has been sapped from your body, and your teeth soon start to clatter too. It wouldn’t do to leave the milk and eggs out though, so you force yourself to stand there and wait even when you desperately wish to return to the safety of Zandik’s lap. 

A few minutes later it looks like they’re finishing up, but one of the Fatuus — a young woman, hardly older than yourself — breaks apart from the rest to step over to you. Your brows lift in surprise at that, and understandably so. They hardly even acknowledge your presence most days, so you’re not quite sure what to make of it when she halts in front of you. 

 “Here.” She says, holding out a small, unassuming, utterly benign package. “Lord Regrator asked us to deliver this to you.” 

You’re so startled by what she’s just said that for a delayed moment you aren’t even sure if you’ve heard her correctly. Pantalone? He sent you something? 

Slowly, the masked woman begins to uncomfortably shift at your continued silence and blank staring, so you mechanically reach out to accept it from her. “T - thank you. I appreciate all your hard work.”

Looking mildly relieved to be rid of the thing, she nods once and starts to turn away, but an impulsive thought has you jumping to stop her. 

“Wait just a moment. Please. Can I ask you something?” 

She doesn’t look entirely sure of that but when she doesn’t immediately say yes or no, you decide to press on. 

“I was just wondering … where are you stationed at? I mean — where will you be returning to? After this.”

“We’ll be making the return trip back to Snezhnograd, miss.” 

“Oh.” You send a slow look over her shoulder at the other Fatui operatives who indeed seem to be slowly filing out. 

And they don’t even appear to notice the two of you standing together. Not yet, at least. 

The idea that pops into your head is terrible, awful, stupid, ridiculous and asinine, all rolled into one, given the still sore state of your poor bottom. But you know you can’t afford to hesitate or second guess yourself. You may never get another chance like this ever again, even if it will just be inviting yet more trouble to your doorstep. And yet, you try to reason with yourself, you wouldn’t technically be breaking any rules. Not any that had been stated plainly or outright. A mere loophole, perhaps, but it was one you could exploit.

You decisively snap your attention back to the other woman just when she’s starting to inch away from you as if you were a mangy dog that looked like it might bite. 

“I have a favor to ask of you. Since you’re going back to Snezhnograd anyway, would you be kind enough to deliver a letter for me?” 

Her mouth pulls into a small frown. “I’m not sure if Master Dottore will - -“ 

“He won’t mind.” You insist, almost shocking yourself with that blatant lie. “I — already ran it by him, you see. I’ve been worried about the post running behind all the way out here in the countryside, so he told me I could ask if I thought it would do any good. I just … since you’ve already delivered something from Lord Regrator, I naturally figured it might be within your capabilities to transport a measly little letter back. Considering it’s on your way.”

She seems to hesitate, thinking it over, and then one of the other Fatuus calls after her. “Sileny! Are you coming?”

Giving her teeth a sharp suck, she shakes her head. “I can tell them to wait for five minutes but if you’re not back by then there’s nothing more I can do for you.” 

You nearly drop the package in your hands from the overwhelming flood of relief that washes over you. “Yes! Yes, just one moment. I’ll be right back. Thank you!” 

Spinning on your heel, you go rushing back out into the corridor where, thinking of the nearest room with paper and a pen, you duck into Zandik’s lab at the far end of the hall. This one was much more humble than the one in the cellar but it has what you need, and you’re well acquainted with it enough not to have to go digging for it. 

Quickly locating a loose sheet of parchment in his desk, you toss the gift from Pantalone (was that really what it was?) down on the flat surface and snag a pen from the holder at your elbow. Your hand shakes as you bring the nib close, hesitating at the last moment. 

This really wasn’t a good idea. If the Doctor found out about this … 

You at least have to try though. Clearly your mother wasn’t getting your letters, or you were not receiving any of hers in reply, and you were determined to figure out which it was. If you could just establish this means of communication perhaps she could hand off her own correspondence to the masked woman before she left the hospital, and you would only have to wait until next Tuesday to see the other woman again. That didn’t seem so bad given the resounding silence since you first arrived here. 

Brow knitting in stubborn determination, you hurry to put pen to paper. 

Dear mama,

Please forgive me for the haste in which I have written this letter, but I do not know how much longer the person I’m about to entrust it to will wait for me to get my thoughts in order.

⭐

I still have not heard anything back from you yet, and my worry for you continues to grow with each passing day that I am not handed a letter addressed with your handwriting. Please, at least let me know that you are safe and sound, even if you presently don’t have much else to say. I understand that you are probably quite preoccupied with your treatment but I just miss you so very, very much. 

The last time he was here, well over a week ago now, I asked Lord Regrator to check in with you on my behalf and he gave me his word that he would do so as soon as he was able. He has not been back since then to relay any sort of message to me though, if you perhaps thought to entrust him with some sort of communication to deliver. Of course that is even assuming he’s been able to fulfill my request of him yet. Her Majesty, the Tsarista, appears to keep him quite busy indeed. I’m sure he would come by to see Master Zandik much more often if he could, especially now that I know the full extent of their relationship. 

But I pray that all is going well with you and, as strange as it probably sounds, I hope that you are doing the same for me. Some days I think I need that more than anything else. Perhaps I’m making it sound a bit dramatic, though? In truth, it is not nearly something as harrowing as all that. 

In my previous, hastily written letter, if you’ll recall, I shared my silly fears with you over the seemingly supernatural happenings in this place and I have since come to realize exactly how silly they really were. Although I cannot say why he would keep this from me, I’m somewhat pleased to announce that Master Zandik has relations with someone who, for the sake of simplicity, I shall call his son. I know how odd it is for me to word it that way but I hope you’ll believe me when I say it is for a very good reason. The situation here is even more complicated than I first thought it to be, but I think I am finally starting to glean a clearer picture now. 

You see, even for as reticent as he is to share many personal details about himself, Master Zandik still let a few things slip when he was visiting with Lord Regrator. I’m quite certain he did not do so on purpose, or at least not with the intention of sending me off on a wild goose chase, but that was indeed the end result of it. 

Yes, mama, as you might suspect, I once again made the foolish decision to disregard Master’s warnings not to wander about the house. And mere hours after the first, on top of that. I cannot recount to you the full story or even many of the specifics in how I reached the conclusion that further investigation was warranted, but I can assure you I did so with perfectly good reason in mind. Of course, I have since come to regret that decision immensely, but … 

Oh, it would certainly help if I had a better understanding of what information was expressly prohibited from being shared so I could pen my letters around those details instead of trying to side step a whole battlefield of unseen and unknown landmines. As it stands, though, I simply have to fall back on playing it overly safe to avoid letting potentially sensitive matters slip into the outside world. I promise I’ll explain everything much better to you in person, once I am able to. 

I suppose, then, that the short and sweet of it is this: ignoring the warning signs and my own common sense, I ventured back to the basement of the house not even a full day after I finished penning my last letter to you. There I found a second lab, this one even more extensively furnished than the one upstairs where Master Zandik so often does much of his toiling. After allowing myself some curious looking around, as you know I am so wont to do, mama, I rather unexpectedly found myself in the presence of the individual who I have chosen to refer to as the Master’s son. He’s … a surgeon, I think. Or perhaps a doctor. For reasons I can’t share, I’m starting to suspect this line of work happens to run in the family. 

At first he didn’t even seem to give my presence there with him a second thought, and he instead jumped straight to having me play assistant for him. I went along with it, not knowing what else to do at that moment and having no easy means of escape. Even so I thought the situation was going well enough, all things considered, until he pulled out a specimen of some sort and started cutting into it. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you about my fear of blood, mama. 

The results were, of course, disastrous, much to the flaring temper of the young surgeon and to my own immense embarrassment. 

That being said, I am no longer of the opinion that this house is haunted and am instead finding myself ever more convinced that it is indeed far more occupied than I had thought it to be. That is why it has taken me a few days to sit down and write out this letter to you, even though the two incidents happened within the same period of each other. This and the fact that, well … for reasons I shant get into, I’ve been much more inclined to keeping busy than in sitting as of late. 

As such, I have spent much of the time since just trying to figure out how I should navigate the situation from here, but I admit to having quite a bit of difficulty with this aspect. And not for a lack of effort on my part. 

Regrettably, Master Zandik was not the slightest bit pleased to learn of my transgressions and I have had to spend much of the past few days dealing with his sour moods. 

Please send me all the luck you can spare, mama. I hope to hear from you soon. 

With love

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Standing in the foyer together, your cheeks still burn with lingering excitement even as you hand the Lord Harbinger his fur lined cloak. 

“Thank you, my dear.” Pantalone says, accepting it from you most graciously. “It really is a shame that I can’t stay and play with you some more, but perhaps I will have a slightly less pressing schedule next time. That being said, I do hope you will continue to take such excellent care of Zandik in my stead, hm?” 

You’re immediately struck by the urge to fidget under that condescending leer but you stubbornly hold your erect posture in place through sheer force of will. You refused to give in to that nearly overpowering compulsion to squeeze your thighs into a tight press like some sort of blithe fool in front of him. 

Especially when your panties were already thoroughly soaked and every little shift seems to draw your attention to that uncomfortable fact. You really did not want to ruin them any further than you already had when it looked like you were due for yet another midday change of underwear once the banker took his leave. If you kept this up for much longer you’d have to start laundering them every night to avoid running out of backups to change into. 

And it wasn’t exactly helping your physical state how quickly, how seamlessly the switch had been flipped in the drawing room once Zandik had gotten his pleasure. Just like that, the heat of the moment was gone and everything immediately went back to normal, as if nothing had even happened, while you were left to awkwardly navigate these ever changing tides which was made only all the more difficult when your pussy still ached terribly for attention. 

Attention it wouldn’t be getting any time soon. 

You couldn’t very well ask that sort of thing of Pantalone, and you now find yourself anxiously fiddling with the ruffled hem of your apron while you try to ignore that terribly distracting pulse in your loins. 

“Of course, my lord. I will do my utmost to ensure his needs are fully met. You have my word.” 

Even if that meant having to neglect yours. 

His expression softening in a way that only makes it look as if he is belittling you, Pantalone reaches out to caress a tender brush of his hand across your cheek. “That’s a good poppet. Believe me, you wouldn’t be here right now if Zandik did not want you to be, so there really is no need for you to get so shy about everything. No one here is going to punish you for enjoying yourself while you carry out your duties.” 

Somewhat petulantly, you nudge your chin up as if in challenge to that. “But they might do it if I refuse?” 

The gleam in his lovely violet eyes sharpens slightly, turning almost rueful now. “Well, I certainly won’t say that’s not a possibility. However, judging by the way you couldn’t seem to sit still and kept on squirming in your seat in the other room, something tells me that won’t be a problem for you.” 

Your cheeks start to feel sore from how much blushing you’ve been doing these past few days, but Pantalone merely chuckles a knowing sound at your predicament before turning to leave. 

“Wait.” You impulsively blurt, hand coming up as if to reach for him but you abort the mission half of the way through. Quickly retracting your fingers when he pauses and turns to look back at you again. “I … I’m sorry for speaking out of turn like this but — may I ask something of you, my lord? Please?”

His interest seems to be mildly peaked as he settles into place again there in front of the doorway. “I don’t see why not. I can’t make any promises, of course, but I’m listening.” 

In truth, even that was more than you’d dared to hope for. A very real part of you had naturally assumed he’d write off anything you had to say without so much as a second thought to the topic, so little did your feelings and opinions seem to matter in this place. 

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. And I know I’m hardly in any position to ask for favors from you, but it’s just … I was wondering. When you return to the city, if you find a moment of free time, could you perhaps … check on my mother for me at the hospital? I - I haven’t received any word from her ever since I came here. I’m starting to worry.” 

“Oh, my. That is rather troubling, isn’t it?” Pantalone murmurs, bringing his hands together in a loose clasp before him. If you didn’t know any better you might have thought he was indicating a spiritual impetus to the Holy Mother’s blessings, asking for her guidance and mercy, but the way he idly taps at the inlaid gem on one of his rings quietly gives him away. 

“Have you been writing to her, then?” He goes on, a vague note of sympathy creeping into his voice now. 

“Yes, my lord. With some regularity, in fact. When I was first brought here by Lord Dottore I asked him if it was alright if I corresponded with her this way and he said it was, so long as I gave the letters to him first for them to be looked over.”

“Mm.” Pantalone hums his understanding. “That does sound like a caveat he would insist upon. He is, as you know, very conscious of the possibility that something — delicate might reach the wrong ears. Not only are you now involved in matters concerning one of Her Majesty’s Harbingers, but there is also a wealth of potential contrivances stored within this house. Both my own and Zandik’s.” 

You blink at that. Contrivances? Was it really something as unremarkable as he made it sound? 

“However,” he goes on, smoothly changing the subject from one to the other. “If it will put your mind at ease, it would be well within my capabilities to pay your mother a visit where she’s currently staying at. I can’t say when, exactly, that might be, or how soon I’ll return to relay whatever findings I may uncover but as long as you don’t mind a little wait then I’m perfectly amenable to this request.” 

That easy acquiescence manages to surprise you a fair amount, and you find yourself standing up straighter with the chilly tremor that works down your spine. “Really? You actually mean it, my lord?” 

“Why, of course I do.” He chuckles, bringing one of his hands up now to cover the humored tug of his mouth. “You certainly are adorable when you get that startled look on your face. No wonder Zandik enjoys teasing you so much. I might start to fall into the same habit too, if you’re not careful.”  

As if he hadn’t already teased you enough in both of your fleetingly short meetings. 

As if he wasn’t teasing you right now. 

Fresh embarrassment creeps across your face and camps there, but you press your mouth into a tight line to resist the urge to argue back at him as you fish out a slip of paper from your apron to jot down your mothers name and which hospital she was at. It does sting a little, though. Zandik was only somewhat easy to deal with because his waning physical condition meant he was fairly limited on what he could easily do to exact punishments upon you. Or pleasures for that matter. Just like he’d said the night before, actually fucking you might be a task that was a bit beyond his current abilities. 

But Pantalone suffered none of the same physical handicaps when he was both young enough to still be relatively spry and seemingly in good health. There were any number of things he could choose to do to you, if you happened to truly agitate his ire, and you weren’t so sure you wanted to test your luck where he was concerned. 

To your mild pang of surprise, though, when you hold out the hastily scrawled note to him, he ignores it completely in favor of reaching out to slip sensually gloved fingers underneath your chin, tipping your face towards him with a final lingering chuckle. 

“How precious you are. But fret not, my dear. Your request will be honored at my earliest convenience. Shall we seal it with a kiss?”

You give a small jolt. “Wha - -“ 

He abruptly leans down before you can get the rest out or even to think about scuttling back, enveloping you in a faint drift wind that smells of tobacco, coffee and cologne more expensive than anything you’d ever owned. With a faint rattle from the dangling chain on his glasses, Pantalone tips his head to place an unexpectedly chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth where he lingers for a drawn out moment. 

Your face immediately grows hot enough to spark, but that is all he does once everything is said and done. No undue demands of you, no expectation of submission, not even one single attempt to disregard your boundaries beyond that simple little peck. It’s entirely polite and congenial. Gentlemanly, even. 

And then he straightens up, pulling back to fix you with another frustratingly charming smile. “I had a lovely time today, dear. I do hope we get to do it again soon. You take care.”

He plucks the note from your fingers and, with a creak of the old door and a blustery gust of icy wind, he is gone. Leaving you standing in the foyer staring after him like a complete twit. Even knowing his pleasant smiles were fake is still not enough to scare you away, it seemed. 

But you don’t get the chance to linger on your own foolishness for very long before the soft, tinkling chime of a small bell reaches your ears. 

Pivoting on your heel, you make your way from the front door to step down the hall and back into the drawing room you’d just come from a few short minutes ago. You find Zandik right where you’d left him, comfortably lounging in his chair with his pants and belt now done up again. At complete and utter ease as he glances over at your entrance. 

Scoffing a quiet sound when he sees your eager expression, he fixes you with a decidedly tired look that seems to slightly deepen the creased wrinkles on his face. “What took you so long, eh? You and my most trusted confidant weren’t necking each other and stealing kisses out in the hall behind my back, were you?”

You try very hard not to laugh at that but can’t quite seem to manage. It wasn’t an entirely inaccurate way to describe what just transpired in the foyer, you think. Or, at least, it’s not hard to imagine that such a scene might look familiar to a young noblewoman who was returning to her overbearing father after sharing just a few fleeting moments in private with her arduous young lord lover before he took his leave. 

It’s a silly and romantic thought, but Zandik is not your father and Pantalone is not courting you any more than the old man was. And you certainly were not a lady born to polite society either. 

Moreover, Zandik also isn’t sincerely questioning your actions. In fact, upon closer inspection, you realize that he appears to be as relaxed as you’ve ever seen him and not at all worried about what you may or may not have been doing with his handsome male lover. Either he was very confident in Pantalone’s loyalties or it looked like you would need to keep in mind the potent efficacy of having his cock sucked for the next time he started to fuss at you. 

“No, Master, we were not, and I don’t think it is me who Lord Regrator would most like to neck with.”

You’d meant it only as a light jab, a playful nudge for one of his, but the old man faintly grimaces in reply. 

“Ah, about that. I suppose I do owe you an apology, don’t I? It wasn’t my intent to keep it hidden from you this entire time or anything like that. In fact, if you want the truth of it, I’d had a feeling that I should have been more upfront with you regarding the broader picture of the situation even prior to today. I just never found the right opportunity. And not for a lack of trying, mind you.” 

Drawing a slow breath that makes his shoulders dramatically rise and then fall when he exhales, Zandik gives his head a rather solemn shake before going on. 

“Regretfully I must inform you that your skittish behavior makes everything that much more difficult for me. It’s sometimes hard to figure out what might send you running from me in tears or have you offering up that sweet little cunt for petting. In all honesty, though, you warmed up to the idea of Feofan and I far quicker and with much less fuss than I had anticipated you would. With that being said,”

Pausing, Zandik stretches his hand out across the cushioned arm of the chair to reach for you. The gesture itself is listless, imploring, perhaps even a little needy in its wretched execution, but his body language continues to read bone deep satiation. Almost like a cat that’s recently finished helping itself to a full saucer of cream and was now stretching out in its favorite sunbeam to sleep it off. Languid. Waiting for your decision. 

Seeing no reason not to, you step forward to come up beside him where you slip your fingers into his waiting palm. Those always cool to the touch, bony digits close around yours, sharp and jutting, stiff with arthritis, but altogether gentle. Simply holding you in place while he peers up at you from that comfortably reclined sprawl.  

“I am — sorry I didn’t tell you about us sooner. And I do mean that, girl. Even if it were not for the challenges you present, I still likely would have hesitated to go into much detail about it. As I’m sure you can surmise, it's a bit complicated. Do you forgive me?” 

You nod, secretly quite tickled at how soft he is in this warm afterglow. Yes, you would certainly need to remember this method of soothing him for the next time he started to get in one of his moods. Perhaps he’d been right to call you a little minx, after all. Surely it was not normal for you to toy with the notion of leveraging sex in this way, but … as long as you don’t overdo it, you’d probably be fine. 

“Of course I forgive you, Master. Even if I think calling it only a ‘bit’ complicated is probably an understatement, I can still understand why it might be difficult for you to talk about something like this with me. It looked like you and Lord Regrator indeed share a rather close relationship with each other. It’s not really my place to question you or demand an explanation though. And I … I know I don’t always make things easy for you either.”

He gives your captured fingers a tight, shuddering squeeze. “Just as I’m sure I certainly don’t make things easy for you. I guess that makes us even.” 

“Yes.” You relent, smiling now. “I suppose it does.”

Zandik offers you a pleasantly drained twitch of his mouth but it quickly disappears with the slow, groaning yawn that proceeds to wash over him. “Goodness. Between this and last night, I fear I might be in need of a midday nap. You and Feofan both have taken quite a lot out of me it seems.” 

You perk up at that. “Are you really that tired, Master? Would you like to go lie down?” 

Scoffing a quiet sound, he releases you so he can start to stiffly push himself upright in the chair, grabbing for his cane with a faltering hand. “Don’t sound so surprised. I am an eighty year old man who was just lucky enough to have his balls drained by a pretty girl in a maid dress. Cut me some slack.” 

You’re already moving to help him, the reaction to hurry to his aid almost instinctive now, but you still can’t seem to stop yourself from flushing even while you work to steady him so he can get up. “Must you say it like that, Master Zandik? Sometimes it feels like I’m living with a swarthy sailor more than a scientist.” 

He grunts a nearly breathless laugh at that, struggling to get his balance evened out. “That’s all men, you silly girl. Some of us are just more polite about it than others. I am not one of them.” 

Thinking that went without saying, you keep your hands braced along his sides until he finally seems to stabilize his footing, standing on his own now. He turns away to lean on his cane for support instead of you as his pride would dictate, and you slowly shuffle after him when he starts to make his way towards the door. 

“I think I’d like to get in bed and really sleep off this fatigue. The loveseat just isn’t comfortable enough. Or warm enough, for that matter.” 

You send him a silent, interested look. 

There is a small little adrenaline fueled tightening in your gut that makes your pulse quicken, but you keep your expression neutral while you carefully assist him up the front staircase to the second floor. The idea that starts to form in the back of your mind isn’t a very smart one, you know that only too well, but you’re also keenly aware of the fact that you may not get another chance like this again. It was rare for Zandik to retreat to his bed in the middle of the day, usually keeping himself going through grumpy, sheer force of will and the endless supply of coffee he demanded from you. 

But there was something you needed to double check, and you just couldn’t run the risk of him catching you doing it. In truth, you’ve already made your decision before you even reach the top of the stairs. 

Anticipation settles over you in earnest as you finally get him up to the landing and then trail in his wake down the corridor to his room. Once inside, he shuffles over to the side of the bed where he leans his cane up against it before settling in to undo his shirt with faltering hands. While he works on the top half, you come up behind him and reach around narrow hips to undo his belt with only a brief amount of fumbling. You were so used to dressing and undressing him by now that you make almost as quick work of it as Pantalone had down in the drawing room, although you lack much of the same sultry, seductive flair he’d shown. 

With a rattle from the buckle you get the strip of leather loosened and then tug at the button and zipper on his slacks. The two of you work in near perfect tandem, so that by the time you start to kneel, pulling his pants down to his ankles, Zandik is beginning to shrug out of his outer jacket and then the billowing, blue button up underneath. Groaning a soft sound, he then carefully eases himself to perch on the side of the bed while you nudge his shoes and pants off, leaving the old man in only his underwear. 

You make a concerted effort not to look at his lap as you quickly gather up his stripped clothes and set them aside to be refolded, very conscious of the fact that you were still wet and wanting. Neither of them had touched you there once all was said and done. But as much as you wanted to feel that hot, hot surge of release again you tell yourself you just can’t afford to get distracted by your cunt right now. 

And yet, when you return to his side with a fresh set of pajamas in hand, even your best attempts to stop it can’t seem to keep your eyes from fixing on the front of his white underwear. He is completely soft though, only a faint lump under the fabric to indicate his current state rather than a hard, seeking tent. It was hardly any wonder, of course, given the bone deep satiation that permeated the air around him. 

Still, you can’t help but feel a small tinge of disappointment and he doesn’t seem to miss the look that passes over your face, snorting a quiet laugh in response. 

“Insatiable little thing. You really want it bad, don’t you?” 

Despite the lack of bite in his words, you self consciously hunch your shoulders even as you start to work on getting him dressed in his night clothes. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean, Master Zandik.” 

“Hah. That’s funny. You’re not very good at hiding it, you know. Feofan was right. You get this glistening look of hunger in your eyes, like you’re little more than some half starved beast or something. Although, I suppose, that’s not an entirely inaccurate description for you, eh? To still be a virgin at your age …” 

You don’t think he’s being cruel in saying that, at least not with any intentional malice anyway. Just as most people of his age, he seemed to simply lack a polite filter — but of course, that was even assuming he’d ever had one to begin with. Given his ego, you aren’t so sure he did. 

Still, you deliberately keep your head bowed and your attention fixed on the night shirt you’re buttoning him into, so you won’t have to look him in the face when you speak next. “Is it really that surprising? I know what Lord Regrator said about … about street urchins not living such comfortable lives and he probably wasn’t wrong about that, I’ll admit. But even so. That doesn’t change the fact that I’m a person with the right to choose what I do with my body, does it?” 

Silently, Zandik eyes you from just a scant few inches away for a long, drawn out moment, only deigning to speak again when he reaches up to remove his monocle with a stilted sigh. “Perhaps. But you’re also a very lovely young woman, as I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you. Sometimes men — selfish men, will make that decision for you. Much like I have, I’d wager.” 

Your stomach gives a tiny flip at that, wrenching softly at his acknowledgement. At least he was self aware enough to admit it, even if that wouldn’t change the outcome of anything. 

“I don’t think I’d lump you in with the likes of them, Master Zandik.” You tell him truthfully, kneeling back down now to work his feet into the legs of his cozy sleep bottoms. “Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but although it’s not necessarily wrong to say you also have a selfish streak, I don’t believe that this is the only reason for your behavior towards me. It’s just as Lord Regrator said, isn’t it? You haven’t been shown much kindness in your life and you’re … lonely. Aren’t you?” 

The following stretch of quiet hangs heavy for but a fleetingly brief moment and then, startling you slightly, Zandik barks a sudden laugh. 

“What a precocious little girl you are. And smarter than you look, if you want my opinion. I can’t say I expected such a sharp sense of perception from you, but …” Pausing, he puts his head to one side and squints down at you, as if a thought has just struck upon him, right as you finish feeding the loose material over both his ankles. 

And when you slowly stand to help him up, he tracks the motion with sharp, hawk-eyed interest now, one hand lifting to take hold of your arm in a sharp squeeze as he struggles to his feet in front of you. The slight hunch of his spine puts him at nearly perfect eye level with you, and you questioningly look into his face when you notice the imperative way he grasps at you, refusing to let you go. 

“Answer me something. Where did you come from, girl? Who were your parents?” 

You blink at that, genuinely taken aback by his sudden interest in the topic. “Mine? O - oh, surely that’s not actually anything so noteworthy?” 

Your attempt to wave off the question fails miserably, and his fingers dig deeper into the meat of your bicep when you try to move away, stopping you. 

“You know I expect an answer when I ask you something. Tell me.” 

It looked like he was right back to his usual grumpy self again. That comfortable lull certainly hadn’t lasted long. 

“M - my apologies, Master. I didn’t realize it was such a … pressing question.” You stammer, swallowing hard to clear your throat of obstruction. “I come from Snezhnograd where I was born and raised my whole life. This is really the first time I’ve ever been anywhere else. My father wasn’t anything special, just another soldier in Her Majesty’s armies. He’s been missing in action for almost ten years, and my mother … w - well, technically she’s just a civilian now, like me. But she used to be a high ranking member of the church. A — a deacon, if I remember correctly.” 

Zandik’s expression falters at that, and then seems to slacken with what you think just might be sincere surprise. 

“I see.” He says rather curtly, struggling to recover from whatever had just caught him off guard. “So that’s why you are not only perfectly literate despite coming from poverty but you also have the manners one might expect to see in the courts. How curious. And I take it, then, that she raised you in virtue and strict expectation?”

You nod slowly, unsure how to read this reaction from him. “Yes, sir. She gave up her own life of moral integrity for my father, but she still taught me many of the same lessons that the church espouses. I think she wanted me to … live a proper, respectable existence despite being a commoner.”

A wholly mirthless laugh punches out of him then, sharp and to the point. “And yet here you are.” 

“Yes. Here I am.” 

Slowly, his fingers begin to ease up their pinching death grip on your arm and then finally fall away another moment later. You hesitate briefly, uncertain how to proceed from here, but when he makes no further move to speak, you cautiously bend down to grab the top hem of his slumped pants. With gentle discretion for his current demeanor, you tug them up to sit on the ridged jut of his hips, somehow soft yet pointy at the same time, and then neatly tie off the drawstring to keep them held in place. 

Only when you’ve finished and start to retract your hands from his person does he finally draw an uncharacteristically tentative breath. 

“Let me ask you one more thing, girl. And be truthful with me, now. I won’t tolerate any lying. Do you worship the gods the same way? Do you believe in divine authority over mortal lives, as I’m sure you were taught to?” 

Frowning slightly, you give yourself a moment to think on that. 

Then, with exceeding gentleness, you reach back out to straighten his sleep shirt where it had gotten rucked and slightly twisted in the fastening of his pants. 

“No, Master Zandik. I don’t think I do. And it’s not so much that I don’t believe in their dominion to rule over humanity, especially not when our own Tsaritsa is so very powerful and great. I just — have to wonder, sometimes. That’s all. If it’s really the natural way of the world or if it was … orchestrated to be like this. And who gave them the authority they wield?”

Finishing your fussing with his clothes, you settle back on your heels and expectantly peer up at him only to find Zandik looking at you with what might very well be a spark of pride lighting up his pale eyes. 

“That’s a good answer.” He tells you, surprisingly candid. “A very good one, in fact. I have to say, I’m rather impressed with your ability to think critically and form your own conclusions instead of blithely parroting whatever tripe you were spoonfed in your childhood. It’s one of the indicators of a high intellect, you know.” 

Your brows slowly lift. “Goodness, Master Zandik. Are you praising me in earnest right now?” 

His expression turns rueful, his coarse mouth tugging sharply to one side even as he reaches across the short space that separates you from him to give your side an unusually playful pinch. 

“And don’t let it get to your head, girl. I never was very forthcoming when it comes to compliments so you’d best not expect many more of them from me. But I believe that is quite enough of that unpleasant discussion. Help me into bed, now.” 

Quickly doing just that, you hustle to get the sheets pulled back on one side of the mattress and then use your hands to assist him under the covers, where he immediately heaves a very tired sigh as soon as his head hits the pillow. Flitting over him for another moment longer, you make sure he’s nudged far enough over not to risk rolling off the bed, taking care to tuck him in nice and snug to ensure he doesn’t take a chill while at rest. 

“Would you like a fire in the hearth, Master?” You ask, right as you’re tugging the blankets up to his chin. 

Leaning over him like that, you don’t see his nearest hand snaking out from underneath the duvet you just finished placing on top of him. It’s only when you feel a rough, suggestive nudge of sharp knuckles over the front of your breast do you give a little start, looking down at him in surprise. 

“No, you silly girl. I suspect that thoughts of this sumptuous young body of yours will keep me warm enough for now.” Zandik murmurs, lightly dragging the back of his hand across your nipple which all too readily springs up at the contact to poke through your top. “As much as I’d like to play with you right now, I’m afraid I simply don’t have the stamina for it anymore. You’ll have to forgive this old man for that too. But after I’ve rested up some, perhaps you’d like to try a little experiment with me? I’m curious to see how your excitable cunt reacts to having my mouth on it.”

The entire world seems to tilt sideways around you, the edges of your vision faintly blurring from the sheer intensity of the arousal that rips through you. 

Faltering unsteadily there on your feet, you have to force your lungs to pull in a slow, hissing breath. “Y - you … you want to put your mouth on me, Master?” 

“Of course I do. I’m sure you taste just as sweet as you look. I dare say you might even come to find you prefer my tongue over my fingers, once all is said and done. There’s only one way to find out though.” 

You whimper softly in response to that, unable to hold it back. It felt like you were dangerously close to fainting dead away from how intensely your pussy clenches, squeezing down on itself as if it could eke out even just some small, shuddering relief if it only tightened enough. 

Of course that doesn’t work, though, and Zandik merely chuckles a low, rumbling sound at the needy, disoriented expression on your face as he drops his hand back to the sheets. 

“You’re a very good girl for me. Thank you. Now let this old man get some sleep or your cunt will never get properly eaten. Wake me up for supper if I haven’t called for you by then.” 

“… y - yes, Master Zandik. Rest well.” 

Somewhat awkwardly giving the blankets over his chest one last, fidgety pat, you straighten up and turn, moving first to the window to draw the curtains closed and envelope the room in some approximation of darkness before then heading to the door. 

Out in the hall, you have to take a moment just to catch your breath while you struggle to reorient yourself. It really was too much on your poor body. You were sensitive and eager anyway, likely due to ignoring your own physical needs and urges for so long. Overly excitable, as he liked to call it. But dragging it out like this, your arousal ratcheting tighter and tighter with each fleeting encounter, was a unique misery unto itself. Every inch of you felt like it was tingling, aching, begging to be touched. Licked. Sucked, and whatever else. It felt like it really was going to drive you mad. 

Unable to make yourself move from the spot, your cheeks feel like they’re positively on fire as you slowly ease back to rest against the outside of Zandik’s door. This thrumming need, the pulsing desire deep inside your cunt makes it impossible to think of literally anything else. Neither common decency nor your secret plan to go snooping around seemed to matter anymore as you numbly peer down at yourself. Taking stock. Working out the logistics. 

Hesitantly, one of your hands comes up to curve over the weight of your own breast and give it a light squeeze. It’s nothing like the way Zandik does it though, nowhere near as sharp or pinching, so you try again. A little harder this time. 

But your fingers are much too soft, too feminine. What you craved was the ache of stiff bony ridges, the arthritic jut of digits that don’t seem to know their own strength sometimes and the coarse, cool to the touch pads of fingers that had tinkered, built and disassembled for a lifetime. 

Even when you find your nipple, still tentatively pebbled underneath your clothes from the last time he’d touched you, fitfully tugging on it now, you find that it does very little to alleviate the tension between your thighs. It just seems to make you want it to be him touching you even more, and your mind slowly, inevitably drifts towards the other side of the door. 

Would he welcome you into his bed if you went back inside and crawled under the blankets with him, pitifully mewling about how badly you need his attention and that you couldn’t wait until later? Would he pull you in close to him, safe and snug, and secure, pinned up against his side just like the night before, so you could only squirm in place while he fingered your cunt open? 

Such an intense shudder tears through you at the hazy fantasy that your legs almost seem to turn into limp, overcooked noodles and you nearly collapse into a heap. No, as much as you wanted it you just couldn’t do it. Your master already told you he was tired from the morning’s excitement and he would play with you later. 

You should focus on your other objective while you still could instead of wasting time with this. You should …

Impulsively, you slide your other hand forward over your hip and reach under the skirt to find your panties. They register as dump to the touch but you choose to ignore that for the time being while you experimentally caress over the outline of your slit. Trying to mimic the way Zandik had touched you there, recalling the pressure, the speed, the angle at which he dug those rude fingertips into fleshy lips to make them part for him. 

Nothing seems to work though. It just doesn’t feel right and, in turn, it doesn’t feel good. At least not the way you’ve come to expect it to, and you cling desperately to the memory of his masterful hands playing in your pussy as if he was already intimately familiar with it. Even if you did manage to bring yourself to orgasm, finding your release out there in the hall, would it really even feel all that satisfying in the end?

Quickly growing frustrated with all of this useless pawing at yourself, you drop your hands with an impatient huff. This clearly wasn’t going to work. You would just have to wait, and hope that Zandik felt up to the task when he awoke. How very unfair it was. 

How very disgraceful. 

Self consciously straightening up from the door, you run your hands over yourself to smooth out your uniform and, hopefully, get a grip on your baser urges. You’re not so sure it works but, finally, you manage to unstick your feet and drift away from his room like a lost specter. 

Luckily by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs you start to feel a bit more in control of your motor functions, even if it does occur to you much too late that you should have changed your panties before coming down. It's not worth the extra trip though and, determined to be at least somewhat productive, you put that out of your mind as you step back into the drawing room to clean up after the Lord Harbinger’s visit. 

You’re fairly chagrined by the much depleted cigarette butt you find floating in Pantalone’s cup of half drunk coffee where he must have dropped it when he stood to come around the table. But, you comfort yourself, at least he hadn’t put it out on the china itself or even the nice tablecloth. 

Making quick work of gathering up the used place settings, you then carry it all back into the kitchen where you’re greeted by the resounding silence of an open, empty space. Here, you take a moment to just surreptitiously glance around to make sure you really are alone and that nothing seemed to be out of order. All was exactly as you’d left it though and, feeling more than a bit silly, you take your burden over to the big sink where you start to wash everything up. 

It certainly would have been nice if there was at least one other person on staff here, so that you wouldn’t have had to do everything yourself when Zandik had neither the ability or the desire to help you with these menial tasks. Your one and only saving grace thus far was the weekly Fatuus deliveries that kept things stocked and well prepared, from a never ending supply of coffee beans, tea tins, flour, jams and spices, meats and eggs, and milk, which you could only guess had been arranged and paid for by the Doctor. 

But no matter how you sliced it or what angle you tried to look at it from, there simply was not enough food for more than two people. Not in the cupboards or the icebox, and certainly not in the crates that were dropped off by masked men and women every Tuesday. If any of it had started to go missing you certainly would have noticed it by now. 

Did that, in turn, mean that the Doctor didn’t know about the mysterious presence down in the cellar? He certainly had not accounted for a third person's provisions as far as you could tell. You were relatively certain of that, and Zandik had never said anything to you that might suggest he was aware of it either. 

Not until today, that is, when he and Pantalone had discussed some vague, nebulous ‘others’ between themselves. 

That hadn’t even been the only strange, somewhat worrisome comment they’d made to each other, but as you stand there replaying everything back in your head you find that you are more certain than ever what you must do next. Even if it was only to assuage your fears, at least you could put this foolishness to rest. 

Finishing up with the last delicate saucer, you set it aside in the drying rack, pull the plug on the drain and then slowly turn in place, wiping your hands on your apron. The hallway that would lead back to that unassuming cellar door in the rear of the house was just outside the kitchen. It wouldn’t even take you five whole minutes to find it again. You could be in and out in even less time, just long enough to check what’s going on in there and then right back out. Easy. And stupid.  

Drawing a steadying breath, you decide to just get it over with and step across the paneled flooring to come out in the connecting corridor. 

It’s as still and quiet as you would expect an otherwise empty house to be, the sound of your shoes moving over the wood grain the only sound you can make out. You’re almost embarrassed by how much braver you feel in the light of day, how little your heart pounds out a nervous staccato rhythm as you follow the long hallway down until you reach the door in question a few moments later. 

You only hesitate there in front of it for a brief moment before you reach up and wrench the door open with a hard yank. 

Darkness and silence alike rush up to greet you as you squint through the gloom of low filtered, dust mote ridden light coming in from the small window along the adjacent wall behind you. It doesn’t do much to actually illuminate the interior of the tiny room though, and you somewhat belatedly realize you were going to need a lamp. You’d been so focused on amping yourself up to do this that the thought hadn’t even occurred to you until now. 

Leaving the door ajar, you backtrack down a ways to a low table you’d passed. Keeping one eye on the far end of the hall, you open one of the drawers but find nothing that will help you. Opening the other, you find a half melted candlestick and an old box of matchsticks. You take a moment to wrap the bottom in your handkerchief so that you will not burn your hand when it starts to melt, and then quickly get the wick lit. 

Back down you go, nudging the door open and then cautiously leaning inside. And this time you make absolutely certain to double check the immediate walls to ensure that someone isn’t lurking just within. It really is completely empty though. 

You inch a little further inside, scanning the floor in search of your missing slipper but there’s no sign of it at all. There also isn’t any evidence of your broken lamp, either, you’re quite disconcerted to find. Someone had cleaned it up, and … and taken off with your slipper while they were at it? 

Perplexed and more than slightly frightened of what this discovery likely meant, you swing your attention up to examine the bookshelves a little closer, like you’d wanted to do the night before. The spines are indeed brittle and ancient, just as you’d initially suspected, and in running your finger over a few of them you soon realize why they seemed so different from those in the upstairs library. 

They appeared to be written in a different language. Not one you recognized and nothing you could decipher, but all of them seem to be printed in decidedly strange characters that you couldn’t recall ever seeing before. You naturally have to assume that they must be exceptionally rare then, although you are admittedly a bit surprised Zandik or the Doctor, or even Lord Regrator for that matter would have these here instead of in a highly curated collection to show them off. 

Did that mean these were possibly for personal use, then? 

Deciding to give up on your perusal of the books for right now, knowing you can’t put it off any longer, you hold your candle up and turn towards the hidden door on the right. It really was so thoroughly sandwiched between the two shelves on either side that you very well might have missed it again if you didn’t already know it was there. 

Your nerves start to make themselves known as you step up to it but you quietly tell yourself everything is fine. If someone or something really was on the other side you could just run away, same as you did last night. As far as you could tell that unknown entity hadn’t even tried to give chase. But it was better to know now than to risk wondering and jumping at every curious shadow in the house for the foreseeable future. 

Reaching for the knob with your free hand, you give it a careful turn and the catch gives with an equally small click. You ease it open just enough to put your ear close, listening, but all you can make out is more resounding silence. There’s a small draft coming through the crack though, so you know this one must actually lead somewhere. 

You allow yourself another slow breath in, holding it inside your lungs as you start to ease the door the rest of the way open. Your opposite hand comes up with the candle and you soon find that you’re peering down into a dark stairwell into what appears to be a bottomless void. The darkness is truly oppressive down there and that alone is nearly enough to send you scampering away in tears, but you stubbornly press on. You have to. 

The stairs creak softly while you make your way down, one halting step at a time, with the flickering candle held out as far in front of you as you can reach. You’re starting to sweat, both from fear and how stifling the air starts to become the lower you go. It’s decidedly freezing in here though, and you conversely begin to shiver. 

You finally spot the floor what feels like an eternity later and you gratefully step down onto the rough bricks with your heart in your throat. This new space is cramped, yet more bricks on either side of you, but when you nudge the candle towards the right you see that there is yet another door. 

Almost feeling a bit exasperated at this point, you heave a shuddering exhale and grab at the new door handle, yanking it wide open. 

And you’re immediately greeted by glaringly bright illumination that positively sears your retinas to make you cringe back as if you’d been scalded, dropping the candle in your reeling surprise. Momentarily blinded, your panic rapidly swells and crests to leave you mindless with it. You just didn’t understand. Why would there be light down here? 

It takes a long, painfully harrowing moment for you to blink the stars from your eyes, and when you finally glance up you realize quite immediately that you’re standing at the threshold of a lab. 

