A Little Tied Up (RATED AURE / V. Mature)

[Philomel]

Rated very much Aure

VERY MATURE CONTENT WARNING. as in very mature. Please don't read if easily offended.

A short time ago.

It was the silence before a fine morning.

No birds sang. They were quiet today, and not a creature was stirring - save for a lone drunkard, stumbling his way around the streets. It was still early hours, and those beasts who would have crowed were still resting, taking in the last snooze before a long day of fetching food for the young ones and feeding themselves mightily full. With the sparkling first rays of a bright spring sun just beginning to peek over the harbour horizon it looked as though it was going to be good.

In a distant inn, far from the harbour itself, a woman stirred. Finally. She had few memories of the night before.

She had come here, alone and very underdressed, with few arms save her dagger that could burst into flames - the Lover. With just a simple white shirt, a dark cloak, and a tangle of thin material around her waist she had strode into the heart of Beinost, for one thing, and that was for a quiet night. A night without the clamouring of asking voices, an evening without responsibility. Even a few hours without the need to tell someone how to live their life, without numerous knockings on her door, without endless requests to teach people how to fight - even those would be so fine and sweet.

Just a few away from her girls and a solid last month, fourteen hours a day of non-stop sailing, recruiting and saving, with so little ability to sleep due to the hundreds of voices wanting to keep her awake for just that moment longer ...

And thus she had escaped. And headed, with white shirt and a cloak to hide her horns and face from any of her Gilded Lily ladies who might see her depart in the event of an evening party and call her over. With the distraction made of the ship, and excuses given in the form of a private meeting with Vaeron the Matriarch slipped off the back of her brothel ship, and headed out into the night, alone and at peace at last, walking into what she presumed would be a well-deserved break.

That was until an hour later and being far back into the back streets of Beinost she had been spotted.

Not by anyone who knew her. Not at all. Rather, by a 'gang'. A ruthless group of men and women with darker purposes, with whom Philomel had not as yet come to loggerheads with due to her thus-far lack of influence within Beinost iteslf. Members saw her, caught a brief view of the curves and the hood down in the dim light of a flickering magical lamp, and set out a plan. A plan that led to one of them waiting for her in a bar, being a bar tender himself, and then presenting her with a drink. A drink that otherwise - where it not this day, where she had decided to just be nice to herself and let her guard down just that little bit - she would have been alerted to perhaps in the pause of his fingers, the hint of his smile, the twinkle in his eye. Instead, the faun, carefree for just that night, took it and emptied the contents into her mouth.

Down her gullet. Down into her stomach.

Then dullness and down.

Now she awoke. And those were the memories she had. The bar tender. The drink. The feeling of despair and suddenly knowing something was up and then -

Eyes blinked, body froze as she realised several things.

First the cold. Her whole body was cold. Even her furry arse. Which was not normal. Her breasts felt a chill against them and they were supposedly covered.

Then her position. She was not in a way she would usually sleep. Her arms were numb and high above her head, she noticed, and her legs - well. They were spread apart.

She yawned and tried to move as she unsteadily blinked what she assumed was morning blurriness from her eyes. She summoned energy to pull her hands down, and move her legs in, and start to get up, and head back to the ship and -

But then she stopped. And she felt a fresh chill run down her spine as things swam into view. First there was a reaction with realisation that she could not actually move her arms or legs into a more comfortable position. Instead - well. When she tried there was the dull ring of metal on metal, scrape of metal on ... something else. And there was impossibility - instead her legs were stuck there, out in front of her body in awkard angles where she sat on some sort of hard and heavy block it seemed. They were literally shackled into the ground, with large metal rings and hooks around her hooves and then backwards-facing knees keeping them still and immoveable. Her hands were stretched far above her, with manacles around the wrists, attached there to a chain that went straight up above her head where it then was hooked into a loop on the pure white ceiling, that travelled taut over to a wall, then stretched back down there to another ring and -

It was padlocked in place. Keeping her up. Leaving her to dangle there, spread out like a piece of meat. And the worst thing was this place - it was all made of some cold, white material. A sort of bond of metal, it seemed, and perhaps another stone-like substance, that created a clean dust-less space in which Philomel felt no connection, no earthliness, no love. Nothing of Drys.

