Let's make it all better.

---

Is it not enough to cause me pain? Myrie wonders, staring at the solid wood mere inches from her face. Must they make a spectacle of me? She shudders at every soft thud of dirt piled atop it from above. Though she cannot see it, she can feel it closing in on her, muffling what little sound she could still hear.

What she can see, if she only turns her head slightly to one side, are human eyes, watching from a dozen peering faces on the other side of glass. Curious noble men and women here to gape at the fairy princess. Seeing such a powerful, ethereal thing so subdued bolsters their faith in their ruler. And if the whispers are true, when they take the Faelands, magic and riches beyond their wildest dreams will follow. The Princess is only the first step.

She is dressed like a princess for the occasion - in the dress she arrived in, now rumpled and torn. It hangs loose on her malnourished body, slipping off one shoulder.

Myrie fights to keep her eyes fixed upward. Her face burns with shame. Her current circumstances should frighten her more than they do; instead, all she can focus on is the indignity of being watched by these monsters, as if her suffering is theater to them, her pain something they can walk away from, while she must live it day after day.

Already her prison feels much too small, and growing smaller by the minute as though the walls are closing in on her. Her pulse quickens, and then her breathing, and before she knows it panic sets in. Myrie pounds uselessly on the wood above her. Then, shame forgotten, she turns her gaze out beyond the glass and presses a tiny hand to it, crying 'please' and 'help' between frantic breaths.

Most of the humans are unmoved. A few look a bit guilty, one lady quite horrified, a few more walk away, but none lift a finger nor speak a word in protest of her treatment. Tears brim in her eyes. Myrie thinks curses at them that trail off into nonsense by the time they reach her lips. Darkness falls over her like a veil and she falls unconscious for the first of many times.

-

Outside the world moves on as normal, yet in here time has slowed.

Minutes drag on and on and on. At first Myrie tracks them in the subtle changing of the light, but as an hour passes, then another, a fog seems to fill her mind. The figures and faces beyond the glass grow blurry, and soon they seem to spin before her eyes. She fights to keep them open, though, for every now and then a human will stop and lean closer.

Gasping for air, Myrie can no longer spare the breath to speak, so instead she weakly lifts a hand to the glass with a silent plea on her face. And each time she must watch as they take in her trembling lips and her cheeks wet with tears and then turn away, and though she can't quite process the thought, her heart is still struck by the cruelty.

-

Little remains but a vague mess of sensations. Head hurts. Weak. Dizzy. Cold skin. Slow, labored breaths. Myrie's time spent conscious grows fewer and farther between.

They are still watching. She has no strength left to notice, let alone care.

---

Warmth floods Seraphina's veins and her struggles cease.

Troubled thoughts melt away into honeyed contentment. Months of captivity, humiliation and abuse have worn her down to a raw, fragile thing, and it is impossible to resist giving in to oblivion as it cradles and caresses her weary soul.

At the same time, her body comes alive. Her skin, though feverish, prickles with goosebumps. A throbbing need grows between her legs, keeping time with her rapid pulse.

The angel whimpers. Arches her back. Parts her knees. Her body demands to be touched.

Somewhere deep within, a part of her is locked away. The part that would care. The part that would fight. Its screams go unheard through the thick fog in her mind.

Arms slip beneath her and lift her effortlessly. Seraphina's cheek comes to rest on the full bosom of the she-demon who has turned the proud angel into a docile, pliant little doll. Rather than recoil, she rubs her face against the demon's cool skin with a sigh of relief. Something about it is comfortingly familiar, though she could not begin to fathom why.

"Darling, be patient. We'll take care of you."

We is the small group of visiting she-demons, each one varying in size, skills and temperament, all equally eager to get their hands and mouths on the girl. Not a human dressed as one, not some simpering lesser demon, but a real angel. Fallen from grace, a celestial being crammed and locked into a mortal body, theirs to do with as they please.

"Oh she is pretty."

"You've even dressed her up for us."

Dressed is being generous. A short nightgown, sheer white fabric trimmed with lace, is all that stands between Seraphina's body and their grasping hands. The moment her captor lies her down on a long, purple velvet sofa, the others waste no time removing the meager garment and taking in the rare treat laid bare before them.

Seraphina has been thoroughly washed with a floral soap, her hair combed until it shone like silk. Her small wings have been expertly preened. They stretch out wide, as stimulated as the rest of her, rather than curl around her for protection. Her skin, smooth and unblemished, seems to almost glow.

Cool hands roam her flushed body, gentle at first, exploring. One she-demon gropes and kneads at the angel's breasts, sharp nails grazing her nipples just to hear her gasp. Another lets her fingertips wander up her inner thighs and tease her cruelly with light strokes between her legs, pulling away too soon and laughing when the poor thing softly whines.

The third opts to use her mouth, kissing Seraphina's cheeks and lips, grazing teeth down the length of her neck. She nudges the other two aside and, uncharacteristically, they allow it, enraptured by the angel's reactions as the demoness kisses and sucks and nibbles a path down her body. For the finishing touch, she licks into the angel with her long, slick tongue, making her moan in a way that would put succubi to shame.

Gradually the she-demons grow rougher, crueler, greedy to take full advantage of such a sweet, willing body. Their grips tighten with the intent to bruise. Claws and teeth join in, but so do tongues. Caresses and scratches, kisses and bites, the sensations blur together until pain is indistinguishable from pleasure.

Tension builds deep in her belly; she chases it, desperate for relief. It's right there, it's so close...

Again and again and again she is denied.

If she could Seraphina would beg, but thoughts won't form, let alone words. She is reduced to a writhing, groaning mess.

Time ceases to matter. Minutes feel like hours. She is a thrumming livewire. She is putty in their hands.

They each take themselves to completion before allowing the angel hers. By then she is barely conscious enough to appreciate it.

Seraphina collapses back onto the sofa, spent and panting. For a few brief moments the demons draw away. They stop and sit back to admire their work while showering her with endearments and praise. And...and surely that is all. Surely they know she has nothing left to give...

They know.

They simply don't care.

She is still breathless when three pairs of hands resume touching and teasing her overstimulated body. The demonesses delight in her bruises and cuts, lick the sweat from her flushed skin, press their cold bodies to hers until she's shivering. They tauntingly mimic her weak protests. Their fingers once again find her most sensitive places.