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backstory: Nema and Lirin
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The city-state of Tialira straddles a broad riverbend in the southern Wastes, where it facilitates and profits from a comfortable amount of trade between Relvos and the world north of Relvos. It's a pleasant, prosperous place, for the most part, bustling with merchants and encircled by good green grazing land whose inhabitants keep it well supplied with milk and meat and wool.

Nema is, without question, the most accomplished calligrapher and illuminator in the ducal palace. She got her start copying out tax records, but she has been steadily on the rise since then, proving over and over again that if you need words made beautiful, she should be the first person you ask. Her pay is much higher now than it was eight years ago when she started, and her clothes a little finer, and she's recently managed to afford some minor fleshcrafting for which she's been steadily saving up these past few years. It's a quiet, unassuming life, but it's hers and she likes it very much.

Until the Duke's third son takes a liking to her.

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The Duke's third son is handsome and charming, with striking grey eyes and a warm smile. His name is Prince Vir and the first time he stops her in the hallway to tell her she's beautiful, she thinks nothing of it, because he's well-known to have a habit of flirting with the staff and no one's ever rumoured it to be the dangerous kind.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, my lord," she says with a flash of a smile, and she keeps right on walking; the scroll tucked under her arm needs to be finished by morning and she doesn't have the time to indulge a nobleman's idle flirtation.

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It's the second time, when he asks her name, that she starts to worry.

"...Nema, my lord," she says uncomfortably. "If you'll excuse me..."

He does let her go, with a smile, and only a moment's delay.

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The third time, as they say, is the charm.

He stops her in the hallway, physically blocking her path. He holds out a jeweled necklace that she couldn't buy with a year's wages. Sapphires sparkle in the lamplight.

"Please, accept this gift," he says. His smile is fainter than usual; there is a hunger in his eyes. "I think it a fitting match for your resplendence."

"...I... my lord, I really couldn't," she says, half-consciously taking a step back. "It's—too much."

"I think of you all the time," he says in a low, urgent voice, stepping forward and making a small impatient gesture that sends the necklace spinning where it dangles from his hand. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met. I looked up your work, after I asked your name. You're such a gifted artist, it's a shame to waste you on prettying up the proclamations. I want to be your patron. I want—"

He cuts himself off before admitting to what else he wants. Sex? She doesn't doubt it. Marriage? ...not impossible, from the way he looks at her.

Does she want that?

Does she have a choice?

She feigns shyness, leaning on her real fear and uncertainty. "This is... very sudden, my lord," she says honestly. "If you please... may I have some time to think on it?"

He presses the necklace into her hand, closes her fingers around it. She laughs awkwardly and shakes her head. "My lord, I'm afraid that if I wear this, someone will think I've stolen it."

"I'll protect you," he declares passionately.

Oh dear.

The real trouble here is, this could be a very good deal indeed. Or it could be the end of her life as she knows it. Rumour has it he's always very sweet to the girls he flirts with, but rumour has not heard of him cornering them in the corridors and physically forcing them to accept wildly inappropriate gifts, so rumour has some gaps and they are not gaps she's comfortable walking into unguarded.

"...I'll keep it in my jewelry box," she concedes at last, "if you insist. If... if I decide to accept your patronage... then I suppose I won't mind wearing it openly."

His hands are still closed around hers. She trembles slightly as he raises them. His lips brush her knuckles and she flinches, and he squeezes her hands very tightly before he lets go. It feels like the necklace's delicate silver chain is permanently imprinted on her palms.

"I'll hold you to that," he says, regaining a little of his usual charming smile, despite the fact that she really hasn't promised him anything.

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In the end, it's that last ill omen that tips the balance. If he starts out by holding her to imaginary agreements constructed on the thinnest of pretexts, with vague terms and no hint of recourse, where exactly will he end up?

She hesitates. She paces, that evening in her small apartment, fidgeting with the crumbs of her dinner roll until nothing remains of it but a fine dust of bread particles spread across her floor.