Breath catching in her chest, realising now what had happened to her, and why she had been such a goddamned fool to even think she could have a night where she didn't have to expect everyone to want to kill her, Philomel finally looked down to her chest. The shirt was gone. Her breasts hung pure in the night air and there were several places where tiny holes suggested several tiny needles sticking into her body.

Obviously she had been drugged. And in the compromising way she was sitting she had either been raped, or was going to be very soon. They had arranged her perfectly well. Her dagger was no where to be seen and even when she tried to reach inside for the power to summon it back to her hand she felt nothing. Absolutely zilch and nada. No magic. No power. No ability.

Her connection to her magic was gone.

[Philomel]

Gone.

Completely.

Utterly and stupendously just ... gone.

Her magic. The thing that made her special, that counted her out from all other faunkind. That which was gifted by Drys, the goddess, herself, that made her feel alive and enabled all sorts of wonders to be made. Miracles. Rescues. Victories. Magnificent slayings ... That all just seemed the past. A useless and distant dream.

A nightmare.

And now, here she was without it. Without any power, at all.

She had been in similar situations before. A long time ago, two years now, she had been captured by the mighty pirate Tanglebeard, and he, along with two mages, had placed Philomel into a cage. It had been a cage constructed of a warding material and spell, that kept all magic of her kind in, and allowed no one without to be damaged. It had been a prison that she had eventually escaped from, along with those two mages, and then conquered along with the ship and part of the crew ...

But that was another time. Another place. Simply then her magic had been constrained to an area, to a point. To a part of existence. She could still perform it, just it had severe negative effects for her in the fact it could not go far. This time .... this time was different. This time it was completely ... gone.

She swallowed, slowly, now feeling more helpless than she ever had done. All her building up over the months of a steady increase of abilities and spells seemed all for naught. Her body shook, feeling the cold, feeling that horrible lack of connection to the earth because of this material, this place, this cave, this ... horror ... She felt empty. She felt meaningless. She felt far worse than that time when she had been attacked and threatened by her father.

Noises. And they weren't the haunting thrums of the chains that held her in place. They were footsteps, thudding into the room, opening a door set to the right and behind her, and heading straight for her. Heavy boots, probably hob-nailed, coming to stare at her and watch the meaningless wretch hanging there, feeling nothing but terror and fear - but not because of him. Because she didn't know why or what this meant now ...

A hand grabbed her by the chin and forced her head up. Green eyes. A messy beard. Scraggly scars and a woolen scarf. Lips curved up in a grin. She refused to look at him. Even though he may have reduced her to this in a matter of a single night, her heart still was true. She was still Philomel, even though she might not be the Matriarch anymore, and that meant her strength of heart was as tough as any cavelier, warrior or barbarian warlord.

Things went simple. His smile windened as he saw the ferocity behind her eyes, still there. He pulled her back a little, and all the bonds still held. Tight and abrasive they would not let her go. They gave no budge, not even an inch and caused painful stretching where she was forced to extend her legs just that bit further at the base and proved to her that there was no escape. Not at least for now. Even if she tried ... and she had tried already ... there was no hope. Not without a weapon or her magic, and here she was without either.

The ugly brute of a man dropped her and did the obvious thing. He began to shrug down his trousers. She saw his bulge before she felt it, saw it through the cloth of his trousers and then felt the flesh forcefully pressed against her cheek. She screwed her lips tight and refused to do anything. If he wanted pleasure he would have to get it himself, she was not going to amuse him ... not yet. Not just now. Not here.

Not here.

He pressed it against her lips, trying to slide it between them and into her mouth. But she reacted fast. Letting out a sharp hiss she opened her cavity up only to dart back with her teeth, meeting the attack with an attack. She caught the edge of meat, the smooth top of his member - to which the man howled.

He slapped her, hard, across the face, and took something from his pocket. As she dangled there, reeling, a fine red burn on her cheek and daze along with shock running through her, he revealed his hand. Eyes watched, half-aware as they spied a old cloth wrapped around something round, which was then shoved right into her mouth. Between her teeth, hard and strong. Far too large for not having been planned.

Only just gaining out of the stupor and now issuing a splutter of choking reflex against the gag Philomel tried to spit out the thing, but it was pressed in harder. The belt that was on the floor, thick and leather, was roughly picked up and flicked in a formation around her head.

