Volga is on his knees, his chest bared and his eyes cast down as the cold creeps over his back and chest and through the thin fabric of his breeches; he knows the cold is just the beginning of his punishment. Behind him, he hears her pace up and down, her smell filling his nostrils. She reeks of anger and arousal – the first one due to his behaviour, the other one because she has just seen her hero. The sounds of her boots echo in the silence of her throne room, the one she set up in her temple all these years ago, where she watched over time and space and life itself until ... He scoffs quietly, believing her feelings for the boy to be ridiculous, even though he knows his own cravings for her touch aren't any wiser. Finally, she speaks, breaking the uneasy silence. "How dare you hurt him? I did not allow you to even lay a finger on him!" "I don't need your permission to fight the enemy." A bold thing to say, considering she is his mistress, the one that is always present in his mind and heart and ... Well, it would be a lie to claim that her sight, her smell doesn't drive him mad, doesn't make his senses feel on fire, even though, or especially when, she is like this: wild, unrestrained, cruel. Her whip cracks once, only to hit his back with full force, and he grits his teeth in order to stifle a pained gasp. She laughs, a shrill, angry sound that makes him shiver with arousal, makes him bite his lower lip. "You need my permission for everything , my beast. To fight, to breathe, to live. You are my servant. You belong to me." "I might be your general," he says quietly, quietly, with a faint smile on his lips. "But I'm not your servant. If I fight for you, then I'll do it out of my own free will." He expects another strike for this. And when the whip meets his body once more, and then again and one other time, it rips a pained sound out of his troath as his skin tears; as he can feel and smell his own warm blood, he clenches his hands into fists, so he doesn't just lay one of them between his legs to grind his hard cock against it. The smell of his blood mingles with the smell of her wetness and he is unable to suppress a hoarse and greedy sound, which makes her laugh again, though this time, it is softer, quieter, as if she's laughing at a joke he does not understand. Her fingers run through his hair, and she fists a hand into it to pull his head back until he is forced to look her in the eyes that are bright with an obsession that would frighten him if it weren't so similar to his own. "You have no free will," she says coolly and smiles, pulling at his hair again. "You are an animal that can only follows its instincts. ... Just look at you, Volga, hard and aroused and pathetic." He opens his mouth to argue - or to ask her to be allowed to touch himself for her amusement, he is not completely sure - but her gaze is cold and stern and she continues: "All you can is serve me. And that is what you ought to do right now." He knows what this means, he's waited for it. And when she sits down on her throne with her legs spread wide enough for him to see that she wears no undergarments, he revels in it, because those scarce moments, these sinful encounters are the only times where he can touch her, please her, be with her, and even though it's by far not all that he longs for – oh no, for he wants so much more, wants to fill her out, to rut inside her while biting down on her slender neck and digging his nails into her flesh, drawing blood and leaving marks to brand her as his, his, his –, it's all he'll ever be allowed to have. He inches closer towards her, still on his knees, like the beast she takes him for, until she hikes one leg up and over his shoulder to urge him even closer. Her smell almost overwhelms him, almost makes him come undone right here and now, and he breathes her in, savouring the way the pale hair around her mound is already slick with her wetness. Almost hesitatingly, he brings up his hands, wishing so spread her further, to bury his face against her, to commit every last details of her to memory for all of these cold and lonely nights in which only the thought of her cunt can warm him up again - - only for her to swat his hands away. “Keep them behind your back,” she orders, and of course he does as he is told. There is no other purpose in his existence, after all, because as he has said before – he serves her, and he does it willingly. It's not what he wants and it's not what she deserves, but he complies and closes his eyes as he leans in further to let his hot, wet tongue travel over her length once, and then a second time. The taste lingers on his tongue, the feeling of her entrance quivering for him and only his is arousing, is exciting, because this, this is something her hero will never give to her, is something only he can provide, and as he closes his lips around her clit to hold it captured between them as his tongue teases and licks her with no mercy, as he hears her breath hitch in her throat and feels her body stiffen, her leg on his shoulder keeping him in place, keeping him so close to her that it gets hard to breathe, he opens his breeches with trembling fingers to take himself in his hand. “Don't,” she gasps, her voice rough and heavy with need, and she claws at his hair and scalp, grinding herself against his face until she comes with a shivering moan. Her eyes slid close for a moment, for as long as it takes him to lick her clean, and when she opens them again, her gaze is stern and cold. “I had expected more of you, Volga. You disappoint me yet again.” He is unsure whether to respond or not, for he wonders what he's done wrong and for the heat in his body makes it hard to think and speak. However, when he parts his lips, she simply grasps his chin between her thumb and index finger to tip his head up and force him to look at her. “I want nothing to hear of you, none of your sad excuses.” She regards him coolly, the corners of her mouth twisting into a small smirk. “I guess you have the audacity to expect a reward for your mediocre performance, don't you?” Volga knows he should be ashamed for how much her words make his cock twitch and his frame shake in anticipation, in want and need, and as she slips out of one of her boots, presenting him the ability to see the bare skin of her ankle and calf, it's almost even more intimate than what he has just done to her. His gaze is fixed on her flexing her toes, and when she – oh –, when she actually presses her sole against his aching flesh, he cannot help but groan and arch into her touch, his hips moving on their own, his cock already wet with fluid and oh so painfully hard. Her words become a blur in his clouded mind and he fails to differentiate between what's praise and what's her insulting him; he simply cannot think anymore, not with her toes pressing against his tip, not with her teasing his shaft while spreading the drops of his arousal, which makes it even easier for her to move up and down and tease him just like that until his mind grows foggy, until he doesn't even realize that he's gasping her name again and again as if she is a goddess he worships and prays to (and isn't that the sad, sad truth in a way?). There is sweat on his brow and face and body, burning in his open cuts, and it's this faint pain that – together with her voice and touches – makes him tumble over the edge as he spills all over her toes and his heavily heaving chest. There is no time for him to catch his breath, however, for she nudges his cheek and lips with her toes and orders him to clean his seed of her. Without hesitation, he opens his mouth and darts out his tongue to clean her, to suck and lick and relish in her taste (and his own bitter shame). His tongue moves over her sole and ankle, caressing her tender skin, and he wishes he were bold enough to bite down and leave a mark. In his mind, his filthy fantasy, his hands curl around her hips, locking her in place for him to bury his face between her thighs once more, this time holding her open with his fingers, pushing his tongue inside of her, driving her into madness with long and steady licks and teasing touches until the name that spills over her lips is his and his alone. In truth, though, he does not dare to do anything he knows she won't permit. And so, when he's cleaned her off, she pushes him away with disgust written on her features and leaves him trembling on the floor, fists balled and teeth bared in shame and anger. And he vows to become stronger, to become worthy of her affection, vows to burn the scarfed hero down with his hatred and rage and jealousy until she has no other choice than to see him for the beast, the hero, the animal he truly is.