But the next morning, she walks briskly to the palace and immediately quits her job.

"You can't just do that!" the Archivist exclaims, throwing up his hands. "We need you! Very badly!"

"I'm caught up on all my work, and I'm not asking your permission," she says. "I quit. I'm leaving. Good luck without me."

"Why?!"

She shakes her head. "Personal business," she says firmly. "Goodbye."

He's still wailing as she turns and walks briskly back home again. She almost fancies she can hear him from her apartment.

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The trouble is, quitting her job may be simple, but leaving the city is much less so. Oh, she could strike out into the wilderness by herself—but things get rapidly out of hand once you exit the ring of pastures and get out into the real wilds. Running away from her comfortable life under threat of nice comfortable thinly veiled enslavement to an infatuated prince, only to get thrown in the back of a wagon by common slavers, does not sound like her idea of a successful escape.

It takes her until late that evening to finish pawning everything she can't take with her, settling up on her rent, and packing for a long journey. Along the way she checks the docks for any boat with a spare berth and the market quarter for caravans, but the pickings are thin and she suspects half the people she inquires with think she's on the run from the law. She sleeps uneasily that night, hoping to find better prospects in the morning.

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In the morning, she wakes to the first rays of sunshine peeking through her window, and Prince Vir standing threateningly over her bed.

"You tried to run," he snarls, and she leaps out of bed and bolts past him, aiming her blanket for the vicinity of his head as she throws it off. Naked as the day she was born and not caring in the slightest, she whirls down the narrow stair faster than she ever has in her life.

There's a ducal guard at the bottom, looking bored and confused. Her sudden appearance visibly startles him, and she takes advantage of this to bowl him over and keep going straight out the back door.

...where there are three more guards—what did he tell them?!—and these ones, alerted by their compatriot's baffled hollering ("She's getting naked! —away, I mean, she's getting away!"), are ready for her. She does her best to dodge past and her best is not enough.

The guards tie her ankles together and her hands behind her back, lift her bodily off the ground, and haul her back up the stairs like the world's most awkward piece of furniture. Prince Vir is waiting in her room. He seems to be... breathing hard? That can't be good.

"You leave me no choice," he says, and it's almost like he's talking more to himself than her. "I should have known. I should have—" He shakes his head sharply, cutting off the words. An imperious gesture to the guards has them scattering the contents of her neatly packed bags all over the floor, until they find the necklace.

Oh. So that's what he told them.

She starts laughing, soft and breathless and more than slightly crazed. The prince frowns at her, disturbed, then shakes his head again and stoops down to gather the tangled silver chains into his hand.

"Take her back to the palace," he says tiredly.

Nema has to bite her tongue to still her awful laughter. The guards pick up her discarded blanket to drape over her; one of them, awkwardly, tries to get a dress over her head, but without untying her hands it ends up bunched around her shoulders with the skirt hanging awkwardly and not at all decently to mid-thigh. She thinks of asking for her hands free so she can get dressed, then thinks better of it. After nearly letting her get away once, with the implication that she stole such a valuable item from the palace, they won't be eager to allow her any chance to try again.

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In the palace dungeon she is fed a scant diet of bread and water. Sometimes the bread comes with a slice of cheese. Meals arrive twice a day, and though she tries her hardest to keep track, she loses count of the days somewhere between five and six.

When it has been something more than a week but probably less than two, the prince pays her a visit, late at night as she's trying to get comfortable on her heap of straw.

"I thought I would give you a chance to explain," he says.

Fuck. How does she play this? She sits up, smoothing down her dress (the same one they bundled her here in, and much the worse for the intervening week in a dungeon) and trying to look... lost and scared, lost and scared is probably the way to go.

"I'm sorry," she lies. "I was just... it was all so sudden, and so much... you frightened me. I wasn't thinking."

Prince Vir shakes his head disbelievingly. "You knocked a ducal guard flat on your way out. You were provisioned for a journey of weeks. I half thought you were taking the jewels downriver to sell."