Naturally, she tried to move, but she could not get far, and still she could not spit out the gag. The man was quick, he was hungry for lechery and he just grinned wider with his crooked teeth as he buckled the belt around the back of her head, across her cheeks and over her mouth. Keeping the gag in, compelling it to stay there. The buckle was pulled, hard, before he dropped his hands and began working on himself again, laughing now, jeering at her. Behind the muzzle she breathed hard, through her nose and just stared in utter hatred at him, trying to beg herself not to be turned on. Not to get pleasure from that simple act, not to be -

[Philomel]

For him, the intercourse was not enjoyable.

All the way through the short, stacatto and dry disturbance, she struggled like a deer caught in a trap. And such that, a trap it was, for she was bound and gagged far beyond what pleased her. And what she was used to. The entire dreadful thing was that she could not even feel Veridian's presence, let alone use magic. Whatever these people were, they were prepared for the likes of her kind - the powerful magic users of Althanas. Like a constant fog Philomel felt she was drowning in a pit os despair and abandonment, knowing that her connection to Drys, her goddess, was nothing. Similar to how she had been five years ago, lost in a throes of a meglamaniac pimp and screaming in the night to the memories of her cruel father.

Whether it was the strangely bare, white-tiled room itself, or the drugs that they had placed into her when she was asleep, Philomel did not know how they had the power to stop her magic, her connection to the earth or anything out of the ordinary. For she could not even sense the rock beneath her - an ability she had always had since a young age. With time and with Drys' blessing it had grown and developed into now, an ability to relate with plants, fungi, and instill (or was it awaken?) a sense of intelligence within them. Time had passed and things had come, people had come into her life and left - Shinsou van Osiris, for instance had come, that strange man of brawn and wiles, and her mother, Lacey, had left. Yet still - still ... Philomel had grown more powerful, and what was worse, grown used to that power. Doing what she wished, sleeping with only only whom she deigned even remotely worthy. Certainly not this man pounding on her front like some ill-begotten, famished dog.

Throughout the brief experience, she struggled. Squirmed to what extent the chains and manacles would allow, cursing through the gag. Of course what noise it was, came out in a muffled series of noises, but the intent was there. It was plain in the dark hatred of her eyes, and the disgust that her body felt as it recoiled endlessly from his touch. As he curled around her in that awkward fashion and fed his hunger, she felt honest horror, as she kept on trying to move back, but she couldn't, for her legs were literally bolted to the ground, her hands were stretched high above her and her head - her head.

An idea. As the bearded gristly man sighed with disatisfaction at her constant loathing, he looked up at her. His head came close to hers, within a foot. Sucking in her breath Philomel twisted her head away from him, and rubbed the belt, the thing that held the gag in her mouth, against her inner forearm - what she could reach. Inate strength, and the fact it was basically just a single piece of fabric bound around her head, the thing fell down around her neck without much difficulty. Once free, she glared, turning back to see the dismay and awe coming to the man's face. Spitefully she grinned and altogether spat the dirty cloth, and whatever else was within - a stone or some such hard object - back into his face with an almighty surge of energy. As he was temporarily blinded by the assailing newly created weapon, she did the only action that her body allowed, and that was to slam her head fowards. Right forwards, so horns met skull with a sickening noise and the man fell back, back, back, sprawling ...

"Serves you fucking right," she shrieked, with vehemence and loathing in her voice. "You fucking cockholster, dickbag, son of a harpy. You mongrel, mutt, scumbag, shitter of rocks, I hope your pee becomes acid and all who love you come to know you as the maggot, turd-eater you are. Thrice-damned cumguzzling thundercunt, twatwaffle, dooche-nozzle! I hope you get your dick stuck in the oven, and have it cooked there while you feel the pain. I hope it falls off your jizz-inbibing body, as you fall to the sorry earth, dreaming of your bum-fucking manwhore days and your reputation filled with urine, despair and sausage-slapping."

Her shrieks filled the cavernous roof, filling out the whiteness. Staring back at her, the green-eyed bearded man was silent for a long while, as he listened to her words. In his hand was the ruined fabric, with a dull round stone that fell out and clinked onto the cold tiled floor as Philomel finished her tirade. As her mouth closed, she panted, the black malice in her eyes ever increasing. True quiet fell, the voidlessness of nothing, as their eyes connected, the rapist to the raped.