You know this for certain after spending so much time with Zandik in the one upstairs, but this is not only much bigger but much fancier too. The equipment looks newer, for starters, and you disbelievingly drag your attention over the vials and beakers, test tubes and complicated machinery, the likes of which you’d never seen before. Wires and bulbs, and circuitry, stacks of paperwork littering various surfaces, some of it neat and tidy while other piles were a haphazard mess. Sterile tools and various instruments, gadgets and devices you couldn’t even begin to guess the use of. It looked like a well furnished playground for a whole fleet of scientists. 

But … but this didn’t even begin to make any sense. 

Even if you were to assume that this was simply another one of Zandik’s work spaces, perhaps even his true lab whereas the other was more for idle tinkering, why in the Tsaritsa’s name would he have set all this up in the basement? There was no feasible way he could have ever possibly managed all those stairs by himself. And that was to say absolutely nothing of the fact that you spent almost every waking minute with him. He never could have found a chance to sneak off by himself to come down here. 

And yet — as you look over everything you can’t help but notice that there is a very limited amount of dust or cobwebs, and you don’t spot even so much as a hint of the rats Zandik claimed were living in the cellar. As far as you can tell the space looked like it was used regularly, and rather lovingly at that. 

A very real part of you wants to turn tail and beat a hasty retreat back up the stairwell. To slip back into whatever constituted for your normal life around here and pretend you’d never seen anything. That would be the smart thing to do. You know it would. 

Despite your better judgement, though, you soon find yourself inching further inside to peer around at everything, completely dumbstruck by all that you see. Even as it all comes as a great, reeling shock to you, you still can’t help being impressed by it. In many ways this was what you’d envisioned when the Doctor had rather curtly informed you that you were now working for a much accomplished genius. You’d thought he meant Zandik. 

Was this possibly his lab then? Was it really possible that this was where that bird masked fiend retreated to, out of sight and out of mind, only to reappear later when you least expected him? 

That may have been an otherwise perfectly reasonable explanation, but … that didn’t account for the strange person you’d seen up in the landing last night. You felt relatively certain that it had not been the Doctor skulking about in the dark. The hair wasn’t right, for one, and those blood red eyes … 

You’d never seen the Doctor’s eyes before, as he always insisted on keeping them hidden behind the featureless mask he wore, so you supposed maybe they could have been his. Somehow you very much doubted that though. 

Feeling even more confused than when you’d started, you tip toe down the aisle formed between desks and tables, and machinery banks, giving everything a curious look over. Most of it you couldn’t even begin to guess at what it might be used for, but the more you glance around the more you start to notice something that strikes you as particularly odd. 

Even without any formal discernment between all of the tools and staging set ups, and the heavy cabled equipment, it looks to you like there might be a handful of different projects taking place all at once. One table you pass looks like it’s being used to assemble what appears to be a prosthetic arm made up of sheet metal and wires. Another is housing a series of petri dishes with something very much alive swimming around in them. At a dim lit monitor you can see a progress bar flashing at you, showing that whatever task the internal computer had been programmed for was currently at thirty-six percent completion. 

It very much leaves you in awe of all that you observe. You couldn’t even begin to fathom how any one person could possibly find the time or the brain power to split their attention between so many things, so many varied pursuits at the same time. 

Unless there really was more than one. 

‘The others are, for the most part, content to simply stay away.’ 

That’s what Zandik had said in the drawing room earlier. 

But you’d just naturally assumed he’d meant that they stay away from the house. Not that they merely stayed in the cellar, minding their business. 

Such a violent chill creeps up your spine at that thought you start to feel well and truly faint. Were there really multiple people living down here? And you’d never even noticed? 

Dazed and confused, you find yourself stumbling from one piece of equipment to the next studiously cluttered desk, and then on to the next strangely colored fluid in a corked test tube. You couldn’t even begin to make any sense of what you were seeing, for the most part, but towards a far back wall you finally spot something that looks to be at least somewhat recognizable. 

It very much resembles an operating theater, with a big, powerful, three-bulb light hanging over a steel gurney table. There are cabinets and shelves lining the immediate area, clearly separated and sectioned off from the rest of the lab's other designated stations. There’s a decidedly heavy atmosphere around the sterile corner it’s pressed back into, and you feel mildly nauseous when you look at it. But still, you wander closer. 

Everything is clean, thankfully, and the only smell that invades your nostrils now is that of cleaning agents, antiseptic and soap. If you didn’t know any better you might have even thought it was just a staged prop of some sort that had never seen any real cutting or slicing, given how unused everything looked at just a glance. But even you were not so naive as to truly believe that. 

Giving the steel table with its drainage troughs a wide breadth of space, you instead set your sights on the small utility table set up just behind it. There’s an open book laying across the surface and when you lean close, scanning the page, you can see that it’s some kind of medical text. You have no interest in the stuff yourself but you do find it curious indeed. If your suspicions were correct then at least one of them had a keen interest in the science of medicine — whoever they were. 

If you had to guess based on what you’ve seen so far, you would probably wager that at least one had an interest in machinery and mechanics. Another with biology, perhaps even virology specifically. And although you couldn’t be sure, you’d seen one desk that looked to be so full of heavy tomes that you could only surmise they were hungry for broader knowledge as a whole rather than a single narrowed down subject. 

Ever so slightly moving the open book aside, you find a small stack of papers underneath. The handwriting is neat and precise, sharp, and you scan over the nearly incomprehensible medical jargon in search of any clues as to what might be going on down here. Many of the words are complete gibberish to you, though, and you struggle to make any sense of it. So much for the literacy Zandik had lauded you for. 

Towards the bottom of the top sheet, however, you finally spot something that looks easy enough to understand. ‘Test Sample: PT0083.’ 

Your head comes up to scan the equipment laid out on the narrow work station. Sure enough, situated in front of a row of neatly organized medical journals, you spot a steel rack full of vials. It looks like there’s some strange, thick fluid inside, and you carefully reach out to spin the labels towards you, one by one, until you find it. PT0083. 

You know exactly how much you should really leave this stuff alone, but your gnawing curiosity ultimately wins out and you ever so gently start to ease the vial out of its holder. 

Lifting it up at an angle makes the fluid inside run towards the opposite end, so dark it almost looks black. It’s only when you’re watching the last little bit cling to the interior of the glass does it strike an uncomfortable chord within you. Was that … blood? 

You come very close to regurgitating everything in your stomach in a sudden, wretching heave, fumbling now to put it back where you got it from. But either your hands are too clammy with sweat or your recoiling grip on the vial is too weak, because you drop it to the table with an ear shattering CLINK! 

Your hand instinctively snaps out to cover the petite vial, stopping it from either bouncing or rolling away, as your heart pounds such a violent rhythm against your ribcage your breathing starts to come short. Silently praying you hadn’t broken it, you cautiously lift your palm to find that the delicate lab equipment is indeed still in one piece. By some unexpected miracle you hadn’t even so much as cracked the thing. 

You exhale a very relieved sigh at that discovery. 

“What are you doing with the equipment?”

To say you nearly jump right out of your own skin would be an understatement. 

Your soul actively leaves your body for all of a single, terrible heartbeat before returning just in time for you to spin around, back pressed painfully tight to the work station. 

The man that steps into the little operation theater from around the back of a dark blackout curtain is neither Zandik, the Doctor or even the mysterious individual you’d run into last night. You’re quite certain of that because this one is wearing a pair of thin glasses perched atop the bridge of his nose. Other than Zandik’s monocle you’re sure you’ve never seen any of them wearing any sort of lenses before, not even the one with his eyes showing through his mask. 

Stunned into mute silence, your mouth works even when nothing comes out, not even a peep, but the bespectacled man doesn’t so much as glance up at you. 

His attention remains fixed on a clipboard he holds from the top, bracing it along the length of his forearm as he almost thoughtfully seems to step past the steel medical table in the center. Even without looking away from whatever he’s reading, he manages to bypass it completely and come stand next to you in front of the small work table. 

It’s like your overtaxed brain has completely shut down now as you stare up at him, realizing in a vague, distant sort of way that his height reminds you very much of the Doctor. You know it’s not him though. Even with his mouth hidden behind a perfectly clean white surgical mask, you can already tell that this one is much more serious and less prone to whimsy. It’s in the almost bored set of his brows. 

Gods, who could have ever thought you’d meet someone who would make you think of the Doctor as whimsical? 

“Here.” He abruptly speaks, passing you the clipboard, again, without even looking at you. 

Reeling and shellshocked, and not to mention highly confused, you automatically take it from him without even thinking. 

“Familiarize yourself with the objective. You have five minutes.” 

Once again your mouth opens, nothing comes out, and so you close it. 

Dropping your attention to the clipboard, you have to force your vibrating eyes to fix upon the words as you frantically look them over only to belatedly realize that you were holding the damn thing upside down. Fumbling to spin it upright in your hands, you give it another try. All that greets you is yet more medical jargon that you don’t understand. 

“U - um …”

He’s already walking away though, angling towards what you think might be a huge icebox standing upright against the opposite wall. Not knowing what else to do, you flit after him with the clipboard clutched to your chest like a shield. 

“Sir? Uh, I - I’m sorry. Sir. If you could just - -“

It’s as if he doesn’t even hear you as he yanks hard on the outside handle to pull the freezer door open. You give a faint squeak and cower back from the thick plumes of icy, heavily condensed steam that billow out from the container, sinking to the floor and disappearing in a fine mist. Rather surreptitiously, you peer inside around his shoulder, but all you truly process are vague lumpy shapes that make no sense to you in that moment. 

Entirely unconcerned by your presence, he reaches inside with a gloved hand, plucks something up from one of the shelves, pulls it out and slams the door closed. 

You jump at the sound but he is, once again, already in motion, stepping past you to come up with the steel table. You’re right in tow though, desperately trying to get his attention, and you move to stand next to him just in time to watch him slam whatever it is onto the surface with a near deafening BANG. 

Whimpering softly in the back of your throat, you glance down at the table and something in your gut slowly starts to turn with the vague note of comprehension that sparks in the back of your mind. 

“Is that … is that meat?” 

Finally, the bespectacled man shoots you a sidelong, utterly droll glance. “Didn’t you read the paperwork like I told you to?” 

Swallowing hard, you send him an utterly helpless look. “That’s wh - what I’ve been trying to tell you, sir. I don’t know what any of this means.”

One of his brows gives a rather condescending quirk at that. “What sort of assistant can’t even read a basic objectives sheet?”

You have no idea how to respond to that, staring up at him in utter bewilderment. Assistant? He thought you were here. To assist him? 

For a harrowing stretch of seconds the two of you just stand there, looking at one another. 

Then, he turns to fetch something from a nearby drawer, momentarily giving you his back. 

Desperately trying to kick start your brain, you decide to try again. “I - I’m so sorry. I think there’s been a mistake. A big one. I don’t even have the first clue about any of these medical terms. I don’t know what any of this means. I’m not a lab assistant.” 

“Well, it looks like you’re just going to have to do your best then, won’t you?” 

You draw a sharp breath to insist that you can’t, you won’t. 

But then he turns from the drawer with what you can only think to describe as a meat cleaver, the kind meant to cut through flesh as if it were butter. Long, sharply pointed, and so finely serrated that it gleams faintly in the overhead light. 

It is at this exact moment that you come very close to wetting yourself. 

“W - wh - … wait. What are you doing …”

You start to back away when he retraces his steps, holding the clipboard up as if it will actually save you and ward off any of his attacks. He isn’t even looking at you though, his almost disinterested gaze fixed upon the lump of meat on the exam table. 

Without so much as a single word, his arm comes up, blade glinting, and swings back down with a vengeance, cleaving right into whatever it was he’d placed out. 

And you watch, utterly horrified beyond even your wildest imagination, as the hunk splits down the middle to a thick, fleshy THWUMP! that separates it into two halves. Revealing that what you’d thought was perhaps a frozen rump or even a breast is, in fact, a heart. 

A heart that still beats against all odds and logical explanation. 

Pumping its oxygen carrying blood through the attached ventricles, the valves, the veins, on what was once a closed off circuit that fed infinitely into itself, but now spills out all over the table. In an abrupt wash of vibrant, futilely congealing hemoglobin, it runs into the narrow trenches along the sides of the table which proceed to carry it all down, down, down where it at last feeds off into a round drain. 

Your mind completely short circuits at what it is you’re seeing. 

And then your consciousness starts to rapidly recede, darkness rushing in to consume you, when you faint dead away from the shock. 

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You don’t immediately recall what happened when you finally start to come to. All you really know with any certainty is that everything feels like it’s spinning around you dizzily fast, making you feel even more nauseous than you already did. And also the sensation of something squeezing down tight on your ankle. You’re very aware of that too. 

Groaning a quiet sound that shudders and breaks as you roll your head forward, utterly disoriented, you force your eyes to crack open. It takes a few seconds for your vision to adjust, to catch up and process what you’re looking at as the smothering darkness slowly recedes, only for you to realize you’re staring down at your own lap. If the familiar shape of your thighs didn’t give it away then the flouncy housekeeping uniform certainly did. 

“Wha - at happened … to me?” You croak, almost startled by the rough quality of your own voice. 

But movement down by your left foot catches your attention, rouses you further out of your lolling stupor, and you look to see the bespectacled man from before kneeling there. Head bowed over the task of cinching a strap into place. Around your ankle. 

You give a great start when you finally manage to make sense of what you’re seeing, jolting upright to scuttle away from him. Or would have, had your wrists not already been locked in place along the armrests of the highly uncomfortable chair he’s got you in. It’s hard and angular, with only a small plank seat that barely accommodates your bottom and steel stirrups that are not unlike the foot holds on a wheelchair. Clearly some sort of medical contraption. 

Frantic, jittery panic rapidly rushes in to make your breath come short as you give your limbs another desperate tug, only to confirm what you already knew. 

It was too late. You were as good as trapped. 

If you had woken up even just a few moments earlier, you might have been able to - - 

“Ah, you’re finally conscious again. That’s good. I was starting to wonder if I should fetch the smelling salts.” 

Nervously flexing your fingers as if to ensure they were still yours and they still worked, you send the man at your feet a deeply troubled look. Everything was still a bit blurry at the edges, not quite clear enough in your mind to trigger real recollection. But the more you stare at him the more it gradually starts to come back into focus. And then you remember it a little too clearly. 

That still beating heart. 

Even if you’d wanted to lie to yourself that it was anything other than that, there was just no mistaking what you had seen. The veins and ventricles gave it away. From the outside it had looked like little more than a lump of shapeless flesh but on the inside … 

Feeling sickeningly queasy, you turn your face away and screw your eyes shut, trying and failing not to hyperventilate. Gods, that mental image was going to haunt you for the rest of your life! 

“Oh, blessed mother. What was that thing?”

Evidently satisfied that all four limbs were secured now, the man sedately rises to his feet where he proceeds to peer down at you with a truly demeaning edge in his expression. You’d thought Pantalone was bad, the way his polite smiles and pretty violet eyes always seemed to carry with them just a hint of condescension, but this one is somehow so much worse. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact he’s staring at you as if you were little more than a bug to be studied and then squashed.

“Do you truly wish to know?” He asks you lightly, though not without just a smidge of irony lacing his tone. 

“I … I think some sort of explanation would be nice. Haven’t I earned even that much?” 

The bespectacled man gives his head a slow, perfectly controlled shake. “You misunderstand me. I am asking if you’re certain you’ll even understand my explanation in the first place, or if I would simply be wasting my time and energy. I prefer not to do either, if I can help it. I’m sure it goes without saying that I will not be answering any of your questions if it’s just going to go in one ear and out the other.” 

You send him an utterly bewildered look, almost too stunned to take offense to that decidedly unwarranted jab at your intelligence. He really did sound just like the Doctor with that arrogant, mile wide ego and an apparent love for hearing the sound of his own voice. 

And now that you’ve stopped long enough to get an actually good look at him you notice his hair, too, is that same pale, wispy shade of blue as well. 

For a split second you think they’re one and the same. The Doctor without his bird mask. But you know that can’t be. The hair lengths were wrong, and so was the overall style. This one’s was much shorter, cropped nearly down to his skull, but even that is not enough to truly hide the fluffy wave in those powdery locks. The same kind of wave in Zandik’s hair, even though his had started to dull and fade. 

Your eyes immediately go round as saucers. “Who … who are you?” 

Clicking an impatient sound with his tongue, he brings a latex gloved hand up to adjust the set of his glasses. “Either you aren’t very bright or you’re asking me something you already know the answer to. Which is it? Choose wisely.” 

You can’t help the way you cower back from him, even when you already know you have nowhere to go. This one seemed to be utterly ruthless in his exacting nature, and what an ass on top of that. “I - I have my suspicions. Very strong ones, in fact. Will you tell me if I’m right?” 

“I will not.” 

Deflating slightly, you warily follow the motion when he folds his arms behind his back and sets in to pace a slow path around the chair you’re strapped to. Just like the Doctor had back in the Northland Bank. Oh, god. Was it really him? 

“I think I’d rather watch you squirm with the not knowing than put your worries to rest just yet. Maybe I’ll give you my answer by the time we’ve finished with your exam, if I’m feeling generous enough. But I probably won’t.”

He disappears behind you then with a soft creak of his boots on the ground, sedate and perfectly casual about it. Not being able to see him or what he’s doing makes your fear skyrocket, and you quickly begin to suck in quick, painfully short gasps of air. That knife he’d had, oh god, the knife. 

“However,” he goes on, his voice slithering out from somewhere just behind you. “If you promise me you’ll listen carefully and not interrupt to ask anymore stupid questions, I just might give you the explanation you’d wanted.”

Thinking it might be a good idea to keep him talking so he doesn’t have the time to do anything else, you quickly nod your head, not knowing if he can even see it. “Yes. Y - yes, I’d appreciate that very much, sir. I promise I’ll listen. I’m a good listener.”

“Very well then.” Coming up along the other side of you, the man in the surgical mask reaches out to curl his gloved hand under your chin, mercilessly tugging your face back to make you look up at him. 

“What you saw, and the experiment you so rudely botched, I might add, was a test of the new rejuvenation elixir I’ve been working on. After previous studies were conducted, I began to form a hypothesis around the idea that the effects of aging on the body might be stymied through the blood rather than on the molecular level, as I had previously conjectured. It took some time, of course, but I was at last able to make the necessary adjustments to the biological hard coding of the red and white blood cells — that is, I reprogrammed them, you see — to take on the function of self sustaining, semi organic nano bots. Ones that do not decay over time or slow down their physiologic imperatives no matter how much time has passed. Or what external conditions they might be subjected to.”

It feels like your eyes are about to start spinning around inside your head, but you more or less understood the gist of it. Or at least, you think you do. 

“T - that’s why you … had it in the freezer?”

He lifts his brows at you, entirely condescending. “Very good. Perhaps you are not quite as dull as you look.” Nudging your chin a little higher up, he puts his head to one side to study you from a slightly different angle. Behind the thin, delicately framed glasses, his red eyes narrow upon you in assessment. 

Wait. Red eyes? 

He abruptly releases you before you can examine them any closer, sauntering the rest of the way around the chair to stand down by your feet again. 

“Yes, that is exactly right, my dear assistant. Before you had the nerve to collapse on the floor in a useless heap, I’m sure you observed exactly what I did. Despite being nothing more than a chunk of meat, frozen quite solid and unattached from any sort of connective system to supply outside oxygen or even the stimulation of a nervous system, the heart indeed continued to pump. Endlessly. Tirelessly. Without fail, without dying and without need for a host to facilitate its functionality. It really is quite a remarkable accomplishment, don’t you think?” 

You valiantly swallow the bile rising in your throat. “It’s … certainly impressive, sir. I won’t deny that. But — but what are you possibly going to do with something like this? F - for what purpose?” 

Frankly, you already had a few ideas and none of them were good. 

Turning his head, the man sends you a rather biting look despite how unmoved his expression otherwise remains. “That is another stupid question, isn’t it? I thought I told you not to bore me with such — uninspired thinking.” 

He pivots to face you then and you instinctively recoil, pushing back against the chair you’re strapped to even when you know it’s a lost cause. You’re suddenly out of your mind with animal self preservation though, frantic and wheezing, sniveling, as he comes up to stand at your hip. Even when his body language and demeanor continue to read perfectly cool and calm, your fight or flight still goes absolutely haywire to have you wildly tugging against your restraints. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt me, I swear I won’t tell anyone about any of this, please! I promise I’ll - -“

“Oh, do stop that inane blubbering, won’t you? If I was going to harm you I’ve had ample opportunity to do so already, haven’t I?” 

Panting so hard it makes you feel lightheaded, you force yourself to calm down enough to speak. He was right. He could have already hurt you in any number of ways had he so wanted, and he hadn’t. Not yet. 

But why? 

“Wha - … w - what are you going to do with me then?”

He puts his head to one side, once again reminding you a little too much of the Doctor in that gesture. 

“Yet another stupid question after I already warned you once. That’s strike two. I would advise you to choose your words much more carefully from here on out, assistant.”

One of his hands reaches down then, not even giving you a word of warning before he pulls on some sort of lever on the side of the chair. All at once the whole thing jerks back with you in it, no longer locked in place, and you shriek a horrified sound at suddenly finding yourself looking up at the ceiling. That abrupt rush of vertigo comes very close to sending your stomach contents flying from your mouth but you grit your teeth, holding it back. 

Still moving as sedately as ever, he then reaches above your head to push down on the top of the backrest, which lowers even further to eventually lock with a sharp, metallic click. You’re flat on your back now, struggling to breathe around the choking panic, while he moves a little closer to stand by your shoulder. 

It’s only at that moment when, self consciously mindful of your skirt, you attempt to squeeze your thighs together only to find that they’re stuck in the wide v he’d strapped you in, does it occur to you what sort of exam he’d likely meant. 

“W - wait - -“ 

“Hush, now. This won’t hurt so long as you cooperate. Be a love for me, now.” Calmly bringing his hands together over your chest, he doesn’t even hesitate to begin unbuttoning the front of your shirt with detached, clinical efficiency. You feel the first give way to loosen the fabric around your throat, and you quickly turn your face to the side with a nauseous groan. 

“You know,” he goes on, amicably enough. “I’ve heard much about you. Omega thinks rather highly of you, in fact, and I suppose the old man must rather like you too if you’re still around. Judging by the confused look on your face, though, I take it that neither of them have told you about us yet?”  

At the mute shake of your head, he snorts a quietly harsh laugh. 

“That doesn’t surprise me. I seem to recall Omega warning us that we needed to keep ourselves hidden away unless we wanted to go back to taking care of that old fool ourselves. I suppose he feared we would scare you off.” Pausing when he’s half of the way down your front, he sends you an almost thoughtful look. “This probably isn’t helping that, is it?”

You press your lips into a warbling line and shake your head again, scared that speaking might further agitate his ire. 

Without another thought to the matter, he seamlessly picks right back up where he’d left off, opening the front bodice of your uniform straight down to the waist where the apron was cinched and the flouncy skirt began. Then, coming back up, he parts the material and shoves it out to the sides to expose the silky slip underneath. 

“No matter. It’s already too late for you, anyway. An entire month is a long time to find oneself embroiled in the matter of a Fatui Harbinger’s affairs. Even if you tried to escape the house right now, fleeing out into the wilderness alone, I very much doubt either of them would let you go that easily. However, with that being said, I have to admit to a certain curiosity where you are concerned.” 

Reaching into your open top, he slips one latex encased hand down the top of your slip to latch onto the left side of your chest. You outright seethe at the contact when his glove is faintly cold and impartial, and it finds more traction on your skin than a bare hand would have. Whimpering softly as he uses the other set of fingers to tug the chemise down, carefully pulling your breast out until it slips completely free a moment later. The nipple is already tightly coiled and stiff from the chilly air as much as the treatment, and you give a dazed shudder there on the chair when he switches to the other side to repeat the process. 

“Although we all share much of the same tastes, naturally, it is rare for Omega to be so adamant about keeping us such a big secret. And in our own house at that.” 

He must see the way you twitch in response, sending you a slow look of consideration now. 

“That’s right, little assistant. We all lived here before you did, coming and going freely as our individual whims and research dictated, just as I’m sure we will continue to do long after you’re gone. I can see you’re curious so I suppose I’ll give you this answer for free. As you might have already started to guess, Feofan gave this manor to his beloved old wretch so that he might conduct his research in peace and quiet, with limited interruptions all the way out here in the country. And of course that included us too. We’re something of a package deal, if you want the truth.”

Turning his attention back to your restrained body, he brings two of his fingers close to deftly pinch the pebbled peak of one breast between the digits. No aplomb, no warning, no build up. 

You jerk so hard the chair rattles underneath you, choking on a wholly undignified sound as he sets in to roll that sensitive bud between the two pads. The sharp rush of friction on your teat is only further highlighted by the latex, which seems to grip and pull at the flesh more than it should. And the thrill of it shoots straight down to your neglected core, making your earlier arousal come crashing back as if the floodgates had been released. You were starting to slick again, even when you desperately try to will yourself not to. Dammit. 

“These are sensitive.” He announces, with absolutely no inflection to indicate what his opinion on that might be.  

Drawing in a slow, painfully clipped breath, you shyly flick your attention towards him and then away again when you find him closely watching your reaction. His gaze is so cold and impartial that you can’t quite seem to wrap your head around what he’s doing to you, or why. Even as that steady hand ignites your nerves, setting you aflame, you fight it, begging yourself not to give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. 

It’s an entirely lost cause, though, and you quietly wheeze once he abandons the first teat, puffy and aching, sticking up off your body now in an almost painfully sharp point, so he can switch to the other. The jarring sensation of latex on your hitherto neglected nipple makes your back arch almost supplicatingly in the chair, whining a harried sound in the back of your throat. 

This was bad. You were already thrumming for it even prior to this, and now … 

“O - oough!” 

“I see. Your receptivity is quite high to this sort of stimulation. It looks like you’re quite enjoying this.”

Tossing your head back against the chair, you make another futile attempt to turn away from him but his looming presence over you is utterly inescapable. Even when you give your arms another desperate wrench, trying to force the leather straps to loosen, all you succeed in doing is making your tits jostle and bounce. But the pinching hold he’s got on your teat is absolute and the resulting recoil makes the flesh pull to send another breath-stealing shockwave through your already sensitized system. 

A slow, drawling chuckle slips out of him then, and you glance up in surprise at hearing that sound come from him even as you seethe another tortured noise through your teeth. The look on his face, somehow contrived and coldly amused at the same time, is enough to ice your veins over. And, yet, the fingers relentlessly plucking at your breast still keep you burning from the inside out, stoking your fire faster than you would have thought possible. 

The contrast of it shocks you almost as much as the way his narrowed eyes do when they dance at you, clearly finding amusement in your unfortunate predicament. And so very, very red. They were just like the ones you’d seen last night, nearly identical, except … this one’s seem somehow sharper. Wiser. More mature?

Oh, why couldn’t you have just stayed away from the cellar like you were told? 

“Is this why those two are so partial towards you, then? I might have expected as much from Zandik, but he has always been a bit of a fool in his own way. Of course that goes for me too, but …” 

Pausing, the bespectacled man brings his other hand up and latches onto the first tit again, using both sets of fingers now to roll and twist the aching buds. Lightly tugging and tweaking, and squeezing them, gradually increasing the pressure until he’s doing it vigorously enough to register as hurt. 

You go absolutely wild where you’re strapped down, heaving against your bindings and trying to twist away from him, but it’s utterly useless. He just follows you wherever you try to turn, relentless and merciless in equal measure. 

And the worst part is how much your pussy absolutely floods in response, turning molten and drippy. Melting for him, even when you really wished it wouldn’t. 

“I almost would have expected better from Omega.” He goes on, still not sounding particularly moved by any of this. “He is the prime, after all. So I would have thought he’d have better control over his urges than even me, and yet it’s looking as if I am truly the only one with any real objectivity here. What a pity.”

He suddenly releases you, just like that, to leave you woundedly lurching on the chair. Struggling to draw enough oxygen into your lungs, you slowly tip your face down to look over your own breasts where they obscenely spill out of your top. Full and heavy, the tips sticking up in flushed little points. It’s nearly enough to send you over the edge right then and there. 

The surgeon — you don’t know what else to think of him as — turns from you then to pull open a drawer. You take that moment to finally peer around at your surroundings but nothing looks outwardly recognizable. Just a brick floor and brick walls lined with shelves and cupboards, a small desk, and a drawn curtain on one side. Were you even still in the cellar? 

He silently turns back to you now, and you warily watch him unscrew a cap off of a small glass bottle which he then dips two of his fingers into. They come back goopy, smeared with some kind of semi clear liquid, and you immediately suck in a wheezing gasp when he then reaches for you again. 

“Wait - -“ 

He does not wait, almost disinterestedly smearing the mystery substance over your left nipple with the same clinical efficiency you were beginning to expect from him. At first it just registers as almost painfully cold on the already sore teat, but then it quickly starts to warm up upon settling into your skin. Then a sharp, prickling sensation starts, almost burning, and you sob a nearly hysterical sound when he reaches across to do the same to the other side. 

“Stop it! What is that?” 

“It’s a topical ointment derived from mist flowers and menthol. Rather potent, isn’t it? Since you seem to enjoy this sort of stimulation on your breasts so much, I thought you might appreciate it while I focus on other things.” 

Blinking through the sting of tears, you shoot him a pinched look of question. 

But his only response is to send a slow, deliberately pointed glance down the length of your body, making you shudder hard enough to have your back molars aching.

“Please don’t … oh, gods, please don’t do it.” 

Without a single word, he turns from you, leaving you to hiccup sadly while he sets the little bottle aside on a wheeled tray down by your hip which you hadn’t noticed before. Taking his time as if he had all day to toy with you like this — and for all you know he really might — before then nudging it further down past your line of sight. It sounds like he leaves it just within the circle of your spread legs before going back over to the row of drawers along the wall to rummage around again. 

It’s a real struggle to tear your eyes away from him, terrified of what he might come back with next, but you force yourself to fretfully glance down at your chest again. It doesn’t exactly come as a surprise that you find your nipples fat and engorged where the mystery goop seemed to be making them swell with the constant, borderline painful stimulation. As if they were being lightly pricked a million times over even as they wetly glisten there under the glaring lights. They’re darkly flushed, too, and the sight of them like that seems to make something in you crack, letting out an oddly lilting wail of horror at what he’s done. 

“Please. Do be quiet, won’t you?” He says, shuffling back to stand over you once more. “Surely it’s not so bad as to warrant all this fuss, is it? The response to your nervous system will start to wear off in about ten minutes unless I apply more in that time, and there are no side effects to speak of either. I have to say, you are certainly easy to frighten.” A thoughtful pause, but it doesn’t last very long and he seems to make up his mind in record time. “Then, if it will stop you from making that godawful noise again, I’ll share another piece of information that I believe you will find quite comforting.”

Pausing to give his glasses a quick adjustment, he impassively peers down at you for a long stretch of seconds as if to ensure he had your full attention and that you were listening. Even in your twitching misery, you can’t help but think of him as arrogantly full of himself. Easily the worst personality you’ve met so far in this place, and that was certainly saying something given the rest of the company you were keeping. 

Evidently satisfied by your continued silence, save for the labored breaths that shudder out of you, he finally nods once to indicate his approval a drawn out moment later. 

“Very well. Then I can give you my word that, at least for today, you are safe here with me. I will not kill you or maim you, nor will I inject you with any sort of experimental substances. This is because, my dear assistant, we still have use of you. It is imperative that Zandik’s care is seen to and none of us have the time or the patience for it. I’m quite sure Omega explained this to you, did he not?” 

Your mouth pops open at that but not even a single sound comes out. He was talking about the Doctor? 

The corners of his eyes turn up at the shocked expression on your face, as if he were smiling, but the surgical mask keeps the gesture thoroughly hidden from you prying eyes. 

“You’re starting to understand now. Good. Then, you see, I have no reason to jeopardize the current arrangement by disposing of you just yet, do I? I’m merely curious, that’s all. And once I’m finished I will be happy to let you scamper off back to the old man so that you might resume your duties like a good little pet, still in one piece and unharmed. Relatively speaking, anyway.” 

He abruptly smacks something against the palm of his hand, emphasizing that last bit, to make you jump at the sound. Anxious and uncertain, you watch him wave whatever it is rather blithely in the air, as if he truly found this all to be so very dull. 

“Frankly, dear, I would have been perfectly content to keep ignoring your presence upstairs as I have been. But since you decided to come snooping around down here, I simply see no reason as to why I should continue to hide. You really only have yourself to blame, you know. Now, open up nice and big for me.”

You outright jolt, wide eyes tracking the motion of the implement he holds out towards your face. It’s only at the last possible second that you realize it’s a thermometer and you quickly press your lips into a tight line, turning your head away from it. 

“Oh dear ,” he clicks his tongue, following you with that poised hand to try again. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to make this any harder for yourself than it needs to be?” 

The cool glass tip just brushes your lips, prodding at your mouth, but you only squeal a muffled sound of protest and turn the other way. You had no idea where he’d had that thing or if it was even clean! 

To your surprise, though, he retracts the thermometer after the second attempt and gives it another agitated little flick. “Alright. Have it your way.” 

He moves away from you then, down towards your feet, and you soon catch the sound of a soft little clink when he sets it down on the metal tray. You immediately let out a big, whooping breath of relief, panting to catch your breath. 

That moment of respite is regrettably short lived, however, and you give a sudden jolt when you feel his hands come up to grab at the small bench seat just under your butt. Giving it a good wrench, the panel snaps down and locks in place to leave your panties utterly exposed in this position. You squeal a horrified sound and renew your earlier struggle against the restraints with mindless desperation to make the chair — or what was left of it — rattle again. 

But even when you twist so hard it makes your arms and legs hurt, you get no further than you did before. And the surgeon is just as unmoved by your panicked writhing as before when he calmly reaches up to adjust the angle of the metal stirrups, one at a time, with a faint click, click, click of the inner mechanisms. Wheezing in terror at the way your knees are forced to accommodate a tighter bend now to point towards your chest, you lift your head up as far as you can manage to peer down the length of your own body. 

It’s difficult when you were laid out flat on your back though, and all you’re really able to see is the bespectacled man standing between the vulnerable spread of your legs, twisting a small component on the joint of the second stirrup to set it in place. With that done, he turns towards where the tray must be situated without even sparing you so much as a glance. A curious sound of metal scraping against metal filters through the air and then, to your gobsmacked horror, he holds up a shiny pair of scissors. 

You tense up painfully stiff, bracing for the worst, as you screw your eyes shut so you won’t have to look. To your whimpering surprise, though, it is not the chill of steel that reaches out to touch your cunt but rather a sure and steady hand. A harsh gasp catches in your throat to nearly choke you on it even as you fitfully shudder against that dispassionate contact, squirming helplessly in response. 

But he patently ignores your useless struggle while he traces the outline of your slit, those latex encased fingers spending a long, prolonged moment merely caressing over the length of you, up and down. Up and then back down. Only once your panties are plastered to the pudge of your labia does he then, on the next upward stroke of his wrist, tug at the underwear to pull it taut against you. He doesn’t stop at the apex of your mound though, pulling the material tighter and tighter until it’s digging into delicate lips and you start to feel dizzy from the sharp friction. 

You hiss a sensitive little sound at that, lifting your head again to look beyond the plump swell of your tits, the fat, throbbing nipples that dot them and beyond the soft curve of your belly to watch how he almost thoughtfully nudges your panties into an even tighter pull. From this angle you’re able to see down the front of them where he’s got the fabric pinched between thumb and forefinger, and you whine a low sound at the sight of ripe, fleshy cunt lips dimpling under the pressure. 

“Oh - oouuughhhn!”

“Interesting.” He murmurs, more to himself than to you. “I wasn’t expecting you to respond positively to this as well. Yes. Yes, I’m starting to get a better picture now.” 

He lifts the scissors then, slipping the sharp blades over the fabric above your hip from bottom to top. With one clean slice, that side of your underwear falls loose, and then he repeats the process on the other. With nothing left to hold them together anymore, he slowly starts to peel them back to expose your heated pussy to the cool air, making you twitch at the dull realization of how very wet and puffy you actually are. 

So thoroughly soaked, in fact, that your cunt stickily tries to cling to your panties as the gusset is ever so slowly eased away in excruciating slow motion. You clench your teeth to try and stopper any of the highly embarrassing sounds that might try to slip out, but it’s just too much. Between the second heartbeat in your cunt, reflected twice over between both of your aching nipples, you can feel yourself slipping into a heady, intoxicating daze. 

If only Master Zandik or even Lord Regrator had just reached down and played with your pussy in the drawing room earlier, maybe you wouldn’t have been in such a wretched state now. 

It’s much too late for that, however, and a surprised little groan punches out of your mouth when the surgeon comes back up to casually cup the palm of one hand over your swollen cunt. He takes a moment to just squeeze at you, pinching the labia and making them squish together in a terribly wet press, smearing arousal with his glove, before retracting his hand again. 

But it’s quickly replaced by a seeking digit which slips between the pudgy seams with shameful ease, to take a slow, slippery swipe up the length of your slit. You tremble fiercely at the touch, trying your best to block it out, to pretend like it’s not happening. And yet when he reaches the top and then presses into you with two fingers, stretching the digits wide to pull you open and bear to him the velvety inner petals dripping in eager dew, you can’t seem to stop the frazzled little mewl that slips out. 

“Hm. Already this excited, are you? I take it that means you’re either secretly enjoying this quite a bit more than your facial expressions would seem to suggest, or … is it that you had one of them helping themselves to this sweet little cunt before you came down here? Well? Which is it, dear assistant?” 

He punctuates this question by slowly closing his fingers and then rubbing over your clit with them in tortuously sedate, coaxing circles. The glide is made mind numbingly smooth by the excess of arousal as much as the latex of his glove and you suck in a ragged gasp, juddering faintly under his attention even as you try yet again to yank at the restraints around your wrists. 

“I’m waiting.” He all but purrs, the sound dangerous more than it is sultry when it was coming from him. 

“N - no. Neither. I — oh, gods — I don’t like this, and … nnghn! I didn’t … I didn’t get to - -“

“Ah!” He cuts you off with that harsh bark, as if he has just struck upon an interesting breakthrough. “So, that’s what it is. You were left waiting and wanting, weren’t you? Oh, but dear assistant, you should have said something much sooner. I would have been happy to help you with that.” 

The way he proceeds to trail off into a rumbling, vaguely ominous chuckle does not make you feel particularly good about where this is going. Even after he’d said he wouldn’t kill you, that he still had use for you, there really was no telling what he might choose to do that would still technically fall under the definition of leaving you ‘unharmed and in one piece’. 

And you simply don’t get the chance to puzzle out how you should appeal to him intelligently before he withdraws his fingers from your vibrating quim in favor of landing a hard swat to one side of your defenseless ass. 

Swat!

“But first, your temperature.” He announces, skimming right over the startled squawk you give at that heavy handed slap and almost successfully distracting you from the resulting sting. 

Your temperature? He hadn’t given up on that after all?

It takes a great deal of self control on your part not to full on sob as you weakly lift your head again, hoping to see what he’s doing, but this, too, is no use. Your position is completely prone like that and you can’t make out much of anything other than the fact he appears to be fiddling with something. Having no other choice and powerless to stop any of it, you let your neck roll back with a defeated groan. 

A moment later the surgeon shuffles back up into the space between your legs where he rather unceremoniously swipes a goop covered finger over the pucker of your asshole, quite without warning or even much care for the task from what you can tell. And you jolt so hard you would have easily come straight up off the chair-turned-table if you weren’t strapped down. It comes as such a great shock, both physically and mentally, in fact, that for a horrible stretch of seconds you can’t even make any sense of what’s happening. 

But then you feel him shift, bringing his hand close again, and something smooth presses right in on the center wrinkle of your back entrance. It’s so smooth and so petite that the tight ring of muscle puts up little to no resistance at all, and it slides right past that external barrier to wedge inside your ass. 

Dizzy and nauseous from the sharp little searing sting of being penetrated like that, you unsteadily lurch in place there on your back while your guts quiver and shudderingly contract around it. 

“Eh - aaugghhhh, please! No more … take it out!” 

“Ah, ah. Keep it in, now, darling. I will not be pleased with you if I have to reinsert it for you. That’s right. Clench down. Good girl.” 

It’s exceedingly difficult to do when that substance he’d coated you in first was so very slippery but you force your body to cooperate, to tighten the muscles and hold that slim thermometer in your ass while he turns away to step back over to the row of drawers along the wall. At least it was not the same ointment that he’d put on your nipples, you think, sniffling rather sadly as you turn your head against the chair to watch his back. In that sense things really could have been much, much worse. 

A brief moment passes and, flexing your fingers nervously against the armrests, you watch him turn with some sort of metal contraption in hand now, but you can’t even begin to guess what it might be. You’ve never seen anything like it before, but you got the sense it was nothing good. Unfortunately you’re completely at his mercy and all you can truly do is whimper a frightened sound when he slips between your legs again. 

He seems to set the implement aside on the little tray, though, instead taking his finger and lightly nudging at the exterior end of the thermometer to make it wriggle around inside you. 

“Almost there, assistant.” He says over the threadbare moan you let out. “You’re trying awfully hard to be good for me now, aren’t you?” 

“Ahh … y - yes.” 

Snorting a quiet sound, he curls one gloved finger just a pinch lower to feel along the faintly raised rim of your asshole, paying extra close attention to the meaty little pucker formed around the stem of the instrument. You can’t stop yourself from shaking wildly at the sensation, unused to having something wedging your ass open like that, no matter how petite it may be, and even less used to being touched there. It feels wrong and dirty, somehow even more disgraceful than everything else you’ve experienced up until now. 

And yet, despite it all — the deep felt pang of humiliation, the embarrassment, the terror and the regret for what you were becoming — your pussy just continues to drool excessively for him. So, so hungry for attention that any would do, apparently. 

He makes a quiet tutting sound then, almost as if he were cooing at you as he starts to slowly ease the thermometer out. Much slower than was necessary, to ensure you can feel the drag along your guts and the way your fleshy, lubed up pucker desperately tries to cling to the shaft while it’s gradually being taken away. A keening noise suddenly  rises in the air and a split second later you realize you’re the one making that sound. 

Finally, the end pops free to leave your asshole loosely puffed up after it, but he’s quick to replace the instrument with the tip of one finger, stiltedly pushing it inside to fill you back up. It’s a nearly seamless transition and that untested ring of muscle doesn’t even have a chance to fully close again before he’s sliding right through on another slow searing stretch. 