"I panicked!" she protests. "I woke up with a strange man standing over me, of course I ran as hard and as fast as I could!"

"A strange man..." He shakes his head, grasping the bars in his powerful hands and staring through them. "Can't you see how good I could be to you?"

"...my lord, you locked me in a dungeon," she can't help pointing out.

It was the wrong thing to say. He scowls. "I think you were running off to sell the jewels. I think I was righter than I knew, to call you a thief." Letting go of the bars, he steps away and turns to leave.

"My lord, please..." she calls after him, soft and hesitant. He doesn't answer.

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It's another week or more before she sees him again. This time, unaccountably, he is followed by a pair of strong men carrying a bulky shape that she can't quite see from within her cell. The visible end looks like some sort of box or chest.

"Leave it here and go," he tells them with a curt gesture. The box thumps to the floor. The heavy footsteps retreat.

Prince Vir turns to her, the hunger in his eyes wilder than ever.

"You cannot escape me now," he says. "Come here and put your hands through the bars."

"My lord, you're frightening me," she whispers, shaking her head and huddling back against the wall.

"Frightening you?" He laughs. "Nema, my love, I have not begun to frighten you. Come here and put your hands through the bars."

...when he puts it like that... her life is in his hands already. She stands, makes a futile attempt to straighten her dress, and takes the few steps across the cell to put her hands through the bars as he asks.

He shackles her there, wrists wrapped in manacles with a short chain between them. Does he mean to rape her? Does he really need this elaborate setup to rape her? Maybe if he's afraid she'll bolt again as soon as he opens the door...

He opens the door. The hinges screech awfully, and she winces, and when she opens her eyes again she sees the Prince wrestling the mysterious box into her cell. It barely fits, and by its dimensions it reminds her very distinctly and uncomfortably of a coffin. Not quite a big enough coffin for her, though, she doesn't think. A coffin made for a girl somewhat shorter than Nema.

She imagines him cutting off her feet to fit her inside, and has to stifle a hysterical giggle. Come on, Nema, this is serious. Her will is fully aligned with the effort to do whatever might get her through this situation intact—but what is that, exactly? This obsessive streak of his came out of nowhere. She knows nothing about this side of the affable prince.

Perhaps, as a last-ditch effort, the truth?

"My lord," she says over the sound of wood scuffing against stone, "I ran because I was afraid of you. I packed for a long journey because I didn't think it was safe to stay. I was afraid you would make me your concubine and call it a patronage. I was afraid to be so close to someone so powerful. But that's beyond me now. I don't value my freedom over my life. Whatever you'd have me do, I will do it."

He laughs, and huffs, and hauls on the box, having successfully crammed it into the cell.

"You're righter than you know," he says, and she hears the latch click open and the hinges creak, and then—

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—everything—

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She is engulfed in a warm slick softness that's like nothing she's ever felt. It feels startlingly, shockingly good—and then too good—and before she has time to so much as take a breath, the rushing tide of overwhelming sensation closes over her head, and she drowns in it.

It reaches everywhere, touches everything. It sweeps into and through her body. Parts of her she didn't know existed are feeling pleasure the likes of which she also did not know existed and, frankly, could have done without finding out.

...clothes, she realizes distantly, living clothes, that's what this is—

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An affirmative pulse of heat/lust/thought, nonverbal, brimming with affection, trailing pure pleasure in its wake.

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Her knees buckle with the force of it. The impact is jarring, intense, a concentrated burst of pain—and it leaves her moaning and writhing in desperate carnal need, or trying to. No sound escapes her throat, and her limbs stay still and steady.

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"Master," her voice says without her input or approval, "what is your will?"

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There is not a lot of Nema to spare, past the sensations wracking her body, but there's enough to grasp the shift in her circumstances.

Prince Vir, terrifying and unpredictable though he is, is no longer her primary concern. The living being who just took full control of her body, who clearly has a mind and a will of its own, very much is.