Then, all of a sudden, the man tipped back his head and began to howl with laughter. He chortled until his eyes began to water, and his body shook left and right and up and down. It was Philomel's turn to stare in disbelief as she watched all her efforts of cursing be reduced to mere amusement, her heart sinking as for one of the first times she felt actual, physical mockery.

Wheezing, the man continued, reducing her to absolute nothing within the context of power. Still laughing, he stood, and between absurd breaths he let out a yell.

"HA! York-Yorker!" he called.

The rattling door opened once more, coated in the same white tiles, inside and out. Philomel caught sight of a long corridor in the same bright shade, with possible more doors, and a young man with toussled hair standing there, a length of chain in his hand. He didn't look at Philomel. He only looked at the bearded man.

"Ye-hah sir?"

"We need - need the full black for - ha- this one," the one in charge said, thumbing the air directly towards Philomel. "She's - ahhh- got quite - quite the tongue!"

[Philomel]

"What the fuck is the 'full black'?" Philomel hissed, her eyes daggers, her words spite.

The bearded man ignored her and waved for Yorker to do the same. "The full black," he repeated, gaining more power over his breath and words again.

His subordinate, apparently Yorker, just nodded and closed the door again. Philomel heard for the first time the very faint sounds of a bolt being drawn from the outside. She thought it was curious that Yorker would shut the bearded man in with her, for then he could not get out - but it did give more security. If, on the off chance, that Philomel did manage to escape her bonds here, why then the bolted door was just another obstacle. Another hatred in her way.

"You'll get used to it here, don't worry," the bearded man said, a grin huge on his face. "Within a few days you'll get used to it. But I like the fighters, hell, that was why we chose you. Makes it more fun for me."

"I don't give a fuck about your fun," Philomel spat, and she attempted, once more, and futiley, to get at him. But it was no use. Her chains were too tight, and the metal too tough.

"Try it as much as you like," he continued, smiling at her. He walked a few slow paces around her to raise a hand and touch the metal chain that held up her hands, went straight to the ceiling and then over to the wall. "But me and my brothers, we designed this metal ourselves. The toughest stuff we know. Just a hint, by the way."

Still, she glared, not knowing quite how to reply to his comment, and continued to struggle.

"Of course, we have lots of other rooms here," he went on, picking up after the pause as he assumed she had nothing to say, "This is just the preparation room. There's bed, tables, chairs ... even a cage or too. All made for our pleasure, and eventually yours, you will see."

"I will not!" she screeched.

"That is why I chose you," the man raised his hands. "A person who must be dominant, and nothing else. You see, you make the most pleasure, the most fun. The best projects. You make me and my brothers, the most happy. We all have our likes and preferences of course. I for one enjoy the classic wooden horse, and then another one of us likes the full lain out bed. Which is why we have all of them."

"You will die before you get your hands on me again."

"Uh-huh," the bearded man gave a pleasant grin.

And the door opened. Yorker walked back in with two arms filled with items. They were lengths of dark black leather, with studs and buckles, chains, constraints, threads, locks ...

"Ah," the bearded man smiled at Yorker and gestured, "Come help me. The scold's first I think."

Philomel opened her mouth and began to curse again. Loudly. Thinking of all the rotten and horrid names she could think of, the curses and swears, the oaths and hating phrases she had collected over the years. As the bearded man and Yorker came closer she tried to surge forwards and bite them, hit them with her horns, anything to stop them from doing whatever they were about to do. But the chains were tight, and the bonds were true. The two of them, the large-set man and the flexible youth, were her prison guards, and she was at their mercy. With magic and no freedom she could only put up such a fight. As she tried to thrust her tired head, for the strength of all of her struggles was beginning to catch up with her, into the arms of one individual, the bearded man swept forwards, darting around behind. Grabbing her by the horns he harshly pulled her neck back and her head up, hands firm and grip strong as he easily fought against her throes. Her throes that should have the strength of five times the average man.

Fucking hell. Is my strength magical too?

