#edg

They inject you with another shot. It’s the third they’ve given you that day. You’d lost count of how many they’d given you since they tied you up in that cage. Left in only your chemise, hands bound up to the bars on either side of you, your knees done the same, and your ankles done back so you’re left kneeling like a pretty star for them in your special cage. So they can see the puddle beneath you as your eyes roll back from the shot working its way into your bloodstream, rushing you with a blistering heat. The aches come expectantly; a harsh, unbearable throbbing that fingers your nipples poking through the lace chemise and down between your legs. Your cunt thrums and pulses; it drips, wanting so badly it hurts as they leave you thrashing in the ropes.

As they always do.

Wearing you down, laughing, occasionally kneeling to meet your gaze through the bars as you convulse with a need for relief they never, ever allow you.

“Tell us what we need to know, Your Highness,” one coos. “And we’ll take turns licking that pretty pussy until you can’t cum anymore.”

A double-edge sword. They win no matter what, and you lose twice over. They get what they want and you not only betray your kingdom, but you ruin yourself in the process. How badly you want to relieve this agony though…. You yank on the ropes and throw your head back. You gave up on trying to stay silent days ago. Moaning in agony and a pure, unfiltered lack of relief slapping against you. 

They laugh at you again. It’s a game to them. They’d killed your guards, so the timer ticking down to someone noticing you’re missing vanishes for they’ve made you vanish. Your last location can be tracked, but you cannot be tracked to them as they continue to move you in the shadows, in the forest, far away from civilization. Nobody’s coming to save you.

The man reaches in with his scarred up arm–battles cover the lot of them in ugly scarring and ink that tells stories you hardly ever have a moment of coherent thoughts to put together–and his fingers hook underneath your chemise.

They always do this. You steel yourself, keeping your eyes shut as cool air touches your thighs as the fabric bunches. Higher and higher. Until they bare your cunt and scoffs and laughter bounce around the group.

“Don’t you want relief, Your Highness?” he muses, His thumb barely touches you, and it’s like liquid fire. Your knees try to pull together, your ankles yank on the ropes, and you feel them dig into your wrists harder and harder while his thumb brushes over you. Between your sopping wet folds. “Right here. This is where you like it, right?”

He brushes against your swollen, woefully unstimulated clit. This is all they do. This is what they love doing. They’ll come to your chest, next, after torturing you here. They’ll pull your breasts out and play with your nipples until you’re crying, biting back the information they need. Then they tie your chemise up and leave your chest bare for everyone at camp to gawk at before coming back again to get more answers.

He brushes the pad of his thumb over your clit again, and your thighs clench and tremble–hard.

Your pussy squeezes nothing, begging for something. Anything. Anything. But you force yourself to hold strong. Hold steady. 

Even when you gasp out a sob, and his thumb presses down harder on your clit.

It’s right there. Your pussy spasms. It’s nothing. You need nothing. They’ve given you so many shots, left you so touched, you only need that. And he knows that. They all know that. You jerk your hips to just try to steal that last little bit of friction that’ll finally end this torment, but he reels his hand back.

“No, no, no. That’s not allowed, Your Highness.” He smacks the bars with the sheath of his sword, and you jump.

Tears fall down to your jaw, and you can only throw a glare at them.

He licks his thumb clean as two more walk to either side of you. You don’t flinch when they reach in. You don’t flinch when they slowly pull your top down to bare your breasts.

“Fuck, next time we tie her up, let’s press her up against the bars so I can lick her tits,” one says. 

“I still say we tie her up on her knees and her ass against the bars. Let anyone come see her sopping pussy and play with it till she breaks,” another says, pinching your nipple until you break, moaning loudly and hanging your head forward. “Just have to keep someone on guard to make sure nobody accidentally makes her cum.”

“Too risky,” the one says in front of you, pulling his thumb out of his mouth. “A gust of wind on her clit could make her cum. Ain’t that right, Princess?”

You don’t answer him.

One of them slaps your breast, and you jolt. 

“But I’m not against the first option. Darvan, after you take her out to piss later, tie her up against the bars.” The one in front of you stands, stalking away bored of you already. “Maybe some extra attention from camp will sway her senses.”

No, no, no.

But hours later, after being hauled out like a dog on a leash to use the bathroom, you’re wrangled back into your cage. Back onto your knees. But this time, your wrists are bound behind your back and your midsection if tied to the bars that press to your front. One comes right between your breasts, and they pull your dress down to bare you even before they get your knees and ankles bound.

Another shot glints in a cruel bastard’s hand. The cool air is already tormenting as the breeze touches your nipples. The man from before–who’d knelt in front of you, whose thumb tortured you–takes the shot from the other. He cups your chin through the bars, and makes you tilt your head. 