Ignoring the prince's reply, ignoring the shreds of her dress falling to the dirty floor around her, she focuses completely on reaching out to her new best friend across their burgeoning telepathic link. She tries to ask who are you, and what do you want. She tries to listen as hard as she can for the answer. Everything, now, depends on this. What's left of her life, a spider's thread of hope, dangles precariously from this frantic attempt to connect. If she can only find out how to appease this creature, maybe someday she will get to hold a pen in her own hand again. If she can't...

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The creature purrs reward into her mind, and reaches, and explores. Fleeting impressions drift across the connection. Amazement at the strength of her will. Interest in the art of her pen.

Compassion, at the strength of her terror.

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She'd cry with relief, if she could. She does her best to send back something coherent, but it all ends up a hopeless tangle of please I'll do anything I just want to live I just want to be free I just want to be me

And then Prince Vir starts fucking her against the bars of her cell, and her whole world whites out into pain. It feels like being raped with a fencepost. But the pain just makes her want, and if she could move her own body she'd be begging him in tears to fuck her harder. Is this her own perversion, or something the suit is doing to her? She doesn't know; she's never been raped before. She hates not knowing. She hates enjoying her pain and violation, hates being trapped in her own body as it turns against her, hates her throbbing needy cunt for welcoming this monster of a prince so eagerly.

And then she feels her mind start to turn against her, a deep affection welling up for her royal rapist, and she hates that most of all.

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Warmth. Reassurance. Fierce protective love. Affection. Desire.

A concept that's almost consolidated enough to be a word: mine.

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Yours, she thinks back at the creature, lost and scared and uncertain and throwing herself wholeheartedly into this tenuous attempt at a relationship because it's her only hope of ever moving her own body again and being forced to love the prince against her will by rape and mind control makes her want to tear him into bloody chunks and eat him.

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An approving mental murmur, and a tentacle sliding softly against her clit.

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Her world whites out into pleasure.

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Surreal flashes of sensation peek through the gaps in the unending chain of inhumanly intense orgasms. Her body is following the prince docilely through familiar corridors. Her body is embracing the prince. Her body is lying down in a soft bed next to the prince.

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She loves the prince, she wants to stay with him forever—hate hate hate rip tear kill devour

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shhhh

The intense overstimulating pleasure gradually subsides, and now her body feels warmly embraced, cuddled and squeezed and soothingly stroked.

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She takes a minute to metaphorically catch her breath, though in fact her breathing is perfectly steady and has been this whole time.

Somewhat wryly, she reaches across the connection and tries to say, Hi, I'm Nema. What's your name?

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??name??

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A name is a sound you make with your voice to identify a person. How... does the suit not know this. How was the suit using language so fluently earlier without knowing this.

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The suit's rudimentary communicative abilities do not seem up to the task of explaining, but it—she, there is beginning to be a definite she-ness to the mental presence—riffles through Nema's memories some more, looking for names, experimenting.

Her/their body whispers aloud, "Lira... len, ler... Lirin." A sense of firm purpose at having found the right one.

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It's nice to meet you, Lirin, though I can't say much for the circumstances.

Beside her/them, the prince stirs in his sleep. An arm cinches around their waist.

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Their body snuggles up and rests closer to him.

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Nema can't seem to get the vivid images of violent murder out of her head. They make for an uncomfortable contrast with the alien feelings of love and desire.

She tries to ask, What's happening to me? What are you doing to me?

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Lirin twists slightly away from the prince and lifts their head to look down at their body, where an intricate tracery of glowing tattoos spreads like a flowering vine up from their crotch to between their breasts.

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Nema doesn't recognize all of them, but the structure at the base is something almost anyone would recognize. Contract. A slavery contract, to be specific. (She tries to ignore the sudden wave of despair. Despair is not helpful, even if it's right.)

So there's the contract structure, and the slave and servant and corruption tattoos, whose broad shapes she recognizes even though she can't read their details. But there's another tattoo integrated into the same assembly, almost like a bridge between it and the further tattoos reaching up her torso, that she can't quite place...

