Tied - (Mature)

[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 futilely, 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, tightening 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-spaced 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 almost 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 desperately 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 its 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 think it was rather serious. He looked into her eyes and spoke.