“You know what we want to know, Your Highness,” he whispers. The pinch of the needle brings dread. “Just tell us, and this will stop.”

Pressure builds as he injects the torturous liquid into you, and the world glazes over. Hot need drips through you, and you feel yourself go that familiar limp in his touch. Desperate; pathetic. Needy. It takes everything you have in you not to fall into that pit. Clinging to consciousness and coherentness as his eyes burn into yours. As his fingers dig into your jaw.

“Truthfully, your determination is honorable.” He skims his hand lower. Down to where your chest begins to heave. Where your nipples ache for friction and contact, and your pussy contracts empty and wanting. “Most don’t last this long, but that just tells me you don’t have that much fight left in you.”

His head lowers with his hand. His breath is warm against your bare skin. It tickles in all the wrong ways. His beard scratches first, sending shockwaves through you that’s too much–far too much. It burns; it stings. It runs a rampage through you even before his tongue flicks your nipple. It’s the first time something besides fingers has touched you there since your capture, and they know that. They know, it’s why they snicker and laugh in cruel, vicious glee when he closes his mouth around you and sucks you into his mouth. When he rolls your nipple between his fingers while sucking hard.

When your body arches and pulls and tenses as you throw your head back in an involuntarily, shattering moan. Tears welling up as he suckles, lapping, nibbling against you with  harsh movements. Rolling, pinching, tweaking your other nipple to leave you without a moment to do more than take in a ragged breath. The heat beneath your skin boils up to the top as the serum, potion, medicine, poison–whatever they’ve put into you tears through you.

“Have at Her Highness’ pretty tits, men,” he shouts, reeling back from you and groping your chest with both hands. “And make sure nobody dares more than a peek at her cunt. We’ll see how she’s doing after everyone’s had a turn with her.”

No…. You try to move your hands, but you’re stuck. N-No. You won’t break.

You lock eyes with who you’ve guessed to be the leader these endless, torturous days. And his dark eyes glint before he plops down into a nearby chair and takes a mug of ale to chug. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as his men approach.

Everything blurs into a haze of pinching fingers, lapping tongues, and suckling mouths. A few slaps drag you back to coherent thoughts. Someone flicks your nipples until you’re shaking. Someone comes in and rubs something soothing on them at some point; calming, almost. It doesn’t stop the burn underneath yourself, but it soothes a different ache. But only that ache.

It’s the closest to a break you get as the sun starts to set. The leader sits back, his hand on his sword, the other tapping on his knee. Eyes on you. Occasionally, he looks up to answer a question from one of his men. He snaps at another you see approaching you in your peripheral vision. The man retreats, his hands on his belt falling away. Just when you think you’ve caught your breath, a hand drags you back to one of the main men who always watches over you. 

He makes you look at him when he laps at your nipples.

And it begins again.

Nightfall gives you grace. They’re done with you for now. The lot of them, at the very least. The bar is cool as you rest your cheek against it, panting, the haze coming over you slowly. Capturing you with new pulsing making your cunt ache. The hours bled into each other, but one fact remains the same. Your mind hangs far too empty, and you have nothing more than the bars to latch hold to as you ache. Dripping. Empty. Wanting. Worn down to the occasional tug on the ropes to remind yourself where your hands are, where your ankles are, where your knees are. Where you cannot move to grind yourself against one of the bars in front of you to rid yourself of what lashes at you like a whip with every empty pulse inside of you.

The cool breeze touches you in horrid ways. Reminds you of the tears on your cheeks and the drool on your chin. Of the saliva and spit left on your chest amidst the dozens of hands that groped and touched you. Bite marks are sunk into your skin in between places where they’d sucked your skin to claim you. And you just feel yourself start to nod off–it’s the only leniency you have. Sleeping. Resting. It’s what helps you hold on to yourself so you don’t fall into the chasm of desperate relief.

Your eyes get heavy. Even as humiliating and degrading as it is to sleep like that, your head still falls forward, and sleep claims you. You go limp and cling to the stubbornness that flows through you like the royalty in your veins.

Cold.

You jerk awake at a cold press against you. It’s sharp and sudden, and you fear for another shot–not the first time they’d woken up with one–trying to writhe away from where it could be. But there’s darkness in front of you. No dawn touches the sky, just the moon and stars. A hand clamps over your mouth and squeezes tight, dark eyes looking back at you as his other hand lifts a pitcher. It drips with water, water you feel on your chin beneath his hand, that you feel down on your chest.

“You are useless to us dead,” he says plainly, and he drops his hand and brings the pitcher back up to your lips.

You pull your head back and reel out a sharp grin.

“Do you think I am above dying to spite your cause?” you throw back. “I’ll take death before I ever tell you a thing.”