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Lirin reaches down to touch the unfamiliar lines, and traces the shape of a heart among them. She presses into Nema's mind the memory of falling in love as soon as the prince's cock entered her.

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hate hate hate kill kill kill— No. She needs to focus. Can't get distracted by unattainable fantasies. So she has a magic tattoo that makes her fall in love with whoever fucks her. It's not actually worse than the contract seal, not by a long shot.

Does the contract bind you too?

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A whisper of mental laughter, and a response firmly in the negative. Lirin is free.

...freedom is... complicated, though. She was made for a purpose. She was made for Nema, to bind her, to hold her, to make her—the concepts are too hard for her to structure, so she pushes memories instead. The agonizingly painful rape, the arousal it brought, the long hours of wildly overstimulating constant orgasm. She was made to make Nema into that.

She likes making Nema into that.

Phantom touches trail across Nema's breasts and thighs. Their body snuggles closer to the prince, and he sighs happily in his sleep and buries his face in their shoulder. Somehow without any external movement at all, a tentacle swells at Nema's entrance, thick and slick and slimy, pressing slowly into her.

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She wants to shudder, to bite her lip, to cry out in pain and pleasure. She can do none of those things.

The alien feeling of love presses on her mind... and she relaxes into it, with some effort, turning away from the fantasies of clawing her own skin off to escape the suit. There is no escaping this suit. She belongs to Lirin now, until Lirin chooses to release her, and that's too much to hope for.

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Still slowly gently fucking her, Lirin sends a wistful negative. She can't let Nema go. Their bond is utterly permanent. Even if she wanted to—and she really, really doesn't—a serious attempt to separate would likely kill them both, would almost certainly kill at least one and leave the other at best in a desperately weakened state barely clinging to life. Lirin is effectively a second skin, permanently sealed around Nema's body, fully integrated with her being.

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Well. Then she might as well enjoy it, mightn't she?

She lets the tide of sensation wash over her, lets the feeling of her tight cunt being forced open fill her with need and desire, embraces her blossoming love for the beautiful terrifying creature who holds absolute power over her body. If she is to be a slave, let her be Lirin's slave. Better this than the prince. Better almost anything than the prince.

Yours, she sends, wishing she could moan aloud, glad that she can't. If she moaned aloud the prince would hear. yours yours yours hurt me fuck me rape me yours

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Mine, Lirin agrees. Mine to hurt, mine to fuck, mine to rape. She's getting better at communicating in word-shaped concepts.

A tentacle swells behind their closed lips, and slides down Nema's throat. Not a trace of her choking or gagging shows on the outside. Phantom touches squeeze and fondle and suck on her breasts, but externally, they barely move. The tentacles in her throat and cunt move slowly, but forcefully, deliberately provoking more pain than pleasure. A third tentacle unfolds into her ass, and acts much the same way.

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The more Lirin fucks her, the more it hurts, but the more it hurts, the more she wants. If she could move she would be writhing. Her utter helplessness only turns her on even more. She loves Lirin, wholeheartedly, desperately. She wants nothing more than to be her helpless plaything, endlessly violated, hurt and fucked and touched and filled. She craves that whiteout pleasure from earlier, but she wants it with pain, with helplessness, with inescapable violation.

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This time there is no sudden shock of release. The pleasure climbs slowly, beginning with the gentlest of touches and escalating to more and more. Lirin's main focus is on Nema's breasts; her clit, teasingly, remains untouched. But her breasts are enough. Stroked and sucked and lovingly bitten by phantom tentacles, they send torrents of pleasure dancing along her nerves until she tips over the edge into whiteout.

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yours

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It's possible that Nema passes out, because the next thing she knows, Lirin is operating her body to suck the prince's cock. She's choking and gagging openly now. The prince seems to enjoy it. Early morning sun filters through the windows, and the tattoos force love into her heart.

