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29
The King explodes into my bedroom with a roar of fury. He’s at my bedside in three strides, collaring me, dragging me out from beneath the sheets. I’m a tall man, broad-shouldered, but he’s a solidly-built warrior fueled by rage. When he slams me against the wall, my first instinct is to fight back—but my limbs don’t respond to the urge.
It’s the first time in days that I’ve felt the power of the bond between us—the King’s will dominating mine. No matter how much I want to, I cannot harm him.
“What have you done?” His spit flecks my lips. I reach up and wipe it off with the back of my hand. At least I can do that much.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I reply.
With an angry growl he rams me harder against the wall. I’m wearing nothing but a pair of undershorts, since I’ve been given no other clothes, and I’m keenly uncomfortable with how closely his massive body is pressing against mine. His hot breath is tinged with a foul odor. “You know exactly what I mean. The gold. I paid debts to two allies with that gold, only for it to revert back into straw in their treasuries.”
“The transmutation doesn’t last forever,” I say.
“You didn’t warn me.”
I look him in the eyes. “You didn’t command it.”
“Do you realize how this makes me look?” His face is nearly purple with fury, a thick vein standing out along his temple. “It looks as if I willfully deceived them—or worse, made a mockery of our alliance. I have to come up with the actual gold within a month, or we’ll lose our allies, at best… and at worst, it will be war. Do you understand, you son of a bitch?”
“I understand.”
His body grinds harder against mine. “Do you know what I like to do when I’m angry? I like to cut people up. And I like to fuck. Torture, and fucking. Those things make me feel better.”
“You should try a nice glass of wine and a bath,” I reply, attempting a smirk.
His mouth crushes abruptly against mine, bristly mustache and sour breath and punishing force. His slimy tongue worms its way into my mouth, and I can’t bite him, or protest, or resist. So I endure, until he’s done swiping his tongue along the insides of my cheeks.
At last he shoves himself back, away from me. “Get on your knees and beg for my mercy.”
My knees bend at once, and I bow before him. “I crave your mercy, my lord. Forgive me.”
In my prostrate position, I can’t see his face, only the rug. I stay motionless, waiting for what comes next—a blow, a curse, a pronouncement of torture or mutilation, his cock forced in my mouth or my ass…
“You’ll join me at court,” he says, in a tone that makes my insides tighten, though I manage to suppress an actual shudder. “You’ll be there as my pet, muzzled and leashed. I have visitors coming today—friends who share my affinity for degrading pretty fools. You’ll serve them however they wish, and later we’ll retreat to my private parlor and use you until you bleed. Then tomorrow I will determine your punishment. Understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Speak louder. And call me ‘master.’”
“Yes, master.”
He stalks out of the room, and I hear him giving instructions to the servants outside. They enter a moment later and take me away to be prepared.
The preparation is humiliating, and it takes much longer than I expected. They use a special tonic and various cleansing implements to flush my body clean of all waste. They shave every bit of body hair, including my face, and then scrub my skin harshly before smearing me with a salve that’s intended to soften and perfume the skin. After that, I’m dressed in a scanty outfit of leather, straps, buckles—and an embarrassingly prominent codpiece.
The final indignity is a leather muzzle, studded with tiny metal spikes. There’s a hard strip of leather, like the bit of a horse’s bridle, which they force between my jaws. Then they secure the cup of the muzzle over my mouth before binding the contraption tightly to my head with three narrow straps.
I’m allowed to walk through the palace halls until we reach the throne room, but the moment the King sees me, he commands, “Down on all fours like the dog you are, and crawl to your King.”
I have no choice but to obey.
The King has a girl on his knee—maybe eighteen or nineteen years of age, clad in a gauzy pink dress. She’s a lovely thing with big frightened eyes and a smile quivering on her mouth. Since all his concubines left, I suppose he’s had to amuse himself somehow. Perhaps she’s been his plaything while I recovered, and now it’s my turn.
I’m still crawling on all fours with as much dignity as I can muster—which isn’t much. I’m conscious that my ass cheeks are mostly exposed to all the nobles and petitioners in the throne room. Whispers travel among the onlookers as I crawl up the steps to the throne and sit down on the top one, near the King’s feet.
“See here, Berga,” the King croons, stroking the girl’s arm. “See my new Half-Elf pet? Would you like to play with him?”
She glances nervously at me, then gives the King a questioning look.