His mouth twitches, and it’s hard to tell in such low lighting whether it’s a smile or a frown. But he just lowers the pitcher and scoffs. 

“Look at you, Your Highness. You cling to some semblance of spite and for what?” He inches closer, and his breath touches your cheek. It smells of ale, and you have nowhere to recoil. You have nowhere to go when his hand slides between the bars. “Why not give in on your terms? It’s going to happen. We both know you’ll break. So why wait until you’re a drooling, broken mess, begging us for a reprieve?”

His fingers brush against the inside of your thigh, trailing higher. Higher. Higher. You shudder and try to steel yourself as best as you can. When his palm cups you, it reignites everything. The heel of his palm pressing against your clit, his fingers pressing up where you’re reminded of how wet and dripping you are. Involuntarily.

No. No, you won’t. You fucking won’t. You refuse. You–

The tip of one finger rubs. And circles. And moves.

He covers your mouth with his hand again, and leans in just as he pushes his thick finger into your already-pulsing cunt. It’s downright heavenly. Horrible. Wonderful. Oh, god. Your eyes water as he fills you with it. Hardly moving it, but it satisfies that desperate ache for something–anything–that throws you down toward a tumbling abyss. You gasp and shudder, shaking as he presses the heel of his palm against your clit, but doesn’t move it.

“Tell me where your father’s keeping his stocks of gun powder, and I’ll let you cum.” He pulls his finger out just a little, and your nerves erupt in stark heat. His palm brushes against your clit again, and you feel the resolve cracking. Tears well up stronger. Don’t. Yet you’re shaking in his palm. Don’t. “That’s all I need to know. Just that. And I’ll even let you fuck yourself on my fingers so you can claim it.”

He shifts. Fingers. A second presses in as he pulls the first out. 

Oh–

You clamp your eyes shut.

N-No.

He lowers his hand and parts your lips with his thumb. 

No. No!

The two fingers curl inside of you, brushing up against that spot, and you seize up; your pussy spasms, and it’s right fucking there. Right there. You can feel the edges of it. Your eyes open and you see those dark eyes looking at you. Watching you. Waiting with a strange level of patience that just makes it worse. He just curls his fingers again and you feel his thumb press against your lips just as you whine.

“This is your only opportunity, Your Highness,” he breathes, nudging his fingers into you again, curling them just right. Dread sinks into your belly right when your pussy clenches again. “Because as long as you fight, nobody’s touching your cunt long enough to let you cum. We’ll play with you. Keep tying you up, keep injecting you, keep watching your pretty pussy weep for what we both know will drive you mad in the end. Then, you’ll be so desperate and broken, you’ll let us do whatever we want with you. Is that what you want?”

He drops his eyes to where your chemise has been brought back up to cover you.

“Did you like having all my men play with your tits?” He reaches back and cups the back of your head. He drills his fingers into you as he holds you, the wet squelching echoing and the ripples of undeniable, world-shattering pleasure sink into you in just a few quick motions. Then they’re gone, his fingers pulled out of your fluttering cunt before you can cum. “Because that’s what’s in store for you, Your Highness. Day after day. Shot after shot. Trapped in this cage for us to play with like you’re our toy. You know, Ferron, the red-haired brute who enjoys slapping your tits? He wants me to let him have a go at you, but he’ll just hike up your little dress and jerk himself off while licking your asshole. The others just want to paint you with cum like you’re their personal canvas.”

Dark, soulless eyes look into you with a cold threat. A dread that sinks beyond the shots. Beyond the bondage. Beyond the cage.

“So just tell me where the gunpowder stock is, and I’ll give you my fingers back to fuck however you want.”

You could see yourself in the reflection of his eyes. Thoughts are pulled every which way, which is what you were certain exactly what he wants. Confusion. Desperation. But you latch onto a single, obvious thread that makes that dread sink lower for you already have your answer.

“And what happens to me tomorrow if I tell you tonight where the stock is?” you breathe. “I do not walk out of this cage. I do not go free. I do not rid myself of you or your shots or your humiliation, degradation, your torture, you cruel, brutish, prick. You mock me with torment you set upon me. I weep, I whine, I writhe because of what you inject into me. It is cruel and humiliating and degrading, yes, but it all comes back to you, not me. So fuck off. I will take death before I betray my family and my loyalties.”

There. There he is frowning. There he nods and gives the back of your head a little tap. His hand retreats from where it sat between your legs, and he hotels your gaze as he licks his fingers. Sucks the glistening you left on them right off. His hand remains on the back of your head to ensure you watch.