You writhe helplessly against your bonds, shoving your heels into the footwells on the stirrups in a desperate bid to escape that seeking, unrelenting pressure to no avail. His long digit is just suddenly wedged inside of you, plugging you, and when you haltingly bring your head up again you’re nearly shocked to find he isn’t even giving you his full attention right now.

The brunt of his focus is on the thermometer reading, which he makes a vague hum at before giving it another quick flick in his hand before setting it aside. He swivels his gaze back around to the spot between your legs, then, placing his other hand over your mound in a curled, almost possessive gesture, so he can lightly brush that deft thumb against your clit. 

“Nn - nnghnn! Pl - please! Oooughh …” 

“Please, what?” 

You hiccup miserably even as your hips twitch up into the contact, entirely against your will. “Wh - … wanna’ cum.” 

Another slow, grating chuckle. “Do you, now?” 

A naive little flutter of hope starts up in your chest, against all your better sense and logic, but that fleeting tendril is soon quashed when he pulls his hand back. At the same time that finger in your ass gradually starts to retreat, once again making sure you feel the drag, the internal clench when your guts instinctively cling to it on the way out. The searing burn of penetration. It has you choking on a disappointed little sob when he slips free of you, the salt of bitter tears gathering in the corners of your eyes to wet your lashes. 

If he would just let you cum already you could think so much clearer …

That does not seem to be his priority right now, though, despite what he’d said to suggest otherwise, and you give a full bodied twitch when you feel him switch his hands around. The one that had just been fingering your asshole open now comes to lightly rest across your lower belly, giving the soft crease there a vague squeeze when it settles. The other set of fingers find your weeping slit and push in just enough to slip between the meaty press where he proceeds to take his time casually drawing them up and down, up and down through the slick mess. 

Your pussy feels so much like warm, melty honey that you can only supplicatingly shake for him, tense and halting, and so utterly helpless in your bondage. You barely even feel like a real person anymore as you lie there, forced into an unseemly spread, while he caresses over the fleshy grip of your labia in such a way that only makes you that much more desperate for release. It’s as if your consciousness is receding again, fading down to nothing more than a fine, pulsing pinprick of sensation that begins and ends in your cunt. Like that was all you were now. A set of hot, drippy holes and nothing else. 

If his goal was to dehumanize you, he was certainly succeeding in that endeavor. 

But then, on the next downward swipe when his first two digits pass over your eager entrance, he starts to push in instead of completing the full motion again. You jerk at the sudden invasion, feet braced against the stirrups as hard as you can in another failed attempt to scuttle away from that invading hand. You’re much too wet though, too primed and ready, waiting and wanting, and he slides up into you with a truly embarrassing lack of resistance. Straight to the knuckles where he’s forced to halt by simple virtue of having no further to go. 

“There’s a good pet.” He’s cooing at you over the sound of your breathless, wounded gasps. “Just relax for me and it will all be over soon. That’s it. My, you’re certainly tight, aren’t you?” 

Slow blinking in a disoriented haze, you mewl a needy little sound up at the ceiling but he’s no more moved by this wordless plea than he is by anything else. He just leaves those gloved fingers wedged within you, still and incomprehensibly heavy, for the time being while he curls his thumb up to brush over your clit. It’s only when you feel the resulting, fleshy nudge do you fully comprehend exactly how spread open you are like this. He could see everything. Every last little part of you that even you had never glimpsed before. 

And trying to reject it does you absolutely no good, exhaling a stilted, shuddering sigh when your cunt reluctantly starts to warm up to his ministrations. Your inner sleeve pulses around the intrusion, clit tingling warmly, buzzing, under his thumb, even when the gesture seems to lack much finesse. He’s just stimulating your body in the way biology would dictate it should be stimulated, knowing what would net results and what wouldn’t without much care for anything beyond that. 

But then why did it feel so overwhelmingly good if his touch was this impartial, this clinical? Was your pussy really that easy to please, willing to respond to anyone and anything if they just gave it the attention it so desperately wanted? 

You wildly toss your head against the backrest as if in outright rejection to that horrifying thought. “Gods! No, nooooo … p - pleeeeaaase!” 

“Hush, dear assistant. Hush. Your exam is almost complete.” 

At that the hand laying across your belly adjusts its positioning, the whole length from palm to fingertips nearly spanning from one hip to the other. Then he pushes down, firm and slow. The pressure that bears down on your internal organs has you stuttering a quiet sound of alarm, writhing stiffly when it seems to compress your womb. It forces your already palpitating cunt into an even tighter squeeze around his fingers to make them feel somehow even bigger within you, weighty and so very, very hot. 

And with those fingers lodged deep in your guts, he starts to prod upward. Feeling along your upper wall with a perfectly casual motion to — do what, you can’t even begin to guess. You have no real understanding of what this is supposed to accomplish, but you are painfully aware of the moment he nudges against something that makes the thrumming tension in you swell to a truly incomprehensible degree. 

It's like static electricity zapping from one nerve ending to the next to set them all alight, in the span of a single heartbeat. Buzzing, vibrating, it steals your breath away, leaving you gaping like a beached fish on your back, but he only offers another one of those low, drawling chuckles in response. 

“You aren’t supposed to enjoy this part, you know. Ah, but my darling little assistant seems to have quite an insatiable, greedy cunt, doesn’t she? Hmmmm.” Pausing to exhale a somewhat wistful breath, he rubs his fingers over that spot again with an increasing sense of demand while his thumb continues to stay busy at your clit. “I suppose I can’t really hold it against you though. I have good reason to suspect why those two find you so very fascinating, after all, and I can’t say I’m not in agreement with them on that. You are very fun to toy with, I’ll give you this much. The way you can’t seem to hide your reactions coupled with this overwhelming sensitivity make for a rather interesting experiment indeed. I do wonder though … if you even enjoy receiving your pelvic exam, of all things, then what won’t you like?” 

You flinch as if he’d reached out and struck you with his hand, but you can’t seem to find your voice now. It’s lost somewhere in the heaving, painfully clipped breaths that wrack through your trembling frame, making your tits shudder with each labored gasp. The sensation is very different from how it felt when Zandik was the one playing with you, when he focused so much of his keen attention on your receptive clit, but you were still fairly certain you were about to cum. If he just kept rubbing you like that a little longer, if he would just continue to nudge his thumb over that throbbing bundle of nerves for another moment or two, you would finally tip over the edge. You were sure of it. 

His behavior up til’ now makes you unwilling to trust it though, and you half expect him to yank the source of your stimulation away with a cruel, condescending laugh. You even brace for it, expecting it to come at any moment now. 

But that is not what happens. Even when you quake and stretch out along the backrest as much as your restraints will allow, arching your spine so enthusiastically it hurts, he just keeps rubbing, brushing, curling in a come hither motion that has you swelling for him. Your stomach hurts from how dramatically it flexes, torn between either sucking in a much needed lungful of oxygen or angling down into that constant, continuous, mind melting rush of sensation. His first and middle finger, his thumb, the weight of his palm across your belly, the clinging drag of latex on soft, sensitive flesh, the grip of your guts on him, the swollen nudge of flesh. The noise coming from between your legs is by far the worst of it though. That thick, sloppy schluck, schluck, schluck, schluck —  

Every single inch of your body suddenly locks up, stiff as a board and quaking uncontrollably.

“Oouuughhhhhn!” You full on wail, stiffly thrashing at your bondage now. “Ooughn! I’m — I - I … m’gonna - -“ 

“Then do it. Now.” 

That sharp bark of command, so much like the Doctor’s, seems to shock it out of you and you go ramrod stiff, the chair rattling underneath your sweat coated body from how violently you devolve into a fit of spasms. Your pussy flutters wildly around his probing digits, contracting and squeezing, pulsing with a heartbeat all its own. 

And somewhere in the squealing throes of your delight the floodgates seem to come down, because your cunt positively erupts all over his wrist and forearm. You see the spray of liquid arousal at the edge of your periphery almost as much as you hear it in tiny little splatters against the floor underneath you, although your quim is much too busy pulsing for you to truly feel it coming out. But a fresh wave of horror instantly grips you even while you’re still cumming, while your inner sleeve still works to positively strangle his fingers, and you snap your head up with a wheezing gasp. 

Standing between the spread of your legs, the surgeon just impassively peers down at you, watching the flagrant animal display in your release. His hand is still moving within you no matter how tight your constricting walls clench around him, still jabbing upward with malicious precision. And you watch in total disbelief as another healthy squirt of fluid sprays out of you to pitter patter against his white outer coat, leaving behind tiny wet spots in its wake. 

“Nuh - noooooo, oh god! No no nononononooooooh!”  

Your head thunks back against the chair while you continue to twist and writhe, the orgasm hardly even coming as a relief when he won’t give you the chance to truly bask in it. His keen fingers just seem to drag it out well past the point of comfort, encouraging your pussy to keep throbbing until you almost can’t stand it anymore. It leaves you oversensitized and overstimulated, all but sobbing when it quickly becomes much too much. 

Until finally, an eternity later, those digits grow still within you and just sit there, feeling the way you thrum around him, although his thumb doesn’t cease it’s almost thoughtful nudge at your clit even then. You continue to twitch and judder, instinctively trying to shy away from it, but there’s no escaping him. Not like this. All you can do is endure and pray it will be over soon. 

He seems to have other plans though, and he slowly slips his fingers out to the sound of another thick, sticky slurp that still somehow manages to embarrass you despite everything else, grimacing at the noise. Giving your stomach a rather pleased pat with the other hand, he then turns away to fiddle with something on the metal tray at his side while you struggle to catch your breath. But you’re well and truly exhausted by this point, unable to do anything except lie there when he at last turns back to you a moment later. 

You try to nudge your chin down to see what he’s doing now but the angle is wrong, and you no longer seem to have the energy needed to lift your head. Left to listlessly squirm in your restraints, you make a very valiant attempt to ignore him, to come the rest of the way down from your nauseating high. You’d gotten the orgasm you had so desperately wanted so now you should be able to think a little more clearly … right? 

That does not appear to be the case, however, and you can’t help the way you suck in a startled breath at the abrupt sensation of his fingers on your cunt again. Utterly clinical now, he presses two digits into the pudge on either side of your labia and presses, forcing them to spread apart for him. Then something slips between the parted folds to find your entrance where it slowly yet firmly starts to slide in, thin at first but gradually tapered to widen out the more of it he feeds into you. Cold, and far too solid to be his hand — or any part of his body for that matter. 

In a distant, vague sort of way you realize he’s inserting some kind of steel implement into your cunt and you squeak a harried sound, jolting in place. It just keeps coming though, deeper and deeper, stuffing your inner sleeve full until, at last, the exterior of it settles against fleshy lips. He shifts slightly in the space between your legs and seems to bring both hands together. A nudge at the contraption and a near silent crank of an inner mechanism follows, and your mouth promptly drops open in shock when the narrow shaft inside you slowly starts to widen. 

Your already frazzled and overloaded mind struggles with this information, almost as much as your pussy struggles to accommodate the stretch you’re forced you to endure. But that cold, unfeeling metal is completely merciless, uncompromising in its demands of your body, and you let out a quiet sound of hurt when it proceeds to wedge you wide open in a gaping spread. 

Fidgeting with something that you can only assume locks the implement in place, the bespectacled man then straightens up and reaches high overhead for the glaring bright light that hangs from the ceiling. He gives it a good yank to adjust its angle, abruptly washing your lower half in a faint rush of warmth before bending down to get a better look at you while you just whimper and whine, pitifully sniveling in your disoriented stupor. 

“Messy little girl.” He murmurs, barely even heard over your own frantic breathing. 

And your vibrating panic only continues to ratchet up another notch when he reaches into you with one finger to feel along your quivering insides. The sensation is all wrong, like you were being inspected as cattle might and any comfort or pleasure you might derive from that was only a mere byproduct. Perhaps even an unintended consequence. He didn’t actually care about how much you enjoyed or hated this experience, only that he was able to glean interesting results in the process. 

You’re not sure how long he spends just touching you like that. Without any intention of bringing you pleasure but only a single minded pursuit for picking out what makes you tick, especially when every second feels like hours and every minute felt like whole lifetimes. But, eventually, he finally pulls back, returning to that wretched little tray again. 

“Please … no more.” You croak, head lolling bonelessly on the table. “No more. Please. I … I want to go home.” 

The surgeon snorts an entirely mirthless laugh at that. “Don’t be silly, dear assistant. You’re already ‘home’ and you won’t be going anywhere else for the foreseeable future. That much, at least, I can promise you.” 

Leaving you to gape wide around the unbudging instrument in your cunt, he huddles close and you abruptly feel his fingertips brush over the pucker of your asshole again. They’re slick with a fresh dollop of goop, which he proceeds to lightly smear over the exterior of your back entrance even while you beg him not to do it. He doesn’t listen, of course, and you soon find yourself seething a vicious hiss when he starts to push in again, breaching that tight ring of muscle one tortuous, slow moving centimeter at a time. 

“Eh - eeeyaaaaghh! Stop it, stop it! Please, I … oooughnn, I don’t like it!” 

“Oh, I’m not so sure I believe that, darling dear. Look at how well you’re already taking me, and I barely even had to work for it.” 

He chuckles a cruel sound just as his finger finishes sliding home, straight up to the knuckle, to leave you woundedly lurching, gasping for air. Try as you might to shove against the stirrups or to yank at your wrists, your range of movement is so terribly limited like this that there’s just no way for you to escape it. 

And with your legs propped up in the air like that, his finger stuffed in your ass and your pussy wide open, tits spilling out of your shirt, something within you seems to crack. The tears are streaking down your face in a sudden rush as you wail, crying out for Zandik to come save you. You wanted nothing more than to return to his side, to have him pet and praise you, to meet you on somewhat equal footing, not — this, whatever this inhumane treatment even was. 

The man between your legs doesn’t seem to appreciate it much though, clicking his tongue in clear annoyance now. “He isn’t going to be able to help you all the way down here, I’m afraid. But I suppose that does tell me who your favorite is. Really, now, even Omega wasn’t able to charm you more than that old fool? I can’t imagine that bodes very well for the rest of us.”

Sniffing rather disdainfully, he starts to ease his hand back until only the tip of that finger remains sunk inside your ass. Then he pushes back in, right up to the knuckle, settling into a steady paced pumping motion to fuck you with it. And your groaning alarm only turns more dire when, once he’s satisfied with how much the tight passage has opened for him, he begins to pull all the way out to leave your pucker loosely clenched just so he can penetrate it again. It leaves behind a burning, throbbing ache in your sphincter which weakly clenches around the intrusion, gripping and clinging on a glide made utterly smooth thanks to the sticky lubricant as much as the latex of his glove.

You absolutely hate how much it has your pussy thrumming with reluctantly renewed interest. It’s especially agonizing when you’re unable to squeeze down or feel the inner pulse of your own arousal, left with no other choice but to uselessly slick for him. Open and waiting, but so regretfully empty. 

“There’s a good girl,” he coos once the overwhelmed, gasping sobs have started to subside, replaced by stuttering moans. “That’s much better, isn’t it? You like having your ass played with, don’t you?” 

“N - noooo …”

He noises a soft sound of doubt, humming rather pointedly, as he sends a slow look down your open cunt. “I’m not so sure I believe that either. But it matters not. You’re going to cum for me again, dear assistant, and you’re going to thank me while you do it. Are those instructions clear enough for you?” 

You’re already shaking your head, rejecting that directive outright, but he clearly doesn’t care whether or not you want to do it. 

Still fucking into your ass with the one hand, he reaches up with the other to find your clit with his thumb again. You immediately jolt as if he’d just electrocuted you, whining a deeply frazzled sound as you try in vain to swivel your hips away from that indifferent touch. Ever unperturbed by your protests, he simply follows after you to continue rubbing that overworked, throbbing pearl even when you whimper in dire distress. 

“There. Isn’t that nice?” He croons in a rather droll tone of voice. “You really should be thankful, you know. This is the sort of service you aren’t likely to get anywhere else. Not from any of the others. You must remember to thank me when you cum, assistant, or I will not be pleased with you.” 

You briefly consider telling him exactly where he can shove his thanks but you don’t quite have the oxygen for that right now, and the thought is gone almost as soon as it appeared. Your body is far too busy rebelling against you to do much else but shake as your shuddering arousal rapidly starts to swell again. It seems to defy all logic and reason, and yet the simmering tension in your loins had not been in any way appeased by the first explosive release that had so tortuously rode the line between pleasure and pain. You’re not convinced this one will be any different when he was the one coaxing it out of you, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it. 

Especially not when he slips his finger out of your ass, hovers there for a drawn out moment, and then pushes back in with two this time. The extra stretch to your passage has you helplessly bucking, which only nudges your cunt up into his hand. It’s an insidious cycle that seems to feed off of and into itself, driving you ever closer to the edge of madness the longer it goes on. 

And it doesn’t take long at all for your eyes to start rolling back while he relentlessly attacks you from both ends. Your clit positively aches where it rolls under the pad of his thumb and your ass gives an occasional, bone deep throb where he’s got it stretched around his digits, burning at the thick stretch. Unable to close either of your holes, forced to keep them both open and wide, drives you inexorably out of your mind. But you’re too sore, too overtaxed to cum, even when you desperately will yourself just to do it and get it over with. You just can’t. 

“Ooh, what’s wrong, little dear? Do you need more ointment on your pretty tits to help you along?” 

You give a disoriented shake of your head, panting much too hard to verbally respond, but you don’t really need to. He was just going to continue to do whatever he wants, regardless of what you had to say about it anyway. 

Chuckling a brief laugh, he abandons your clit to leave it pulsing in the aftermath, pounding with a heartbeat all its own, so he can stretch his arm up between your legs. You can see what he’s doing, what he’s aiming for, and you squeak a frantic, wheezing protest but it’s too late. 

Finding one of your nipples, he catches it between thumb and forefinger, giving it a sharp, pinching tug that nearly makes your soul vacate your body. 

You squeal a hoarse, overwrought sound, back bowing violently and only increasing the sting on your tit twice over when you pull against his hand. All at once you suddenly find yourself cumming again. It doesn’t just wash over you but slams full force, wracking you straight down to the bone while you shudder and shake, wailing a mindless shriek into the still air. 

“Say it.” He growls, giving the captured teat a punishing twist. 

“Thank you!” You blurt, practically screaming it at the top of your lungs. “Thank you, sir, thank you! I’m so — so grateful to cum aga - aaaahhhhn!” 

Your tongue refuses to cooperate any further, lolling uselessly in your mouth while you spasm wildly through the throes of release. It feels somehow hollow despite the sheer intensity of it, though, as if in not being able to squeeze your cunt you were only experiencing a measly little third of the pleasure. In fact, you seem to feel it in your ass more than anything, that deep, deep, pounding clench of muscle that positively steals your breath away, trying to milk his fingers of something they simply didn’t have to give. 

This orgasm feels like it lasts even longer than the last as a result, the overtaxed muscles almost unable to stop spasming, contracting. It absolutely shreds you to pieces in the process, leaving your mind fragmented and shattered when you finally start to slip back into your body an eternity later. You don’t even really feel like you anymore while you lay there, raggedly gasping for air, and so very far removed from yourself that you almost don’t notice him finally moving to slip his fingers out of your loosened ass. 

It’s only when you realize he’s fumbling with the implement in your cunt do you snap out of it enough to stir, heaving a very frazzled groan. Dazed. Confused. Disoriented. You’re not even entirely sure where you are anymore. 

But the contraption easing its unforgiving grip on your twitching inner walls manages to catch your attention, and you whimper a quiet sound of relief when he begins to carefully pull it out. He leaves behind a mess of arousal, thick and goopy, sticky, that makes you feel deeply uncomfortable when you’re at last able to close again, raw and sore in the wake of his attentions. 

Gently, he sets the steel equipment aside on the tray and then turns back to peer down at you. Sweating and heaving, flushed, stretched out on your back as much as the restraints will allow … much too exhausted and spent to show any amount of shyness for your exposed body parts. 

Even in your dozing stupor you’re aware of the little thread of tension that seems to shoot through his thin frame, the way he holds himself just a bit straighter. Rigid, almost. 

You’re already groaning a despairing sound when he starts to reach for the clasps on his white surgeon's coat, his posture clearly eager now. The thought of what he was going to do to you next nearly sends you into a spiraling pit of anguish even as you desperately try to fortify yourself and brace for it. If you could just hold out for a little bit longer, surely he would start to tire himself out. 

“Yes, I think I understand quite well what they like about you so much now. You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you? Would you like to have a taste my cock as a reward, my darling assistant?” 

“Stop.” 

Both of you startle, you more so than him, and you snap your head to the side just in time to watch the Doctor slip through the dark curtain. His body language is perfectly calm and casual, as though he had merely been passing through the neighborhood and decided to stop in to say a friendly hello. If you had been standing at that moment you would have crumpled right onto your ass from the shock of it. 

“So, this is where you scampered off to. Not a very smart decision, if you ask me.” He drawls, smirking under the hooked beak of his mask as he slowly saunters across the small room. Utterly laidback and unhurried. Not the least bit shocked or appalled by your current predicament, you can’t help but notice. 

“It’s not really my place to scold you, I admit, but I’m afraid I must advise you to exercise better caution in the future. There are any number of potentially dangerous devices, potentially dangerous experiments and potentially dangerous … persons you could have encountered down here, little mouse. And that is to say absolutely nothing of the consequences that could have befallen you if you’d actually broken something important.” 

Coming to a halt just at your hip, he keeps his arms neatly folded behind his back for the moment and just tips his head to one side. That curious carrion bird gesture again. 

“But,” the Doctor goes on smoothly. “I am glad to see my counterpart found you and has been taking very good care of you from the looks of it. Even though I do not think it was quite yet time to introduce you to them, I suppose what’s done is already done. Well, then, darling. Tell me. Did you have fun on your little playdate today? Was the excursion worth the risk?”  

You just stare up at him in plain faced disbelief for a long, uncomfortable stretch of seconds, desperately struggling to make any sense of what your overtaxed brain is trying to tell you. And what’s been bothering you this entire time finally clicks into place with a sudden jolt. 

Now that you have the two voices to compare, you’re struck by how very alike they sound. No. No, that’s not quite it. They were identical, in fact, from the cadence to the register right down to that arrogant, self assured drawl. The only real difference you could make out between them was that the surgeon sounded a bit younger, his tone clearer, whereas the Doctor’s had a faint rumble to it, like that of a full grown man. Someone who has stopped filling out and reached the pinnacle of his life, physically as much as in his mental capabilities. 

‘Omega is the prime, after all.’ 

Ever so slowly, your eyes widen to the approximate size of dinner plates. “You … you’re the same person.” 

“Very good.” The Doctor croons at you, as if he were speaking to someone with the intelligence of a toddler. “And now can you guess who the original is? Hm? I’ll even give you three chances to take a stab at it.”

Your shellshocked brain stumbles over the answer, almost refusing to accept the simplicity of it when it seemed so far removed from reality, but you know it must be true. Some small part of you had even started to suspect it on some level. 

And it was impossible not to when they all had that same wispy shade of blue in their hair, the same wave and, you could only presume, the same red eyes. It wasn’t just that they were similar in the way a parent and a child share certain features or characteristics between them. They were the same, only … younger and older? A — a man at different stages of his life? 

A nearly hysterical, oddly pitched moan bubbles out of your tight chest as you stare up into that featureless mask. You couldn’t believe it. 

“Y - you’re … Zandik … when he was younger. Aren’t you?” 

The surgeon snorts a quiet laugh, almost as if to say ‘it took you long enough to figure that out’, moving now to impatiently start undoing the straps at one of your ankles while the Doctor chuckles a rather condescending sound. 

“That’s right, my poor, unassuming little mouse. Bully for you. I know very well just how difficult it can be to reach the right conclusion when your only point of reference is between Zandik and I. We’re similar enough to draw certain suspicions, perhaps, but not enough to give up the game too quickly. And yet, when you start comparing the younger segments with each other?” He clicks his tongue, tut tutting as he gives his head a slow shake. “It becomes obvious much too fast, doesn’t it? That’s why I strongly suggested that they stay hidden and out of sight, at least for the time being.”

That last bit had been directed at the bespectacled man who, glancing up from the task of unfastening you from the stirrups, knits his brows in a grumpy frown. “You can’t put the blame on me for that. I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. She made the decision to come down here all on her own.”

His haughty grin slipping slightly, the Doctor swivels his attention back around towards you. “Is that true, little mouse? Did you decide to go snooping where you weren’t welcome? I know for a fact that you were expressly prohibited from venturing outside of where you have already been permitted to be. And the cellar was not one of those places.” 

“I …” 

Trembling fitfully there on the table, you shoot a nervous glance between the two of them. But the one in the surgeon's mask appears to be resigned to the fact that his fun with you was over, at least for today, and Dottore … you just couldn’t wrap your head around it. For him to be this closely related to Zandik, even closer than that of a father and a son, seems like a true impossibility. Even when you can see the similarities in them, the mirrored mannerisms and speech — which you most certainly do — it still seems to defy all logic and reason. How were you possibly supposed to reconcile any of this in your mind, let alone come to terms with it and make peace in time to save your own hide? You had to think fast. 

“I - I am sorry, my - my lord. It was not my intention to disobey you or Master Zandik, but … but I saw someone, sir. Someone unknown to me. A stranger. And I was worried that they had snuck into the house without my noticing, that they might pose a danger to the Master. That’s why …”

“Who?” He demands, his tone a sharp, chilling whip. 

“I - I don’t know. It wasn’t him.” You stammer, indicating the surgeon with a nudge of your chin. “It hadn’t even occurred to me that there might be more than one before I came down here. Honest. I swear. The person I saw had … he had a mask that was different from yours. His had cut outs for the eyes. That’s who I was expecting to find in the basement level. Not all of — this.” 

The Doctor hums a thin sound of annoyance, staring down at you in consideration as if he were weighing out the veracity of your story. He seems doubtful at first, and understandably so, but something you’d said must have rang true enough for him to buy it, because at length he scoffs and glances away. 

“That damned impulsive bastard.” 

“He was just here earlier.” The bespectacled man chimes in then, working on the last strap around your left wrist now. “He said he had something to take care of elsewhere but I didn’t bother to ask for any other details. Frankly, I don’t really care.”

Swinging his attention back around, the Doctor curls his mouth into another vague smirk, but it’s somehow tighter than the last. “No matter. The damage is already done so all we can do now is move forward. And you. Little mouse. Now that you know the truth of the matter, how will you choose to proceed from here? Will you continue to see to your duties or shall I arrange for a carriage to transport you back to the city? And I suggest you decide fast.” 

You shudder at being addressed by him as much as the question he poses. A very real part of you almost jumps at the chance to escape this place, to return home and wipe your hands of all matters concerning any Fatui Harbingers from here on out. You’d already suffered enough at their whims, certainly. And yet … 

Some innate sense or intuitive understanding tells you that this is another trap, another snare he’s laying down to see what he might catch this time. Another mouse? Or something bigger? Even though it had not sounded like a threat, that’s very much how you interpret it, especially when you remember what the surgeon had said not that long ago at the start of this ordeal. 

‘Even if you tried to escape the house right now, fleeing out into the wilderness alone, I very much doubt either of them would let you go that easily. ‘

He was right. You were in much too deep to be able to leave, to just waltz right out of here and return to your old way of life. Not when you knew so much of their comings and goings, their secrets. They’d sooner kill you than let you go free now, of that you were quite sure. And even if your own life were not at risk, your mother … you’d never be able to pay for her care another way. This was your one and only choice. Dammit. 

Swallowing so hard you nearly gag, you force yourself to speak the words even when bile rises in the back of your parched throat while you’re forming them on your tongue. 

“That won’t be necessary, my lord. I’d prefer to stay here and — and continue to care for Master Zandik … i - if that’s alright.”

The way his smile broadens, turning into a real grin now, assures you you’ve made the choice that would keep you alive and breathing for another day. At least one, at the rate you were going, and you got the sense that was really all you could ask for at this point.

“Why, of course it is. Don’t be silly. In fact, I was so hoping that would be your answer. It really would be such a pity to have to see you leaving so soon, you know. Maids can be surprisingly hard to find in this day and age. And with that decided, let’s get you put back together and escorted upstairs. Quickly, before a certain someone gets even more worked up than he already is.”

Your eyebrows numbly lift straight up to your hairline. You can’t help it. Master Zandik had … noticed your absence?

Oh, this certainly could not be good. How long had you been down here? 

For better or worse you don’t get the chance to truly fret over what consequences await you on that front when the Doctor is so quick to reach for you, snagging you by the arms and hauling you up into a sitting position. You’re not sure how but you still find the presence of mind for your cheeks to grow warm as you very self consciously shove your tits back into your shirt with no shortage of effort. Your limbs don’t want to cooperate after being strapped down and desperately yanked on for such a long period of time, for starters. And for another Dottore is much too impatient to wait. He simply grabs you around the waist and slides you down to stand with him even when you don’t want to. 

Or would have, if your legs were not weakened to the state of a newborn fawns, and you half collapse against him with a whimper. To your fast mounting surprise, however, he takes a moment just to coo over you, clucking his tongue rather chidingly while he tugs you tighter up against him. 

But you quickly realize that his behavior does not stem from any sense of chivalry or true concern for you when, in the process of gathering you to his front, he shoves your tits up against himself to observe the fleshy squish. You suck in a sharp breath, trying to lean back in his hold but it’s no use. His hold on you is absolute and even without being able to see any other part of his face besides his mouth you can still feel the way he leers down at you, burning into your skin.  

“You’re lucky I found you when I did.” He intones, giving your middle a too tight, possessive squeeze. “I know perfectly well what sort of interests ‘I’ had at twenty-five and judging by the state you’re already in … yes, I don’t imagine ‘my’ excitement would have abated anytime soon. Not with such a lovely specimen right at my fingertips.” 

You don’t exactly like the way he says it in such a sultry, seductive tone, as if it was something erotic and not the invasive procedure you’d just had to live through. Yet you still find yourself clinging to him while you try to steady your weak legs, hands balling in the front of his coat pitifully. 

“I wasn’t going to hurt her. Not really, anyway.” The other one says, coming up next to the two of you. Crossing his arms over his narrow chest with his hip cocked to lean into the table, he sends you a cool look behind his glasses. “I already told her that we still have use for her outside of this little dalliance. My assistant was in no danger.” 

Both you and Dottore turn your heads to stare at him, in near perfect unison, although you could only guess that the reason for his surprise was not the same as yours. You just can’t accept the word ‘dalliance’ given the context, though. Was it really something so benign in his eyes? You felt violated in a way that even the Doctor’s hasty probing of your cunt had not left you feeling the other day in the library, and the spot between your legs was an uncomfortably sticky, excessive mess in the aftermath. Everything hurt, sore and achy where he’d touched you, penetrated you, wedged you open for his own sick amusement. Gods, you couldn’t wait to take a bath. 

“I - I really am sorry.” You murmur, bringing Dottore’s attention back around to you. “For disobeying your orders and … and the Master’s. I wouldn’t have come down here if I hadn’t seen that strange person. I swear it.” 

Drawing a clipped breath, the Doctor nudges you away from him to stand fully on your own now, and you’re quite glad when your body decides to cooperate this time. Still a bit uncertain and weak, but thankfully you don’t fall to the ground like a puppet that’s had its strings cut as he takes pinching hold of your wrist to steer you away from the exam area and the bespectacled man. 

“Frankly, little mouse, I don’t particularly care what you do or with whom. If you’d like to carry on with all of us in addition to Zandik himself then that is of no concern to me. However, I must admit that I had thought to keep this specific aspect of the situation a well kept secret for a little while longer. At least until I was certain you wouldn’t in good conscience be able to flee in fear of what you have discovered inside this place. Luckily, though, it seems like you have already made the correct choice. Isn’t that right?” 

His gloved hand tightens on your arm with a low creak of leather, making you wince. But you can’t really say you don’t understand why he would be upset with you, given how many rules you’ve broken, how many orders you’ve disregarded in your misguided search for answers. You’re certain Zandik is likely displeased with you too, and you absolutely hate how much the thought of that makes your chest twist up. 

Stumbling to keep pace with the Doctor as he leads you back through the tables, the banks of machinery, the experiments and the litany of complicated tools, you fumble to get your shirt buttoned up with the use of only one hand. But he doesn’t slow down or shorten the length of his strides to accommodate you, even when you reach the steep stairwell another moment later. In fact, he practically drags you up them, tripping the whole way, before you finally come out at the landing. 

It’s like you can finally breathe again and you gratefully suck in a much needed mouthful of relatively clean air. Although it is a bit dusty in here you still find a great deal of relief in this. At least you can no longer taste the bitter flavor of oil and metal on the back of your tongue now, or the chemical spritz of antiseptics.

But he still doesn’t let go of you just yet, pulling you out of that tiny room and down the hallway, past the kitchen and down another corridor until you reach the seldom used formal dining room. You have no idea why he would bring you here, of all places; and yet when he throws the door open and yanks you inside, pulling you like a disobedient child, you quickly get your answer. 

Zandik sits in one of the finely crafted wooden chairs, turned to face the doorway expectantly, which surprises you enough to briefly distract you from the deep scowl on his face. How had he gotten down here? Surely he couldn’t have managed the staircase on his own, or … was it possible that the Doctor had helped him down to the first floor after finding the old man alone? 

Oh, you really were in big trouble, weren’t you? 

“Where were you?” Zandik rattles out now, startling you from your disoriented stupor. Both of his hands are on the grip of his cane where it’s propped up between his knees, one stacked on top of the other, and they visibly shake from how vigorously he seems to be squeezing it. 

That manages to surprise you too. You’d never seen him this mad before and you almost don’t even know what to say in this face of his anger. Somehow, it was even more frightening than the Doctor’s simmering displeasure with you. 

“Well?” He goes on, demanding an answer when your nervous silence prevails. “What have you been doing this whole time? I could probably take a guess but I want to hear you say it. I’m waiting.”

Your mouth slowly opens but nothing comes out. What could you even say? 

Unfortunately, the Doctor is right there to jump in and answer for you. 

“Someone found their way down into the cellar where they had a very interesting encounter indeed, given the unfolding scene I just so happened to walk in on. Isn’t that right, little mouse?” 

You turn your head to gape at him in utter disbelief. Why would he say it like that to make it sound as if it were something so tawdry? As if you’d even had a say in the matter. 

“You — you!” Zandik struggles to find the words, so enraged he can’t seem to get them out for a moment. “I told you not to go wandering off on your own, you stupid little girl! Why did you disobey me?” 

“I … I’m sorry - -“ You try, but he’s quick to cut you off. He simply doesn’t want to hear it. 

“Enough. I don’t care for your excuses. Give her to me. Now.”

Shocking you a great deal, the Doctor obliges that request and starts to tug you further into the room by your arm. You wouldn’t have thought he’d do much of anything the old man asked of him, at least not without giving him snark about it first. 

And it’s exactly that easy acquiescence that seems to set off every single alarm bell in your head, making your skin prickle as you’re drug over to Zandik’s chair. Something about the situation strikes you as dangerous and you instinctively try to pull back on that constricting grip but it’s no use. The Doctor’s fist is like an iron manacle on your wrist as he steers you right up alongside the old man who reaches up to grab your arm from him, pulling you towards himself. 

For a split second you’re struck by a naive, hopeful little flutter that Zandik is going to embrace you and check you over for injuries or bruises. Coddle you and pet you as he has been so inclined to do as of late. A very real part of you wants to believe he was only worried about you, and rightfully so, given your most recent harrowing ordeal. 

But that is not what happens. 

Instead, he gives your captured limb a hard yank that pulls you off balance when your legs were already weak enough as it was. You tip forward, practically collapsing against him, and Zandik quickly grabs at the back of your neck with his other hand to force you the rest of the way down. Over his lap. 

A painfully sharp breath catches in your throat, so violent it makes your eyes vibrate in their sockets. 

That’s all you can manage to do before the first hard swat lands across your upturned ass to make you jolt. You’re so shocked by it, so stunned that you almost don’t believe it’s actually happening until another heavy handed blow sends you lurching against his thighs just a split second later. 

“Don’t even think about trying to get up off my lap, you damned stupid girl.” He snarls at you, very aware of the way you grow tense and stiffen, as if you were readying to do just that. “You’re going to take your spanking and you’re going to thank me for it when I’m done, do you understand me? You’re lucky this is all I’m going to do to you.”

When you don’t answer quickly enough, he smacks your ass again to make you yelp. 

“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer!” 

“Y - yes, Master Zandik! I understand! I’m so sorry!”

Another squeak soon follows when his palm immediately claps down on your backside hard enough to make tears spring up in your eyes. It hardly even registers though when you’re so stunned, so humiliated to be taken over his knee like this. You’d almost thought he hadn’t been serious about that threat issued in the drawing room earlier, that he wouldn’t actually do it, but now you could see just how serious he really was. And right in front of the Doctor too. 

Your face is positively on fire while you force yourself to stay in that embarrassing position when you want nothing more than to jump up and flee while he rains punishing blows upon your ass, one right after another, to a faltering, discordant beat of fleshy slaps. It shocks you how much force he’s able to put behind the swing of his sharp bony hand which seems to crack across the meat of your behind with withering precision to make you fidget. All of it seems to pale in comparison, though, to the way he continues to scold you and chide you, giving you a proper tongue lashing while he spanks your ass red and raw. 

“You empty headed fool! I warned you, didn’t I? It was one of the first things I told you! Don’t go wandering around like a lost child. Don’t go into the cellar. I didn’t think that would be such a difficult instruction for you to understand. You have no idea what kind of trouble you’d be in right now if you’d touched something dangerous down there!” He rattles out above you, raising his voice to be heard over the sounds coming from the meaty slap of your ass and your wailing mouth, already panting hard despite the fact he’d only just started. 

That realization sparks a tiny little flutter of hope in your aching chest, and you desperately latch onto it. The limited amount of stamina in his old body really just might be the only thing that saves you from a real thrashing, but it was much too late to save even a fraction of your ego. 

Especially when you were still slick between the legs, both holes a goopy mess from the surgeon's cruel machinations. And after he’d cut away your underwear there was absolutely nothing standing between your cunt and the cool air other than the flimsy material of your skirt but it was laughable how easy that could be flipped out of the way. It has you self consciously squirming in place and squeezing your thighs, legs crossing at the ankles in a blithe attempt to shield yourself from his notice while he punishes you quite soundly. 

But then, you hear it — just barely over the uneven tempo of your ass being ruthlessly smacked. The unmistakable creak of a boot on the hardwood and you suddenly remember that the Doctor was still there, standing right behind you. Watching this mortifying spectacle. Your skin feels like it’s trying to crawl away when you shudder at that reminder and you stiffly start to push upright against your better sense and judgement. You had to at least try to get out of this mortifying position. 

Swat! 

“I said stay put!” Zandik snaps at you. “And don’t make me tell you again, stupid girl. I can promise you you’ll come to regret it if you test my patience any further than you already have.” 

Whimpering at the settling sting that starts to blanket over your trembling body, you awkwardly rock forward to stay prone just as the Doctor drawls a very amused chuckle somewhere just over your shoulder. 

“I don’t think you have her quite procumbent enough, old man. Make her spread her legs for you. That should help.” 

You draw a sharp breath to protest, to beg him to just go away, but one of his boots slips into the space between your feet to kick them apart, making you choke on it. He’s utterly casual about the way he nudges you into an even wider spread until the toes of your buckled shoes are just able to touch the ground and accommodate the stretch. Seething a quiet hiss under your breath, you quickly realize that being positioned like this makes you settle much more fully across Zandik’s lap on your stomach. Less leverage for you to try and scramble away. 

“And keep them spread.” The Doctor warns, his voice that same low, almost sultry drawl, as he moves to step behind the chair now. 

“I don’t need your help to smack some sense into a disobedient little girl.” Zandik snorts, still struggling to catch his breath in that brief lull. It’s obvious that this level of exertion is taking quite a lot out of him and you pray that means he’ll wrap it up soon. Maybe just another minute or so, if you were lucky. 

But to your skin crawling horror, he instead reaches down to unceremoniously flip your skirt up without so much as a word of warning, not even giving you a chance to beg him not to do it. 

What he finds underneath — or a lack thereof — makes him tense against you in clear surprise, the vibration of his shock roiling through his body into yours. Whimpering helplessly at the sensation of being so completely exposed from the waist down now, the waft of air against your bare cheeks and equally bare cunt, you helplessly start to squirm in place. You couldn’t get up though. Even if you’d wanted to make another attempt, you felt like you were going to pass out from sheer embarrassment as the room spins dizzily around you. 

“You -!” The old man sputters, momentarily at a loss for words. But he recovers quickly enough to bring the flat of his hand down hard on your ass again, making you jerk at the recoil and squeal. “Is this why you snuck off on your own? To get this hungry little cunt of yours stuffed by someone else? Is that it?” 

“N - no - -“ 

Barking a harsh, bitter laugh, Zandik slips that hand between the forced spread of your thighs to cup your quim in a tight, pinching squeeze. You almost catch yourself trying to close your legs and shield your pussy from being inspected by those cold, wizened digits, fighting the urge even as you instinctively nudge back into that touch. This only earns you another humorless scoff though, and you wince as if he’d just struck you again. 

“Look at you. Even when I’ve got you over my knee you just can’t stop thinking with your cunt, can you? No wonder an old man’s fingers weren’t enough to keep you satisfied. You needed to go find a younger cock just to get your fill, didn’t you?” 

You give your head a frantic shake, struggling to find enough oxygen to speak. “No, Master! I - it’s not like that, I swear! I wouldn’t - -“

“You’re still soaking wet, you idiot girl!” He snaps, roughly swiping his thumb down the pudgy crease of your slit to further smear the evidence of your arousal. 

But even that condescending gesture is not enough to appease his ire, nor is the way you quake over his thighs and mewl a harried, undeniably needy sound at that impartial touch. You might have expected it from the Doctor, definitely the surgeon, but not Zandik. He wasn’t supposed to touch you like this. 

And yet that is exactly what he does as he brings both hands down to grab two pinching handfuls of your ass cheeks, spreading you open with utter impartiality. Your head snaps up in hot faced alarm at the realization of what he’s doing but there’s absolutely nothing you can do to prevent it. You have no choice but to obediently stay in place, left to tremble uncontrollably in your prone position while he takes a good long look at you. 