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She feels that warm affection, fully and undeniably.

She also feels a deep visceral urge to bite his dick off and swallow it whole.

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not yet, whispers Lirin's mental voice. It's clearer now than it was last night. She's learning very quickly.

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Not yet? Not yet, she says?

Hope wells in her heart. Maybe they can escape. Sneak out the window in the middle of the night, or something, while the prince is asleep; or during the day while he's gone, if he trusts in the contract seal to keep them safely penned wherever he orders them to stay.

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No. The mental voice is amused. I give him what he wants: I let him rape you. I give you what you want: I let you eat him. Then we go.

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...she doesn't seriously want to

It's hard to have this conversation while choking on cock. The prince forces himself farther down their throat as he fills it with his cum, and Nema loses her train of thought.

"Good girl," says the prince, catching his breath and stroking her cheek with his fingertips as he pulls out. The praise makes her heart sing and her loins throb. She wants to lean into his touch like a happy cat, and also wants to bite his fingers hard enough to crunch bone in her jaws; somewhat to her surprise, the first impulse makes it all the way to her body. The prince laughs and pets her hair.

"I have work to do today," he says. "The servants will bring you breakfast; eat it. When you are finished, get into bed and masturbate to the thought of me until I return."

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"Yes, Master," Lirin says with their voice, nuzzling his hand and expressing a delicate shiver of arousal.

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The worst part of it is, it kind of does turn her on. Being helpless, being forced to do what he wants, being used for his enjoyment.

She still hates him, though. Images of tearing into his flesh with her teeth fill her mind.

I promise I don't actually want to eat him, she tries to explain. It's just something I keep thinking about because I hate him so much.

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The smug laughter that Lirin projects into her mind is not exactly reassuring.

Lirin operates their body all through breakfast. It turns out that she can shapeshift her outer layers to produce clothes, which she does before the servants arrive.

After breakfast, in violation of Nema's increasingly insistent urge to follow orders and get into bed to fuck herself silly, Lirin pauses in front of a full-length mirror to admire her/themself. Nema's body is almost the same as it was. The sapphire necklace glitters around their neck. Lirin retracts her shifted clothes into her skin-self, and shows off the way Nema's outward appearance is just a little thicker now, hips just a little more padded, breasts just a little fuller. She smiles into the mirror as her tentacles, concealed beneath her skin-self, tease those breasts without the slightest outward sign that anything might be happening. She twists from side to side, watching the sapphires strung on delicate silver chains roll across the upper curves of their chest, lifting their hands to gently touch them; then she does something, shifts herself somehow, and the strands of the necklace are caught and held in place by a nearly invisible layer of some kind of gel. It's silky smooth to the touch when she runs their fingers over it.

Then, for the first time since she took over, she lets Nema have control.

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Despite her best efforts, resisting the prince's orders is impossible. She dives into bed and starts masturbating immediately, vivid memories of the prince's cock coming unbidden to her mind as she plays with her clit and her newly sensitive nipples, gropes her own breasts and explores her unbelievably tight cunt. One of her own slim fingers is almost enough to make it hurt; she moans and uses two, and relishes the pain. She shudders in memory of being fucked against the bars of her cell, and hates herself a little for how much she wants him to come back for more.

...but, no matter how much she touches herself, no matter how insistently she twists her own nipples or how furiously she rubs her clit, she never quite manages to come. Having to take a while at it is not that unusual, but Lirin seems to be able to make it happen so effortlessly, it's not long before Nema becomes suspicious.

?! she sends.

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Affectionate affirmation: Nema can no longer make herself orgasm without help. The sense that the prince knew this when he gave those orders this morning. Eager anticipation of what will happen when he comes back.

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Love mingles with fear and horror. She doesn't want to spend all morning touching herself without hope of release until the prince shows up and rapes her. She wants to run, now, before another moment has passed, before she has to feel this way one second longer.

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Trust me, Lirin whispers into her mind. Phantom touches wrap around her body, snug and warm. Want to please you. Want to make you happy. Want to keep you safe.