“Tell you what,” he says softly, humming at the last lick at his fingers. “That’s a fair point. I will think over a proper solution to that tomorrow, and when I come back with your new offer, we’ll see what you have to say.” He gives your cheek a pat when he retreats, once again licking his fingers. “Well, that’s if you don’t break tomorrow, first.”

The pit of dread sits in your stomach as he departs. It remains as sleep claims you once again–the thoughts of what threats lay within that hanging over you. It remains when you wake to a rousing hand in the morning, leashed like a dog, and taken out to relieve yourself. 

It spreads like weeds when you’re brought back to camp and brought right past your cage. You try to run, but hands latched to the tops of your arms keep you locked in step. Deeper into camp. Right into the center.

He stands with a mocking smile and just that as you’re untied, arms forced apart. Your hands are brought to cuffs attached high up on two poles. Your ankles are brought to through on the bottom of them. Only when you’re securely fastened does he walk up to you, a knife in hand. Is he calling your bluff on preferring death? You flinch when he raises it, but it doesn’t strike your skin. Perhaps worse, the sharp edge slices through the top of your chemise and down along the center, leaving nothing to hold it to your body.

It falls into a pathetic heap on the ground. The men gathering around cheering. Grinning. Laughing. Hollering. 

He sheaths his blade and takes your chin in his hand. The weapon’s replaced with a shot. A painfully full shot. 

“I figured you’ve been cooped up in that cage for too long, and that thin little dress is just pointless to keep on you at this point. And I’ll tell you, I’ve thought it over.” He turns your chin and the shot glints in the sunlight. But you don’t feel the pinch. “Tell me where the gunpowder supply is, and I’ll get you something proper to wear. Tell me where the extra supplies are stored, and I’ll let you stay out of that cage until you misbehave. Tell me the name and location of the special weapons’ merchant, and I won’t give you another shot unless you deny me whatever information I need to know.”

The tip of the needle presses against your neck. 

“Tell me all three, Your Highness, and I’ll stack all of that and I’ll let you down.”

You close your eyes, tears welling. Don’t. Don’t give in. D-Don’t….

“A-And if I don’t?” you breathe, your voice worn. Broken. 

You’ll give in eventually. You’ll break eventually. 

“Then…you’re going to get this shot, and I’ve told my men they can play with you however they want as long as they don’t touch your cunt. Until the sun sets.” He presses the tip of the needle against you harder; you feel the skin break. “I have six more of these filled for today. The most we’ve ever given you in a day is three, Your Highness. Think you can manage that?”

You stare at the ground, refusing to look at the men waiting their turn to get their hands on you. To play with you. However they wanted could mean so many things. And six shots…. You feel it. The dread. The shattering resolve. The sharp sentiment accentuated by the needle poking your skin. Should’ve taken the deal last night if you wanted to have some real dignity.

“Dogham,” you breathe, a tear slipping down your cheek. “T-The gunpowder reserve. It’s…it’s in a warehouse in Dogham. Last I heard. The…the supplies are…the last I know of is a…a sheet that said they were stored at the coast–somewhere near Silverstall. And the merchant…he moves around. I-I’ve never met him, but he…my father always sends a letter north near Baycliff for him.”

Those dark eyes grow darker. You stay on them, going limp and waiting. Waiting to see if he’ll keep his word. Waiting for when he doesn’t, for that’s not how this works, right? 

But the pinch retreats. He lowers his hand. He lowers the shot.

He takes your chin and brushes his thumb over the tear. Over your mouth, letting you taste the saltiness of it. 

“Good girl, Your Highness.” He pulls his hand back and licks the pad of his thumb to get a taste of you, too. “I’ll give you one more choice. I can send you back to your cage to wait while I have this information verified, or you can come to my tent and I’ll give you what I offered you last night. A few times over. I’m curious which you like best–my fingers, my tongue, or my cock.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, and you spit in his face without hesitation.

He only smiles.

“The cage it is.”

He steps forward, and there’s a sudden sting on your inner thigh. You feel the pressure, then the warmth, then it hits you as his men come forward and uncuff your hands and ankles in quick succession. Your vision hazes over, and you fall onto him. Naked. Shaking. Panting, his arms coming around you to hold you up. 

“I have to verify your information about the merchant first, Princess, then I’ll keep the shots from you.” he whispers next to your ear. “Let her stew in her cage until I fetch her. Don’t fuck with her. She’s mine to deal with for today, men.”

He lets his men carry you back, his eyes flicking over you–all of you–as you’re hauled away.

“And cover her. She’s not your toy today, she’s mine.”

You’re shoved into your cage after a scratchy, oversized shirt is dragged over your head. You’re left on your stomach, arms bound behind your back, ankles done up to the bars. Left to lay there in pulsing, desperate agony as your treason is vetted.