“Gods, girl.” He hisses. “Even your ass too? You really are a needy little thing, to have both of your holes freshly used and to still think you can present this sloppy pussy to me? You’re unbelievable.” 

“I - it’s not like that!“ You wail, hiccuping on your own misery, but he doesn’t seem to care for anything at all you have to say right now. 

“Don’t lie to me! Do you think I’m stupid? Just look at the creamy mess one of them's made of you. And which one was it, huh? Who’d you spread your ass for?” 

The pad of a cool, wrinkled finger passes over the pucker of your back entrance then, a harsh, unforgiving swipe to make you outright jolt. But it quickly comes back to press into the slackened center and you shrill a startled sound when he starts to slip inside the constricting passage with relative ease. Still sticky with lubricant, still stretched from earlier.  

And the worst part of all is how immediately your pussy responds to the penetration, squeezing tight with a renewed, tingling rush of warmth that is not even half as displeased as you’d like it to be. Even after being overworked and overstimulated down in the cellar, your body still somehow finds the energy to respond with eager enthusiasm, and something about that realization seems to further crack your worn down psyche. 

Maybe he was right. Maybe you really were just a needy, stupid little girl who could only think with her cunt. 

Just as you start to hang your head in defeat, wanting nothing more than to cry, a shift of movement at your peripheral catches your attention. You cautiously nudge your face to the side to watch as the Doctor steps out from where he’d retreated behind the old man’s chair to stand next to it instead. Just peering down at you. Still smirking under that horrible mask of his.   

“Oh. Poor thing.” He coos, giving his tongue a sharp, belittling click. “Don’t look so put out. You’re still in good company here, even if we do have to see you appropriately disciplined for your transgressions. Rules are rules, as you know, and you broke one of the very few you were given. That makes for a rather pressing matter of concern from the standpoint of your employers, don’t you think? After all … if you’re even willing to go against such a simple, basic command then what else won’t you be willing to do, I wonder?” 

Your slackjawed surprise at his instigating commentary is quickly washed away and replaced by simmering anger to leave you glaring up at him through the swimming sheen of tears from that awkward angle. The fact he does not even try to help you by explaining the situation — the real situation, as he’d seen it with his own eyes — does not exactly come as a surprise. But for him to actively make it worse like this? You could just scream. 

Yet, Zandik scoffs a gruff sound of agreement then, drawing your attention when he evidently deems himself satisfied with his perusal of your ass. Your face feels like it’s hot enough to catch fire as he pulls his finger out to leave the fleshy pucker slightly raised and searching for more. There would be none forthcoming from here on out though, and he quickly sets back in to mercilessly swat your ass some more. Smack! Smack! Smack! Again and again, and again. 

And it hurts that much more, you find, without the flimsy barrier of your housekeeping uniform in the way to offer even some small semblance of protection from those sharp strikes. Back and forth, back and forth between the left cheek and the right, he spanks you until the skin starts to feel sore and unbearably warm while the Doctor just continues to watch. Observing your humiliation from his front row seat. The sick bastard.  

“Take your hands off the chair.” He abruptly says a long stretch of moments later, when it’s getting harder and harder to keep the sobs choking up your chest held back. “That’s it. Reach down and grab the legs instead. I want to see you completely prone and remind you that you are at our mercy here.” 

As if that were ever even up for debate. 

But you squeeze your eyes shut as you hesitantly obey, teeth clenched tight to stop yourself from full on wailing when the salty tears start to leak out. Releasing your death grip on the edge of the seat, you let your arms hang down to curl clammy hands around the wooden legs as he’d instructed. It seems to stretch you out even more across Zandik’s lap though, and you quickly come to understand why the Doctor had wanted to see you positioned like this. You have no way to brace against the hard, stinging strikes over your vulnerable ass, no way to lurch or absorb the blows now. All you can do is cling desperately and take your spanking until Zandik decided you were well and truly done. 

Unfortunately for you, that seems to drag on for an eternity. Or maybe it just feels like it does. The only thing you know for certain is that your ass hurts, throbbing and smarting, the skin heated enough that you think you surely won’t be able to sit down properly for a week. And the fact your pussy just continues to obscenely drool throughout the course of your punishment doesn’t escape your notice either, even when you would really rather pretend otherwise. 

But, finally, Zandik at last seems to wear himself out. After landing one last, toe curling swat across your ass, he deflates back into the chair with an overexerted huff. He has to take a moment just to catch his breath, panting vigorously over top of you, while you valiantly try to get yourself under control. It’s an exceedingly difficult task though, particularly after everything else you’d already experienced in but a single day, and now this on top of it. You were having trouble just processing everything, struggling to make any sense of it. 

You’d never gotten spanked before, not even by your own parents … 

“You may get up now.” Zandik sighs at length on a big, whooshing breath, sounding much less enraged now. “Quickly. Hurry it up, before I change my mind. Make yourself look presentable.”

Still weeping and sniffling sadly, you gingerly get yourself pushed upright with no shortage of effort and tug your skirt back into place. You’re a little too sore to be truly self conscious about it though as you fidget on your feet, trying to subtly shake off some of the stinging hurt. Of course it doesn’t work, however, and he doesn’t miss your tender fidgeting either. 

“Look at me, girl. And fix your face while you’re at it.”

You visibly wince at the sharp reprimand in his voice, desperately working to school your expression into one that isn’t completely wretched and pathetic. But that doesn’t quite happen either. 

Closing his eyes against the pitiful look you give him, Zandik slowly blows out a deep exhale that makes his still heaving shoulders deflate. He looked tired, perhaps more than you’d ever seen him before. And worried, now that the edge of his anger was starting to subside. “We will discuss this later. Tomorrow, perhaps. You are dismissed for today. Go up to your room and so help me, girl, you’d better not step a single foot out of there for the rest of the night. You will not enjoy the consequences if you disobey me again, do you understand?” 

Unable to help it, you shirk back slightly, feeling appropriately cowed even as you quickly nod your acknowledgement. Like you were a child being sent straight to bed without dinner. Oh, you weren’t sure how you could ever hope to recover from this level of humiliation. 

But then, the nearly forgotten Doctor chooses that moment to speak up again. “Wait. I’m not yet satisfied with - -“

“I don’t care.” Zandik cuts across him, sending his younger counterpart a tight look of warning. “You can do whatever you’re going to do on your own time. She’s my servant, if you’ll recall, not yours. For the time being I want her out of my sight. Everything else can come later.” 

The waterworks are suddenly coming full force again, and your chest hitches painfully with the mournful breath you suck in, even when your constricting throat tries to reject it. You know you should probably just stay quiet right now, but — 

“I - I - I’m terribly suh - sorry, Master. It w - wasn’t my intention … mmm, please, please don’t send me ah - away.” 

Turning back to you, the old man softens his features in as much as he seems able to. It’s enough to violently wrench at your aching heart though, and your stuttering sobs start to come faster. Harder. 

“Stop that senseless blubbering, girl. Before you make yourself sick. I’m not sending you away for more than a single night. I can manage just fine on my own in such a short period, so don’t fret unnecessarily over that. I will see you bright and early tomorrow morning. Is that clear?” 

You nod again, even as another forlorn sob starts up in your chest. He really wasn’t going to dismiss you? Even after you’d upset him so terribly?

“Y - yes, Master Zandik. I understand. I - I’ll see you tomorrow muh - morning then.” 

Bracing yourself to leave, you hesitate only long enough to send the Doctor a tearful glance. He just continues to stand there with his arms folded behind his back though, and he makes no move to stop you when you shuffle slowly towards the door. The throbbing pain that splinters out from your sore ass ensures you take every step carefully, mindfully, as you shuffle back out into the hall by yourself. Leaving the two of them to talk about you in private, no doubt. 

You’re still crying when you at last make it up to the second floor some moments later but those great big, wracking sobs are gradually starting to lessen, bit by bit. It seems as if you just don’t have the energy for it anymore, which is both a good and a bad thing. Good, because you can barely see where you’re going through the tears. Bad, because you can’t even recall a time when you’d felt quite so drained and exhausted. 

Well, if nothing else you should sleep very soundly tonight. 

That knowledge is the only real source of comfort you have in the moment and you find that you are quite looking forward to resting up after this trying day. Perhaps things wouldn’t look so very bleak in the morning light. 

But when you finally reach your door and pull it open, you’re forced to come up short before you can step inside. The shocking sight that greets you comes dangerously close to sending you crashing to the floor in an unconscious heap, especially after everything else you’ve already experienced today. 

A young man aggressively hunches over your unoccupied bed, his gray slacks slouched loosely around his hips. He has his head bowed between his shaking shoulders in concentration and the mouth you can see through the side of his half-mask is pulled back in a vicious snarl, revealing two sets of bizarrely sharpened teeth. Wispy blue hair in a boyish tousle, full and fluffy looking even at a distance where it hangs down in his face.  

You’re so gobsmacked by what you’ve just walked in on that for a tortuously long stretch of seconds you simply can’t make any sense at all of what he’s even doing. But then you notice it. 

The slipper clutched in a crushing grip which he enthusiastically drives his cock into, fucking himself in its soft clutch with an almost wild abandon. 

Your mouth warbles open in utter disbelief. Nothing comes out though, not even a scandalized gasp, as you just stand there, watching him shake and judder towards what you can only imagine will be an explosive release. He doesn’t even seem to notice that he has an audience now, so caught up in enjoying himself with your slipper to aid him that he evidently didn’t hear the door opening. 

And watching him thrust like that, the center of his balance focused so singlemindedly on the hard shove of his cock, undeniably makes something low in your gut start to curl with growing interest. You’d never seen a man fucking, well. Anything before. The thought that they might look so … good doing it had never so much as crossed your mind. Even in spite of the lingering throb across your ass cheeks, the sore, violated ache deep in your pussy, your body still finds enough of an energy reserve to respond to the shameful display. 

Gods, maybe Zandik was right. You really were something else. 

For better or worse, though, it only takes another minute or two before the punishing force of his narrow hips starts to turn uneven, jerking aimlessly now while his groaning, faltering sounds of pleasure rapidly quicken. Growing more frantic, breathless, snarling a vicious sound as he finally tips his head back and —

Cums such a healthy, excessive load that you can see it dripping and oozing out down the slipper while he continues to fuck himself into the mess he’s made for another moment longer. Just grunting, sighing, hissing his relief until the tremors slow to a stop to leave him panting shallowly in the aftermath. Utterly spent. 

You think you should probably beat a hasty retreat before you’re discovered but you can’t quite seem to tear your eyes away from him. It’s no mystery who he is. That wavy, wispy blue hair was all the introduction you needed, and that half-mask … he was the one in the cellar stairwell last night. 

Your eyes go round as saucers. Then he must have also been the one who cleaned up your broken lamp, ensuring a fire didn’t start, and then he took off with your slipper afterwards. In truth, you hadn’t even considered that it might have been swiped for this purpose. 

But why was he in your room then? 

A fresh shudder tears up your spine when you watch him slowly ease back to slip his cock out, still hard and uncomfortably rigid even as it drips the sticky spend he’d worked up into a froth. There’s so much of it, in fact, that you can see the slipper is completely coated with clumpy, gooey, half dried semen even from where you were standing. And it hits you. This wasn’t his first round. He’d been using your slipper to jerk off for — for who even knows how long now. 

“Oh.” You blurt, so startled by this discovery that you can’t quite catch it, and his head suddenly snaps up with a start. 

For the stretch of a single heartbeat the two of you just stare at one another, both sets of eyes widened to comically shocked proportions. 

Then he abruptly throws the slipper down and bolts for it, shoving right past you in a sudden rush to get out into the hall. He slams you back against the doorjam in the process, momentarily stunning you, but by the time you recover enough to peer down the corridor after him, he is already gone. Not even so much as a hint of blue hair or the tippy tap of distant feet. How very strange. How very … typical of what your life was slowly turning into. 

Rather surreptitiously now, you close the door and lock it behind you before making your way over to the rumpled bed where you just stare down at the abandoned slipper for a terribly long time. Thinking he should’ve just taken it with him if he’d already soiled it this much, you gather your courage and hesitantly reach out to pick it up. 

But you immediately grimace at the bubbly, creamy mess he’s left inside and blindly toss it away to land somewhere unseen. It could fall straight into the pits of hell for all you cared. 

A fresh sob starts to make itself known in your hitching chest and, feeling so completely broken down you simply can’t bring yourself to stand any longer, you sink down to your knees and just let yourself cry. 

This place was a mad house. 

⭐

I pray that all is going well for you and you’re responding positively to your treatment. Enclosed with this letter is the payment I received from last month’s salary. Seeing as I am currently unable to leave this place and have nowhere to spend any of it, I’ve sent all of my wages to you so that you might pay the hospital whatever they need. Please hold onto the rest and keep it safe for me, mama. I think we will need it once my work here has concluded. 

I do not mean to push but haven’t you had the time to write me back? I was so looking forward to hearing from you and when I never received any sort of reply it left me so badly wishing to return home just to see you again. Or I haven’t received anything as of yet, at least. I suppose the post might run a bit behind all the way out here in the countryside. But if it is simply a matter of the nurses not supplying you with a pen and paper, then please use some of the mora I sent to have them buy you your own. 

Oh, but don’t think me selfish for writing to you this way. I just miss you very much, mama. It makes me feel silly to say it, as if I’m still a child clinging to her mothers apron strings, but it is the truth. It’s unsettlingly lonely here. 

And it isn’t just the simple remoteness of this place. I’m sure I’d feel isolated and cut off from the rest of the world even if this manor was nestled right in the heart of Snezhnograd, seeing as I can neither come nor go. I am just stuck here. It’s something much more than that, something that I almost feel inclined to call insidious. 

Most days it really is just Master Zandik and I roaming the grounds together. There are no other members of staff in this drafty place. No friends or acquaintances come to pay visits or house calls, unless I were to consider Lord Regrator’s appearance at the start of the month something as quaint as a friendly house call. I hesitate to label it that though. 

The only other person I’ve seen with any amount of regularity, although he seems to appear and disappear as suddenly as an unpredictable wisp of the wind, is the man in the mask. He isn’t cruel to me, exactly, so please don’t fret over what I am going to write next. It’s just … he frightens me a little bit. I’m not sure what to make of him, even after having dealt with his strange behavior all this time. I much prefer the company of Master Zandik, and even Lord Regrator over his. 

Do you remember that awful noise I told you about last time, mama? I don’t think it actually has anything to do with the masked man, but I’ve found myself wanting to lump them both into the same category of disconcerting happenings that linger within these old walls. 

To that end, I hope you are not disappointed or think me a fool for doing something so hasty, but recently I decided to ignore Master Zandik’s warnings not to stray from where he’s permitted me to go, so that I might try to investigate the source. It wasn’t just my curiosity urging me along this time though. I’d started to grow increasingly concerned the more Master Zandik insisted he could not hear it like I did, and I certainly was not going to ask the man in the mask for his input. 

So I snuck out after dark to explore the rest of the house against his wishes and against my better sense. Unfortunately this campaign netted me little result other than scaring myself half to death once all was said and done. It wasn’t that anything happened or I stumbled upon some great, terrible secret per se, but … 

Oh, I know how strange this is going to sound, mama, please don’t think any less of me for it. I feel like a proper twit even thinking it, let alone writing the words out for anyone else to read. I can’t shake it though, and I can’t stop thinking about it. 

I think this place is haunted. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The rush of water splashing back into itself sounds loud, nearly deafening when it bounces off of the paneled walls to reverberate in the space between. It seems to fill your ears as if you’d dunked your head under the surface, making them feel clogged and stuffed while you finish dumping out the steaming pitcher into the porcelain tub. 

Silence washes in to replace the sound once you’re finished, and you step away to set the hot-to-the touch flagon aside on a low table next to the bath. Heaving a deeply contented sigh, Zandik reclines back to rest his head along the edge of the tub. His eyes are closed in relaxation and what you think just might be relief, which means he doesn’t see the way that you surreptitiously glance down into the water. 

He lays sprawled out in the claw footed basin without a single ounce of shame or concern for his nudity, which you sorely wished you could attribute to his level of comfort with you. Unfortunately it’s always been this way since the very first time you helped him into the bath, even when he would only look at you to glare and getting more than a single word out of him was like pulling teeth. You could only guess, then, that he viewed this as one of those things which was simply a natural part of life and so there was no reason to feel embarrassed about it. 

Sadly you were not of the same mind as him, and you feel your cheeks flood with heat when you quickly look away from the indecent sight. 

“Is the water hot enough, Master Zandik?” 

A slight shift of movement but, still, his eyes remain shut. “Mm. Acceptable.” 

You make a face at yourself yet you wisely choose to keep any remarks on that zipped. He’d nearly bitten your head off once before after you’d expressed mild concern over his preferred bathing temperature and suggested that it might be a good idea to tone it down a little bit. You didn’t want to have another argument with him. Moreover, even though he would likely never admit to it, you also harbored some suspicions that it made his joints feel at least marginally better. As long as he was comfortable you supposed that was all that really mattered. 

Leaving him to soak, you bustle back and forth between bedroom and bathroom, disposing of the clothes he’d worn today for washing and replacing them with a clean set of pajamas for when he was done. You liked to give the water enough time to cool so that it wasn’t scalding your skin off by the time you needed to submerge your hands in it, so you keep busy with little tasks that don’t take you too far from his side. But every time you pop your head back in to check on him, Zandik is still sitting right where you’d left him as if he hadn’t even moved so much as a single finger. 

If you didn’t know any better you might have thought he was dozing off in there. 

He wasn’t overly prone to falling asleep at random intervals though, even in spite of his age, so you really don’t worry all that much about leaving him to his own devices for a few minutes. And you’re certainly quite glad for that. 

Because try as you might, you just can’t seem to stop thinking about what happened between you and him in the library earlier that day. The whole thing felt like some inexplicable fever dream from the deepest, darkest corners of your subconscious mind, not something you’d actually lived. Between Zandik dotingly rubbing your cunt to blissful relief and that damnable Doctor forcing his fingers up inside you, it was nearly impossible to make any sense of what had even transpired. 

You’d known the old man sometimes got a bit handsy with you even prior to this, so that wasn’t really the confounding part. Rather it was the fact you’d let him touch you. There. In that manner. You’d permitted it. All of it. Not only that, you had even asked for it. 

You must have been out of your goddamn mind. 

By and far the worst part, though, was how thinking about what had already happened and picturing him putting his hands on you like that again did not inspire the roiling cringe of revulsion you wished it did. He was many years your senior, well past any age that would have made him an at all acceptable suitor, and yet here you were. Getting fidgety with excitement every time you thought of the way he’d plucked your vibrating quim to a shuddering fever pitch. 

It was inconceivable. It was mad. 

You hear him call your name then, and your head snaps up with a sudden jerk. Quickly abandoning the pair of socks you’d been folding, unfolding and refolding for the last some odd minutes, you rise to your feet and flit back into the bathroom. 

“Yes, Master Zandik? Did you need something?” 

“Of course.” He says, looking at you as if that much should have been obvious. And, in truth, you supposed it kind of was. “I would like to get out of this bathtub at some point today, if you don’t mind. Did you really forget about me? I’m starting to prune, stupid girl! Hurry it up. I haven’t got all night.” 

Seeing as he never leaves the house any more than you do, and he never entertains any guests either, you know that’s not true. He has all the time in the world so sit and soak up the heat from the bath water. 

But you don’t tell him that, biting your tongue to stop yourself from snarking at him as you step across the room to come up next to the tub, already rolling your sleeves to your elbows. This somewhat uncomfortable ritual had taken some getting used to at first, when you were not overly accustomed to touching naked strangers, and yet efficient, clinical detachment had settled in quickly enough. Hopefully the day's events hadn’t completely reversed that small progress though. 

You start off simple enough. Taking your time, you gently wash his hair while taking care not to rip the thinning strands out or to scratch his scalp too vigorously. It had looked a little rough in a few patches, a bit bedraggled, when you first arrived which you took to mean that whoever had been seeing to his care before you hadn’t done a very good job. If such a person even existed at all. There was every possibility he’d been completely independent and seeing to his own needs prior to you coming here, and given the selfish attitude of the man in the bird mask … you were fairly inclined to believe that was the case. Doubly so when you considered how he’d initially shirked away from your hands, as if a gentle touch was a completely foreign concept to him. 

It was looking and feeling much better now though, even if you couldn’t restore what had already started to thin out and turn brittle. But Zandik’s hair still manages to maintain some small amount of its former softness thanks to your efforts, and after thoroughly rinsing it you take up a wash rag and a bar of spritzy evergreen soap. 

You scrub his arms, his neck, his back and then his front, which is precisely where you start to lose some of your nerve. It’s nearly impossible not to let your mind wander, however, when you’re feeling across his narrow chest to make sure he’s clean. The gesture was just a little too intimate not to remind you of something else that was also embarrassingly intimate, and not to mention highly inappropriate given your station here. Even having crossed that line with him once before isn’t quite enough to dissuade your deeply felt shame when you catch yourself looking at him with anything other than detached impartiality. 

As your palms slide over Zandik’s tiny nipples, wetting the sparse hairs around them, you shoot a nervous glance down at the water but it’s far too murky with soap suds for you to make out much of anything underneath. You’re not so sure you can do this without having a complete and total mental breakdown over the awful conundrum you’ve stumbled into, but you force yourself to keep going. Praying you could just get it done and over with, without incident. 

Further down you go to scrub the cloth over his soft stomach. It looked to you like he may have had a fairly tight physique in his youth, perhaps not hard and muscular, but it isn’t difficult to imagine him having some toned definition at one point. If it had ever existed it's completely gone now, replaced with a small pouch over his belly and squeezable lovehandles on his sides. You thought it rather cute in the way a chubby baby was cute, which was so at odds with the heated thoughts racing through your mind that you can hardly make heads or tails of it. 

Forcibly swallowing down your nerves, you slide your hand lower still with every intention of giving his genitals a quick, perfunctory cleaning before immediately moving on to his legs. 

But what you find there startles a quiet yelp out of you, your cheeks lighting up like a firecracker when you’re greeted by something decidedly stiff. Something hard and seeking. Something that twitches faintly at the brush of your knuckles. 

Stirring out of his light doze at the sound more than the touch, Zandik sends you a strange look. It’s only then, seeing the deeply frazzled expression on your face, that he seems to realize what’s happened. 

“Oh.” Is all he says. 

Screwing your eyes shut in an attempt to block it all out, you blindly shove your hand past that dangerous forbidden zone to clean over his thigh instead. “Please don’t apologize, Master Zandik. I’m sure that was my fault.”

He outright scoffs. “I wasn’t going to.” 

Realizing you were just continuously humiliating yourself, again and again, you clamp your mouth into a warbling line and focus instead on getting him washed. Down the length of his leg to clean first the left foot before switching over to the right. You’re moving at record speeds now, but you still don’t quite manage to finish up before he deigns to speak again. 

“You really are a strange one, you know that? I wouldn’t call it timid, exactly, but … easy to rile? If you have no interest in my cock then you shouldn’t have any problem cleaning it like any other part of my body.” 

You outright choke at that, freezing mid motion to bring your head up with a sharp jerk. Just staring at him in what might be wide eyed panic. Him, staring back, even when his grumpy brows slowly start to knit in confusion. 

And then a surprised, almost disbelieving laugh punches out of him. Harsh and abrupt. 

“So that’s what your problem is. You can’t stop thinking about it and wondering what it’s like, can you? I’m sure that’s why you forgot about me, too. I just bet you were in the other room zoning out over some ridiculous fantasy.” 

“N - n - no! I was not!”  

The wrinkles around his mouth shift, deepening into harsher creases when he fixes you with a pointed barb smirk. “Well then you should have no problem at all washing me down just like usual, right? Back before I showed you what your body is capable of feeling. Before you were curious.”

You gape at him in mute disbelief. The fact Zandik could read you so easily, and so accurately too, comes very close to sending you running from the room in hysterics. How were you supposed to navigate this without losing what little still remained of your resolve to keep things between you and him proper, respectful? 

“It … it wasn’t like — that before.” You stammer at last, finding your voice. 

“Hm?” Shifting slightly to make the water in the tub ripple around him, Zandik glances down at himself in question. And when understanding dawns he gives a sharp click of his tongue and a roll of his eyes. “You think that’s something to get so worked up about? Stupid girl. I’m not even full hard yet.” 

You start to reel back in abject shock. “H - huh?” 

But you don’t make it very far, his hand shooting out to snag your wrist with a fleshy wet slap. The stiff, bony ridges of his fingers tighten to the point of making reflexive tears spring up in your eyes, refusing to let you skuttle away as he directs your hand back up to his groin. You lose the submerged rag at some point in the shuffle, or perhaps you drop it in your alarm, you can’t be sure which. 

Rougher than you ever would have thought to do it, Zandik shoves your recoiling fingers into his waiting cock. It stirs again, even at that indelicate contact, and then immediately settles against your palm to rest there while he forces your hand to cup around its slight weight. 

Your heart jackhammers so violently you think you might really throw up right then and there; leaning over the tub like that, forced to hold the old man’s length entirely against your will. 

“See?” He says, unexpectedly gentle, patient, given the punishing hold he’s got on your arm. “It’s not even halfway there, is it? Hardly anything to warrant all this fuss.” 

“I - I don’t see.” You gulp, swallowing down your nerves and almost gagging. “I’ve never seen one before at all … remember? I just know it’s … usually it’s — softer. Smaller. Than this.” 

“Ah. That’s right. I almost forgot you’re a virgin pure, the way you’ve been all but wetting yourself over me since the incident in the library.” 

“M - Master Zandik?!” You wail in dismay as you give your captured arm a frantic tug now. 

He still won’t let you go, however, and you quickly find that you are completely at his mercy like this when he manually starts to close your trembling fingers around him. 

“Then let me do the honors of giving you your first crash course.” Exhaling a vaguely anticipatory breath through his nose, Zandik brings his opposite hand close under the water to assist the first in placing your hand. “This is a cock. And a rather agreeable one at that, if you’ll permit me to boast. You’ve already seen it soft plenty of times before, but it looks like I’m still feeling a bit eager from earlier. After getting to play with your sweet little cunt, I can’t say I’m particularly surprised by this discovery.” 

With that, he finishes closing your fist around himself, keeping his own hands wrapped around yours so that you cannot pull away. Left with no other choice, you’re forced to acknowledge all that soft, silken skin under your palm and you realize he’s telling the truth. He really wasn’t fully filled out yet. The flesh still retained the same spongy quality you were accustomed to while washing him, still malleable in your hold. It was just a little bigger than usual. 

You’re suddenly struck by just how foolish you were being. To have such a flustered response over a cock that didn’t even pose any kind of threat to you was the very definition of silly. Your inexperience was showing. Badly. 

Even so, he’d been right about your curiosity and now that you were actually grasping him in your hand it rapidly starts to get the better of you. This was always what got you into trouble. 

“You mean it’s not … ready?” 

Zandik flicks his gaze up at you at that question, studying your face with an inscrutable look. “No, silly girl. It’s not ready, as you put it. If that’s your goal here then you will have to do more than run your hands over my body to accomplish it. I’m sure if it had been one of my younger selves I’d be standing at full attention just from being naked in front of you, but …” 

Breathing out a rough sound, he carefully squeezes down on your fingers to in turn make you squeeze him. The fleshy weight in your grip twitches faintly under the exerted pressure as if it were a serpent slowly coming out of a deep sleep, and your brows shoot straight up to your hairline when you feel it slowly start to thicken. 

“Unfortunately an old man’s body is not nearly as easy to excite as it was in his youth.” He continues, the register of his voice dropping to a lower grumble than normal. “It might take some time, but I’m sure with your … particular talents you can manage it.”

You can’t help the breathless little laugh that shudders out of you at that. “That’s funny. Lord Regrator told me I had no talent to speak of.”

He snorts an odd noise in response. “And I’m sure he’ll feel so inclined to change his estimation of you soon enough.” 

Your ears prick at that, wondering what that was possibly supposed to mean, but you don’t get the opportunity to question it. Zandik’s hands, still clasped over yours, begin to carefully manipulate your extended arm into a stilted pumping motion. Barely moving at first, just a simple nudge up. And then another nudge back down. Testing the give of your fist, perhaps. Or your reception to it. 

And although your face certainly feels like it’s hot enough to fry an egg now, you can’t quite seem to bring yourself to fight it. Not only because you were undeniably interested in what he was showing you, even though you would have been remiss to ever, ever admit it out loud. But also because you could feel a curious heat starting to curl in your gut, reminding you of the molten, drippy state of your cunt when he’d rubbed it for you. 

That slow budding sensation is enough to have you biting down on your bottom lip, growing hazy and a bit hot under the collar. Stiltedly pumping him like this, it’s not exactly difficult to imagine that same smooth shaft gliding deep inside the farthest reaches of your body. 

Gods, you really were going to be sick at this rate. 

“How … how big does it get?” You finally dare to ask, when you can keep that seemingly urgent question held at bay no longer. 

His eyes slide shut again as Zandik leans his head back against the rim of the tub with a faltering sigh. “Do you wish to find out? You’ll have to keep stroking me, then.” 

You’re almost a bit chagrined at his response, but the curling tendril of arousal deep within your gut quickly overrides the impulse to be annoyed with him. In a way you probably should have seen this coming, and yet … somehow you just can’t be mad about it. You’d wanted to return the favor earlier in the library, after all, but he wouldn’t let you, even when you’d been so sure it was expected of you. A duty as much as an obligation. 

Did your hand feel anywhere near as good on his cock as his did on your pussy? Were you giving him even half of the same rush of sensation, the tight, squirming, knotted build up of pressure that had left you seeing stars, reeling and dazed? 

It doesn’t really look like it from where you’re sitting, the way he remains sprawled out and at ease along the interior of the porcelain bath. Neither twitching or shuddering as you’d been unable to stop yourself from doing, nor does he become antsy with the same fast pumping excitement. 

You realize, then, in a far off, dreamy sort of way, what he’d meant about it taking some time and effort on your part to get him up to full strength. Zandik’s body was not even close to being as easily riled as yours was. The difference in your age and your experience suddenly seems more stark than ever before, but rather than finding this discouraging you instead feel your chest tighten with a hot spark of challenge. 

Brows knitting in stubborn determination, you lift your hand under your own power on the next upward pull and then bring it back down again. A low rumble of acknowledgment slips out of him, appreciative and encouraging in equal measure. His bony fingers stay wrapped around yours for another moment longer, lightly guiding you through the motion a few more times until they start to loosen and then, finally, drop away. 

Left to your own compulsions, you give the cock in your grip a harder tug while he shifts inside the basin, scooting a little lower until the water ripples up around his chest. His arms lift to brace along the sides as he hums a thready sound at the ceiling overhead. 

“There. That’s it.” He murmurs, keeping his head tipped back to give you a good look at how the apple bobs inside his wrinkled throat. “You’re starting to get the hang of it now, aren’t you? You’ll be a pro in no time.” 

“Is that really something I should aspire towards?” You mumble, intending to come off rueful, but somehow the slightly husky intonation of your voice makes it sound sultry. Rather self consciously, you work to clear your throat. 

“Mmm. I don’t see why not. Something tells me you’ve got the natural aptitude for it.” Hesitating, Zandik slowly sucks in a tight breath that makes his narrow chest expand dramatically before letting it out on a softly shuddering exhale. “You’ve almost got me there. What does it feel like now, girl? Tell me.” 

Your fingers squeeze down a little tighter at the sharp inflection in that command. You were starting to grow damp between the legs again … dammit. 

“It feels like … skin, smoother and softer than anything I’ve ever held before. It’s surprisingly nice to have in my hand. I didn’t think — w - well, I wasn’t expecting it to be quite like this. But it moves with my fingers and I can squeeze it. Sometimes I can feel it pulsing back. And it’s firm now. Not s - so … squishy? And thick, too. Standing … straight up, in - … instead of …” 

Tongue lolling uselessly in your mouth, you wheeze a pained little groan in the back of your throat that makes Zandik’s cock eagerly flex against the fingers wrapped around him. He seethes a quiet sound into the static charged air and, to your slackjawed surprise, executes a slow motion thrust up into your hand. It’s shallow and weak. Tentative. But it’s still enough to send his rigid length skirting along your fingers through the water. You start to feel well and truly faint then, as you watch his stomach flex, hips rolling up off the floor of the tub to almost lazily fuck himself into your grip. 

You suddenly feel very close to passing out. 

“Is it making you wet, getting to play with me like this? You’re starting to sound rather distracted.” Finally bringing his head back around, he pins you there with what you can only think to describe as a smoldering look of desire. His eyes narrowed slightly, tension pinching his expression, while he continues to sedately grind into your trembling hold. Exactly the same way he might also grind into your —

“Mmngh. Are you thinking about taking it deep inside your little cunt, right now? Is that what’s got you making that needy face at me? Huh?”  

“… n - no.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing, girl. There’s no need for all this skirting around the topic, you know. I’ll fuck you if that’s what you want.”

Struggling just to pull in a full breath to fill your aching lungs, you give your head a numb shake. “I … I can’t do it. It’s too much.”

Zandik quirks a sardonic brow at that. “And this isn’t?” 

You shake your head again, with more feeling this time. “I just can’t. That’s going way too far. Even this is already … b - but you did it for me earlier, so it only seems right if I …” 

He regards you for another moment longer, with his cock still in your hand, before heaving a rather irritable sigh. “Alright. Have it your way. Then let’s just skip the pretense, shall we? Help me out of the tub.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

 “I said get me out of this bath! Quickly, before I change my mind!” 

Jolting at the sudden bark, you release him and stand up in a rush. Grumbling something indecipherable under his breath while you bend to pull the drain plug, Zandik uses his grip along the sides to begin pushing himself upright with no small amount of difficulty but you’re quick to swoop in and help him, your hands anxious and fluttering. Luckily he accepts your aid instead of slapping you away, which comes as quite a relief, given his abrupt mood swing. 

In relatively short order you’ve got him standing on the rug in the center of the bathroom where you hastily work to dry him off while at the same time keeping your eyes averted from what was between his legs. You weren’t sure if you could handle looking directly at it. But a surprised little flutter still makes itself known when you inevitably reach around him with the towel only to find him hard and sticking straight out from his body. 

Standing as tall as his hunched spine will allow, Zandik patently ignores you now while you work to dry his groin off using only shy, fleeting pats around the area for fear of upsetting him any further should you make another grab at him. You’re not sure if he’s more bothered by your flighty indecision — he’d been right to call you that, as it turns out — or his own inability to act on his urges the way he clearly wants to. It makes for an altogether terrible feeling in the pit of your gut though. Especially when you had no idea how to explain to him that you would have had the same reservations even if he was one of your like-aged peers and not many, many years your senior. 

You can’t help but fear the unknown of what taking that final plunge might mean for you. Unfortunately you don’t get the chance to explain any of that to him, and you soon find yourself nervously flitting after him when he abruptly deems himself dry enough and pushes into motion to grab his cane from the wall. 

Following in the wake of his shuffling footsteps, the two of you step back into the bedroom together. But your confusion only grows, however, when you watch him completely bypass the clean pajamas you’d set out for him at the end of the bed in favor of getting himself spun around and then perching on the edge of the mattress. Utterly naked. Cock still standing erect to jut up from the soft v of his lap. 

The room dizzily starts to spin around you. 

“M - Master Zandik? What are you doing?” 

“Sit.” He snaps, indicating the spot next to him. But a frightful chill instantly races up your spine at that all too familiar bite in his voice and it freezes you to the spot. 

He really did sound just like the Doctor, when he’d barked at you to sit down in Lord Regrator’s office. 

So stunned by disbelief, you don’t immediately jump to heed his summons. And yet when the old man draws a purposeful breath, clearly readying to really lay into you, you jolt out of it and quickly hurry to obey. 

Practically leaping into place, you use your hands to smooth your skirt underneath you and then neatly fold them in your lap once you’re settled. And you wait. 

Next to your utterly naked employer while you remained fully clothed. 

Something was starting to seem a bit backwards again. 

For a long stretch of seconds, minutes, maybe even hours for all that you were aware, a tension filled silence blankets the room until, at last, Zandik blows out a slightly less huffy breath. 

“Listen. I’m — sorry I became so short with you. It was not my intention to frighten you, or make you feel bad for something I suspect you have little control over.”

You have no idea how to respond to that. He’d never apologized to you before, not for anything, and it was clearly costing him quite a bit of his pride to admit to his mistakes. How very strange and unexpected. 

“There’s no need to apologize, Master Zandik.” You murmur, fidgeting with your hands in your lap. “I’m probably the one who should be saying that right now, for … taking such liberties.”

“Nonsense. I invited you to do so, and there was no harm done. Don’t look so nervous.” He tells you, unexpectedly gentle. Or whatever counted for gentle in his world. “As I said before, I have neither the desire or the ability to force you to do something you don’t want to do. It might be for the best anyway, as much as it does pain me to say that. I very much doubt I could really fuck you the same way I could have even twenty years ago. A pretty young thing like you might be too much for this old man.” 

Slowly lifting your head, you send him a careful glance. Pretty? Was that the first real compliment he’d given you that wasn’t dripped in sarcasm and impatience? 

“But -“

“But,” he goes on. “As you can see my cock still works, despite what that high and mighty prick tried to suggest, even if it does take a bit longer to get going than it used to. Or, at the very least, it works for you. So I don’t see any reason why we can’t find a satisfactory middle ground between us. I’m not so ambitious at this stage in my life that I’d demand you give me every little part of you. I wouldn’t even know what to do with it if you did. But you’re already here and you’re already taking care of me in other ways, aren’t you? This wouldn’t be so different from that.” 

That he would even try to find a compromise in the first place comes as nothing short of a great shock to you, and you turn to peer over at him with wide eyes now. 

“Are you trying to say … you want me to take care of you in that way? As part of my — duties?” 

He snorts a quiet sound. “It doesn’t need to sound so obligatory. And besides, I’m happy to continue rewarding you to make it worth your time too. You seemed to rather like my fingers playing in your little cunt, didn’t you?” 

You give a small start at that, feeling your face start to heat up again. “I - I - -“ 

“Oh, stop that. There’s no shame in it, girl. It’s just a normal part of human biology. Now, do be a pet and spread your legs for me, hm? Before I go completely soft waiting for you to stop being embarrassed about it.” 

Stammering pure gibberish, you shoot your horrified attention from his face to his lap, realizing that Zandik’s erection has indeed started to flag. But that doesn’t seem to stop your pussy from squeezing tight at your first real good look at it, the first you’ve allowed yourself to have, and you promptly snap your legs together with a sharp gasp. 

The fleshy, slightly wrinkled hood that meets over the tip in a loose pucker. The broad shaft, its length interspersed here or there with a prominent vein, which leads straight down to the wiry patch of sparse, tangled curls at the base. The soft pudge of his lower belly. The weight of his scrotum, half cradled between the press of his thighs. 

It’s somehow scary and exhilarating, all at the same time, to send your pounding heartbeat galloping completely out of control. You’d never seen one before. You really had no idea what to do with it. Even if you wanted to tend to him (and at this point you’re not quite convinced you don’t) where did you begin? Should you just … reach out and take him in hand? 

For better or worse, though, you must take too long to make your decision, because his arm strikes out and he makes it for you. 

The sharp jut of his fingers digs into the meat of your leg, hard, when he wraps his hand over the knee closest to him and tugs. A faint yelp slips out of you in your surprise, finally tearing your attention away from his cock to peer down at yourself instead. 

And you watch, torn equally between horror and elation, as he unceremoniously shoves that hand up underneath your skirt to leave the bulk of it a bunched mess between the two of you. He finds the seat of your panties — clean, having switched out the other pair at the first opportunity to do so — and he quickly presses in along the seam to find your clit with knowing precision. 

A faltering mewl slips out, completely unbidden, as you somewhat awkwardly spread your thighs further out for him and nudge your pelvis up into his hand. It’s almost like an instinctual reaction now, how readily you present your cunt to him without even stopping long enough to give it a second thought. And little by little, what he’d said in the library starts to click into place and make sense. 

‘Like you didn’t know how to ask for it, or even what you were asking for.’ 

Well, you certainly knew how to ask for it now, didn’t you? 

“Gods, just look at you. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Zandik rumbles beside you, as if in direct response to that flustered thought tripping through your head right at that very moment. And when you just nudge your pussy at him again, eager and seeking, he snorts a knowing laugh. 

“Hah! That’s what I thought. You really have no sense in that empty head of yours, do you, girl? You’re so focused on being embarrassed that you don’t even realize how bad you really want it. You’d better get to work then, if you don’t want me to stop.” 

Trying and failing to blink through the sudden daze that’s fallen over your head, you slowly turn your attention towards Zandik. He watches you for a drawn out stretch of moments, while you watch him trace coaxing gestures over your cunt, encouraging a warm tingle to start up deep within your loins. But when you still can’t quite seem to make your limbs cooperate, he gives a harsh click of his tongue and starts to pull his hand out from under your dress. 

Your cunt immediately twinges at the threat of loss, and you snap back into your own body with a jolt. “W - wait! Not … not yet.”

Much to your relief he pauses there, with his fingertips still well within reach. Just looking at you. Just waiting. 

Forcing your constricting throat to work around a swallow, you hesitantly reach over to take his half softened cock in hand again. It responds immediately to your touch, however, stirring faintly with renewed interest. Hopefully that was a good sign. Perhaps since you’d tugged him to full strength once already, it wouldn’t take so long the second time? 

But, still …

“I don’t really know how, Master Zandik. Do I truly just need to stroke it?” 

He gives a faint nod, a new tension thrumming through his body now. So subtle you almost miss it. “More or less. You’ve got the right idea, at least. Here, I’ll show you.” 

His opposite hand comes up then to curl around your knuckles, much like he did back in the bath. Under his relatively steady guidance, the two of you start to squeeze and drag at his length, pulling on the malleable flesh together. At the same time the one under your skirt returns to the gusset of your panties where he proceeds to caress over the faint outline of your lips. Just teasing you with it for the moment. Taunting you with the suggestion. 

And it’s really no wonder why. He clearly wanted the brunt of your attention to stay fixed on his cock and the way he’s demonstrating how to best manipulate it, evidently having already picked up on how easily distracted you were when it came to your needy cunt. 

How very like him, you think. 