The Yorker youth dropped the bundle of black leather, and then sorted through it. Leaning back up he took up what Philomel could only guess was a piece for a horse's head, a bridle, due to the lengths of straps and the array of buckles. With horror she watched as he came closer, a small smile on his mouth. Desperately she fought, but the bearded man's hold aimed true, and Yorker was fast, he was well practised. He darted forwards, taking a chance when her mouth was open for cursing and literally slipped a piece of hard leather over her tongue, forcing it down. Then, hands worked fast, taking ribbons of bondage to create a sort of cage over her face. The fabric and stone and original belt - that had somehow already been removed in all this panic - and was simply a precursor to this horror. Straps went from her mouth where the depressor held her tongue, around the sides of her head and over her ears to the back of the head. More formed a triangle around her nose, then separated for two upwards and over her temples, and then two diagonally around by her eyes. They snaked, as if they were designed for her, around her horns, and joined the others at the back, along with a stiff neck piece, that sat under her chin, curved to her throat, and then went behind to the start of her skull. All were swiftly lashed, tighening to the utmost pressure, and joining with the neck piece that was - fucking hell, she realised, laced like a corset down the back of her neck.

The whole piece was a constraint, a blockade, and it was forced around her like a new manacle. The strength of the evenly placed buckles kept the piece of leather in her mouth unmoving, unlike the cloth, and she suddenly new there was no way - no way - that she could remove this one. Her tongue was forced still, unable to move at all, and her mouth almsot completely blocked by the leather, so that she had to breathe, heavily and quickly through her nose. As her horns were released, and Yorker to her front step away, Philomel felt a rush of dread come over her and she wished that no one, at all - not Vaeron, not Veridian, and please gods not her dear friend Shinsou, who had been so longing after her for so long - ever saw her like this.

With true fear now threatening to grip her Philomel deperately began to toss and turn, moaning through the leather. It was no use, however, the tongue was not moving in any time soon, and her speech came out only as the faintest of noises. The bearded man began to laugh heavily as he dared to continue with his preparations. He gestured and Yorker and he set about placing leather fetters with rattling chain strengtheners around her ankles and wrists, the wrists in this case being bound tightly together - as if they didn't have enough already - and a tight corset up her waist, but leaving her chest bare. The corset came with actual loops to the front and back and extra buckles to securely tie in hands, elbows and the like should the need arise, in any position it seemed. The worst bit, was however, when the bearded man came forth, and dodged her horns swift enough to lash a final piece of leather around her neck. Lacing, and then buckling it, tight, he stepped back to reveal that he had given her a fucking collar, and that in his hands was a thin but durable chain that led straight to it.

I'm not a fucking dog, she screamed in her head, but all that came from her mouth was silence.

Pleased, he grinned, and rattled the chain lightly. Other chains lay on the floor, and Philomel felt a lump in her muted throat at what they could be for. Gently, Yorker reached over and handed the bearded man what was so obviously a black, thick riding crop into his other hand. A riding crop that was so clearly used for personal, intimate, purposes. On her. For her.

"I think we'll call you 'Scold'," the bearded man's eyes shone. "For you lively tongue. The history of your headpiece, you know - originally, and still in some places now, it is made out of pure metal and it's purpose is to keep still those who spread gossip, lies, deceit ... Or those who curse. Much like you. 'Scold.'" He looked at his subordinate. "Get it?"

Yorker grinned a little, beginning to nod. Just then the door opened, creaking on old hinges. A face appeared and looked awkwardly between Philomel, Yorker and the bearded man.

"Sir, there is a slight problem arising?"

The bearded man frowned, obviously clearly not liking being interrupted. "Can't you see that I am entertaining my new-"

"Sir. It is maester Vitruvion. It is about ... you know who ..."

A short pause came into the room. Silence, as ugly as Philomel's own as she stared in complete confusion and hatred between all three men. But the bearded man seemed to thing it was rather serious. He looked into her eyes and spoke.

"Apologies, Scold, but we'll need to conclude your initiation later," he dropped the chain in his hand, and it fell to the floor with a light series of rings. The crop also he laid beside it, out from any of her reaches, ready for use as soon as he came back in. As if he thought he was sly, he winked at her, and then straightened. He turned back to his men, nodded once more and started out. Yorker following him, both of them following the other man, right out of the door that eased closed, then was locked with a sliding bolt.

Philomel heard the footsteps leave, heading away from her, far away. Leaving her alone, stranded, dangling there. Unable to escape.

Drys above. Help me, she murmured.

Seconds ticked by. Turning into minutes. Tens of minutes. An hour ...

And the door opened, but it was not what she expected.

Or rather, it was not who she expected.