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Salas closed his eyes, breathing evenly.
If Eldron were here, he’d ask…
He opened his eyes. On his knees, he inched forward, until his nose was barely a breath away from the slick, gaping flesh. Up close, the tart smell of her was overwhelming. He flicked his tongue out experimentally, wetly pecking the knub he knew was there, and working his way down her folds with short kitten-licks.
That was, until Victoria suddenly lashed out a hand, her long fingers curling around the back of his neck and tugging him closer. Her superior position had him giving in immediately, bowing until his face was pressed to her.
“Use your tongue,” she repeated her demand, breathing unevenly, head thrown back as she ground upon him.
He could barely breathe. Suffocated against her wet warmth, he painfully did what she commanded, eventually only having to hold his tongue in place while she fucked herself up it, her pleased groans growing in volume.
It went on for several unwelcome moments before a sound interrupted from somewhere from the side. A door clicking open, and then slamming shut. Only then did the hand release him, in a petting, caressing motion, as though signaling to a pet its company was no longer needed.
“What…?” Salas heard someone demand in Diagorian, and then something else he didn’t understand.
He looked over to see Tarick standing in the doorway, stock-still, as though his mind had been corrupted by the scene in front of him, his mouth gaping in horror.
Salas wiped his mouth as Victoria pushed him away, standing and dropping her skirt. She spoke calmly when she replied, though her response lowered to a stutter when another figure appeared at the open threshold. King Jareth’s tall, brooding figure appeared. Despite being so capable of a man, there was something tired in his hooded eyes, as though he had awoken from an ill slumber. Still, his gaze was sharp and intelligent as he acknowledged the group before him, his eyes first dropping to Salas on the floor, stare unreadable, and then looking between Victoria and Tarick in question.
Tarick began speaking rapidly, perhaps relaying what he’d witnessed. Victoria made to speak as well, but Salas scrambled to step forward, distrusting her and how accurately she would tell her own account. She might claim that she’d been displeased with his service, and he needed to speak up, to be in the King’s good graces. He would make sure the King knew he’d satisfied the witch.
“Your Grace,” he stammered, stepping on his good leg and attempting to show off he was in no need of a crutch. He was perfectly useful without aids. “If you’ve heard well, then it is true. I’ve greatly pleased the witch Victoria. She was very happy with my company. I pleasured her…well.” He added lamely, knowing that this country was most likely uncaring for specifics. But he added a deep, flourishing bow at the end of his statement, ignoring the stab at his shin, hoping that the motion would make up for his excited inability to articulate.
If Eldron were here, he would step towards Salas, cup his chin, and brush a kiss upon his forehead, telling him hedid, in fact, do well. But he didn’t expect niceties from Jareth.
Nor did he expect what happened next.
Salas raised his head to see the King’s livid eyes staring past him, to Victoria.
The savage storm behind them made Salas flinch, sprouting memories of pain and violence when those eyes had been upon him, too vivid in their wrath. “Your Grace…” he began again, though having nothing to say, all hope dying inside of him as quickly as it had been ignited.
As it was, the King was not pleased with him.
He’d failed once more.
King Jareth’s attention snapped to him, a dam splitting. “GET ON THE BED!” the King roared at him, darting forward, as though he meant to grab Salas. To tear him apart.
Salas gasped and ran, hearing the shouts of voices behind him. The laughing retorts of Victoria. All three Diagorians spoke in accusation towards each other. Guards spilled into the room at the disquieting commotion.
Salas did not run to the bed.
He ran to the washroom, the pain in his leg now a numbing throb that nearly blinded him. Another sinking feeling came too soon when he made his way into the tiled room, only to find that the window of the washroom had been barred over, as though his captors had known that a bird might take flight. They’d caged him in. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, though devastating nonetheless.
Using the last of his energy, Salas limped over to a corner of the room, behind a column, and sank to the floor. His breathing was quick, near hyperventilation, yet he kept it barely in control.
The shouting continued in the other room. He covered his ears, dug his forehead into his knees, and waited.
It seemed like hours before the voices dulled to murmurs. Salas wasn’t sure what transpired, but he was sure that, at some point, the guards and Victoria had left the King’s rooms. Now there must be only Tarick and King Jareth, speaking in hushed whispers.
Again, Salas wasn’t sure what was spoken of, and he didn’t care. Covering his ears and eyes, he wanted to block out all senses. Feel nothing. Be nothing. Become one with the wall, a white statue like the ones in the halls of Suscon, then maybe then he wouldn’t have tobe.
Later, he was sure Tarick left, and then there was silence.
The day aged, and the sky drew thickening shadows.
The silence was broken by the distinct sound of water splashes hitting metal. Startled, Salas glanced up to see steaming water pouring from a heavy-looking iron waterway into a body-length metal wash basin. The water was cranked from a thick pump, pulled by King Jareth.
The King had lit a torch in the washroom, Salas hadn’t noticed, and was watching him carefully. Those ever-dark eyes were unreadable even as he cranked the water into action, filling the basin with the hot water. At least the anger from before appeared to be, for now, subsided.