“You can alternate between fast and slow,” he’s telling you, showing an uncharacteristic amount of patience for the task. “Or sometimes tight and loose, however the former is usually preferable. Unlike this delicate little pussy of yours, I’m not nearly as sensitive here.” 

Zandik gives your clit a brief tap for emphasis, making you really wish he’d rub you like he did before, in earnest, but you force yourself to stay focused on what he’s saying. 

“It isn’t? Not at all?” 

Humming a low sound of consideration, he flicks his thumb up to press the worn pad just underneath his wrinkled hood, which he then starts to pull back on the next downward stroke. It almost shocks you, how easy the glide is, and you’re suddenly left staring at the ruddy pink head, wet with a faint sheen of moisture. 

“This is the most sensitive spot on the cock itself.” He goes on, sounding like he was giving an official lecture on the matter of his own anatomy. 

One by one, he lists off the different components by name, informing you rather curtly about the receptivity of the glans, the heightened sensation around the frenulum, the biological function of the foreskin and why it had been so easy for him to peel it back. It’s fascinating, in a way, getting to sit there just listening to him rattle off all this information with the practiced succinctness of a professor. 

So fascinating, in fact, that if it had not been for the rough finger pads lightly petting over your cunt, you very likely would have forgotten what the point of this lesson was even supposed to be. 

“With that being said,” he goes on now, guiding your fist down on the next plunge, except this time he doesn’t stop at the base. Dragging your tense fingers lower still to brush over the delicate weight of his scrotum before making you cup around it. Ensuring you feel how delicate to the touch his fleshy ballsac is. “These are by far the most sensitive place on my body. Remember this well, girl, because I will not be repeating myself. You can be as enthusiastic with my cock as you want, but you must never handle this part too roughly. Do you understand me?” 

You squirm slightly where you’re half leant up against him, your cheek resting against his bare shoulder now. As if you were slowly melting into the side of him, quite without even realizing it. 

“Yes, sir …”

“Good girl.” Zandik murmurs at you, rewarding you for being such an attentive student by increasing the pressure with which he rubs over your slit to make you quietly groan. 

Then, hesitating as if he isn’t entirely sure he wants to do it or not, he dips his face close to press his mouth to the crown of your head. 

An inexplicably warm flutter curls through your chest at the gesture, and it somehow manages to both embarrass and please you in the same fell swoop. For him to be so soft with you … 

“Would you like to try it on your own?” He asks a long beat later, speaking into your hair. 

At your stilted nod, he draws a rattling breath as if to ground himself before carefully redirecting your hand back up to the waiting shaft. Once he’s sure you’ve got a good grip on it, he lets his hand slide away so he can watch you fumble slightly through the first few, awkward tugs. You quickly start to find a steady rhythm though, falling into your own pace. 

At length, he issues a rumbling grunt of approval. “There. You’ve got it now. Just keep doing exactly that. And if you’re feeling bold enough, you might even use your thumb to stimulate the glans while you pump. Should you want to see me really come apart, that is.” 

“What if my arm starts to get tired?” You tease, sending him a quick smile. 

“Well, in that case you could always use your mouth instead.” He volleys right back, startling you so much with that crass suggestion the tempo of your hand falters. 

“Wha — you! You’re having a laugh at me, aren’t you, Master Zandik?” 

“Oh, no. Rest assured that I am, in fact, quite serious about it.” He tells you solemnly. “But we can save that lesson for another day. You don’t need to know everything all at once. Or even half of it, for that matter. Focus on the task I’ve already given you instead.”

You allow yourself another eager squirm, wriggling your hips to press down a little harder on the fingers between your legs. “If I do that … if I use my thumb, will you touch me directly too?”

He sends you a slow look at that. “I’m touching you already, aren’t I?” 

“Mmm. But … skin to skin? Please, Master? J - just like before?” 

He pulls in a short breath, as though hearing you voice it had caught him off guard, but you get no other outward response for your troubles. For what seems to you a small eternity, you and him simply look at one another while your hands stay individually busy in each other's lap. Your arm was indeed starting to get tired, though, and you were antsy to reach that thrilling peak again, so you do the only thing you can think that might persuade him. 

Curling your thumb up from the shaft, you carefully bring it down just on the edge of the glans’ flared head. This allows you to, on the next upward pull of your fist, glide the pad of that finger over the ruddy flesh to eventually drag across the delicate slit in the center. You’re greeted by a sticky discharge that smears and clings to your skin, and you watch as a sensitive little shudder works through Zandik’s body at the contact. He almost seems to wince at the potency of the sensation, or perhaps it’s because of the way you’re looking up at him that inspires the response. Hopeful. Needy. Guileless. 

Regardless of the reason, he gives a pained grunt of acknowledgement for your efforts, allowing his eyes to close in savory bliss even as his faltering digits start to fumble for the edge of your panties. 

“Damned minx. You’re going to learn quite quickly how to manipulate sex in your favor to get your way with me, aren’t you?” 

“I’m only learning from the best.” You murmur, an excited tremor in your voice now. But it’s distant. Dreamy. Distracted. 

And it’s hardly any wonder why, when Zandik is somewhat ruthlessly yanking the cotton of your panties aside to once again expose your weeping slit to the world. You let out a harried sound at the feeling of your cunt so puffy, so swollen, so very inundated with slick that you can feel it gathering along that meaty crease to slowly ooze out into the waiting gusset. In truth, you almost couldn’t believe that had really worked and he’d given in to your precocious little pleas, just like that. Zandik was usually much more stalwart in his objectivity. 

You could only surmise, then, that he must be particularly weak to this sort of stimulation, just as he’d said. And you’re sure having his masculinity appealed to had certainly helped matters as well.

Delighting at the first rough swipe of his fingers along the pudge of your labia, testing the height of your arousal through touch, you respond with an unfiltered groan of pleasure. It almost seems to make your eyes rattle around inside their sockets from how hard you shake at the touch of his cool hand on your molten sex. 

In return he groans a low noise of wanting as he feels over you, smearing the byproduct of your youth as he goes, before finally directing those astute fingertips up to the apex of your cunt. There he finds your clit, just as swollen as the rest of you, and he sets in to rub over it, much like before. 

That immediate rush of pinprick pleasure has you trembling fitfully and the hand wrapped around his cock briefly stalls out mid stoke while you shudder through it. Your head lolls back, boneless, as if in doped out bliss even as you struggle to make your limbs cooperate. You didn’t want him to stop but it’s such an overwhelming rush. So potent that it steals your ability to think about much of anything other than how his sharp, bony fingers feel petting over your pussy. 

It really was pure madness. 

“M - Master Zandik … it feels — good.”

“I can tell.” He grumbles back, sounding like he meant it to come off rueful, chiding even. But somehow that gravelly intonation sounds almost … doting, in your ringing ears. Tinged with some amount of fondness for you. “Such a sensitive little thing. So easily overwhelmed at the slightest touch. Do you really like having my hand on your cunt that much?” 

“Y- … yes. Sir.”

“Mmm. Then come here, girl. Let me show you something even better.” 

That’s the only warning you get before his fingers drift away from your thrumming pussy, starting to withdraw from under your skirt. You issue a fussy whine at the loss and squeeze your eyes shut, gripping his cock so hard the knuckles start to ache. Desperate and not knowing what else to do to bring the pleasure of his hand back, you force your arm to start moving again. To fist and to jerk at him with renewed urgency. 

You’re so caught up in this that it very nearly startles you when you feel his arm snake around your back where it comes up on the other side to reach around for your chest. His hand abruptly latches onto a tit to give you a great start. But you don’t even get the chance to act shy or embarrassed about it (which you most certainly are!) before he’s pulling you in tight, crushing you against him. 

Giving your captured breast an almost aggressive squeeze, Zandik reaches across himself to bring his other hand down where it slips between your legs and he impatiently shoves the material of your housekeeping uniform out of the way. Suddenly finding yourself trapped in the clutch of his thin arms, unable to do anything other than squirm in place, you come very close to panicking. It is not at all unlike how the Doctor had accosted you in the library.  

But that spark of uncertainty quickly fizzles out and dies when he finds the top of your panties where he slips inside, stretching the material to make room for his hand. All at once he’s palming at you, gently pinching your labia, smoothing over the slit to feel just how soaked you really are and not-so subtly grinding the heel of his palm into the throbbing little pearl at the top. 

Giving a full bodied, utterly helpless twitch at that intoxicating surge of sensation, you full on writhe against him, clutching his stiff length in a frozen death grip. Holding onto that part of him seems like the only thing that keeps you truly grounded to reality in that moment as you mindlessly twist, bucking into his hand without an ounce of shame to show for it. 

“There. That’s it. Be a good girl for me, now. Let me take care of this needy cunt for you.” He rumbles, practically growling the words out over your shuddering head. 

You can’t quite hold it back any longer and you keen a harried little sound as you tip your face up towards the ceiling, leaning back against the arm behind you. In doing so you catch a glimpse of Zandik where he looms over your slouched position, his expression pinched and darkened with desire. Just watching you, observing and filing it all away for later, while the simmering heat in his cold eyes seems to burn right through to your very soul. 

And then, to your reeling surprise, he leans down to close that gap, sealing his mouth over yours in a hard, demanding kiss. 

But you don’t fight it, not truly. You can’t. Not when you felt so plump, so fertile pressed up tight against an old man who has come alive for you despite the aches and pains in his aged body. His presence there next to you is full of sharp points and contours, his bones a nearly uncomfortable reminder of who you were giving yourself over to where they dig into your skin. It’s unavoidable and it’s mildly alarming somewhere deep in the darkest recesses of your swimming brain, but it’s also exciting. Thrilling, in its own strange way. 

Moaning into his coarse lips, you let him kiss you while one hand expertly plucks at your clit and the other kneads your breast to heightened sensitivity. You’re distantly aware of the nipple underneath his palm responding even through the layers of your clothes, coiling and tightening, and swelling up to meet the touch. 

You’re not sure when, exactly, it happened, but at some point you seem to have curled your legs up to better brace on the edge of the bed. Now you have more leverage with which to angle your pelvis at him in open surrender, inviting him to help himself to your leaking cunt. And he does, without hesitation. Without needing to be asked twice. 

The narrow jut of one finger slips and slides away from your aching clit, spearing through the meat of your inner lips to locate your entrance. He hovers there for just a split second, only enough time for you to realize what he was about to do, and then he slowly starts to push in. Your pussy gives, readily and eagerly, allowing him to slip inside one tortuous fraction at a time. 

Even this, too, is different from how the Doctor had handled you so indelicately, so selfishly. Zandik’s probing digit is demanding in its own right, not entirely dissimilar, and yet he does not force you to take it. He encourages it, coaxes it out of you, and you have no choice but to give in under that careful pressure. 

It feels wonderful. So much better than the last time your pussy had been invaded by seeking hands, and your eyes start to roll back as he sinks fully inside you down to the knuckle. 

Your cunt positively thrums around the intrusion, squeezing, slicking, throbbing as if with a heartbeat of its own. Zandik only lingers there for a moment though before slowly withdrawing, making sure you feel the drag against your guts and the way your tight inner walls try desperately to cling to him. But he soon slips free of that wet grip to slide back up where he proceeds to circle your clit again, nudging that fattened little button back and forth. Back and forth. Up and down. 

“Mmnghnn nnghhn!” You groan into his mouth, with a great deal of feeling. 

Zandik’s tongue comes up to greet yours then, wetly sliding past parted lips to tangle and vaguely suck. At the same time the fingers on your chest have located the sharp point of the nipple sticking up through your top and he pinches it, tweaking the pebbled peak through two layers of clothing. The sharp burst of friction induced delight that it sparks has you gushing obscenely while you judder ever closer towards the drop off into oblivion. 

You’re completely at his mercy like this, in fact, and you can do nothing to stop it when he once again abandons your clit to find your entrance. Same as before, he slowly works one long digit inside of you until it’s wedged deep within, gripped around your clenching guts. Then he pulls back out, every bit as sedately, hovers just outside of you for the span of a single heartbeat and steadily pushes right back in. It has your cunt spasming and pulsing hotly, begging to be stretched more, filled more. Anything to soothe this terrible ache. 

And your entire body lurches, cramping in on itself, when he soon slides out again to return to your clit, so engorged you can feel the way it fleshily grinds under his attention. Giving you one last, lingering kiss then, Zandik pulls back to look at you through the heavy droop of his eyelashes, his pale cheeks flushed with some amount of color now. 

“Just look at you, girl. Look at what you’re letting a filthy old man do to you.” He hisses, teeth gnashing slightly even while he looks you over. Drinking in your hazy, stupefied expression, the shameless spread of your legs. Just for him. All for him. 

Issuing another low, grating sound, almost reminiscent of a snarl, he goes on. “And to think you came here so innocent and unassuming, but you hardly even look like the same respectable young lady I was first introduced to. Do you like how my fingers feel in your cunt? Do you?” 

You nod, too doped out to do much of anything else. “Yes … ooohhn, yes, sir. I - I do.” 

“Mmnnggh. Then show me your appreciation. Show me how much you love having me toy with this needy pussy.” 

Suddenly remembering you still had his cock gripped in your fist, you groan a thready mewl and turn your face away, eyes slipping shut. It takes a great deal of concentration and willpower on your part, but you at last manage to get your arm moving again. Weakly, at first. Executing a few awkward pumps to tug at him while he continues to caress his trembling, wizened fingertips over your clit. The hand on your chest still flicking, squeezing, pulling on your nipple. 

But even that much seems to please him a great deal, clutching you even more fervently against the side of him so he can tuck your head under his chin. A deep felt shudder abruptly tears through him to make his fingers jerk and then tighten on your body. The blinding pressure inside you just keeps swelling, soaring, steadily reaching its boiling point the more he crushes you to his side, feeling the stark difference in his rigid frame. You felt so very soft compared to him, full and voluptuous. Fertile.

Panting so hard you can’t seem to catch your breath now, you blearily crack your eyes open and peer down at his lap, taking in the sight of your hand wrapped around him. The length, the girth. The heat that radiates off of him. The pulse of a vein under your palm, the way the aged foreskin smoothly nudges back and forth with each pull of your wrist. The thin, wrinkled skin of his scrotum where it loosely quivers in time with the pumping motion. 

You just stare at it, completely transfixed. Unable to breathe, unable to think. 

And that is the exact moment Zandik curls his finger down to find your sopping wet entrance again and push in, invading you once more on a slippery smooth glide. Your pussy clenches immediately, violently, to sucker punch what little air still remained in your lungs right out of you. That deep, deep squeeze of your guts sends you careening right over the edge before you even realize it’s happening. You’re just suddenly cumming, riding an almost frantic spasm that shakes you straight down to your core. 

In response Zandik noises a heavy, guttural sound into your hair, holding himself rigidly beside you now while you wail your pleasure into the otherwise silent room. Tense and halting, shuddering faintly. Then more vigorously. 

Then you feel it. The slow pulse under the skin of his shaft, the bone deep contraction. You’re much too busy quaking through your own release to watch or observe, although you think you would really rather like to, some day, but you’re sure he’s found his release too. Whether that was because he’d simply reached his limit, one that even his old cock couldn’t deny, or if it was because of the way your pussy works wildly around his finger, you couldn’t be certain. 

All you really know is that you’re stricken by the most intense, suffocating, mind numbing rush of relief you’ve ever experienced. It feels so good it makes your back molars ache something fierce, and you can only helplessly shudder through it until you finally start to come down from that rosy, red hot high some moments later. 

You’re utterly spent. You realize that as soon as you begin to slip back into your body again, still thrumming warmly with lingering pleasure but so very, very satiated. It was somehow even better than the orgasm you’d been wracked with in the library. You wouldn’t have thought it even possible if you had not just experienced it for yourself. 

Slowly rousing from your slumped sprawl, you turn your head to find that you are still holding onto Zandik’s cock, even though it has started to swiftly deflate. Withering until it turns soft and spongy again, leaving you grasping nothing more than a perfectly malleable piece of flesh in your palm. Evidently just one round was more than enough to tend to his needs. Of course you were glad for that, admittedly. But you also can’t help feeling a bit proud of yourself at the same time. Accomplished in your ability to see his needs sufficiently met even in spite of your glaring lack of experience. 

Perhaps he had been right, then, that it was possible for the two of you to find a satisfactory middle ground after all. The deep, lingering throb in your cunt would seem to suggest that you wouldn’t have need to complain about it, at least.  

The evidence of his release now coats your fingers where it must have dripped and oozed from the glans, and you carefully reach down with the opposite hand to slip into a rumpled pocket on your apron. It takes you a moment to locate it when your clothes are all bunched and torn askew but, finally pulling out a white handkerchief, you reach out to mop up the mess — only to have him suddenly snatch the square of cloth away. 

“I’ll do it.” He says, still trying to even out his breathing. And although his tone is a bit sharp, you can’t quite overlook how relaxed he seems in the afterglow. Like you’d given him some small amount of respite from whatever nipped at his heels, be they physical or mental anguishes. 

Giving the hankie a smart snap, Zandik carefully wipes away the sticky discharge from your hand even when his fingers falter unevenly. He’s entirely one track minded though, and once he has the majority of the mess cleaned away he lifts your wrist and uses an unsoiled corner of the cloth to dry each individual digit, one at a time. 

Somehow you just can’t help but laugh at the image he presents in front of you. 

“What?” He demands, sending you a sharp look of warning where you remain tucked in the crook of his body. 

“Sorry, Master Zandik. It’s nothing, really. Just … you almost look like a kind grandfather cleaning a child’s hand of a sticky treat right now. It’s sweet.” 

“Bah! Such foolishness. I’m nothing of the sort, girl, and neither are you a child. That much, at least, has been made abundantly clear.” Trailing off into almost thoughtful silence for a moment, he finishes wiping the proof of his indiscretions from your skin before gently setting your hand aside in your lap. 

He seems to not know what to say now that the heat of the moment has passed and the carnal rush was beginning to settle into a comfortable lull. You, too, are soon struck by the stark reality of what you’d just done with him, what you’d allowed the old man to do to you, and you hurry upright to begin awkwardly straightening out your clothes. Even pleased as you are with the outcome of your explosive release, you still can’t stop yourself from feeling a bit embarrassed about all of it. 

At length, though, Zandik turns to regard you there beside him. A bit roughly, he clears his throat. “You did well, girl. Especially for your first time handling a cock. It will get easier with experience. More intuitive.” 

Your cheeks positively flame with the implication that this was to be a regular occurrence from now on, but you can’t quite decide if the sharp tug on your gut is thrill or dread at the prospect. 

“I understand, Master Zandik. Thank you for … showing such kind consideration to my lack of expertise in this area. Your instruction was — helpful.” Unable to look at him now, you quickly stand and run your hands over your uniform in a blithe attempt to make yourself presentable. “Shall I help you get ready for bed now, Master? Would you like me to prepare your tea?” 

It was usually customary for him to have one cup of relaxing chamomile as part of his nightly routine — the only time he would ever drink the stuff, when he much preferred coffee — but to your mild surprise he signals you not to bother. 

“I don’t think I need it tonight. You’ve left me utterly drained, girl, so I very much doubt I’ll have any trouble sleeping. I’m afraid I simply can’t keep up with you as I would have been able to in my younger years.” 

You let slip a tiny little sound of fluster, earning yourself a not unkind bark of amussement, but you quickly turn away to retrieve his pajamas so you can hide your pinched expression from him. Oh, this really was just plain wrong. What business did you possibly have getting involved with an eighty year old man? Your mother would have been even more aghast at your behavior than you were with yourself if she were to ever learn of what has taken place in this old mansion. 

It is much too late for your common sense and better judgment to save you now, however, and you make short work of helping him into his night clothes and then getting him tucked into bed. But Zandik seems to have told you the truth about the state you’d left him in, and it looks like he’s drifting off with his head on the pillow before you even finish arranging the blankets over him. 

You'd never seen him so at ease in all the short time you’ve been here and strangely enough that also seems to please you a great deal. Even putting aside the physical gratification of this tentative arrangement, perhaps your tending to him in this manner will also make it a bit easier to deal with some of his more difficult moods. 

You just start to pull away, satisfied that he will be nice and snug for the duration of the long Snezhnayan night, when he reaches up with one hand to circle your wrist. The gesture is as gentle as his stiff bones can seem to manage, and you peer down at him in question. 

“Forgive me for my impropriety today, will you?” He says, startling you more than if he’d snapped at you to stop all your fussing over the arrangement of the bedclothes already. “If you do not wish to carry on with me in this manner any further, I couldn’t exactly fault you for that. It’s probably not ideal to offer up your innocence to an old man with one foot in the grave, is it?” 

Swallowing an uncertain gulp, you offer him a slow shake of your head. “Although that is true, that doesn’t necessarily mean I dislike it. I know I should and I also know how inappropriate this is, but I really have learned a lot from you, Master Zandik. You’re a good teacher. Honestly, I would much rather it be you than … the one in the mask.” 

His pale eyes sharpen slightly, hardening out of the comfortable lull they’d slipped into. “Does he frighten you, girl?” 

You almost hesitate to say, and yet …

“Yes. He does. More than I would like. I knew his behavior at the bank was disconcerting but I wasn’t expecting — this.” 

What happened in the library today still has you feeling on edge about everything, and doubly so when you recall the mysterious young man you’d glimpsed through the window. It had looked to you like he’d been leaving the house but that didn’t make any sense. The only time you saw another person was when the squadron of masked Fatuus dropped off their crates of weekly supplies in the back of the kitchen, but they never came in any further than that or lingered about. They barely even spoke more than a single word to you. 

So where had he come from? And who was he? 

Anxiously licking your lips, you lean a little closer to Zandik as if imploring him to be truthful with you. “Master, do you … have any children?” 

He pins you with a sour glare. “That bastard is not my son, if that’s what you’re getting at.” 

Just as the Doctor had said in the bank then. “But did you ever have any? At all?” 

“No.” He heaves out, shutting his eyes now as if to indicate that this topic was being put to rest for good. “Stupid girl. Do I look like someone who had the time or the desire to run around spreading my seed all across Teyvat in my youth? For most of my life I barely even had the capacity to foster friendly relations, let alone romantic ones. Why do you think I’m — no, that doesn’t matter. The point is simply that I am a decrepit old man living out the end of my time in an isolated mansion in the countryside. If I’d had any children, do you truly believe I’d have needed you to take care of me?” 

You recoil, appropriately cowed by that. “I’m so sorry, Master Zandik. I did not mean it like that. Please don’t be upset with me.” 

Exhaling slowly through his nose, he slides his eyes open to look up at you once again. “I’m not. But hear me well, girl. You ask far too many questions. Do not let your curiosity get you into even greater trouble than you’re already in. Sometimes it is better to … simply accept what your eyes see without giving it any greater thought than that. Some secrets are better left uncovered. Do you understand me?” 

“Yes, sir.” You murmur in a quaking little voice. 

Nodding once, Zandik finally releases his hold on your wrist and settles deeper into the bed, getting comfortable. “Good. Then that will be the end of this foolish discussion. I’ll see you in the morning, and don’t be late. Everything must be ready and in order for Feofan’s arrival.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Hm? Ah. That’s right. I almost forgot. You probably know him better by Pantalone or Regrator, don’t you?” 

“He’s coming … tomorrow?” You’d almost completely forgotten about what the Doctor said about the Lord Harbinger’s impending visit. 

“Yes, and I expect you to be on your best behavior for him. He’s an old friend of mine. Now let me get some sleep before then, you silly little girl. That’s all for tonight.” 

Feeling more than just a bit discomfited now, you tell him a quiet goodnight and retreat from the bedroom, turning off the gas lamps on your way out. 

The room you’d been given is directly next to his, much smaller and simpler servants quarters, and it remains a largely barren space even after having occupied it for over a month now. But you hadn’t had much in the way of personal belongings to bring with you, just a few basic necessities and your small trunk of clothes, which the Doctor had turned his nose up at before instructing you to utilize what you would find in the simple dresser instead. You’d been mildly surprised to find the housekeeping uniform at first, almost balking at the idea of wearing something so flouncy to do your work in.

Although you’d gotten used to the restrictive garment quickly enough, you’re now immensely glad to strip it off and you breathe a sigh of relief. You go through your usual bedtime routine with a detached efficiency that soon has you clean and swimming in a white diaphanous nightgown — also compliments of the Doctor, who you were starting to suspect had a flair for the dramatics. 

After brushing your hair and fitting the matching frill edged sleep cap over your head, you move to climb under the blankets. 

But then you hear it. 

That awful, grating, metal on metal sound. 

It instantly lodges your heart in your throat, and you stand there nervously wringing your hands while you listen to it shrill somewhere off in the distance. As always it seemed to you like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once, not even giving you a feasible option to flee from its vicinity. 

And suddenly your thoughts return to the mysterious stranger you’d glimpsed through the window. Was it perhaps his doing? Had he been coming and going in this house with you and the old man none the wiser this entire time, and you simply hadn’t realized it until now? Was that truly even possible?

Throwing your caution and better sense aside, you quickly take up the little hand lamp from your bedside table and get it lit. The flickering flame casts a sufficient enough glow when you step back out into the hallway that you don’t need to blindly grope around and feel your way down to Zandik’s door. Cracking it open just a sliver, you put your ear close to listen. 

The unmistakable sound of an old man softly snoring immediately greets you, ensuring that he was both fast asleep and just as comfortably satiated as he’d seemed when you left him. Fooling around with you must have taken a lot out of him. 

You almost feel a little self conscious about that, wondering if perhaps it was not normal for someone of your age and health to be this insatiable to need two orgasms in a single day, but you quickly push that aside in your mind. This was not the time to be questioning yourself like that. Not when you needed to finally do something you should have done a long time ago, even if it did mean going directly against Zandik’s orders not to go wandering about. 

Gently shutting the door to his room, you hold the small lamp out in front of you and start to make your way down the corridor. 

The house is just as still and silent as it always is, other than that terrible grating sound wherever it might be coming from. But something about the oppressive darkness soon has you sweating bullets. In truth you actually didn’t think it was very likely that someone else was living here with the two of you, because surely you would have seen the evidence of that by now. Either trash refuse or missing food, or mysterious footprints that were not accounted for. Even something as simple as an item that had been moved out of place that neither you or Zandik had touched. You’d noticed nothing of the sort though. Not even once had you caught so much as an errant sneeze that had not come from you or the old man. 

But once the thought formed inside your head it’s like you couldn’t get rid of it, and you cautiously round each corner half expecting to find someone looming up out of the shadows at you. 

There is nothing at all amiss or out of place on the second floor though, and you seem to be no further or closer to the source of that disconcerting noise. 

Realizing you have no other choice, you bravely gather your resolve and start to make your way down the staircase to the front landing. The wood creaks rather ominously in a few spots but you quietly reassure yourself that it always does that and, no, someone isn’t sneaking up behind you with a deadly garrote in hand. 

On the ground floor now, you check the ornate double doors to find them locked. Somewhat surreptitiously, you check the nearest windows as well but they, too, are sealed shut.

You continue to creep along, moving from one room to the next, making sure that everything is closed up the way it should be. And still you find nothing that would seem to suggest the two of you were anything but alone no matter where you look. The parlor, the drawing room, the dining room, the kitchen, the lab, the den that as far as you could tell had only ever been used to collect dust. Even the tall windowed sitting patio. Everything was empty and quiet, just as you’d left it. 

Feeling truly chagrined by it all, you finally accept that there is only one last place you could possibly check. 

The cellar. 

Your flowing nightgown brushes your bare legs as you tip toe towards the back of the house where the door to the basement level resided. Despite your conviction, you can’t help but feel well and truly nervous now, especially when the house softly sighs around you, settling into the night. You’d never been down into this area before and as such had no idea what to expect or what you might find. The only thing you knew was that this was one of the areas Zandik had expressly prohibited you from venturing into, citing that it was just full of old abandoned equipment and rats. 

Which was a little funny, now that you really stopped to think about it. You’d never once seen a rat in this place. 

Finally, you locate the door where it sits tucked back in an unassuming corner of the floorplan. It would have been laughably easy to disregard it as a mere storage closet and nothing more, so little does it stick out or draw any attention to itself. 

Gulping down your nerves, you reach out with trembling fingers to grasp the doorknob. You almost don’t do it, frightened of what you might find on the other side, but … was it your imagination or did it seem like you were marginally closer to that scraping metal sound now? Could it really be coming from down there? 

Frantically cobbling together a brave face, you turn the handle. Push it open to a low creak. You step inside, then, holding the small lamp up high to illuminate as much as the room as possible. 

And you find absolutely nothing. 

Just a tiny room, even smaller than yours, crammed with dusty shelves full of even more old books that looked like they’d been bound centuries ago. At just a glance they seemed to be noticeably different from the ones in the library, although you can’t seem to put your finger on why. You start to take a step towards one of the bookcases to investigate further but you don’t make it that far. 

Abruptly, the noise stops. 

And your head snaps down to stare at the floor in cold prickling horror as you listen to the dying shreeee slowly fade away to nothing. Right under your feet. 

For a long stretch of seconds you just stand there, dumbly staring at your slippers while you try to make any sense out of this discovery. 

Then, realizing that there should be another staircase leading down, you slowly bring your attention back up. In the flicker from the lamp you notice that there is another door along the right wall, tucked so securely between the shelves that you hadn’t spotted it at first. So this must just be a landing for the stairwell. 

Determined to get to the bottom of this, you turn towards the door. 

In the shuddering cast of the fire something leaps out at you from the darkness where it was evidently stood right inside the entranceway you’d just come in from. 

Sharp angles thrown in stark relief, harsh shadows cutting a jagged series of lines. A pair of red eyes housed inside a mask. 

You drop the lamp in your great, wheezing startlement and run. 

You’re back through the door before the sound of the glass shattering even has enough time to obliterate the heavy hanging silence, but you don’t stop long enough to give a second thought to the fire you may have just inadvertently started. Terror grips you in such a tight, smothering chokehold, in fact, that you can’t even find the presence of mind to scream. You just dart, blind and panicky, through the twisting hallways, the rooms, up the stairs and straight into your own bedchamber where you nearly trip over your feet in your great haste to get the door closed. 

Standing with your back pressed against it while you struggle and fail to catch your breath, you disbelievingly play that scene over and over again in your mind. 

That had been another person. 

You were very certain of that, even though you hadn’t gotten a good look at them at all. The eyes were unmistakably human even if they’d been a strange, unnatural shade of red. They’d looked almost like blood in the light of your lamp. Like some sort of demon. A monster. 

And that’s when you notice you’d lost a slipper.

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taking a polite, well mannered sip from the delicate china in his hand, Pantalone hums a soft sound of approval for your benefit and then gently sets the cup back on its saucer with a faint clink. 

“You know, my dear, I must admit that you continue to surprise me. This is a most agreeable cup of coffee if I do say so myself.” 

Beside you, Zandik grunts a brief sound of agreement. Almost as if to say ‘of course, I wouldn’t have kept her if that were not the case.’

You can’t seem to find the grace to be truly flattered by any of it though, merely offering the banker a weak little smile. “Thank you, my lord. I’m glad you like it.” 

The three of you have settled in the drawing room together, where the late morning light could stream in through the big bay windows to cast the interior in a faint, warm glow. To your mild pang of surprise the Lord Harbinger had arrived right on time, exactly when Zandik said he would. You could only surmise, then, that as a banker punctuality was an important virtue in his world, which you’d quietly filed away for later reference. Even you were not nearly so naive as to trust his congenial manners at face value and you were therefore of the opinion that it would be in your best interests not to displease him. 

Idly tapping a finger against one of the rings on his other hand now, Pantalone curiously tips his head to one side with no shortage of interest. The ever present curl of his mouth remains in place even when he slowly flicks his attention from you to Zandik and then back again. You could only imagine, then, that if he saw anything he found at all worrisome it was not enough to make him drop that always pleasant facade. If he was even capable of dropping it in the first place, that is. 

“Things are going well then, I take it?” He says at length, seemingly directing that question at Zandik. “You look to be in good health and in even better spirits. Don’t tell me all you needed to start feeling a bit more like yourself was the gentle hand of our dear little ragamuffin here? Be careful what you say. I might start to get my feelings hurt.” 

The old man snorts an unamused scoff at that, taking another gulp of his coffee. If either of the two men see the curious side eye you send them, they certainly don’t acknowledge it. You recalled Zandik saying they were friends but you hadn’t expected to see such an affable rapport between them. 

In truth you’d started to suspect he wasn’t even capable of making or maintaining such a relationship with anyone. Even his softest moments with you thus far had been framed by impatient demand and an exceedingly short, grumpy temper. 

“Don’t even try to play that jilted card with me. It doesn’t suit you, for starters, and you’re not very good at it for another.” Zandik grumbles. Then, much more softly, he adds, “You’re too old for that anyway, Feofan.” 

“Well, you’ve certainly got me there. I suppose both of us are more than a bit past the age where jealousy can be considered cute, aren’t we?” 

Although Pantalone doesn’t say it, you can practically hear the unvoiced ‘but is she?’ as it hangs heavy in the air like an invisible, lung-clogging waft of smoke. Quite without meaning to, you find yourself full on staring at the both of them in abject confusion. Just what in the world was going on here? 

You’d thought Pantalone was only coming to pay a house call and to check that the terms of the agreed upon arrangement were being upheld, to ensure that your charge was still alive and kicking. Not — whatever this is. 

“And you, my dear?” He goes on, turning his sights on you now. “How have you been holding up? The work isn’t too difficult for you, is it? I know my demanding friend might pose some unique challenges, but …” 

Standing up a bit straighter where you’re stood at Zandik’s elbow, you give your head a slow shake. “No, my lord. Everything has been just fine so far.”

“Really?” Pantalone prods you with an accompanying quirk of one finely arched brow. “I only ask because you seem a bit tired today. This old fool isn’t running you ragged all hours of the night is he?” 

You can tell he’s only teasing Zandik by proxy of teasing you and he doesn’t actually care, but you still can’t seem to control the fluster that creeps into your face. “O - oh. That. I just had trouble sleeping last night. That’s all it is, my lord. Really.” 

Never mind the fact you hadn’t slept at all. And really, how could you when thoughts of that masked face looming up out of the shadows had haunted your troubled mind well into the morning light almost as much as the threat of a fire consuming the house had? But in the end nothing at all had come of either. The manor was still standing and decidedly in one piece, and there had been no fiends knocking at your door. 

If you didn’t know any better you might have believed you’d dreamt the whole thing. 

But your missing slipper provided all the convincing you needed, and you were now more determined than ever to figure out what exactly was going on here. Or would be, once you got your bearings straightened out. 

Because it was one thing for Zandik to claim he didn’t hear that strange noise but another entirely for him to not know that there was someone potentially living down in the basement. You couldn’t confront him about it just yet though, not until you had more evidence. Something he wouldn’t be able to disregard and wave away with an impatient flick of his wrinkled hand. He could insist that awful scraping of metal on metal was your imagination all he wanted but physical proof couldn’t be attributed to an overactive, flighty mind. 

You need to worry about that later and focus instead on the here and now though, and you somewhat nervously clutch your apron in your hands when Pantalone sends a slow look between the two of you again. Was he suspicious that something was going on with you and the old man? You couldn’t even begin to guess what might have tipped him off though. He’d only just arrived a short while ago, so what would have possibly caught his attention in such a short period? 

“Why don’t you tell me a little about your time here so far.” He says at length, steepling his fingers almost thoughtfully. 

Your palms rapidly start to grow clammy as you shoot a veiled glance at Zandik, hoping he will save you from this situation. 

Unfortunately he only gives his head a curt shake. “Go on, girl. Answer the question. But be warned; if you lie to him I’ll take you straight over my knee right here and now, so make sure you choose your words wisely.”

All of your fatigue is suddenly gone in the blink of an eye and you outright gape at him as your cheeks positively flood with molten heat. “M - M - Master Zandik!?”

Pantalone, to his credit, merely laughs a good natured chuckle. “My, isn’t that just precious? It’s good to see the two of you getting on so well. I admit, I was a bit worried when Dottore first got the idea but I suppose I have to give him credit where it is due. It seems one’s tastes never change all that much no matter how old they get.” 

You’re too overwhelmed to process what’s even happening, let alone to puzzle out how strange that remark actually is, and you just stand there, head bowed, while you twist your apron into a wrinkled mess. To have both of them fix their attentions on you at the same time was already awkward enough as it was, especially when Pantalone’s always seemed mildly condescending. But for Zandik to say something like that in front of him? Oh, you were sure you could just wither away and die. 

Unfortunately the old man forces your hand when he reaches out to slip his fingers just under the hem of the skirt, giving the back of your thigh a sharp little pinch. “Speak up, girl! I can’t get you to shut up any other time and now here you are pretending to be mute.”

Squeaking at that punishing bite to your skin, you stumble forward half a step to stand even with the armrest of his chair. It suddenly feels like there’s a blazing spotlight trained on you. 

But you bravely forge ahead, understanding full and well that you didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. You tell him all about the variety of foods you’ve prepared for Zandik, the time you regularly spend together in the lab and the library respectively, the afternoon tea you sit and sip with him while he drinks from a freshly brewed pot of coffee. For the most part it’s just daily mundanities that you wouldn’t have thought he’d have much interest in but, to your growing surprise, he seems to be giving you his full attention. So you go on, telling him of the largely comfortable routine you’ve fallen into here. How you wake Zandik at the first light of dawn (at his request, not your initiative) and how you help him around the house throughout the day until it is time to make the slow climb back upstairs to get ready for bed. 

By the end of it you tell Pantalone almost everything just short of giving him an itemized, step by step list of your daily hygiene rituals — and of course, the exact nature of your relationship with Zandik. Somehow you got the sense that those were not the kind of details he was looking for, surely. And moreover you feared him sending you away should he learn of the inappropriate way you’ve conducted yourself here. Even if there was something fishy going on you still had your mother to think about. 

“I see.” He finally says, once you’ve finished recounting anything you could possibly think of to sate his curiosity. “It sounds to me like you’ve not only met our expectations but even far surpassed them. I must say, dear, that I find myself rather impressed with your commitment to this assignment. I thought … well, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but that day in my office I had some doubts about your ability to adapt. My fear was that you would only last a week or two, perhaps three, and then send word that you could no longer handle the demands of the job. At the time you did not seem the most reliable candidate in my estimation, and for that you have my sincerest apologies.” 

“O - oh. Please don’t apologize, Lord Regrator. I can hardly blame you for thinking that of me.” 

“Even so, you do have my thanks for devoting so much of your time and energy to Zandik’s care. I admittedly feel much better now that I know he’s in such capable hands.” Pausing then, Pantalone seems to consideringly regard you through the delicate lenses of his glasses for a long, drawn out moment. Almost as if he was taking stock of you, weighing the investment and the potential for loss in his mind. 

You quickly find yourself tensing up, bracing for the worst. Was this the moment he would question how close, exactly, you’d come to be with Zandik over the last month? Would he scream at you and send you from the manor house in shame? You were already frantically piecing together a shoddy excuse to justify your behavior, and a tearful, heartfelt plea for another chance in case the first didn’t work.

But, to your reeling surprise, the next words out of his mouth are the very last thing you could have ever expected or even guessed them to be. 

“This might seem an odd question to ask, and I do hope you’ll excuse me for it, but … have you had any more dealings with Dottore since you arrived here?”

Your stomach feels like it crashes into the ground at your feet. The Doctor? Why would he inquire about him? 

“I … yes, my lord. On occasion. He sometimes stops in to check on things here. Or at least I think that’s what he’s doing. And quite unannounced, I might add.”

“Mm. That does sound like him.” Chuckling softly, Pantalone shifts in his chair to pull out a small, lovingly engraved silver tin from a pocket in his expensively sleek trousers. You aren’t sure what to make of it at first, but then you watch him draw from inside a perfectly crisp, clean white cigarette. 

Brows taking a very expeditious trip up to your hairline, you turn your head to regard Zandik but he isn’t paying much attention to you at the moment. Evidently far more interested in his cup of coffee than in what was being discussed. You’re sure he must be listening in quite attentively though. 

Bringing your face back around, your mouth pops open just as Pantalone fishes out an ornate, matching silver lighter from somewhere on his person, already poised to slip the stick between his waiting lips. 

“I’m so sorry, my lord.” You rush to say before he can light it. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but do you suppose it’s a good idea to smoke in here?” 

The bespectacled man sends you a plainly amused look while Zandik scoffs a quiet sound just at your back, confirming your suspicions. 

“Leave him be.” He grumbles. “If I haven’t been able to get him to stop smoking in all this time then you certainly won’t fare any better. I’m not that fragile, regardless. I think I’ll live to see another day, at any rate.” 

“And thank you for permitting me my bad habits.” Pantalone says with a vaguely sly inflection coloring his voice. As if the two of them were sharing an inside secret between them. 

Your face grows unbearably warm when he follows through on the gesture, taking the cigarette between the practiced press of his lips and lighting the end of it. A brief inhale gets the cherry burning, and a spectral curl of wispy smoke starts to billow from the tip before he takes a much deeper pull on the end. You observe the way his shoulders shift with the inhale, chest expanding and then slowly deflating when he exhales to send a pale plume shuddering up towards the ceiling. 

Breathing a very pleased sigh, Pantalone then leans back in his chair with the cigarette rather elegantly pinched between the joints of his first two fingers, elbow bracing on the arm rest. 

“Now, to return to the matter of Dottore. I must admit to a certain amount of curiosity. What have your dealings with him been like since that day at the bank?” 

“W - well …” 

“Don’t worry about saying the wrong thing. You won’t be in any trouble.” Zandik chimes in then, unexpectedly gentle, to which Pantalone nods his agreement. 

“That’s right, my dear. It’s just the three of us, after all. You may speak freely without any fear of consequence.” 

You do have to wonder if this isn’t some trap, of course, but sadly you just don’t have much in the way of options. It was either tell the truth or risk having your bottom spanked, if Zandik had truly been serious about that. And something told you he rarely if ever made idle threats. 

“Alright. Then in that case, I … I suppose I should start by saying the Doctor frightens me a little bit. It’s hard not to be though, when his behavior is so unpredictable more often than it’s not. The other day he — accosted me in the library. Right in front of Master Zandik.” 

Pantalone slowly blinks his eyes at that, but he also doesn’t seem particularly surprised to hear of it. Almost like he’d half expected such an answer. “Did he hurt you, dear?” 