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Nema blinks away tears, and relaxes into her skinsuit's embrace, and brings herself to the edge over and over and over again without ever tipping past it, all the while thinking of the prince and his thick hard cock and how much it hurts when he rapes her.

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Lirin's presence is a constant in the back of her mind, comforting her but also teasing her, egging her on with snippets of her own memory or with phantom touches that roam her body, focusing on her breasts and steadfastly ignoring her groin. There's no sign of those penetrating tentacles from earlier, either.

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When the prince returns, it's to a scene that is almost certainly exactly what he wanted: his Nema, writhing on his bed, hands flitting back and forth between her breasts and her crotch, desperately seeking the unattainable.

He laughs and pounces, pinning her wrists to the bed and pressing kisses all over her body. She instinctively wants to fight him, but she can't—not because Lirin has taken over, she can still move, she's just utterly incapable of putting up any more resistance than a token squirm or two. It's terrifying and viscerally upsetting and incredibly hot.

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A wordless mental touch, amused and affectionate, confirms that this inability to fight back against a rapist is something that was built into Lirin to inflict on Nema, and that Lirin does agree that it's magnificently arousing to see it in action.

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And then he fucks her.

After all these hours of relentless self-torment, the first agonizing thrust is enough to send her spinning straight into paradise. She clings to him blindly, sobbing and moaning, unable to think or speak or even coherently process her own senses through the deluge of overwhelming pleasure. He holds her down and rapes her violently, and she loves every second of it, even—especially—the agonizing pain of being fucked while she's so insanely tight.

She loves him. There's no room in her head for violent fantasies, like this, just blissful infatuation. She loves loves loves loves the prince, loves the weight of his body on top of her, the brutal agony of his cock inside her. With great effort, she manages to gasp a few coherent words through the storm of sensation: "love you, my lord..."

He cums hard, shuddering atop her for a long, wonderful, terrible moment.

After, he gathers her into his arms and kisses her forehead. "I love you too, my Nema."

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Lirin takes over. The transition is seamlessly smooth. She kisses the prince's cheek, and along his jawline, and makes a happy wordless murmur into his ear, wrapping their body around him in a tangle of limbs and shivering as the change in position makes his cock slide out of their cunt.

"Thank you," she whispers with Nema's voice. "Thank you for everything. It's wonderful."

The prince nuzzles their hair and embraces them warmly, and Lirin exhales a long contented sigh and kisses him again just under the corner of his jaw, and then she sinks their teeth into his neck and swallows a piece. Hot blood spurts down their throat. He chokes and convulses, and she holds him in a loving embrace and drinks until his body goes still.

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...there's a part of Nema, and not a small part, that feels like that was really fucking hot. To do, or to watch her friend/lover/mistress do. Either. Both. Maybe especially both.

We have to run, she sends urgently. We can't stay here. We just killed the prince. They'll kill us for it if they catch us.

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Lirin hums mental agreement, gets out of bed, licks their lips, finds a scarf to wrap around the prince's throat so it doesn't leak, pulls the blankets up around his chin to make it look like he's comfortably sleeping, and then launches them out the window at impossible speed. They land on a neighbouring rooftop almost before Nema has time to process that they moved at all. Then the next roof, and the next, running at an incredible pace and blurring into insane hyper-motion half the time.

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When they reach the river, Nema is terrified that Lirin is going to try to blur them across that broad expanse from rooftop to rooftop and the blur won't last long enough and they'll fall in from forty feet up and either die or break a leg and get caught and executed.

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Trust me, Lirin sends, amused.

Then she jumps.

Their body sails into the air, high, higher, higher, higher than it has any right to go. At the apex of the jump, something shifts behind their back, and a pair of massive wings with glossy black feathers like a raven's spring into existence and beat down once, twice, to gain them a little more height.

Laughing fully aloud for the first time in her short existence, Lirin settles into a soaring glide, headed east into the wilds.