“N - no. Not really, anyway. I was a bit sore afterward, but I can only guess he was more interested in … toying with me than he was in hurting me. Usually he just appears without any warning at all from some dark shadow or behind a corner. He scares me half to death, laughs about it and then leaves. That was the first time he put his hands on me like that.”

“I see. I am terribly sorry you had to endure such unwarranted treatment. But if I may ask you one more thing?” Pantalone softly hedges, distractedly caressing the butt of the cigarette with a gloved thumb. “In all of your dealings with him thus far, has he ever seemed different to you? Somehow not the same as you’re used to?” 

You frown at that. “I don’t believe so, my lord. Of course I’m not overly familiar with him or his, uh. Unique eccentricities. But so far his demeanor has been consistent from what I can tell.”

The banker only noises a vague, noncommittal sound, but it is Zandik who punctuates the quiet with an ironic bark of laughter. 

“A consistent pain in the ass.” 

Pantalone shoots him a fond little smile at that. “And yet it sounds like he is indeed behaving himself, in as much as he can anyway. I have to say that surprises me as well. I was almost expecting to hear horror stories of his … rapidly changing moods.” 

Slowly, your frown starts to deepen. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was exactly, but it seemed as if there were two separate conversations taking place here. Clearly you’d missed something. 

“That one,” Zandik goes on, oblivious to the whirlwind of confusion kicking up dust inside your head. “Has enough personalities for all of us combined. He’s also the only one who seems to have any real interest in circling me like a hungry vulture, just waiting for me to hurry up and die so he can start picking me apart. The others are, for the most part, content to simply stay away.” 

“Well, he does like to gloat about his victories, as you know.” 

You start to feel increasingly dizzy the more you listen to them talk, struggling to connect the pieces and make any sense of it. But you’re completely out of the loop and out of your element here, and after that terrifying encounter with some unknown person last night you can’t help wondering if the two weren’t somehow related. 

“Master Zandik … I’m sorry, what does that mean? What others?” 

Pantalone slides his attention back to you again. “You really haven’t met them yet?” 

“No? I’m not even sure who - -“

“Let’s change the subject.” The Lord Harbinger abruptly announces, offering you a not unkind smile when you look at him in utter bewilderment. “Oh, but don’t fret over it, dear. I’m sure you will someday, when they decide they’re ready. For now, though, let’s talk more about you. I’ve already heard much about your daily workload and how you occupy your time, but how do you feel now that you’ve been here for a full month? Are you enjoying Zandik’s company?” 

“I …” Hesitating, you send a surreptitious glance at the old man but he, once again, does not seem to want to look at you. How odd. 

How suspicious. 

Bringing your attention back up to the handsome banker sitting on the opposite side of the table, you anxiously swallow your nerves. What were you possibly supposed to say if you’d been prohibited from lying? Surely Zandik didn’t want you announcing to the whole entire world that he’d set his intentions upon a maid servant who was young enough to be his granddaughter any more than you wanted it to get out. And yet, even if it was only a slim chance that he’d been serious about spanking you … no, you simply couldn’t risk it. You’d never recover from the humiliation. It looked like your only option was to tell the truth by choosing your words very carefully. 

“Yes, my lord. I am. Master Zandik has taken rather good care of me so far. He’s been — kind. To me. I - in his own way, of course.” 

You can hear the old man grumbling something inaudible behind you but you just can’t bring yourself to turn and look at him now. 

Pantalone seems to find it funny, however, his smile taking on a faintly sharper edge as he sends the man in question an inscrutable look. “Kind, eh? Somehow that wasn’t quite what I’d expected to hear. It looks to me like our little ragamuffin knows at least something of the art of discernment. Did you teach her that, Zandik?” 

“Enough with the games, Feofan. Just get to your point already.” 

Chuckling, the Lord Harbinger lifts the burning cigarette to his mouth again and takes a quick drag, eyeing you over the rim of his glasses and through the haze of smoke that rises up in front of his face. Then, as he sedately exhales the resulting puff, he leans forward to neatly flick the ash onto the saucer on which his cup was sat. 

Only when he settles fully back into his chair once more does he deign to speak. “I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say I have a point, exactly, but … how far have you gone with him?” 

It takes you a prolonged beat to realize that question had been directed at you and another after that to figure out what he was even asking. The blood in your veins promptly freezes over when the first startings of understanding begin to settle over your tripping, stumbling mind. Surely he didn’t mean … he couldn’t be insinuating … 

“M - my lord?” 

“Oh, there’s no reason to be shy.” Pantalone tells you graciously. “After all, my position isn’t actually that much different from yours, is it? So I do understand it, dear. Believe me. I do. Ah, but if I had to take a guess …” 

He gives you a blatantly appraising once over, from the top of your head down to the toes of your smartly buckled shoes, as if he could see right through all the layers of clothing and look directly upon every single place you’d been touched by arthritic, bony hands. Each individual pinch, caress and squeeze, as if they had been branded into your skin. 

You suddenly felt inexplicably bare naked despite standing fully clothed. 

“Don’t bother.” Zandik cuts in then, his customary impatience once again rearing its ugly head. “It’ll be quicker if I just tell you. This one came to me an untouched virgin, as pure as the driven snow. She has no real concept of what you’re asking. I’ve only used my fingers on her excitable cunt so far, although that’s not for a lack of trying.” 

Pantalone murmurs a quiet little ‘oh’, clearly surprised by that information, but you’re too busy rounding on the old man to pay the other much mind right now. You’re almost too shocked to speak. Why would he say that?! 

“Y - y - you! Master Zandik! What is wrong with you? Have you completely lost your mind? You can’t go around telling people that!” 

He finally glances up at you, entirely unperturbed. “And why the hell not? It’s true, isn’t it?” 

“Ugh — aghh — t - that’s not the point! And you know it! Oh! I - I can’t believe you would do something like that!” 

The tears are coming before you even fully comprehend them, neither the sting in your tired eyes nor the rush of cool tracks escaping over your lashes to drip down furious cheeks. It really was too much. This place, this man, the way you’d been thrown head first into a strange new world you didn’t even begin to understand but needed to somehow successfully navigate if you hoped to keep your head afloat. 

To his credit, though, Zandik has the grace to look at least slightly caught off guard by the sudden waterworks. It clearly makes him uncomfortable more than remorseful, though, and you watch him sink back into his chair with a vaguely uncertain scowl tugging at his wizened mouth. Like he didn’t know how to deal with the end result of his careless words or how to fix it. As if he could have ever expected your reaction to be anything less! 

Never in your life had you ever, ever felt even half as embarrassed or ashamed as you do in that moment. Letting the impulse take you, you blindly pivot on your heel with every intention of fleeing from the room.

But all you succeed in doing is slamming smack dab into the unexpectedly hard planes of Pantalone’s front where he must have come up behind you. Squeaking a tiny little sound of hurt, you stumble back a step but he gently takes your shoulders in his gloved hands to stop your momentum. And when you tip your head back to look at him and his magnanimous smiles, the dam further cracks and crumbles. 

“I - I’m so sorry, Lord Regrator! Please don’t send me away! Please! I’m begging you, I swear I won’t do it ever again! I promise I won’t!” 

His dark brows lifting in an expression of exaggerated, put upon pity, he ever so softly coos at you even as he removes one hand from your person to dig into a back pocket from which he soon produces a darkly colored hankie. “There, there. Come now. There’s no need for all of this, is there? Why, by the Tsaritsa’s crown, do you think you’re in any danger of being dismissed, dear?” 

“B - but — it isn't proper, my lord. I’m not … I can’t - -“

He cuts you off when he carefully presses the handkerchief over your nose and mouth, instructing you to blow. Ever so sadly, you obey. 

“There. That’s a little better, isn’t it? Come. Sit down.” 

It’s only then that you realize why he was suddenly on this side of the table as he drags one of the unoccupied chairs closer — of course he would respond and move much more quickly than Zandik could with his cane and bad joints. But the old man still didn’t seem to know what to do in the face of your tears, watching you cautiously from his seat just as one might watch a mangy, half starved dog on the side of the road. Miserably, you take the offered seat with Regrator’s handkerchief clutched in your trembling hands. 

If they really sent you away …

“Take a deep breath for me now. That’s it. Such a good dear. Just relax.” Pantalone softly croons at you as he lightly pets a gloved hand over your head. He clearly meant it to be comforting but even in your spiraling anguish you don’t miss the lilting note of humor dancing just below the surface. It was funny to him. 

“Rest assured, I do understand why you would react this way,” he goes on. “But there really is nothing at all for you to worry your pretty little head about. That much, at least, I can promise you. Knowing Zandik and Dottore as I do, I can’t say I didn’t expect this outcome on some level. However, what does surprise me is how little progress he’s actually made with you over a full month's time. His charms, when he chooses to employ them, are usually a bit more effective than that.” 

Slowly lifting your head to peer up at the man standing over you, you implore him with a stuttering sniffle. “Wh - … what does that mean, my lord? You … you really aren’t upset with me?”

“I already told you. Didn’t I, girl?” Zandik mutters then. “You don’t have to watch what you say here. Not with this particular company. You’re not in trouble.” 

You have a very hard time believing that. It just didn’t make sense. If you were expected not to hide the truth and the Lord Harbinger was not appalled or even really all that surprised to learn of your indiscretions, then did that in turn mean — he already knew? 

The dawning horror of that realization must flash across your face in broad sweeping brushstrokes, because Pantalone croons a rather doting laugh in response, idly toying with a strand of your hair now. 

“Oh, how sweet. I think she’s starting to understand now. But really, Zandik, I would have thought you’d better prepare her for this meeting today. She really doesn’t know anything?” 

The old man scoffs. “Not a damn thing. Not even how to ask for her cunt to be played with.” 

“I see.” With a thoughtful hum, Pantalone carefully drags his fingers down from the top of your head, brushing your cheek and your neck, before coming up under your chin to tilt your face towards him. He puts his own head to one side, inspecting you, to send the delicate glasses chain into a faint shudder. “I take it that’s why you’ve only gotten to use your fingers thus far? And what about you, dear? Have you done anything for him in return?” 

You start to feel well and truly faint. Why would he even think to ask you something like that? And for this to be discussed right out in the open with all the nonchalance of a passing comment over the weather? No, something was undoubtedly, terribly wrong here. You really had walked straight into a trap. 

Not today, though. Or even the day before when you’d not only invited Zandik to tease your aching quim to vibrating fever pitch but had even reveled in it and foolishly come back for more. It wasn’t even when you’d first stepped foot inside this isolated manor home in the countryside either. 

The noose had been expertly knotted over your neck that day in the bank. 

Stamping down the swelling urge to sob where it was making your chest feel unbearably tight, you nervously flick your gaze between the two of them again. They were waiting for a response, and even Zandik did not seem willing to interject and answer on your behalf. It looked like he was interested in hearing what you would decide to say as well. The truth or a lie? 

You force yourself to pull in a thick, faltering breath even when your constricting lungs try to reject it. 

“M - my lord … must I really answer that?” 

“I’d certainly appreciate it if you did.” Pantalone coos back, soft and coaxing. As if he were trying to win over a small, skittish animal. 

It doesn’t exactly work, however, and you find you’re just as much a mess of nerves and deep cutting shame as you were before he’d spoken. 

“Understood. Sir. I — I used my hand on him too. Last night. In the bath. And … and in bed.”

Despite the recoiling cringe of your skin trying to part ways with your bones, you’re still painfully aware of the faint, pulsing clench that triggers low in your gut as you speak the words aloud. As if you were not already mortified enough. 

But the strangest part is how that feeling only strengthens, becoming more difficult to ignore, when Pantalone pretends to be shocked by that admittance. Feigning startlement even when the pleasant curve of his mouth gives him away. 

“Only your hands, my dear? Not even your mouth? Oh, I just don’t know if that will do.” 

Zandik noises a gruff sound of agreement from the other side of the banker. “I made the suggestion last night and she acted as if she’s never heard of anything more scandalous.”

Vaguely squinting at you now, Pantalone leans a little closer to hunch over the chair he’s got you trapped in. Putting his face mere inches from yours. Studying you up close now. 

For a painfully long stretch of seconds you seem to forget how to draw a full breath. 

“You really don’t know anything about carnal pleasures then? Nothing at all? I might have expected as much from a finely bred lady but … frankly, my dear, I was under the impression that little street urchins didn’t live such comfortable lives.”

You physically flinch as if he’d struck you with his hand, but your reaction doesn’t even appear to give him pause. 

“Oh, please don’t think me rude for saying that though. It’s just that you simply must understand my position here, darling. I have my own stakes in this game, you see, and after playing the part of Zandik’s collaborator and personal friend for as long as I have, it’s just a little difficult for me to accept that all of his needs might not be getting met. And as much as it does pain me to say it, Her Majesty has been keeping me much too busy as of late and I no longer have the freedom to play the role of dutiful companion as much as I used to. That would be why Dottore struck upon you quite immediately when he realized that you might be just the solution to our troubles that we’ve been searching for. Although, of course, I’m sure it goes without saying that his motivations were not quite as magnanimous as mine.” 

He chuckles a faint laugh at that, as if it really was something so amusing, but your head is spinning much too fast for you to see any humor in it. Was he really suggesting that you were only here to … replace him? 

Unable to accept that explanation, not even a little bit, you glance past him to fix upon Zandik. “Is that true? Am I only meant to play the role of substitute for Lord Regrator in your bed, Master?”

The old man’s expression softens slightly, catching you wholly off guard when you’d never seen him look even slightly remorseful in all the time you’d known him. But it is not he who responds to that faltering plea. 

“Come, now. There’s no need to think of it like that, is there?” Pantalone says to you, his voice lilting ever so slightly as he brushes the back of his hand over your cheek. The unexpected tenderness in that gesture makes you shudder fiercely, whimpering a helpless sound. “As you have already seen with your own two eyes, he really is getting on in his later years and the need for a caretaker of sorts was indeed an unfortunate inevitability. But between you and me, dear, I can tell you that what he really needs is the sort of human comforts only another person can offer him. Sadly he hasn’t had much experience being on the receiving end of kindness from others over these many long years.”

“That’s enough, Feofan.” 

You can’t help the way you jolt at the unexpected sound of Zandik’s voice, rough as if with gravel, and you quickly tear your attention from Pantalone to look at him instead. 

“As always you talk far too much.” The old man sighs, now fidgeting with the cane leant up against the side of his leg. “And you, girl. You talk far too little when it actually counts. As much as I’m sure this will come as only a small consolation to you right now, I want you to understand that I meant what I said to you last night. I really am in no condition to make you do something you don’t wish to do, physically or otherwise. Even if I wanted more than that from this arrangement — and I can’t say that I don’t. You’re such a pretty, sweet little thing, after all, — the decision still ultimately rests entirely with you. I admit I did … enjoy myself, yesterday. So if that is all you ever wish to do with me then I will be happy to accept even that much from you. It’s probably more than I deserve anyway.” 

You positively hate the way your heart wrenches sympathetically at that. What he was saying as much as the dejected, crestfallen dip of his head. It was undeniably heartbreaking to see him looking like that, to hear him talking about himself like that, but try as you might you just couldn’t figure out what to say in response to any of it. 

On one hand you felt understandably betrayed and stupid for walking straight into the snare they’d laid down with nary a second thought to the matter. But on the other … you did very much like Zandik and you liked even more how he made you feel. Even if it was ill advised and improper, shameful and arguably disgusting to want it, you weren’t feeling overly inclined to deny him the small indulgence he was asking of you. Worse still, you even understood it on some deeply perplexing level. A last hurrah of sorts, a chance for him to make up lost time and missed opportunities before he no longer had the ability to do so. It was not lost on you that Zandik’s loneliness cut deeper than what could be attributed only to old age. 

But Pantalone’s involvement in this made things so much more complicated and offputting, and you nervously tense up when he shifts next to the chair, bending down to level you with a not unkind smile. 

“What’s wrong, dear? Are you really that frightened of your own desires?” He says, laughing at the flustered shock that washes over your face. “There’s no need to be so shy. I can see it in your eyes, you know. And I’m well acquainted enough with what Zandik can do with his fingers that I can’t even say I blame you for it. So if you wish to continue carrying on with him in this manner then you shouldn’t hesitate to do just that. Everybody gets what they want this way, right?” 

You have to try once, twice and a third time to clear your horribly pinched throat before you can manage to find your voice and speak. “But … but Lord Regrator, I really don’t know what I’m doing. What if — what if I accidentally hurt him?” 

Zandik snorts a mirthless laugh at that, while Pantalone’s responding chuckle seems to be utterly sincere. 

“That’s very sweet of you to worry about something like that, but I’m sure Zandik will let you know if anything is not to his liking or he starts to feel unwell. And quite loudly at that, based on my own personal experiences with him. With that being said, though … if it will make you feel any better, shall I give you a quick demonstration of what he usually likes?” 

Despite your best attempts to stop being surprised by everything, you still find yourself gaping up at him in plain faced disbelief. You were starting to doubt whether or not any of this was even real anymore, half convinced that you were just dreaming the whole thing up. Surely he didn’t mean to …

A sly twinkle in his eye is all the answer you need and you outright stare at him as he stands up to full height before casually sauntering the few steps to move behind Zandik’s chair. The old man likewise straightens from his slouch in as much as the hunch of his spine will allow, evidently roused to attention, just in time for Pantalone to come up along the other side of him. 

Stunned into mute silence, you watch, utterly transfixed, while the banker smooths one hand along the back of Zandik’s neck before lifting to cradle his skull. The older of the two readily leans back into the gesture, his eyes open and peering up at Pantalone with an expression that is almost uncomfortably familiar to you. 

He’d looked at you much the same way, in the bath and on the bed. Even in the library he’d had that nearly identical, hooded look of wanting etched into his wrinkled face. It’s also a bit different too, though. Somehow even more heated, unguarded. Less carefully shuttered. Almost like … in knowing with absolute certainty that Pantalone would not turn from him in rejection he was able to permit himself more freedoms than he otherwise would. To welcome it and succumb to that liberating opportunity to truly get caught up in the moment. 

It had not seemed like it at the time, that he was exercising any amount of restraint with you, given his demanding nature and penchant for losing his temper. But you can see now that that’s exactly what he’d been showing you up til’ now as you watch Pantalone lean down to capture that wizened mouth in an unexpectedly passionate kiss. 

You immediately feel more than just a bit scandalized, hand flying up to your lips in pure shock. But it is not the startled aversion you may have otherwise expected that prompts this reaction, and that is certainly not the reason you squeeze your thighs together in an almost painfully tight press. You’d never seen anything like it before. And you know you should cover your eyes, hide from the flagrant impropriety of it all, but you just can’t seem to find the wherewithal to follow through. 

Not when Pantalone looks so good kissing Zandik, almost as good as he looks being kissed by him. Even the stark difference in age, one man’s skin soft and smooth while the other's was rougher, razed by wrinkles, is not anywhere near enough to detract from how good they looked together. And the way Zandik breathes out a thin, groaning sigh of appreciation, his eyes slowly slipping shut, seems to attest to the fact that Pantalone had been telling you the truth. 

He really had been the old man’s trusted companion and confidant until he could no longer visit him as regularly he used to, a lack of time and pressing obligations dragging him ever away from his paramour. 

And then he’d sent you into the wolf’s den, knowing full and well that Zandik’s lonely isolation would lead him to seek his comforts in you instead. Knowing that you would have no choice but to either give yourself over to his intentions or throw in the towel. 

No wonder he’d thought you would only last a few weeks and why Zandik’s lack of progress where you were concerned had come as such a surprise to him. Of course it was only natural that he would assume your continued presence here meant you’d risen to the challenge instead of letting it scare you off. 

His housecall today suddenly made much more sense. 

Your mind is absolutely awash with an urgent whirlwind of questions but you don’t dare give voice to any of them, much too focused on the way Pantalone’s gloved hand gently pets over Zandik’s neck before moving lower to stroke his narrow chest. You know a little too well exactly how delicate that old ribcage feels to the touch from bathing him but, to your surprise, Pantalone doesn’t even seem to give the way he kneads one side of his breast a second thought. It’s riveting to watch, especially when you realize how much it looks like he’s squeezing at a small, malleable tit. Not at all unlike how Zandik had groped and pinched yours. 

The older man sucks in a rough breath though, trying to pull away as his brows knit into a grumpy line, but Pantalone just follows after him to keep kissing his mouth. Even from where you’re seated you can see his lips are curled in a pleased little smile while he does it and then continues to do it, even after that halfhearted protest had been issued. Almost like he found the reaction cute. 

Without even fully realizing you’re doing it, you start to wonder if Pantalone would be similarly arduous if it had been you he was kissing and who’s tit he’s teasing with light, playful pinches. Would he even want to kiss you in the first place? 

In the next heartbeat you realize how dangerous that thought actually is and a cold shudder of embarrassment immediately rushes in to douse some of that flickering ember in your loins. 

But then Zandik finally manages to pull away — or perhaps Pantalone merely allows him to retreat — and you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from the sight of the old man tucking his face into the crook of the younger's neck with a low grumble. You hadn’t expected to see such a curious role reversal. 

And yet Pantalone does indeed seem to have all of the control right now, bending his mouth close to murmur something into Zandik’s ear. His eyes come up to find yours over the rim of his glasses at the same time, holding your gaze with almost seductive interest even as his hand starts to travel further south. 

Did he … like having you watch them together? 

That doesn’t seem like such a far stretch, and you attentively track the motion of Pantalone’s nimble hand when he traces a fluttering path over the soft pudge of Zandik’s lower stomach to press that palm into the front of his slacks. You’re once again surprised by how indelicately both men handle his cock, thinking back on what he’d told you the night before about the different sensitivities, while you observe the tight squeeze Pantalone gives it through the material. Some small part of you hadn’t truly believed it when Zandik told you you didn’t need to hold back when taking that part of him in hand, inclined to show it the same gentle care your vulnerable cunt needed. It looked like another man knew exactly the right amount of attention that was needed to net the desired results though. 

Grunting a vibrating sound into the room, Zandik tips his head back against the chair even while his narrow hips give a weak swivel up into that touch. Finally dragging his gaze from yours, Pantalone leans in to press soft, encouraging kisses across the exposed column on his wrinkled neck, encouraging his lover to continue vocalizing his pleasure into the otherwise still and silent drawing room. And he does. Low, masculine grunts issued through tightly clenched teeth that seem to set your guts to quiver. The soft sigh of tremulous little exhales through his flared nose when his breathing deepens, coming quicker now. 

It’s hardly any wonder that he should succumb to it though when the hand on his cock seems to know precisely what to do to coax him up to full strength — both innately as someone who also had a cock of their own and by virtue of the intimate familiarity they quite clearly shared with each other. For all that you can tell Pantalone appears to be playing him like a fiddle. Squeezing, caressing, slow, slow strokes over the growing bulge in tightening pants, grinding his heel down to exert even more pressure. 

It is not lost on you in the slightest that the banker seems to work Zandik’s length into some approximation of being stiff and rigid much faster than you’d been able to. Your lack of experience as much as your halting uncertainty and shyness had slowed the process down by a fair amount, but Pantalone clearly doesn’t have any of those same hang ups. 

In what feels like no time at all, Zandik’s hands are furiously gripping the armrests, the skin over his thin knuckles pulled taut to highlight the sharp jut of bone underneath. Evidently satisfied with the current state of his cock, Pantalone directs his keen fingers just a pinch higher to give the belt around the old man’s waist a steady, rather sensual tug. 

Simultaneously, his attention comes up to once again fix on you and his ever present smile turns just a shade more wicked at what he sees. 

“My, you look to be enjoying the show. A virgin pure but a voyeur at the same time? That seems a little contradictory if you ask me.”

You self consciously hunch your shoulders up to your ringing ears, trying to make yourself as small and unobtrusive as possible. But that’s not really possible when you were sitting center stage right next to them, well within arms reach if either decided to stretch their fingers out towards you. And Pantalone just laughs a liltingly melodic sound of amusement in response. 

“How precious you are. But do try to pay attention now, dear. I might just decide to quiz you on this myself later, if I have reason to suspect you’re not being a good little student for me.” 

Even with your best efforts, you just can’t seem to squeeze your thighs together any tighter to alleviate the pressure building up between them. Would he really … have you himself? 

Before you can examine that unexpectedly eager thought any further, Pantalone gets the belt loosened and, still using only the one hand, works to unfasten the front of Zandik’s pants. He reaches inside as soon as he is able to, turning his face back towards the other man now with a knowing confidence that almost makes you green with envy. But you can see the exact moment he finds Zandik’s cock because the old man seethes a hissed sound through his teeth, faintly grimacing when Pantalone starts to feed him through the gaping opening of his slacks. 

The banker’s hand soon reemerges with that fleshy length cradled gently in the sumptuous embrace of a black as night glove, and you immediately ascertain that it was still not full hard despite the obvious signs of excitement in Zandik’s posture. His expression. His body language. Perhaps if you had not held it in your own hand and felt the warm pulse of excitement thrumming through the shaft you might not have been able to spot the difference quite so easily. 

But it is still half soft and malleable in Pantalone’s hold, and the Lord Harbinger gives it a few perfunctory tugs to manipulate the semi loose skin. Giving it a vigorous squeeze and then dragging that tight fist up to the head where he takes a moment to just rotate his wrist, stimulating the glans within, while he angles his lips to kiss Zandik again. The gesture is deep and savory, luxuriating in the hot tangle of tongues that you can see even from here. 

Then, slowly pulling away, Pantalone starts to lean down, bending at the waist as his other hand comes up to rather flirtatiously brush the longer piece of hair back from his face. 

And he takes that still fleshy, still growing cock straight into his mouth. 

You can’t help the sharp gasp that catches in your throat, the rest of you going cold and chilly when all of the blood in your body seems to rush between your legs. It makes your cunt pulse a tense, throbbing clench as you almost subconsciously rock forward to center as much of your weight on your core as you possibly can. You suddenly have no idea what to do with yourself while Pantalone hums a carnal sound of wanting around the girth stretching his lips in a curious ‘o’ that looks unfairly good on him — and Zandik viciously hisses, tossing his head back against the chair as if stricken. 

Holding his glasses in place with the same fingers keeping his hair held back, Pantalone begins to sedately work his mouth over the cock he still holds, gripped down at the base. You can see his cheeks hollow slightly when he sucks on it and you can see the quick flick of a pink tongue when it darts out to lash at the stiffening shaft, the glans, the pucker of foreskin on the tip. It makes Zandik sink deeper into his chair, heaving an almost oversensitized sound up at the ceiling while he otherwise holds himself as stiff as a board. Like he was too busy bracing against that blinding rush of sensation to grind himself into the source as he otherwise might want to. 

You soon find yourself starting to squirm, wondering if it really felt as good to have someone’s mouth on you as it looked. The thought had never even so much as crossed your mind until now, but getting to watch it happen in real time like this … you were quite certain you were never going to be able to stop revisiting it in the safe seclusion of your bed at night. 

Seconds, minutes, hours, perhaps even days go by in this manner until, at last, Pantalone finally comes back up with a small, wet pop and a satisfied sigh. He looks really quite pleased with himself, in fact, as he turns his face towards Zandik’s where he presses an unexpectedly tender kiss to the jut of his chin where he lingers for a long moment. 

Then, he turns his attention to you. 

“Come here, dear. I’ve already got him ready for you so don’t be frightened. That’s it. I’ll help you.” 

In truth you have no idea why you move to heed his summons — the Lord Harbinger was not your master even if he did technically hold authority over you just by simple virtue of his title. But it’s like your pussy has taken control of your body, and you obediently slide off the chair to wander over to the two men without really understanding your own intentions in doing so. You even catch a glimpse of Zandik lifting his face to peer up at you when you draw near and yet you just can’t seem to bring yourself to look at him then. 

You only have eyes for the now galvanized length jutting up from his lap as Pantalone kindly waves you closer. Once you’re standing just at the edge of the chairs armrest, he reaches out to rather politely take your hand in his so he can then pull you into place directly in front of the seated old man. His hands come up to gently slide over your shoulders reassuringly and, at his murmured instruction, you ever so slowly sink down to your knees there on the floor. 

Suddenly finding yourself kneeling there between the masculine spread of Zandik’s feet almost shocks you out of your trance, but it’s not quite enough. You have no idea why you’re doing this. You know you shouldn’t be doing this. 

And yet, when Pantalone ever so carefully cradles the back of your head, you let him guide you forward to lean over Zandik’s lap. 

All at once you have a rigid cock in your face and you trace over it with your eyes as if you were in a hazy, intoxicated daze. None of your previous encounters with it had been nearly this close up. Now, though, you can clearly see the texture of the skin, the press of thick veins just under the surface, the small divots and contours that make up the total shape of him. Your gaze lingers briefly on the glistening wet, partially exposed glans where the hood of the foreskin was only half retracted, and you feel something you’ve never felt once before in your life. 

The urge, the yearning to have that hard shaft bullied up inside of you. To feel the stretch, the deep, deep reach, the drag of flesh moving, gliding, grinding against yet more flesh. It’s nearly enough to bowl you over right on the spot. Quite without meaning to, you let loose a faltering, needy mewl of a groan that is so very sweet even to your own ears that your bubbling excitement ratchets up another notch. 

And Zandik responds with a painfully sharp, wheezing inhale as his fingers tighten on the armrests, gripping hard enough to make the wood creak. 

“Gods, girl!”

“There, that’s a good dear. Yes, that’s it.” Pantalone croons at you while his fingers lightly pet across your cheek, encouraging you and taunting you in equal measure. “Open up wide for me. What a very good girl you are. Just like that, now.”

He begins to push on the back of your head and a low, whining mewl starts up in the pit of your throat but it’s quickly cut off, muffled by the hot, salty flesh that invades your mouth. The sensation as much as the taste startles you enough that you instinctively try to pull back but Pantalone firmly keeps you trapped in place. 

You almost start to panic when your retreat is not only stopped but he also exerts a bit more pressure to force you down another inch, taking even more of that enthusiastically twitching length into your mouth. Somewhere far above you, you hear Zandik let out a guttural, toe curling groan of immense pleasure as your mouth seals around him, his thin frame giving a stiff little jerk. Almost like, even knowing it was coming and what it would feel like, the sight of you taking him in like that had come dangerously close to undoing him right then and there. 

But now that you’re actually doing it you start to have some buyer's remorse, and a fresh flood of tears quickly rushes up to sting your eyes. You couldn’t believe you were letting them do this to you. Touching with fingers and hands was one thing. This was something else entirely. 

“Oh my, doesn’t she just look adorable with her mouth stuffed full like this?” Pantalone all but purrs then, either the words themselves or the sultry intonation inspiring another low rumbling groan out of Zandik. 

“Mmmnnggh. This is certainly a nice view where I’m sitting. You’re doing well, girl. Oughn. Don’t get scared now. Almost there. Take a little more for me? Yes. Aaghhn. That’s it!” 

Even if you didn’t want to oblige the request, Pantalone’s heavy palm remains pressed to the back of your head, entirely unrelenting. When he nudges you further down you have no choice but to sink a little lower, where he then holds you in place so you can’t back up. You’re utterly trapped between the two of them. 

Hands balling into the slack material of Zandik’s pants, you awkwardly roll your eyes upward to look at him through the hazy sheen of unshed tears. He’s got his face tipped back though, panting rather laboriously as if your tight, hot mouth was almost too much for him to bear. A muffled sound of weak, halfhearted protest slips out of you then, but neither of them seem to hear you. Or maybe they simply don’t care. 

But the worst part of it by far is how your cunt positively drools at the sensation of having him in your mouth like this. That fleshy crease between your thighs feels like it’s turning molten, dripping, oozing into the gusset of your panties to leave them damp with arousal. The shame is almost enough to make you sick. What kind of person got this excited over putting their mouth on an elderly man’s genitals? Certainly no one with any amount of propriety in their conscience. 

It’s not just the sensation of thick, warm flesh wedging your lips apart in an unseemly spread, nor is it even the simple act itself of prostrating yourself over his lap like this — although you are quite certain that neither of these things are helping to abate your shameful arousal either. Even the taste, while not outright bad, makes your stomach uneasily roil with a confusing mix of disgust and hot, hot carnal need. It’s somehow cloying and intoxicating at the same time, sparking something deep inside your baser animal brain that makes you start to obscenely salivate around him. 

You desperately want someone to reach down and play with your cunt, silently begging for it with your watery eyes, but both of them appear to be much too focused on other things to take notice. Zandik, haltingly basking in the pleasing sensation as much as the victory of watching you break yet another one of your boundaries for him, and Pantalone, in his crooning instruction of your technique — or lack thereof. 

“Goodness, dear, is that really as far as you can go? I’m afraid we’ll have to work on that.” He’s saying now, tutting over you as if it was something as benign as your handwriting that needed to be improved upon and you weren’t currently struggling to pull in enough air through your nose. “For now, though, just focus on relaxing your throat. You’re going to get yourself all worked up at this rate if you keep tensing like that and we don’t want you to start gagging, do we? Of course not. There. That’s better, isn’t it? What a little darling you are. I can see why Zandik likes you so much.” 

You noise a harried, drunken sound at that last bit, earning yourself another one of his slow drawling chuckles for your effort. The ones that make you feel so infinitesimally small. 

“Stop talking, Feofan. Let her concentrate.” Zandik cuts in before the other man can keep teasing you, wheezing another breathless, urgent groan. “I don’t think I can last much longer. Nnghhn. You hear that, girl? Your mouth feels wonderful on my cock. You’re so good for me. Yes. Now move your head. Just a little bit. Aghhn.” 

Squirming there on your knees, you feel the pressure of Pantalone’s oppressive hand lighten up just enough for you to ease back almost to the glans. The fleshy hood is unmistakable in your mouth as you wetly gasp and swallow around it, desperately taking advantage of this chance to pull in a full, aching lungful of air. 

That brief respite is quickly taken away when the banker carefully pushes you back down, showing just enough care to ensure you don’t choke on it. The one good thing is that neither of them push you any further than that, either innately understanding that you were already at your limit or perhaps they were simply conscious of the fact that any greater effort than that was not needed. You can already feel the thrumming tension in Zandik’s body starting to reach its boiling point, and you sadly allow yourself to fall into an easy rhythm against him under Pantalone’s guidance. 

Up. Down. Up and back down again. Right up to the glans and then half of the way down the shaft. He fills your mouth again and again, and again, until your jaw starts to hurt and your tongue feels vaguely like it’s being rubbed raw. And through it all you just continue to squeeze your thighs together, desperately rubbing them in a blithe attempt to ease the throbbing tension between them. 

A prolonged, drawn out moment later, while Pantalone is still cooing soft, mildly belittling reassurances at you, Zandik’s faintly trembling hand comes down to join the Harbinger’s gloved one on top of your head. His hips begin to twitch under your face, signaling his impending end almost as clearly as the increasingly desperate sounds that slip from his mouth, and he fervently clutches you to him, babbling utter nonsense. 

He tells you how good you are. How pretty you look sucking his cock like this. How nice you feel around him, how he’s going to give you a special treat, keep that lovely, troublesome mouth open for him, that’s it, that’s my girl, here it comes, gods, get ready - -

And that first searingly hot, bitter spurt into the back of your throat somehow manages to startle you, squealing a smothered sound while Zandik holds you tight to his front, grunting his immense pleasure without restraint. It makes your eyes water anew, some of the tears breaking free to escape over your lashline when you choke on it, struggling not to gag. But it’s difficult to swallow down, especially when another thin jet quickly joins the first, threatening to clog up your throat, and then another. 

Despite your best efforts, you don’t quite manage to work it all down your constricting esophagus and some of it dribbles out past your lips while you gasp, heaving around him. But Pantalone is quick to use his finger to swipe up the mess and he rather rudely shoves that viscous concoction of frothing spit and semen back into your mouth even as you cough around the flexing length still wedging your lips apart. 

“No messes now, dear. We do expect you to be at least somewhat neat and tidy even when we’re making a mess of you, you know.” He teases, the sharp twinkle in his eye unmistakable. “It would be such a shame if we had to put a bib on you every time Zandik needs his cock serviced, wouldn’t it?” 

“Oouuugh, don’t even mention that right now.” The old man groans as he slumps boneless into his chair. Still trying to catch his breath, trying to recover. Just like the night before, it seems to take quite a toll on his already limited stamina and you can’t help feeling a little grateful for that. At least you would not need to worry about satisfying him over the course of multiple rounds. 

Pantalone, though … 

Noticing the wary look you send him, the banker offers up another one of his kind little smiles, hiding that mean streak of his behind a perfectly polite and cordial mask of his own making. And that’s exactly what had compelled him to force your head down and keep it there, even when you’d squeaked in protest. A particular sort of maliciousness that, somehow, does not make him any less beautiful to look at. If anything it almost seems to highlight how pretty he really is. Defining the smooth planes of his face and the curious violet of his eyes in a starker, contrasting relief. 

“My, that’s quite a look you’re giving me, isn’t it?” He murmurs, clearly not the least bit perturbed by it. “Come now. There’s no need to fuss, is there? Let’s hurry and get you cleaned up then. Yes, that’s a dear.” 

Allowing him to ease you back from Zandik’s lap, you sway unsteadily there on your knees as you’re finally allowed to come up for air. The sudden rush of oxygen to your deprived lungs has you wetly gasping, much like a beached fish, while the bitter taste of Zandik’s passions linger a thick coating on your tongue. Pantalone tugs you closer to him, tucking you into the crook of his body as if to offer you comfort, while his other hand lifts to swipe a leather encased thumb over your chin. 

“I know you’re probably a bit sore with me right now, but I hope you’ll accept my words of praise for what they are. You did exceptionally well, especially for your first time. I don’t imagine I should have anything at all to worry about from here, will I?” He’s telling you softly, dotingly. Peering down at you with that deceptively gentle look. But even knowing it is nothing more than a farcical impression, a deadly disguise, somehow you just can’t seem to find it in yourself to truly fight it. 

Awkwardly clearing your razed throat, you drop your attention so you won’t have to look at him any longer. It was already much too late to help you now, though, when your fate has long been signed, sealed and dotted, from the very moment you first stepped foot into his office. 

You’d been a fool to think you could barter with a Fatui Harbinger and come out the other side unscathed. 

“T - thank you … my lord. You flatter me.” 

And ever so faintly, your cunt gives a slow, muted throb at the prospect of what was still yet to come.

⭐

But even though the tone of voice still remained as pleasant as ever, you couldn’t quite shake the sense that he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have you standing before him like this. Not that you could really blame him. The wealthy so rarely had any reason to cohort directly with the poor, after all. You were as good as a stray mongrel that had wandered in off the streets without first having been invited to do so. An unwanted and unnecessary guest that he would sooner be rid of than anything else. 

You didn’t have much left in the way of options, however, and you bravely gather your resolve as you lift your head just a fraction of an inch to steal a quick, split second peek at him. Handsome, but decidedly dangerous. Very much so. Anyone with a working pair of eyes could have realized that much at just a glance. 

“Yes, my lord. I’m sorry if it didn’t seem like I was.”

Drawing a slow, calculated breath that makes his narrow shoulders subtly rise and then fall, Regrator pins you in place with a pityingly sardonic smile. “Well, I suppose I do have to give you credit for one thing. Your manners are quite agreeable, aren’t they? That is not always the case with someone who is so very … lowborn. And you even had the courage to come here just to entreat me directly. That makes two things, then.”

You stamp down the urge to squirm in place, trying very hard not to think about how inconsequential you felt standing there in front of the Lord Harbinger like that. It wasn’t just the expensive room with its expensive furniture, excess and frivolity unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, shoved into every corner and on every shelf. It’s the way he watches you like a bug through a microscope. 

Something to observe, not something to touch or make nice with, and certainly not something to invite to have a seat in one of the finely upholstered chairs that stand guard in front of his stately mahogany desk. There was no telling what you might have dragged in with you, what unsightly stains you might leave behind. So you continue to stand, and you don’t even dare to ask for anything more than that.  

“With that being said,” he goes on; slow, thoughtful. Considering. “I have to admit I’m not exactly sure what you expect me to do with you. If it is a paycheck you need, then you should seek out one of the recruitment centers or intake officers, not me. Her Majesty is always happy to welcome young, plucky soldiers to her army’s ranks though. I’m sure you’d find much warmer reception there.”

As opposed to his frozen cold, bitter reception? 

“My lord, I’ve already tried that. Many times, in fact. But they always tell me I’m not fit for service before they send me on my way again. The last man I spoke to said I wouldn’t even make good cannon fodder. Just a … another mouth for them to feed.”

“The medical division, then. Nurses are needed just as much as soldiers are.”

The sting of unshed tears creeps into your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You’d already humiliated yourself enough just by marching into the Northland Bank and demanding an audience with its owner, you really didn’t want to add dramatics on top of that. It’s hard though, so hard. 

“I - I’m terrified of blood, sir. I can’t stand the sight of it. Honest. I’m lucky if I don’t pass out on the spot but then I run the risk of spitting up my lunch. I’m no good as a medic either.”

Softly clicking his tongue, Regrator tips his head ever so slightly to one side and vaguely purses his lips at you. “In that case, allow me to ask you again: what am I supposed to do with you when you have no talent, no strengths to offer? I’d like to remind you that nothing is free in this world and I cannot simply give you a salary for no services rendered. So, tell me. What are you going to give me in exchange?” 

“… I’m not sure, my lord. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you think that’s something you should have considered before you came calling on me in my office?” 

You flush hot at that, embarrassed by your tragic lack of foresight. But it was already much too late to remedy any of it, neither your uselessness nor the impulsive decision to come here, and you grope for an appropriate answer to the question. There had to be something. 

“Forgive me, but … could you be in need of a maid, my lord? Someone to clean and tidy up for you, or - or perhaps to take care of other mundane tasks that are far beneath someone of your — impressive and noble bearing?” 

That manages to earn you a scoff of a laugh as Regrator slowly shakes his head, looking almost rueful now. 

“So you’re also well versed in the art of brown nosing too, I see.” 

You’re almost startled to hear such crass language come out of his mouth, sounding all the more wrong in that dulcet, well cultured drawl of his. 

But before either of you can make another move — you, to decide how you should respond to that unexpected drop of the mask and him, to dismiss you from his sight — the door to the office abruptly swings open with a sudden wrench. 

“Pantalone!” The new man, this one utterly unknown to you, barks as he sweeps into the room, a whirlwind of dark, lifeless feathers that shudder at the slightest movement. “Did you approve my request for the research funding as I asked you to? I need to get started on the next phase soon. This is a highly time sensitive matter, you know.”

The door bangs shut behind him and, letting out a slow exhale through his nose, Regrator sedately leans back in his comfortable chair to glance up at the newcomer. Completely disengaging himself from the fact that you were still standing there, waiting for an answer, you can’t help but notice. Talk about awkward. 

“Yes, I saw it. And I’m well aware just how impatient you are, Doctor. That really is a bad habit of yours, if you ask me. I always approve your projects before anyone else’s, don’t I?” 

Grumbling a low sound, the man in the vaguely bird-like mask steps up next to you and then bypasses you completely, not even sparing you so much as a glance when he goes by. Much more interested in his bespectacled colleague sitting on the other side of the desk than he was in you, evidently. 

And you got the sense that this was likely for the best. 

“Then where is my mora, Pantalone? When might I expect it to reach my hand, hm? Today? In the next hour?” 

“Relax. I’ve already got someone downstairs divvying up what you asked me for. Such large amounts can take time to procure and verify, as I’m sure you’re well aware. But really now, what’s got you in such a deplorable mood today? I very much doubt it has only to do with the funding.” 

“No.” He bites out, through gnashing teeth by the sounds of it. Even you, someone who was not at all familiar with this person, could tell just from looking at his stiff back that he was indeed upset about something. 

But somehow Regrator’s placcid guise remains steadily in place even when his acquaintance begins to slowly pace, back and forth, in front of the desk. Not at all unlike a caged animal. 

“It’s that damn Columbina. Again! She’s been avoiding me lately, I’m sure of it. And we’d been having such a splendid time in each other's company too. I was even on my best behavior, if you can believe it.”

“I can’t.” Regrator helpfully supplies, even though he sounded to you just as unaffected by this information as he was by everything else. Amused, even. 

Snorting a derisive laugh, the man starts to broaden the circumference of his pacing, refusing to stay confined to the area in front of the desk any longer. As if he simply couldn’t stand to remain in one spot while he relayed the full scope of his frustrations to the other man. 

Rather surreptitiously, you start to back up and inch your way towards the door with every intention of making a silent, sneaky escape from the room. 

“I really don’t get it, you know. One moment I’m giving her the tour of my lab and the next, poof. She’s disappeared. Spirited away, never to be seen again, except in fleeting glances while she haunts the corridors of the palace like a singing wraith. That seems to be all she ever does, don’t you think?”

At Regrator’s vague lilt of a hum, the man in the bird mask makes a sharp about-face and starts to retrace the wide half moon arc he’d already stomped. 

“It really is ridiculous. I do nothing short of welcoming her in with open arms and this is the thanks I get.” He shakes his head, snorting a humorless laugh under his breath. “And don’t even get me started on that old, dying coot.”

“Now, Dottore,” the banker lightly admonishes. “That’s hardly a nice thing to say, is it?” 

“Pah! Who cares for niceties when the topic is but a plain and simple truth? Death comes for every mortal, eventually, and that ancient relic is no exception. It is the one great equalizer in this world, after all. Ah, but I suppose not all of us have to worry about that, do we?”   

You’re almost to the door now, your fingers itching with the overpowering urge to reach out and snatch the handle. It is only your curiosity at what was being discussed that makes you hesitate to take the chance while you have it, but you quickly come to regret that decision when this so-called Doctor aggressively turns on his heel again. 

And this time he comes up short when he finds himself standing face to face with you. The noticeable jump of tension in his posture tells you he really hadn’t noticed you earlier, and your presence there in the office comes as something of a shock to him. Oh, you really should have gotten out of there instead of being nosy. 

“And who is this?” He sharply emphasizes each individual word, punching the syllables out one by one as if they’ve personally wronged him. 

“Mm? You’re still here? My dear, I thought you’d already left some time ago.” 

You don’t think you believe that but you still find yourself growing uncomfortably warm under the Regrator’s archly inflected drawl. How embarrassing. 

“I’m so sorry, my … my lords.” You stammer in a rush. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just trying to excuse myself without interrupting your conversation.”

As if to prove that, you snatch your arm out to grab blindly at the door handle. It swings open with your jerky tug and you move to step out into the lobby, but Dottore is quicker than you expect. His gloved hand flies up to smack against the finely crafted wood, slamming it shut again, and you give a startled yelp of surprise when you snag your fingers back as if you’d been scalded. 

“Oh, but let’s not be so hasty,” he croons at you, all solicitation now. In the blink of an eye every bit of that simmering, bubbling temper from a moment ago is completely gone, as if a switch in him had been flipped, and your bone dry throat works a nervous swallow as you watch him politely fold his arms behind the small of his back. “Stay and chat for a moment, won’t you? And what is your name, little mouse?” 

You tell him with no shortage of apprehension or difficulty when your vocal chords almost refuse to cooperate. 

“I see. How interesting. I didn’t even notice you standing there. Has anyone ever told you that you are very good at going unnoticed and hiding in plain sight?” 

“Uh - uhm …”

“Our dear guest was just on her way.” Pantalone cuts in then. And although his tone of voice still remains as pleasantly accommodating as ever, there is now the prick of a pointed barb somewhere just underneath the surface to put you on even higher alert. Was he displeased with you? 

“Is that so?” His mouth tugging into a rather bemused smirk, the Doctor tips his head to one side, studying you from a slightly different angle. He does not look at all unlike a curious carrion bird in the execution of that gesture. 

“Oh, but what a pity that is. We could have had coffee brought in. I must admit, I’m quite curious to know what brought you before my esteemed colleague today. Judging by your attire, I’d say … you must be a commoner, is that right? And not a very well off one, if I had to guess. Then what business could you possibly have with the owner of the Northland Bank, hm?” 

“Dottore.” 

Wide eyes flickering in Regrator’s direction, you expect to see a disapproving frown upon his face or a bothered crease between his brows. Instead, you find him still smiling from his spot behind the desk, looking only mildly uncertain of his friend’s game. How curious. 

How frightening. 

You snap your gaze back up at the Doctor. “It — it was nothing, really. Just … wishful thinking, is all. I only wanted to try my luck here but I guess that was silly of me.” 

“With what?” 

“Oh. Um, a job. Work that I might be able to do for the Lord Harbinger in exchange for a few mora. I thought maybe he’d need extra hands here at the bank, or … or something.” 

“Or something.” The Doctor echoes you, sounding hardly impressed and yet not exactly disinterested in your pathetic little sob story either, prompting Regrator to quietly clear his throat. 

“Seeing as the bank is currently fully staffed and I have no need at the present time for any sort of housekeeping personnel, I’m afraid I’ve had to decline her well intentioned offer. While it does pain me to say it, I have a feeling that our little guest doesn’t have much to offer from an employer's perspective.” 

Your cheeks positively blaze, hot enough to fry an egg on. Of course you’d known coming here was likely the most foolish thing you could possibly do, well aware of your own shortcomings as you were, but to hear him say it out loud and in so many words? It feels like you could just whither away and die on the spot. 

“I - I’m so — s - so sorry, my lord. Please forgive me for my impudence today. It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll just - -“ 

You’re already halfway through the motion of reaching for the door again when the masked man standing next to you abruptly grabs at your elbow, pinching and squeezing to once again halt your escape. Jumping at the contact, you jerk your head down to disbelievingly take in his gloved hand on your person. You’re so perplexed by this confounding turn of events that you don’t even think to pull away when he starts to nudge you in the direction of the two chairs situated in front of the desk. 

“Come, come. There’s no need for that now, is there? We are all adults, after all.” The Doctor cooes saccharinely. It was obvious he found something funny here but you couldn’t even begin to guess at what that might be or what it had to do with you as you stiffly let him pull you where he wants. It’s not as if you had much of a choice in the matter. “Surely something can be arranged if we just put our heads together and think. Three minds are always more effective than one when it comes to problem solving, wouldn’t you agree?”  

“I suppose so - -“

“Sit.” He commands, giving you a pointed shove in the direction of the nearest chair. The gravelly resonance in that one single word does more to convince you that it would be in your best interests to obey him than the insistence of his hands on you does, and you quickly drop into the indicated seat. 

You’re admittedly glad for it, too, because you feel dangerously close to fainting dead away from fright as you nervously peer up at the Doctor. What did he want with you to make you stay like this? And were you even allowed to be sitting on any of the furniture in the first place? Something in the way Regrator not so idly taps his fingers against the mahogany grain of his desk leads you to believe that you were not. 

How humiliating! You felt like a dog that was only being permitted to continue breaking the rules because there was company over, but that leniency would quickly disappear once you were alone with your master again. 

“There. That’s much better, isn’t it? Try not to look so nervous though. I merely want to talk.” Looking really quite pleased with himself, the Doctor eases his body into the chair next to yours where he proceeds to get comfortable, crossing his legs and then resting his neatly folded hands atop the bend of his knee. “Well then, little mouse. Tell me. How old are you?” 

You answer him truthfully, unsure why he would want to know, but it earns you a brief nod of approval all the same. 

“Well, that’s not too bad, is it? In fact, I might dare to say that you’re in the prime of your life and you don’t even realize it. Have you any family?” 

Something about that particular question strikes you as truly odd, and you shoot a helpless look at Regrator behind his desk. He is of absolutely no help to you though. 

Evidently perfectly content to simply watch the scene unfold before him, he just sits there, smiling, alternating between rapping at the wood and fiddling with one of the rings on his right hand. He neither rushes to your rescue nor does he join in on his friend’s impromptu interrogation of you. An utterly neutral party, if you didn’t have your creeping suspicion to the contrary. 

Turning back to the Doctor again, you sheepishly nod your head. “A mother and a father, but he’s … he hasn’t been home in nearly ten years. He was deployed with a regiment of Her Majesty’s forces to a foreign land when I was younger.”

Your answer seems to rouse Pantalone from his role of simple spectator, peering over at you now through the delicate lenses of his eyeglasses. “Deceased, then? Or …” 

“Not to our knowledge. Not officially, anyway.”

“There’s no one else?” Dottore tacks on this time. 

“No, my lord. It’s just us.” 

“Then is a soldier's salary not enough to see two people sufficiently fed and clothed? If that is the case then we shall have to direct any further queries on this matter to Pantalone instead.” He says, grinning over at the man in question, who gives no indication of having even heard him, other than the faintest tightening of the muscles around his mouth. 

It’s not hard to see that something about this situation is irritating him quite a bit. Whether that was you or his friend’s overly chatty persistence, you couldn’t be sure; but you self consciously rush to absolve him of any mistaken culpability before his mood can sour any further. 

“No, t - that isn’t quite it. Truth be told, the payments we receive from the palace used to be more than enough to cover our living expenses but … recently my mother has taken ill and she can no longer do odd jobs here or there to supplement our income. Our savings lasted for a little while, and then all of the medicine and doctors visits quickly depleted whatever we had. That’s why I thought …”

“You thought?” The masked man presses when you hesitate to go on. 

“Well, I — I guess my assumption was that working under one of Her Majesty’s Harbinger’s would earn me enough money to take care of her in her old age. Even if she doesn’t get better, I’d at least like her to be comfortable in her remaining time here. I need a reliable income for that, and plenty of it.” 

The Doctor huffs an amused laugh under his breath, not even bothering to try and conceal it. “That’s very noble of you, isn’t it? The perfect, martyred daughter playing her role right to the last. They have a word for that, you know.” 

You lift your head, curiosity once again getting the better of you. “They do?” 

“Oh, yes. It’s called being a fool.” 

Regrator heaves a quiet exhale at your startled jolt of surprise, giving his head a solemn shake now. “Dottore, that is no way to incline someone to your side when you plan on asking them for a fair exchange of services. I can guess at what you’re thinking, but … are you quite certain that it’s a good idea?” 

“I don’t see why not. It sounds to me like she already has experience in caring for the sick and the elderly. It will just be replacing one with another. That seems like a reasonable trade off for a plenty sizable check, if you ask me.” 

Slowly blinking away the sting of tears that have risen in the backs of your eyes, unbidden, you glance between the two of them with ever growing uncertainty. “What do you mean? Are you asking me to …” 

Eagerly, the Doctor unfolds his legs and sits forward in his chair, leaning across to invade your space. You shirk back, frightened by his close proximity as much as the leering smirk you can see under the hooked beak of his featureless mask. But even then, even in the face of your skittish, nervous reaction, he remains ever undaunted in pursuit of his goal. 

“That’s right. It might not be Pantalone pulling your purse strings, but if any old Harbinger would do then why not come work for me instead? I’ll certainly make it worth your while, little mouse. You see, I have an invalid of my own that needs tending to and I’m afraid I just don’t have the time or the patience to deal with it myself. In exchange, I will be happy to supply you with room and board, three meals a day and, of course, a hefty sum of mora to send back home to your mother. Doesn’t that sound perfectly agreeable to you? Hm?” 

Sitting there in the exquisitely made wing backed chair that was singularly nicer than anything you’d ever owned in your life, you can hardly believe what it is you’re being offered. Surely your ears must have been playing tricks on you. It was too good to be true, and more than you had even dared to hope for when you’d set off on this ill begotten expedition to the Northland Bank. There had to be a catch though. Something he wasn’t telling you. Fortuitous luck like this didn’t come without its pitfalls, you knew that only all too well. 

Your tongue darts out to nervously wet your lips as you search his blank mask for any signs that might point you in the right direction, to help you decide whether or not this was an insidious trap of some sort. It definitely felt like it was. 

“That … is a very generous offer, my lord. Thank you. I’m not sure I deserve your kindness, but — may I ask a question first?” 

He inclines his head rather graciously. “Go on.” 

You steal another brief glance at Regrator, but it’s clear he still has no intention of bailing you out, leaving you to sink or to swim, so you press on. “I’d like to know a bit more about the job I would be doing, if I accepted your proposal. What would you expect of me? Is it … a parent of yours that needs taking care of?” 

“Something like that.” Grumbling under his breath, the Doctor stands from his chair to resume his earlier pacing, but slower this time. An almost thoughtful gait to his step now. “Where to start? The, let’s say, patient in question is an eighty-four year old man with all of the usual problems one would expect at that age. Arthritic to the point of being half lame, he occasionally uses a wheelchair to get around although he isn’t quite to the point of being bed bound yet. Frankly, I hope it doesn’t ever come to that. He’s already cantankerous enough at the best of times.”

His boots thunking softly on the floorboards, he moves behind you and out of sight. 

“And yet he expects us to see to his care just by virtue of our proximity to him. But as I’ve already said, I have other, far more important things to be doing with my time. Research to conduct, experiments to oversee. His soon to be palliative care is the least of my concern, yet he refuses to stop harping on and on about needing this or that at all hours of the day. If you should choose to accept this position then I would expect you to keep him preoccupied and out of our hair indefinitely. That means, little mouse, that you would have to be present and alert at a moment's notice. Any slacking off in these duties would result in very unfortunate consequences for you, indeed.” 

You shudder faintly in your chair, effectively chilled to the bone by the total lack of regard or affection in which he speaks about this individual. He’d said it was something like a parent though, so you could only assume that they did not have a very good relationship. In truth, you almost felt bad for the old man without having even met him yet. 

But then it hits you. The catch. 

That sudden realization makes your stomach twist itself into a tight ball of knots as you spin around to peer back at the masked man, just as he comes up along the other side of you. It was hard to believe he’d ask something like this after you’d already told him about your own situation, your own circumstances. 

“I’m sorry, my lord, but … I can’t leave my mother alone like that. I’m all she has. If I’m not there to take care of her no one else will and I’ll have done all this for nothing.”

“Oh?” He cocks his head to the side, looking for all the world like a raven inspecting a fresh corpse on the side of the road for signs of life. “And whatever is stopping you from hiring someone to see to her in your stead, silly girl?” 

“I - I can’t afford that …” 

“Ah, I see. You doubt the depths of my coffers, then, I take it?” 

“Ahem.” Regrator cuts in at that moment, delicately clearing his throat of some imagined obstruction. “I believe that would be my coffers, Dottore, and you know full well that I at least like to be asked before you start making promises with my mora.”

The Doctor chuckles a faint sound of amusement in response. “Oh, don’t be like that, Pantalone. Can’t you see the poor thing is down on her luck and in need of our charitable assistance?” 

“Yes, well,” the bespectacled man murmurs, shifting his attention to you now. “What my colleague is trying to say is that the question of whether or not something is affordable won’t be of any concern to you if you ultimately decide to work for him. You will be making more than enough to pay for a live-in nurse to move in at your home or to even relocate your mother into a permanent residence at one of the clinics if you would so wish it. To that end I have no problem giving you an advance payment so that you are able to make all the necessary arrangements prior to starting your work, if that is something you need to consider.” 

“… really?” 

“Yes, dear. Really.” Regrator says, holding back a laugh. 

You just stare at him in utter disbelief for a painfully drawn out stretch of seconds before slowly glancing up at the Doctor again. It is not lost on you that something seems to have shifted between them inside this room. But he, too, appears to be completely serious and sincere. And try as you might to wrap your head around it you just don’t understand. Did this even really make any sense when you got right down to it? 

“But — but why me? Why couldn’t you just as easily hire someone more qualified than I am to take care of your fath - -“ 

“That is not what he is.” Dottore cuts across you forcefully enough to make you snap your mouth shut. Then, more quietly, he says, “Not exactly, anyway.”

Breathing out a rather curt exhale, the Doctor moves to step around the back of your chair again, slowly dragging his gloved hand across the top of it this time as he goes by. “I do not expect you to truly get anything out of this explanation, but the fact of the matter is that the situation calls for the utmost discretion and secrecy. Although I cannot tell you the exact details of it right now, what I can say is that this matter concerns a Fatui Harbinger and is, therefore, a delicate topic indeed. We cannot have word of the comings and goings of Her Majesty’s forces leaking to the public.”

“It’s a point of security, my dear.” Regrator helpfully adds on. “You understand.” 

You’re not so sure you do, but then the Doctor plops down in his abandoned seat and leans forward to brace his elbows upon his knees, clasped hands meeting between them. He looks … weary, you think. Like he’d already puzzled out every other possible avenue to resolve this issue as cleanly and neatly as possible only to come up regretfully short, time and time again. It makes you wonder, not for the first, what his relation could possibly be with this mysterious old man then, if he wouldn’t simply wipe his hands of it like he seemed to want. 

“The problem, you see, is that hired nurses generally expect to go home at the end of the day,” he goes on. “Or eventually, at the very least. And they take information with them, intentionally or not. They talk and they gossip, letting things slip. But we can’t just sequester someone like that away from the rest of the world, because they would invariably have people looking for them. Either family or employers, coworkers. Someone who might start asking questions. If the tracks then lead any subsequent investigations directly to the doorstep of a Harbinger …” 

The Doctor solemnly shakes his head, and you finally start to understand. 

“So you figured I was your best bet because the only one who might question my whereabouts is my mother, and she’s …” You’re reluctant to say it, but he nods his agreement all the same. “I see. But it sounds like I won’t have much freedom of movement, if you’re that worried about possible leaks getting out. I am sorry, my lord, but I still don’t think I can take on this responsibility.”

“Not even if it could potentially save your mother’s life?” 

You snap your head around to look over at Regrator who pins you in place with a not unkind smile. 

“What?” 

“Forgive me for butting in, it’s just … with the amount of mora you would be making from this position you could easily afford to hire the best physicians Snezhnaya has to offer. Sure, you might lose out on a couple of months with your mother, or even a year or two, depending on how the hands of fate choose to fall. But if she could be cured in that time then you would be free to enjoy each other's company in relative comfort once the job is completed.” 

Your mind positively reels at this information. Was that truly possible? An equivalent trade of some of your time for more of hers? Did you even dare to believe it? 

“I guess I didn’t really think of it like that, but … is the situation really that imperative, my lord? I - I mean, not to be rude, but is your fa - - your patient that much on borrowed time?” 

The Doctor tilts his face towards you, sending you a look that is no less scathing despite the barrier of his mask standing in the way. “He will be eighty-five years old soon. What do you think? I can’t imagine he has all that many more years in him, although I suppose we would only be so lucky if he doesn’t stubbornly cling to life with everything he’s got.” 

You’re more than a little aghast at how he speaks of this man, but even that is not enough to douse the flickering, hopeful flame that ignites in your heart. It wasn’t what you had set out to do, far from it, and yet you couldn’t conceive of a better outcome, especially when Regrator had been so quick to dismiss your entreaty of him. 

It was, of course, hard to believe that this prickly individual in the bird mask would be your savior over the arguably polite, handsome banker, and yet that seems to be exactly how things have turned out for you. Even if it was only a slim chance at extending your mothers life, perhaps just long enough for you to find some closure for her regarding the disappearance of your father, you knew that this was an opportunity you couldn’t afford to pass up. And besides that, if the Doctor was half as unsympathetic towards the old man as he was when talking about him in front of a complete stranger, then you could only surmise that your presence might be the single source of kindness allotted to him in his final days. You weren’t making this decision because of that, but it is something you take into consideration. 

“Alright, then,” you say at last, shocked at yourself for even considering going through with it. “I’m listening. How much are you going to pay me, so that I know what sort of arrangements to make for my mother? And when would you like me to start?” 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dear mama,

Today, I met old man Zandik for the first time. He is quite the interesting character! I cannot tell you much of my current situation or my employer, of course, and I’m sure this and any future letters to you will be thoroughly inspected before delivery to ensure that nothing of import slips through. I don’t think this much should hurt anything though, or at least I hope it doesn’t. 

But I don’t want you to worry about me or wonder how I’m doing, so I’ve decided it would be in both our best interests to send you periodic updates addressed to your room at the hospital while I’m away. I pray that this, the first of what is sure to be many letters, finds you well. Tell me, are the nurses being kind to you? Has there been any change at all in your health? I know you don’t like to be fussed over but please try not to give the staff there a hard time. They’re only trying to help you, just as I am doing my best to help you in whatever way that I can. 

Once I am finished with this job I promise I’ll come get you and we’ll go on a nice, long trip together!  

Oh, but let me tell you a little about old man Zandik. I suppose I should start calling him ‘Master’ now?

He turned out to be just as advanced in his later years as his associate claimed him to be and, strangely enough, this set any of my lingering doubts regarding his story to rest. I call the man I met at the Northland Bank an associate because … well, it’s a little hard to explain. Actually, I’m not quite sure I even understand it myself. This place is rather disconcerting in that regard, and sometimes it can be exceedingly difficult to make sense of the things I hear or see. 

Luckily, though, Master Zandik is a very grounding presence in his own strange way. To some extent he feels more real than the one in the mask, despite the fact that he did not seem particularly happy to see me standing there with his associate. He even tried to send me away at first, which I am sure you can imagine came as quite the shock! I thought I might pass out right then and there from embarrassment, thinking that there had been some sort of mistake. But the other man insisted that everything was already in order for me to begin my duties and after stressing to him that the advanced payment had already been delivered (and spent!) Zandik reluctantly gave in. I’m not entirely sure what their relation is to cause so much tension between them, but we occupied the rest of the afternoon with him showing me around his laboratory and telling me all about the things inside it. 

Yes, you read that right. A laboratory, mama! I’ve been employed in the service of a real scientist who works for Her Majesty, and who has accomplished quite a lot according to him. It is just as I told you, then, when I had to leave you at the hospital. So you see, there is nothing at all for you to fret about. 

But back to Master Zandik. Although he certainly wasn’t happy with me in the beginning he warmed up quickly enough. Honestly, I think he was just happy to be shown an interest in his work and to spend time around someone other than himself. In another life he might even have been a teacher, a celebrated professor at an equally venerated university. He seemed to rather enjoy explaining things to me despite the fact that I could hardly keep up with much of what he said. 

I suppose that, in a way, this was likely what the man in the mask meant when he said that he didn’t have time to take care of Master Zandik himself. The old man is sharp for his age and far more intelligent than I would have thought it possible for any one person to be, but he also seems a bit lonely. Restless in his advancing age. I’m not sure if my presence here or any amount of interest in his work will be enough to ward off the causal effects of his twilight years, but I’m certainly going to do my best. For your sake as much as his. 

He isn’t nearly as sweet or kindhearted as you are, mama, but I think the two of you would get along splendidly. Something about him almost reminds me of papa. It would have been nice if I’d been able to take care of him in his old age, too. Perhaps, then, Master Zandik will be my temporary substitute in the meantime. I’ll get some good practice in, at least! 

Oh, but I do miss you so. I hope you’ll write me back soon. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it’s a little unnerving being away from home like this. Sometimes I hear strange sounds off in the distance and Master Zandik does not like to let me far out of his sight, so I cannot even investigate the source to put my mind at ease. Her Majesty willing, it is nothing to worry about though. 

Until next time,

With love 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It is undoubtedly something to worry about, you decide with no shortage of fast mounting apprehension. 

In fact, there were a great many things you should be worried about and right at the top of that list was the identity of the mysterious masked person who seemed to come and go with all of the pomp and circumstance of a wandering specter. That strange noise you kept hearing didn’t even crack the top five. 

It was alarming though, causing your blood pressure spike and your heart to race every time you caught it coming from somewhere not that far off in the distance. But you never seemed to get any closer to it no matter where you happened to be standing, nor could you pinpoint which direction it was coming from. And worst of all, Zandik did not seem to even notice it. If anything, your startled reactions appeared to bother him far more than anything else did. 

“And what’s got you so spooked this time?” He grumbles, carefully setting his coffee cup down on its matching saucer with a faint clink from the delicate glass. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghoul passing by, if you ask me.” 

You’re not so sure that’s an entirely inaccurate statement, all things considered, and you nervously turn away from your dusting to face him. “Do you really not hear it? What is that?” 

“Hm?” Tilting his head slightly, Zandik carefully listens for a long moment. The two of you are in his library, perfectly still and silent save for the far off noise that has plagued you since you first arrived here. 

It always sounded off at random intervals throughout the day with no rhyme or reason that you could discern, ensuring it always caught you unawares and ill prepared. Just yesterday you’d nearly dumped boiling water all down your front from jumping so hard at the unexpected shrill. 

At length, he finally gives his head a shake. “I don’t hear anything. You’re imagining it.” 

“I really don’t think I am.” You insist, but it’s weak and unsure. Not exactly convinced of your own convictions when this place was starting to make you feel crazy. 

You’d been here for about a month now and for the most part the work wasn’t anything terrible. You liked Zandik well enough, even if he was occasionally short with you and not quite as easy to please as the letter you’d sent to your mother had implied. Sure, it was wrong to fib or stretch the truth, but you hadn’t wanted her to worry about you when she should have been worrying about herself. 

For the most part you just kept the old man company. Waking him every morning, helping him get dressed and then handing him his cane, when he felt up for it, so you could accompany him down to the lab he so enjoyed dawdling in or, like today, the library. You take your meals together, sit and read together, when time permits, and enjoy the peaceful stillness of the eerily quiet, sprawling mansion together. Sometimes he snaps at you, pinches your thigh to get your attention or chides you for imagined slights against his person, but that was usually the worst of it. 

The one in the bird mask was decidedly much worse and he often appeared without warning, materializing out of some dark nook or cranny to scare you half to death. Even if he were not inclined to such sneaking around, though, you were still likely to have found his presence there with you and the old man disconcerting. 

Because you’d realized quite immediately upon being introduced to Zandik that something was not right here. They were very much alike, those two, with the same hair (although the older’s had started to thin and to dull in color) and their voices were very much the same as well (although the younger’s was more crisp and clear) but you couldn’t quite put your finger on what was off between them. At first you’d thought the masked one had simply lied to you, and they were in fact father and son despite what he’d said to the contrary. And yet …

Watching them interact gave you the impression that this wasn’t likely to be the correct answer either. They were almost like mirror images of one another, in a way, and Zandik was only marginally easier to deal with by simple virtue of the fact that he was reliant on you to take care of many everyday, mundane tasks for him. If he had been even half as spry and independent as his younger counterpart, you were sure you would have been in a world of trouble. 

Anxiously twisting the feather duster in your hands now, you stand there and listen to the distant grating, gnashing, grinding sound that seems as if it is coming from everywhere and somehow nowhere all at once. It gave you the impression of metal biting into metal, tearing and ripping. Crushing. You couldn’t believe he didn’t hear that. 

Eventually lifting his head again, Zandik now peers over at you with a scowl deepening the wrinkles around his mouth. “Is your imagination really that distracting? Those bookshelves aren’t going to dust themselves, you know.” 

“It is not my imagination.” You argue, earning yourself a humorless scoff from him. 

“Then what else could it be? My hearing hasn’t gotten that bad yet. If I can make out the scurrying of rats down in the cellar — and trust me, I most assuredly can — then surely I would also hear this mysterious noise you speak of.”

Grumbling something unkind under his breath, Zandik settles deeper into his chair before going on. “I don’t know where he found you at – some barren street corner, I would imagine. But I feel the need to once again voice my doubts concerning this arrangement. An empty headed, flighty little girl does not seem the best candidate for watching after an old man, if you want my opinion.” 

“I am not a little girl.” You huff, taking great offense to that. 

“Well, you certainly look like one to me.” 

Cheeks growing warm, you have to bite your tongue to stop the impulse to argue any further with him. He was your employer, after all, and he also wasn’t necessarily wrong. To an eighty-four year old you probably did seem not much unlike a child to him. But that didn’t mean you appreciated being talked to like one, and for an uncomfortably long moment terse silence claims the room with only that horrible sound to fill the empty space. 

And then, it stops. 

As suddenly as it started, it recedes back into the void of nothingness and you slowly exhale your great relief. Watching you carefully, Zandik observes the way your shoulders gradually relax and how the tension drains out of your body before he similarly sighs a heavy, world weary breath out through his nose. 

“Come here, silly girl. Let me see you. Don’t be frightened.” 

Still clutching the feather duster, you heed his summons and obediently, albeit anxiously, step across the room to come up beside him. 

He’d felt well enough today to forgo the wheelchair he sometimes needed to get around with when his arthritis was bothering him, relying on only his cane to help him shuffle down to the library with you in tow. As such, he is sitting in a comfortably cushioned, high backed chair in front of a cluttered desk littered with books and papers, a seemingly random pair of forceps and an empty beaker, an assortment of pens and inkwells scattered about the surface. You weren’t sure what he was working on, if he was working on anything at all and not simply wiling away the time. You probably wouldn’t have understood much of it even if you’d asked him, though. Zandik’s mind was something far beyond your scope of comprehension even in his old age. 

Halting a respectful distance from the arm of his chair, you neatly fold your hands in front of you over the white apron that trails down your front. “Yes, Master?” 

Saying nothing, Zandik reaches out to firmly grab hold of your fingers with his mouth pressed in a tight line. You give a small jolt, flushing rather profusely as he tugs, nudging you to step closer to him. The gesture isn’t exactly gentle but it’s not aggressive, either. Just — demanding. And maybe a bit condescending, the way he steers you into place as if you should have innately understood where he wanted you to be. 

Evidently satisfied only when you can feel the bulk of the skirt pushing in on his chair, he releases you and lets his hand drop to the arm rest. Then he turns his attention towards the dusty old book spread open before him, disregarding you completely, and still without uttering so much as a single word in your direction.  

To your surprise it looks like he’s going to ignore you now that you’re standing beside him, his attention fixed on the hefty tome. He neither says or indicates anything to signal what he wants, so you simply stand there, waiting and at attention. 

Then you feel it. 

That same hand almost inconspicuously touches the back of your knee, tickling you ever so faintly when he traces your stockings upward to then slip underneath the hem of your skirt. You go ramrod stiff, shuddering and breaking out into gooseflesh as you stamp down the urge to pull away from him. This was not a unique instance of him putting his hands on you, but you were no more used to it now than the first time it happened. 

“W - what are you doing? Sir?” 

Zandik clicks his tongue, still not even bothering to look up when he responds. “What does it look like I’m doing? Don’t be daft, girl.”

Pursing your lips, you stand there stiff as a board while he slowly works his way higher and higher up the back of your thigh. So grumpy. 

You’d nearly whirled around and slapped him across the face the first time he’d done something like this, mere days after being introduced. At the onset you’d thought he was merely trying to scare you away, hoping to send you packing with complaints of harassment and unfavorable work conditions, but you’d assured yourself that you were made of tougher stuff than that. 

He’d persisted though, even after a few weeks had gone by, and now you weren’t so sure that he wasn’t just taking advantage of his age and his position of authority to feel you up whenever the mood struck him. 

Sometimes it was like this; touching your exposed legs where the housekeeping uniform given to you by the man in the mask didn’t reach down far enough to protect you from his wandering fingers. Other times he’d wait until you were close enough, leaning forward to set his coffee in front of him or picking up a book he’d asked to have taken away, to reach up and innocuously brush his knuckles across your chest. You didn’t like it one bit, but you always thought of your mother in these situations to remind yourself what was at stake here. For her sake, you would put up with just about anything. 

But this time Zandik’s searching fingers are bolder than usual, evidently no longer content with simply touching the parts of you that could be misconstrued as innocent or accidental, if you chose to interpret them that way. This time, he brushes right over the top edge of your stockings, taking a moment to inspect the little metal clasps holding them in place before reaching higher still. 

Your throat suddenly seems to be obstructed with something that feels very much like a boulder, lodged and unbudging, as he now feels along bare skin. His fingers are cold and bony, trembling ever so slightly from the effects of aging, not nerves. He’s perfectly confident, in fact, when he unhesitatingly finds the seam of your panties a moment later and proceeds to almost possessively curl those long, dexterous digits around the pudge of your quim to make you give a great jolt of surprise. 

“M - master Zandik! What - -!” 

“Oh, just hush, you idiot. I’m not hurting you, am I? Eh? No, I didn’t think so. Now stop looking at me like that and focus on this instead of those phantom noises you think you hear.” 

“But … but …” 

Swaying somewhat unsteadily there on your feet, you screw your eyes shut with a low whimper. You’d never had someone touch you like this before and you aren’t sure what to make of any of it. 

On one hand, you try to reason with yourself, he was right in that he wasn’t causing you any harm. It didn’t hurt, at the very least. But on the other it was undoubtedly wrong for him to be helping himself to your body like this. Not only because you were employer and employee, master and servant, and this broke the unspoken understanding between those respective roles, your stations in life. But also because of the great difference in age. 

He was old enough to be your grandfather, for crying out loud! 

You feel more than a smidge bitter about that, and you silently curse him in your head while he nudges the hand between your legs with a deliberate motion that makes his fingers press up into you. The sensation of fleshy lips shifting under the pressure, forced to part for him, quickly has you sucking in a ragged breath that painfully rakes on the way down. 

“W - what do you mean to do, sir?” You warble out, starting to squirm on your feet beside him. Impulsively, you reach behind you with one hand to try and shove the back of your dress down but it is simply no use. His arm remains as uncompromising as ever. “Is this really necessary? I’m s - sorry if I … displeased you.”

“Nonsense. You did nothing of the sort.” He grumbles, the brunt of his focus remaining on the book laid out on the desk while the gesture of his hand seems akin to a mere afterthought. 

“Then why - -“

“Gods, girl. Do you ever stop asking questions? Ever since you came here you’ve been wound tighter than a jack spring, always jumping and scaring at the slightest noise. I’ll have you know that this is precisely why I tried to tell that bastard fool you weren’t needed here.” Snorting a derisive sound, Zandik reaches for the pen sitting next to the book with his right hand. 

Leaving the other to busy between your legs, he jots down some notation or another that you can’t quite decipher when the insistent rubbing of his fingers was beginning to make you feel so very warm. Stuffy, and increasingly stifled. 

“What’s done is already done though, and I suppose you’re here to stay.” He goes on, softening the tone of his voice by only some small margin. “The least you could do is let me tend to you a little bit without all this fuss. If it helps, you can try to think of it as being in exchange for always taking decent enough care of me. You do make a rather agreeable pot of coffee, I have to admit.” 

Blinking back the sting of unshed tears from your eyes, you peer down at him in question but, still, he won’t look up at you. 

Was this supposed to be some sort of reward then? His way of praising you for a month’s worth of hard work rendered, or perhaps as a misguided way of soothing your jittery nerves. That seemed rather backwards to you and you weren’t sure how that could possibly make any sense in his mind, but … 

The growing warmth that slowly settles and spreads across your pussy is frustratingly persuasive. It fogs your brain, making it more and more difficult to think straight even as you somewhat awkwardly shift around on your heels, torn between skittering away from his attentions or nudging into it. In truth you hadn’t given much thought at all to the ways in which a man might someday touch you but this was far too wrong for you to reconcile any of it in your mind. He shouldn’t have been doing this to you. 

And you certainly should not have been enjoying it. Not even a little bit. 

And yet as the seconds continue to tick by, dutifully counted off by the stoic facade of the grandfather clock against the adjacent wall, that’s exactly how your body appears to be responding to him as well as his ministrations. With pleasure, and the eager, excessive slick of your youth. You can feel it gathering along the crease, steadily building up in abundance until it feels like it’s oozing out of you to stick to the cotton of your panties. Dampening, clinging, smearing wetly with every pass of his twitching fingers. Your cunt had never felt as terribly hot as it does now. 

The sensation is overpowering and potent enough that when he finally gives his hand a deliberate twist, locating the outer edge of the gusset and rudely shoving the thin material aside, it very nearly comes as a relief. You can’t help but shudder though, whimpering at the cool brush of wafting air that caresses over your thoroughly swollen sex to make your posture waver. 

Almost unconsciously you find yourself tipping forward, the weight of your upper body too much for your legs to support when your lower half was buzzing, tingling. Turning into molten honey that threatens to drip out onto the floor underneath you. 

Without warning, Zandik’s wizened fingertips slip inside the tight space between flesh and cotton, where he proceeds to drag a harsh line through your weeping slit. You involuntarily jolt at the feeling, and when he chuckles a brief sound in the same heartbeat you can’t be sure if it’s in response to your reaction or the state of arousal he’s found you in. Perhaps it was even both. 

“Interesting. Looks to me like you’re much more eager than you want to let on. Not exactly the pure, innocent maiden you’d have me believe you are, hm?” 

You have a strong mind to correct him on that. To insist that it is only the precise expertise of his fingers and the keen application he applies to your cunt that has made such a mess of you, and not any fault of your own. But you can’t seem to manage it, having neither the oxygen nor the remaining mental capacity to follow through on the impulse. All you can do is stand there, softly panting, while his digits spear through delicate creases and satin inner folds in search of the hidden pearl at the apex of your slit. 

And you know the exact moment he finds it just as well as he does, because you violently twitch so hard your legs almost give out on the spot. One of your hands blindly flies out to slam against the top of the desk in an attempt to restore your balance but it’s no use. Especially not when Zandik sets in to rub over that sensitive spot, drawing tight circles into the pulsing, pinprick nerve cluster. The motion of his hand was at once tender and demanding at the same time. 

Entirely against your will, you let loose a low, faltering sound of rapidly budding ecstasy, unable to hold it back even if you’d tried. The fingers on your pussy give an excited little jump in response to the sound before attacking you with even greater fervor than before. That delicate button, swollen and tender, grinds under the pressure of his attention, dragging against the worn pads of his digits. 

You felt like you were drunkenly spinning through a kaleidoscopic rush of sensation unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. Inebriated and loopy, soaring higher and higher towards the culminative end of your own consciousness. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. You felt like you were going to cry; great big, gasping sobs that would wrack you straight down to the bone. You were going to die here in this library. You were going to — 

“Aah - aaugghhn! M - master Zandik!” 

A harsh, ragged intake of air is all you manage after that rattling plea, feeling as if you were about to tip right over the precipice into some great, gaping maw of absolution. 

But you don’t quite make it that far, hovering poised and shaking for the pin to drop when the door on the opposite side of the room abruptly wrenches open. 

You hear an unwelcomingly familiar voice call out, “is this where you are?” and you wrench yourself upright so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. 

Zandik, too, reacts with a startled little jerk, quickly withdrawing his hand from the inside of your panties just in time for the man in the bird mask to appear in the doorway. One or both of you must look guilty as hell, though, because he pauses there to consideringly observe the scene he’s just walked in on. 

“Am I interrupting something?” He drawls at length, quiet and pointed with barbed wire. 

“N - no, my lord. I was just — checking if master Zandik needed a refill on his coffee. That’s all.”

Heaving another terse exhale, the old man lifts his hand — the one that had just been between your legs, you realize with a great deal of mortified horror — to idly gesture the other inside. “A top off sounds just fine. What do you want? I hope you’re not bringing me another caretaker I didn’t want or ask for.” 

“Oh, don’t be like that.” The Doctor croons, the switch in him flipping just like that. 

You find this aspect of him perhaps most disconcerting of all, and you gratefully turn away to retrieve the silver carafe you’d left sitting by the window when he moves to step through the door. 

“Just because you haven’t realized it yet, that doesn’t mean you don’t need someone around who can fully devote all of their attention to your long list of needs. You are, after all, getting older with each and every passing day, Zandik. The aches and ailments are only going to continue to accumulate with time. I think you know that just as well as I do.” 

“You have a working pair of hands, don’t you? Or is that mouth of yours the only thing that works?” 

“It’s not my responsibility.” He volleys back, keeping his tone light and airy. Playful, almost, or so you might think if you didn’t already know him better than that. 

Keeping your head down so as not to draw any unwanted attention to yourself, you cautiously make your way back over to Zandik’s side where you lean across his shoulder to refill the cup on the table. He’s back to ignoring your presence though, which is just fine with you, and you quickly skitter away when the Doctor steps up to the other side of the desk without giving you so much as a second glance. And thank Her Majesty for that small mercy! 

Retreating back some distance to one of the tall bookshelves, you settle in to resume your earlier dusting. Or pretend to, anyway.  

You’d picked up very early on that it was best to keep yourself busy and preoccupied while they had their discussions, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to stay well within earshot to listen. It was one of the good things about being able to make yourself so small and unobtrusive that you just sort of blended right in with the scenery, and likely why the Doctor had set his machinations on you that day in the bank. You were easy to overlook when he had far more important things to be dealing with. 

“You say it’s not your responsibility.” Zandik finally grumbles, sounding as if he was still turning that statement over in his head. “As if you should even have the luxury of choice in the matter.” 

“It’s not. It really isn’t.” The Doctor insists. “But let’s put that aside for now. I have some interesting news to share with you, if you’d like to know what that most impulsive segment of yours has been up to recently.” 

Ever so slowly, you turn your head to better angle your ear towards the desk. Segments. You’d heard that word a few times now over the course of your stay here, but you had no idea what it meant or what it might refer to. You were curious though, and as always that curiosity of yours tended to get you into trouble. This was clearly not a conversation you should have been privy to, and yet here you were. 

Perhaps thinking the exact same thing, Zandik uneasily shifts in his chair. “And what might that be? I trust it must be good if you went to the trouble of tracking me down.” 

The Doctor says something about Sumeru, then, something that makes absolutely no sense to you. There’s an eager lilt in his voice when he talks about it though, calling it lost technology and forbidden research, unexpected breakthroughs. You find that a little odd, admittedly, because you were very much under the impression that he worked directly under the Tsaritsa. Why would she forbid something that one of her loyal subjects was working on? 

Unless … it was not she who had forbidden it? 

It’s hard to imagine that anyone or anything’s authority would trump that of Her Majesty’s. Even the other gods in neighboring nations seemed pale in comparison to her splendor, her heavy handed rule of law, but that seemed to be exactly what they were talking about. 

Unfortunately the subject is changed too quickly for you to glean much of anything from it, moving away from those far more interesting tidbits to focus instead on minute details and data, probability statistics of success or failure, resource management and funding arrangements. It’s all very vague in your mind. Amorphous and shapeless without any basis of understanding to contextualize any of it. They may as well have been speaking a different language and it doesn’t take long for you to mentally tune them out in favor of revisiting that bizarre exchange with Zandik. 

It was strange, wasn’t it, for him to overstep like that? Even by his own standards, that had been a bit much. And your pussy was still soaking wet with the evidence of his ambitious intents upon you, reminding you just how sticky and uncomfortably slick you were with every little shift of your body. Against your better judgments, you find that you ache terribly for the unfulfilled thrill of culmination that had been mercilessly ripped from you even as you silently rebuke it in the same breath. 

You felt sick and slimy just thinking about him touching you as he had, angry at your own helplessness to do anything to stop it from happening. But you also couldn’t ignore the tight, wanting knot in your loins, the powerfully compelling urge to offer your cunt up to the perusal of his hands again. It had felt nice, you’re beyond ashamed to realize. Good, in a way that felt like it could all too easily become addicting if you weren’t careful.

Had Zandik been even just thirty years younger you probably would have been wrestling with quite the moral conundrum right now. He is not, though, and so your decision was an easy one to make. You just couldn’t afford to get involved with someone that many decades your senior and whose position in the social hierarchy far outclassed yours. Simply entertaining the notion was in itself craven and perverted. 

But if he were to be the one who initiated it again … it’s not as if you could really tell your employer ‘no’, could you? 

These contradictory and confusing thoughts whirl about inside your head over the next half hour or so while the two of them go back and forth over this or that and the other. They aren’t exactly on friendly terms, given the sharp barbs they regularly exchange between them, apparently unable to stop themselves from taking jabs at pride and ego. They were barely even cordial, in fact. 

But whatever is bubbling beneath the surface does not reach its boiling point today, and your ears prick back into focus when you hear the Doctor start to make the usual indications that he was to take his leave. 

You’re not sure if you should be happy about that or not, hand tightening on the useless feather duster you’d all but forgotten you were holding. You certainly had not used it for its intended purpose at any time since Zandik first called you to his side. 

But between your nosy interest in their discussion and the dripping wet cunt between your legs, you’d been quite distracted from your duties. Now, however, you jump to get back to your dusting while you listen to heavy boots moving across the floor. A shuffling turn, a redistribution of weight, the purposeful thunk of a heel landing squarely on old wood with an accompanying low creak. 

And then gloved hands are looping around you from behind, very nearly making you jump out of your skin when they anchor around your waist without warning. Heart lodging in your throat, you whip your head around to look back at the featureless mask hovering just over your shoulder. 

“M - m - my lord?” You squeak in fright. 

“How adorable. But don’t pretend to be surprised now, little mouse. I know full well that you were listening to our conversation with nothing short of rapt fascination, weren’t you?” The Doctor croons, clearly amused by that simple audacity rather than enraged by it like you otherwise might have thought him to be. 

“You … you knew? But you kept talking anyway?” 

“Why, of course. It’s not as if there’s anything you can do with this information, is there? The strict stipulations of our arrangement were made for a very good reason, you know. And besides … you’ve been standing in this exact spot the entire time, not doing much of anything that I would even begin to call productive. You weren’t exactly trying to hide it.” 

You flinch at his pointed accusation, cheeks flooding with embarrassed heat. The Doctor merely chuckles a faint sound at your reaction though, neither chiding you for your indiscretions or punishing you for them. He really couldn’t care about you eavesdropping, then. Clearly quite confident that you would find no easy way to leak what you’ve heard to the outside world for as long as you were trapped here inside this sprawling, resoundingly empty manor home. 

Regrettably for you, he was likely correct about that. 

“I’ll try to be sneakier about it next time.” You promise him, earning another quiet snort of amusement. “In the meantime, was there anything I could help you with, sir? Your hands …” 

He gives your waist a tight squeeze at the reminder, blocky fingers digging deep into lovehandles for a brief moment to make you squirm. You couldn’t figure out what their fascination was with touching you so indecorously like this, and you whimper softly at the sharp little jabs of discomfort that spark through you. 

The Doctor doesn’t release his hold though, not even when you nervously rock forward as if to slip out of his grasp and flee. His fingers are like iron manacles where they hold you to the spot, demanding compliance and promising to take it by force should you get any bright ideas about fighting him. Those hands were not unlike Zandik’s in that sense, but somehow even more ruthless. Unsympathetic. 

“Ooh, don’t be like that. I just thought to check in on you, that’s all.” He coos when he leans closer, hunching over you now as if to swallow you up in a final, damning rustle of black bird feathers. “It’s just as I thought, though. You’ve taken to this assignment exceptionally well by the looks of things. I guess you really were the best candidate for the job after all.” 

“T - … thank you for the compliment, my lord.” 

“Think nothing of it. And there will be plenty more where that came from if you continue to meet my expectations of you.” Dropping his voice to a whisper, somehow sultry as the night and menacing as a bared-fang hiss at the same time, he goes on. “You’ve been taking awfully good care of that decrepit old wretch, haven’t you? And you have my immense thanks for that, of course. I do wonder though how I should show my appreciation for all of your hard work so far …”

With that vaguely ominous murmur, his hands slide low to deliberately smooth over your hips and across your thighs in a sudden rush of contact that makes you gasp. But there’s no time to stop it when everything happens much too fast for you to even comprehend that it’s happening at all. 

One moment he’s taking big, wrenching handfuls of the skirt, gathering it in his fists, and the next he’s got the bulk of the material hiked up around your stomach. You jolt at the abrupt exposure of your lower half, head snapping down to watch the Doctor snake one arm around you and trap the material in place. This allows him to reach back down with the other where he’s now free to palm at your underwear in a too tight squeeze that has you twisting in his hold, biting your tongue to stop the yelp that tries to force its way out. 

You couldn’t believe he would do this when Zandik was still sitting just behind the two of you at the desk. Was he insane? 

“My, my, isn’t this an interesting discovery. Your panties are damp, little mouse. I wonder what could possibly be the cause of that.”

Turning your face away from him to fix upon the opposite wall instead, you blindly reach down and clamp your fingers around the wrist between your legs. But it’s no use. He’s as unbudging as a brick wall against you. Even trying to squeeze him out with your thighs doesn’t do you any good. 

“S - stop that! Let go of me!” You hiss viciously under your breath, practically spitting at him like a viper. 

“What, you’re not interested?” He laughs against your temple to send hot breath dancing across your skin, and you respond by trembling fiercely in his hold. “Well, that seems a little backwards if you ask me. Do you really think that old fool can give you something I can’t? Frankly, my dear, I’m not even sure if he can still get it up.”

You give him a sharp, incredulous look, nearly taking your own eye out on the pointy beak of his mask, but all he does is laugh in response. 

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re welcome to do whatever you want, within reason. I’m certainly not going to stop you, and far be it that I would try to prohibit the pursuit of scientific discovery if you’d like to find out for yourself. I’m just saying that the statistical odds aren’t exactly stacked in your favor. But on the off chance that he isn’t completely impotent … I can still promise you that I would take much better care of you than he ever could.” 

As if in proof of that decree, the Doctor gives his probing hand a purposeful twist, snagging the edge of the fabric with the crook of his fingers. Without a single ounce of regard for how you might feel about it, he peels your underwear aside to once again expose your weeping slit to the cool air in the library. It makes you realize anew just how swollen and slick your pussy is, shaking with a plaintive arch of your spine as you seethe through your teeth. 

Ever unconcerned with silly notions such as time or place, even potential audiences, Dottore delves two of those gloved digits inside the pudgy grip of your labia. He is nothing like Zandik in the way he paws at you now, ignoring your tingling clitoris entirely in favor of locating your dripping opening instead. And when he finds it easily enough by following the source of all that slippery discharge to its wellspring, he doesn’t even hesitate to thrust his fingers inside. 

The sudden breach of your body, this unexpected penetration, has you frantically rising up on your tip toes in a desperate bid to escape it. You’re trapped in his arms though, with nowhere to run, and you frantically drop the feather duster to the sound of a dull clatter against the floor so you can slap that hand over your mouth instead. It takes everything you have not to shriek in distress and rising panic, the sting of fresh, salty tears making your vision blur. 

It wasn’t just the stretch to your hitherto untested passage, the deep ache that it leaves in you. These things alone would have been more than enough to have you sobbing, lamenting your own ruin in this drafty place. But what truly makes your throat cinch shut, making it impossible to breathe, for your stomach to wrench so violently you think you might really faint dead away, is how readily your cunt accepts the violation.  

You’re too wet, too puffy and swollen to keep him out, and the Doctor is able to freely impale you on those long, searching digits straight up to the second joint with hardly any effort at all to show for it. Zandik’s patient, coaxing caresses over that long stretch of minutes had done its job and done it exceptionally well. You sway in the Doctor’s hold, dizzy and reeling, as you throb around the intrusion, wheezing nauseatingly into your palm. 

“Oh? What’s this now?” 

Drawling a slow, reverberating chuckle, he starts to worm deeper into you, forcing your tight inner sleeve to accommodate his presence within. It’s an uncomfortably vice-like fit, to be sure, when your constricting passage squeezes around his fingers as if to strangle them. And yet that does absolutely nothing to daunt his tireless pursuit of reaching as far into your person as he can go, singlemindedly bullying your tender pussy open one malicious inch at a time. 

Finally, he slides the rest of the way home with one last, insidious wriggle of those astute digits, a messy click sounding from your cunt when his knuckles press into you hard. The foreign sensation of being stuffed full like this nearly has your eyes rolling back in their sockets even as you awkwardly shift to lessen some of the pressure. It’s a futile endeavor, though. There’s no escaping his clutches like this, no way to lift yourself off of his hand when he has you stuck in place by your pussy. All you can manage is to stiffly writhe against him, the heels of your little buckled shoes shuffling a disoriented tempo against the floor in your desperate search for balance atop the spear of his fingers. 

“You took that surprisingly well,” he murmurs, directly into your ear, so close that you can feel his coarse lips brushing the outer shell. It comes as a small, distant relief that he sounds so pleased with you, evidently satisfied by the reluctant acquiescence of your body. You could only hope that this meant he wouldn’t try to force you to bend any further than he already had. 

“And you didn’t even scream either. Not that it would have done you any good though. I’m sure you understand perfectly well by now that no one will be coming to your rescue here, hm? But that’s just as well, darling mouse. I do so detest the sound of wailing.” 

The Doctor’s sturdy frame shudders against yours when he issues another low, grinding laugh, chuckling into the side of your head. You blearily come out of your stupor now that what you think must be the worst of it has passed, alertness slowly returning to you as you stir within the confines of his arms. But the one around your waist merely tightens, keeping you securely fastened to him, while the other flexes with the tensing of musculature and chorded sinew. 

In torturous slow motion, the fingers inside your trembling quim begin to retreat. Sliding out from the clinging grip of you one mind numbing fraction at a time until only the first joint remains wedged. Then he pushes back in, at that same staggered pace, gliding through the sticky mess along your guts until you’ve taken both of his first two fingers in their entirety again. The same wet, sloppy squelch as before punctuates the air, sounding unbearably loud in the otherwise still and silent library. 

You almost curse yourself for even considering it right now, given your own predicament, and yet you can’t help but wonder what Zandik must be thinking. Listening to his younger counterpart — because that’s all you can think of him as — patiently working you open with his hand, the muffled gasps and whines that slip out from behind your cupped palm. The bow legged shuffle of your awkwardly splayed feet, its cause unmistakable. The tall tell sound of a drenched, terribly stuffed pussy being worked over, manipulated, and plucked to vibrating fever pitch. 

Was he possibly even watching, having turned around in his chair to observe the spectacle that unfolds before him? 

It was not so different from what he himself had already done to you, in truth, but the Doctor takes a much different approach in his defilement of your body. He is not nearly as doting in his methodology of playing with your cunt as the old man was, nor particularly gentle about the way he crooks his thrusting fingers and jabs at your upper wall, as if to reach all the way through you to come out at your bellybutton. He’s demanding and forceful, merciless. And you positively flood around his thrusting digits, quite against your will. 

The same nearly suffocating pressure from before rapidly swells throughout your loins to leave them knotted and twisted, turning molten within the protective cradle of your internal organs. It feels like your cunt is melting all over again. Liquifying into a mess of warm, sticky mead. It leaves you soaring and panicked, drunk on the potent rush of endorphins that crashes over you and drowns you all at once. This time you really were going to — 

“That’s it, little mouse. Ride my hand. Yesss, just like that. Chase your pleasure for me. There, there. That’s a good girl. Are you going to cum for me? Go on. Don’t be scared. You’ve already ruined my glove with the proof of your innocence, haven’t you? What harm could a bit more do?”

You struggle to make any sense at all of what it is he’s saying, whining a frantic sound in the back of your throat even as your hips pitifully jump in his palm. It’s impossible to think straight, just as it is impossible to breathe like this, but you still find yourself bobbing your head in agreement all the same. Whatever it was that awaited you on the other side, you knew you wanted it. Needed it. Craved it more than anything else right now when he had you wound so terribly tight. 

But that suffocating blanket of relief was not meant to be yours, clearly, because the Doctor waits until you’re teetering right on the edge again before he cruelly rips his fingers away. Wailing behind your hand at the sudden loss, you twist and pathetically buck in his hold while your pussy sadly clenches around nothing. The empty void he’s left in you just makes you want it even more, practically out of your mind with a hitherto unknown ecstasy of the flesh. 

He just doesn’t care though, merely laughing at your flagrant animal display as he carefully moves to withdraw his hand from your underwear. Realizing that he truly intends to leave you like this, worked up and wanting, has you gasping like a beached fish when you tilt your face down to look between your legs in shellshocked disbelief. 

And the shimmering thread of gossamer slick that you find stretching between the rumpled edge of your panties and his glistening fingers promptly sends a fresh thrill of mortification though your system. 

You really were melting. 

“Ah, there’s a good pet.” He purrs, quite pleased with the show you’ve unintentionally put on for him. The bastard. “I think I rather like the face you make when you’re trying not to cry. It’s very becoming on you, if I do say so myself.” 

The Doctor lifts his hand towards you then, aiming on a clear and steady trajectory right for the fingers you have clasped over your mouth. But you screw your eyes shut and try to turn your head away from him, squirming in an attempt to free yourself. 

It does you no good, not any more than it did all the other times you’ve tried to reject what he’s doing to you, and after only a brief struggle of clashing wills he finally manages to yank your scrabbling palm away. 

“Here you are. Open up, little mouse.” Murmuring soft condescensions at you, he nudges his sticky fingers at your mouth and persistently follows after you with them each time you try to twist away. “Don’t fuss now. Take your medicine like a big girl. It's doctor's orders. You understand.” 

“Mmmn! N - no - -!” 

You don’t get the chance to say anything more on the matter when the Doctor rudely shoves his digits past your lips, stuffing your mouth full and silencing any other protests you might have had. The taste of leather and oil, and your own cunt floods your tastebuds in an instant, and you squeal a harried sound around the intrusion but it’s already too late. His long fingers settle across your tongue, keeping your jaw wedged open around them to leave you with no other choice than to grudgingly suck him clean. 

It’s hard not to feel humiliatingly infantile in that moment while you work your mouth around the intrusion, especially when your compliance earns you a masculine hum of approval from your assailant. But you don’t like it, not one bit, grimacing at the bitter taste of salt and other secretions even as you dutifully swallow it down. It’s not as if you could do much of anything else in this situation. Not when he has you clasped to the front of him with the reinforced steel of his forearm. 

“There. Isn’t that better? Don’t you feel appropriately coddled now, dear? Certainly much better than whatever that old fossil did for you, I trust.” 

You shoot him a sharp, grumpy scowl from the corner of your eye but the Doctor only snorts a bemused sound, finally pulling his fingers from your mouth once he’s deemed them to be thoroughly serviced. 

“My, that’s quite the look, isn’t it? Although I suppose I can’t blame you for being a bit fussy with me, I feel I must warn you to make sure you’ve appropriately fixed your face by the time Pantalone stops by to pay you a visit. We wouldn’t want to rouse his concerns regarding your treatment here, now would we?” 

Somehow that manages to pierce through the inebriated fog hanging over your head and, still harshly panting in the aftermath of your ordeal, you turn your face towards him in question. “Lord Regrator? He … he’s coming here?”

“Why, of course. This is one of his properties, after all.” 

The unexpected bombshell of this information leaves you thoroughly floored, so much so that you don’t even think to yank yourself free when the Doctor loosens his hold on you. With an amicable pat to your hip, he finally lets you down to stand on your own two feet again before he pulls away, disengaging from your person. But not without a belittling smack to your ass that makes your cheeks blaze anew. 

You’d simply assumed that this manor house belonged to Zandik or perhaps the Lord Harbinger himself. Both of them, even. The notion that this was in fact Regrator’s home hadn’t even crossed your mind. He’d said it was only one of them, though, so perhaps he didn’t frequent it all that often? That would at least explain why you hadn’t seen him even once over the last month. 

Feeling a bit cowed now, you give a prim little sniff and set about smoothing your uniform out to the best of your ability. That bird-faced menace had wrinkled the dark skirt beyond repair, damn him. 

But still, he lingers just over your shoulder even when you try very hard to ignore him, chuckling another low sound when you refuse to give him anymore of your attention. 

“Don’t pout. That was only a simple demonstration, darling mouse, but I promise to play with you much more thoroughly next time. I’ll make sure to set aside enough time, just for you. Let's call it … a bonus, shall we? But do remember what I said, won’t you? Whatever that old coot can do for you, I can do so much better.” 

Unable to help yourself, you snap another sharp look at him in warning, embarrassed and humiliated in equal measure. That it only earns you another sharp laugh for your trouble frustrates you a great deal, and you stand there stewing in your anger when he at last turns to leave with one last bark of amusement. The sound of his boots moving across the floor precedes the click of the door, the groan of old hinges and then the slam of it shutting behind him. 

And finally you are enveloped in still, peaceful silence again. 

Or would have been, had your stomach not been twisting itself into a thrumming ball of knots. 

Cautiously slow, you peer over your shoulder to look back at the desk. 

Sure enough you find Zandik’s hunched frame sitting right where you’d left him. He’d heard every last bit of it, then. Even if his hearing was not quite as keen as he’d claimed it to be, he was still sitting in much too close proximity to have missed any of it. Double damn that masked fiend! And you were quite certain he’d intentionally put on that little display just for Zandik’s benefit. You couldn’t even begin to guess at why he would do something like that, but it was becoming increasingly more obvious to you that the Doctor was nothing more than a selfish bully. It probably pleased him to no end to swoop in and steal something that he likely already suspected the old man wanted for himself. 

And yet you still hesitate there in front of the crammed bookshelves for a long moment, wrestling with your indecision when you were so unsure how to proceed from here. A very real part of you wants to flee from this room, this house, the sprawling grounds outside and disappear into the snowy mountains, never to be seen again. Not once have you ever been so terribly stricken with shame in all of your life. 

But the logical, rational part of your brain knew you couldn’t do that. Your mother needed the money and Zandik, too, needed your company. You couldn’t just leave him to the care of that horrible man even if you did wish that a hole would open up in the floor and swallow you into the bowels of the earth so you wouldn’t have to deal with this mess. 

Desperately fumbling for your resolve, you finally make up your mind and start to inch your way over to Zandik’s chair. His attention remains steadfastly fixed upon the book in front of him, however, and as you get closer you can tell this is very much intentional on his part. He doesn’t want to look at you. Oh, how in the world were you possibly going to navigate this precarious situation now? 

“M - Master Zandik?” You tentatively hedge, coming up alongside him on a nervous shuffle. “Is there anything I can get for you? Is your coffee still warm?” 

He doesn’t respond beyond a mute shake of his head, looking so utterly crestfallen and dejected in his high backed chair that it tugs at your heartstrings something fierce. It was like the air had been let out of a balloon and he now sat, deflated, stewing in his own melancholy. 

You feel immediately and irrevocably terrible, even though you had no idea why he would behave like this. Anger would have been understandable, perhaps even preferable. You could probably understand it a lot more than his currently despondent mood, anyway. 

In all honesty, you hadn’t thought he cared all that much for you to begin with, the way he always treated you like nothing more than a proper nuisance. But you’d have to puzzle that out another day. 

Scrambling for something appropriate to say in the present, you hear yourself impulsively blurt, “I’m sorry you had to listen to that. It was not my intention to …” 

To, what? Be assaulted against your will? No, that wasn’t it. But what did you call it then? Was it disrespectful to him, that you’d been accosted by his associate without putting up more of a fight? Was that what he was upset about?

Or had it been a blow to his ego for him to sit there, listening, while the Doctor gleaned such explosive results from a similar perusal of your cunt? Dripping just as wet as before, and sore now, soaking into your panties with the proof of what the other man had done to you while you stood there next to Zandik begging for his acknowledgement. 

You have absolutely no idea what to say or how to fix this, if it even could be fixed. 

But, at length, he finally exhales a weary breath, inspiring a low flutter of hope in your guts as you watch him slowly sit up in his chair, the gesture stiff. Halting. 

“It’s nothing for you to apologize for, stupid girl.” He grumbles, obviously unhappy. “This is just how things are, isn’t that right? The strong rule over the weak, and the young replace the old. I knew that, of course. But …” 

The creased wrinkles along his brow deepen slightly when he frowns as if in thought. It’s not hard to see he’s pondering over some troublesome aspect of this situation, either his own feelings on the matter or the circumstances that had led to this end result, and you patiently wait there at his elbow for a conclusion to be reached. 

You can’t even begin to guess at what he’ll say next, but somehow or another the very last thing you expect is, “It’s surprisingly frustrating, though. I wouldn’t have thought I’d still care about these things at this age.” 

Your stomach pulls with a faint tug of uncertainty. “Sir?” 

Giving his head another brief shake, Zandik allows himself to recline back against the cushioned support behind him where he finally sends you a sidelong glance. 

“The feeling of being one upped. Bested. And by myself, no less. It seems that no matter how old I get or how much I think I’ve matured over time, a man’s pride remains a delicate thing. Even when I know I simply can’t compete on the same physical level anymore, it still manages to wound almost as much as admitting this to you does.” 

You slowly blink at that. So that’s what this was about. And worse, it made a certain amount of sense that he should feel this way. You’d been given to him, promised to be his servant, only for that masked man to turn around and lay claim on you himself. Even if the logic was a bit backwards, seeing as you’d never agreed to your body being a part of the deal, you did understand it on some level. 

“I see.” You say at last. “That way of thinking isn’t unfounded, I suppose. But … Master Zandik, please forgive me for speaking out of turn, it’s just. I really don’t think that this is something you should be concerned about.”

A mirthless laugh punches out of him, laced with the startings of his ire. “And why is that? Don’t try to coddle me, girl. I don’t need your sympathy or my ego fluffed. It is simply the way of the world.” 

Flinching slightly, you almost find yourself backing down. He was getting short with you now, and you so hated to agitate him, but you foolishly decide to stand your ground on this. You had to. 

“Master, that is just not true. Of course you’re not wrong to say that he is on a different level than you physically, but that’s not all there is to it. There are — other factors at play here. Things that you aren’t considering.” 

Zandik scoffs an impatient sound. “Such as? Go on then. Tell me all about it, if you know so much.”

You quickly draw a purposeful breath to do just that, but the words immediately get stuck in your throat. Panic starts to set in. How were you possibly supposed to explain to him that he was the more agreeable choice — even despite his age and physical condition, even if he thought those things made him inferior to the Doctor — and you liked him better by simple virtue of the fact that he had not terrorized you as the masked man had?

Your cunt still throbbed with the lingering evidence of that, sore and achy in the aftermath of his rough treatment whereas Zandik’s almost affectionate petting had only left you craving more. If you were going to have your innocence stripped by anyone then you would have preferred it to be him. 

But you couldn’t just say that! What would you look like, inviting an old man to touch you in that manner? And that was to say nothing of the fact that he was clearly just waiting to write off whatever you had to say as mere lip service? Something to mend his bruised pride and make him feel marginally better about himself, candy for a scraped knee. But unless you could actually figure out how to convince him of your sincerity it would never amount to anything of worth in his mind. Just pretty, placating words. The sympathy he already told you he didn’t want. 

So, what was the solution? 

The two of you stay like that for an uncomfortably long stretch of minutes, just looking at one another, while you frantically scramble for the answer to that exceedingly difficult question. Seeing the flustered uncertainty on your face, however, he eventually turns away with a gravelly sound of annoyance. 

“As I thought. That will be all for now. Leave me to my work.” 

Your knotted stomach plummets into the ground at your feet. “But, sir - -“

“I said leave me to it!” 

Jolting at the harsh reprimand in his voice, you take a frightened little step back from him. He’d never hit you before, not in earnest anyway. You didn’t count the quick swats he’d sometimes give your hands if you were reaching for something you shouldn’t have been in the lab when you accompanied him down there. But seeing the old man this outraged, you aren’t so sure he won’t start. 

And yet, in spite of it all, Zandik instead just shuts you out completely. With a singleminded focus, he sits up in his chair and leans over his book again, taking up his pen in the right hand. Ignoring you completely, as if you didn’t even exist anymore within the narrow stretch of his world. Just like it was when you’d first arrived here. 

To say you’d simply stretched the truth in your letter would have been an understatement. It had taken you almost an entire week to get him to speak to you at all, and another after that before he would engage in anything even remotely resembling a friendly conversation. This was all wrong. You couldn’t go back to walking on eggshells after all that hard work you’d put in just to earn even a tiny sliver of his trust. That damned Doctor had thrown everything into disarray simply because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. You had to think fast and you had to think smart. 

There was only one thing that came to mind which might remedy this situation though, and you weren’t so sure it would work. You also weren’t convinced you had the stomach for it, especially after everything else your poor cunt had already endured today, but you at least had to try. You needed to show him you weren’t just saying things to protect his pride but that you really, truly meant it. 

Your heartbeat slams a violent, pounding rhythm against your ribcage as you make your decision on a spur of the moment whim and slowly reach down to grab at the bulk of your housekeeping uniform, lifting the skirt up around your hips. Just that simple act makes your skin crawl, having never exposed yourself to anyone like this before. Not of your own volition, anyway, and you pointedly keep your chin tucked so you won’t have to look at him as you shuffle right back up into the space you just vacated a moment ago. Silent and hopeful as you present your cunt to him in offering. 

At first he just continues to ignore you, the whole of his attention fixed on the birdlike scrawl he scratches out on the sheet of notes. Not for the first time you wonder what he’s working on but say nothing for fear that it would just come out a jumbled mess and further embarrass you when you were already internally withering. 

All you can do now is wait for him to decide whether or not to acknowledge you, whether he would keep you or send you away. But you intrinsically understood that the only way you were going to get through to him was by showing Zandik that you weren’t simply coddling him with empty words. 

And finally, after what feels like many lifetimes has crept by at a glacial pace, he finally brings his attention up with a particularly bothered sigh. Turning towards you at last, he impassively takes in the sight of you standing there with your panties flashed at him, the deeply frazzled look on your face and the death grip you’ve got on the hiked up skirt. 

You’re not sure how you must look to him in that moment — like some tawdry trollop, if you had to take a guess — but he doesn’t move or say anything at all until, eventually, you start to self-consciously squirm under his piercing gaze. 

“And what’s this, now?” He says in a clipped tone of voice, dropping his pen to the desk with a noisy clatter. His eyes remain locked on you, however, not dissimilar to those of a predator staring down a helpless prey animal, and you hope that this is a good sign. Maybe that meant he would actually listen to you now. 

Yet you still can’t quite seem to find your voice, completely choked up by your own self conscious embarrassment, so you make do with simply nudging your pelvis forward to indicate what you want from him. But Zandik just narrows his eyes, glowering at you from behind the single lens of his monocle, as if he expected this to be some cruel, insidious trap. 

“You want me to touch you, is that it? Well? Speak, girl, before I decide to put your mouth to better use than all that inane prattling you’re so prone to. You won’t shut up when I want you to but then you’re as silent as a crypt when I ask you a simple question.” He scoffs a rough sound and then, more gently, adds, “I would have thought you’ve had enough of other people’s hands on you for one day.” 

Nervously biting your lip, you offer up a slow shake of your head. “I - it’s not that, Master Zandik. I just … it felt — better when you did it. So I thought you might want to … finish what you started earlier. That’s all.”

As far as appeals to pride and ego are concerned, it’s not a particularly clever one.   

But something still shifts behind his eyes, something you have no name for and which you were very much unaccustomed to having directed at you. It looked like something akin to a distant flicker of heat though, the curlings of genuine interest making the dulled irises subtly light up from within. 

Is this what it was like to have a man look at you with plainly unbridled lust, you wonder, even as he slowly reaches out for you with a silent gesture. 

Your breath starts to come short again when his bony fingers slip into the space between your thighs, finding the gusset of your panties once more and pressing up into them. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat at the unmistakably dampened quality of the material while you tremble weakly at the contact. 

For a tortuously long moment, Zandik just takes his time petting over you through that thin, flimsy barrier, coaxing your pussy into buzzing for him again. Testing if you were really telling the truth. And you were. His touch was so much more intentional, less impatient, than the Doctor’s, and it nearly bowls you over how quickly your arousal skyrockets back to full force under his watchful eye. 

That probably wasn’t too terribly surprising though, you supposed, given that you’d already been denied the relief of absolution twice now. And yet that was precisely why you were so eager to reposition yourself back into his good graces again. You could have lied to yourself, convinced your heavy conscience that you were only doing this for his sake, to ensure melancholia didn’t take hold of an already sensitive constitution. But that would have been a boldfaced lie. 

In truth it was your cunt urging you on, dictating your choices, and you rattle out a threadbare little moan when he eventually turns in his chair to better face you. 

Using both hands now, Zandik pinches at the corners of your underwear and ever so gently tugs them down your thighs. One inch at a time they drag lower and lower, until the rumpled cotton finally meets the tops of your stockings. They can’t go any further than that with the garterbelt clasps in the way, but that is all he needs. 

Shivering at the molten rush that sweeps over you, pussy hot and swollen, bared fully out in the open like this, you sway almost dizzily there on your feet. “Nngh, Master Zandik … please. Please touch me. J - just like you did before. Please?” 

He faintly clicks his tongue even though he’s already half way through the motion of reaching up between your legs again. But this time his cool digits touch skin and slick pubic hair, applying just a small amount of pressure on your slit to make it part for him. 

Only to immediately draw a sharp little breath. “No wonder your panties felt so wet. You’re positively soaked. I’m sure a nice, hard cock would just slip right in there, wouldn’t it? Is that what you want?  Are you secretly hoping I’ll fuck you here and now, you stupid little girl?” 

Equally aghast at his crass language and running hotter than ever before at the deeply felt response it inspires within your body, you tip your head back to groan up at the ceiling. “Oough. Don’t say that. Please. Don’t even think about it. That’s so … it’s …”

Zandik rumbles a low chuckle at that, more and more of his usual self assured confidence returning to him now as he nudges further up into the fleshy grip of your labia. “What else am I supposed to think about when I’ve got such a fresh, lovely young thing offering herself up to me like this? Even an old man’s cock still works, you know.” 

You can’t help the way you whimper at the thought of it, positively gushing against his worn fingertips when they locate your clit and set in to rub. The glide is perfectly smooth and lubricated, and that delicate pearl simply pulses under his steady attention.  

Your hands shake as you hike your skirt up a bit higher, jutting your pelvis further into that mind numbing source of pressure. It really does feel good, so much better than whatever that selfish Doctor had forced you to endure. This was something else entirely, and it has your vision blurring around the edges while you try to find your bearings and orient yourself again, bracing squarely on your heels. 

It’s an effort in futility though. Just like before, the surging tide of pleasure rushes up to swallow you and it sweeps you off your feet, pulling you under the current. Your head swims and your chest tightens. Knees wobbling faintly in their locked positions. It’s too much and, somehow, not enough at the same time. You could almost sob from how intensely your pussy thrums with the static electricity of your oncoming release, every single nerve ending in you vibrating at a hitherto unheard of frequency. 

And to think, it was all because of a man who was old enough to be your grandfather. 

“Zuh - Zandik! Master, I … ooughh, I’m so — so …!” 

“Then let it go. You’ve already got my fingers soaked, a bit more won’t hurt anything. Don’t over think it. Yes, that’s right. Just keep pressing that sweet little cunt into my hand, now. Just like that.” 

You can do nothing else, in fact, eagerly rolling your hips into the motion now. The building tension within you abruptly doubles, then triples, and you screw your eyes shut when pulsing starbursts flash across your vision to effectively blind you. Letting out a faltering mewl of pleasure, you readily give yourself over fully to that hot, throbbing warmth that emanates out from your core. You can feel everything. The nudge of your pudgy labia moving with his hand. The excess slick that oozes and drips out of you. The fleshy, swollen bud of your clit rolling, rolling, rolling under his fingertips. 

And you finally cum, the thread snapping so suddenly, almost violently, that you jerk in place. A strange keening noise rattles out of you as you shake into your orgasm, pelvis stuttering while he continues to rub, rub, rub. You have no choice but to ride it to completion and you weakly shudder through the spasms, struggling to remain upright and erect. That’s an exceedingly difficult task, however, when it felt like the whole world was being flipped upside down on its head around you. 

Finally wheezing a haggard, utterly spent moan into the static charged air of the quiet library, you abruptly slam back into your own body a small eternity later. The unexpectedness of it staggers you, damn near knocks you on your ass, and you stumble back half a step as if in shock. 

The new distance separates Zandik’s hand from your still squeezing cunt, and he consideringly peers up at you while you try to catch your breath. You couldn’t believe that had just happened. Not that you’d allowed it or that the sensation had left you soaring somewhere far outside your own mind high above the stratosphere. It was, in many ways, inconceivable. 

“Oh … oh, blessed mother.” You finally croak, once you’ve managed to find some semblance of your voice again. “That was — interesting, wasn’t it?” 

Zandik barks a sharp, not entirely humorless laugh. “Is that what you call it then? Just interesting?”

Wheezing out a long, grounding exhale, you shoot him a somewhat surreptitious look as you tiredly drop your arms, allowing your skirt to fall back into place. “Were you expecting something else?” 

“Perhaps. I might have liked to hear how utterly amazing it was, or how skillful my technique is.” 

“You just wanted to be praised, didn’t you?” 

“Every man wants to be praised, girl. It would do you well to remember that in the future.” 

You realize then, glancing down at him sitting there, looking like he was quite pleased with himself, that he was having a bit of fun with it. Teasing you in a way you’d never experienced before. Not from him, at any rate, and you allow yourself a soft, thoroughly satiated laugh as you tiredly reach to tug your panties back up. 

“I’ll admit, it was awfully nice. I didn’t know my body could feel like that, especially after … w - well, that’s not really important.” 

“It’s alright.” Zandik tells you, surprisingly soft. “I cannot take back what he did to you while I was incapable of doing anything to stop it, but I can try to make it a little better for you. That was your first orgasm, wasn’t it?” 

The shock of that question must be written across your face in broad sweeping brush strokes, because he gives his head a slow, almost disappointed shake.

“It didn’t occur to me at first that that might be the case. But I figured it out shortly after you held up your dress for me. It just didn’t make sense for anyone who is at all familiar with the erogenous functions of their body to behave the way that you were. As if you wanted it but didn’t know how to ask for it, or even what you should be asking for.” 

Putting his head to one side — one of a few different gestures he seemed to share with the Doctor — Zandik studies you from that new angle for a drawn out moment. 

“Come here, girl. And no tricks this time, I give you my word.” 

Hesitantly heeding his summons, you step up next to his chair again on wobbly legs. A distant note of surprise quickly washes over you when he reaches up to slide his hand along the curve of your waist, pulling you in against him until you realize what he’s doing. You put up a cursory amount of resistance then, insisting again and again that you were too big, too grown, to sit on his lap when he tries to tug you down. But in the end Zandik wins out, his stubbornness exceeding even yours, and you finally let him drag you onto his thigh. 

Your reluctant compliance does absolutely nothing to steady your nerves, though, and you squeak a tiny sound as you come to settle in place against him. “M - Master Zandik? Surely I am much too heavy to be on top of you like this! What will I do if I accidentally hurt you?” 

“Nonsense. You’re much too self conscious for my liking. We’ll have to work on that. But for now,” sighing rather softly, contently, almost, he leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. Looking for all the world like he was settling in for a much needed nap. Honestly, you could have used one of those yourself. 

“Just sit and enjoy the quiet for a moment, won’t you? Do some self reflecting on how you feel or meditate, or do nothing at all. I don’t really care either way. Just … be silent with me.” 

You would have jumped at the chance in almost any other situation, under any other circumstances, but a doubtful niggling at the back of your mind makes that nearly impossible. Even in the hazy warmth of afterglow you’re almost too antsy to sit still. Because even despite having never taken part in such activities before, at least not until today, you’d certainly heard whisperings about it. You were not that naive as to have completely missed out on the way both women and men alike often talked about sex. 

It was usually the other way around, wasn’t it? Or at least that had been your impression up til’ now. That men tended to lean towards being selfish and they rarely concerned themselves with the pleasure of their partners. That they were demanding and only sought their own release before rolling over and going to sleep without a second thought to anything else. It was in part why you’d avoided being courted by anyone, for fear of being on the receiving end of such impartial advances. 

And while Zandik certainly looked as if he was starting to doze off, it seemed that this was a bit out of order from how you’d been told it would be. 

Unable to keep your concerns at bay any longer, you give in to the urge and ever so carefully fidget atop his lap. “But, Master … what about you? Should I not be seeing to your needs as well?” 

His eyes do not open but the pale line of his brow does draw in, knitting and deepening the wrinkles on his forehead slightly. “No need for that. Not at the moment, at any rate.” 

You sneak a quick peak down at the front of his pants to briefly study the weakening tent there. It looked like he’d been right, and even an old man’s cock still worked under the right conditions, and the Doctor had been wrong. If you were only brave enough — or stupid enough — you might have liked to rub that in his stupid, smug face. 

“Is this really okay though? Are you sure?” 

“Gods, girl! You don’t know how to just let things rest, do you?” Zandik snaps alert again to turn a narrow eyed scowl your way. Back to his usual grumpy self, it seemed. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were fishing for it. Is that it? Do you actually want me to fuck you sensless, right here and now?” 

He barks a mirthless snort at your startled expression of plain faced shock. 

“As I thought. Then unless you want me to change my mind I’d suggest you learn to let sleeping dogs lie.” Exhaling a deeply ruffled breath, he tips his head back to regard the ceiling as if in deep contemplation. “You’ve already made it clear you have no desire to go that far with me, and I can hardly say I blame you for that. I’m also not physically equipped to make you do something you don’t want to. Not with this old body, at any rate. So I won’t even try.”

“But,” you stubbornly take another jab at it, feeling that you would be remiss if you didn’t at least make an effort to better understand him. It was odd for him to seek out this sort of prolonged physical contact with you anyway, and yet he didn’t want anything from you in return while doing it? That just doesn’t make any sense. “You could just order me to do whatever you want. Why won’t you?” 

Zandik huffs a quiet laugh. “And what would the fun be in that, huh?” 

A strange little flutter starts up in your chest but you’re quick to suppress it, shoving it back down into some vault in the back of your head where you can lock it up and throw away the key. That was a dangerous possibility threatening to open up before you. It wouldn’t do to let this situation spiral any further out of control, if you could help it, especially when you were already toeing the line of indecency like this. 

No. No, you’d have to remain steadfast for as long as you were in the thick of it dealing with this situation. 

As if it had been cued to do so, the grandfather clock along the opposite wall abruptly chimes then, disrupting the resounding quiet with such an earth shattering explosion that you jolt right up out of his lap. 

“Oh!” You blurt, flushing hotly when Zandik sends you a flat look as if to say ‘see? always so damn jumpy’. Like you hadn’t already embarrassed yourself enough for one day. “I - it’s lunchtime already? How time flies! I didn’t even … didn’t even notice how late it was getting. I’ll go start on something right away!” 

Ignoring his very unimpressed frown, you pivot on your heel and hurry over to the window side to grab up the coffee carafe on your way out. You knew he would want a fresh pot to go with whatever luncheon sandwich or savory soup you prepared for him that day, and you were admittedly quite glad for the chance to beat a hasty retreat from this room. It was inexplicably stuffy and fogged with something unspeakable. Something you didn’t even dare to dwell on. 

Stepping up to the little table at the corner of the windowsill, your hand reaches out to loop around the silver handle and you start to turn away. But a suggestion of movement at the edge of your peripheral makes you hesitate, head turning, as you glance out the window and down at the yard below. 

Where you proceed to watch someone unknown to you — a young man, by the looks of it— as he walks away from the side of the house to step around a snow covered bush before he disappears from sight. 

Your hand immediately starts to shake with the terrified tremor that works up your arm, vibrating so badly you almost drop the carafe to an ear splitting crash against the floor. 

He’d had his back to you so you hadn’t gotten a good look at the face, but the hair … 

It had been the exact same, wispy shade of pale blue that Zandik’s and the Doctor’s was.

⭐