Aelindra's eyes fluttered open, dread coiling in her stomach as dawn's pale light filtered through the window. Today was the day. Rough hands yanked her from her pallet, dragging her to the washroom. The icy water shocked her fully awake as servants scrubbed her raw, their touch impersonal and harsh.
A coarse, ill-fitting dress was thrust over her head. Gone were the fine silks Lord Darian usually provided. This garment scratched at her skin, a constant reminder of her status. Aelindra's fingers trembled as she smoothed the fabric, desperately trying to quell the panic rising in her chest.
*No, no, no,* her mind raced. *Be good. Serve. Obey.* The mantras that had been drilled into her for years offered little comfort now. The thought of being stripped bare before the jeering crowd, her flesh laid open by the lash, the collar stealing her very essence – it was too much. A choked sob escaped her lips as she was led from the room, her usual grace abandoning her as she stumbled towards her fate.
Aelindra's bare feet slapped against the cold stone as she was marched through the castle corridors. Each step felt like lead, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. Servants and guards alike averted their eyes as she passed, as if her shame was contagious.
The roar of the crowd hit her before she even reached the courtyard. Hundreds of voices, angry and eager for blood. Aelindra's knees nearly buckled, but rough hands propelled her forward. Blinding sunlight assaulted her eyes as she emerged onto the wooden platform.
There it stood – the stockade, its weathered wood promising hours of agony. Beside it, a hooded figure clutched a wicked-looking whip. And there, glinting malevolently in the morning light, sat the Nullstone Collar. Aelindra's breath came in ragged gasps. *Serve. Obey. Endure.* But how could she endure this? As hands reached for the laces of her dress, a single tear slid down her cheek.
Rough hands tore at the laces of Aelindra's dress, the fabric falling away to expose her trembling form to the jeering crowd. Sunlight caressed her alabaster skin, unmarred save for a delicate pattern of vine-like birthmarks twining up her left side. Her breasts, full and pert, rose and fell rapidly with each panicked breath. A toned stomach gave way to gently flaring hips and long, graceful legs.
Aelindra's arms instinctively moved to cover herself, but were wrenched behind her back. She stumbled forward, forced to bend at the waist as her neck and wrists were secured in the unforgiving embrace of the stockade. The position thrust her buttocks outward, the smooth curves now a canvas for the coming lash.
A hush fell over the crowd as the hooded figure stepped forward, uncoiling the whip with a practiced flick. Aelindra squeezed her eyes shut, muscles tensing in anticipation of the first blow. The sound of leather cutting through air was deafening in the silence.
Crack! The first lash bit into Aelindra's flesh, a line of fire across her exposed backside. She jerked, a strangled cry escaping her lips. Her body tensed, muscles rippling beneath her skin as she fought to remain still.
Thwack! Another strike, crossing the first. Aelindra's breasts swayed with the impact, nipples hardening in the cool air. She bit her lip, tasting blood as she suppressed a scream. In her mind, she saw Lord Darian's face, imagined his hand wielding the whip. The memory of his arousal, his quickened breath as he'd disciplined her before, helped dull the pain.
Whoosh-crack! A third blow landed, then a fourth. Aelindra's back arched, her buttocks clenching. Sweat beaded on her brow, trickling down between her breasts. She focused on the feeling of Lord Darian's eyes on her body, the way he'd run his hands over the welts afterwards. The crowd's jeers faded, replaced by the phantom sound of her master's approving murmurs.
Stolen story; please report.
Aelindra's world narrowed to the rhythm of the lash and the struggle within. Each strike sent shockwaves through her body, her flesh quivering, marked by angry red welts. She clung to the memories of Lord Darian's touch, his praise, desperately using them to anchor herself against the tide of pain and humiliation.
Crack! Another blow landed. A whimper escaped her lips, quickly stifled. The magic inside her roiled, instinctively seeking release to heal her wounds. Aelindra fought it down, terror gripping her heart. One slip, one moment of weakness, and everything - everyone - she loved would be destroyed. The pressure built inside her, a war between her training as a slave and her innate elven nature.
Her legs trembled, threatening to give out. Sweat and tears mingled, dripping onto the wooden platform beneath her. The pain was excruciating, yet Aelindra found herself slipping into a trance-like state. In this haze, shame and arousal blurred together - her body's response to the flogging both horrified and grounded her. She clung to that feeling, using it to keep her magic suppressed as the punishment continued.
The Inquisitor's arm rose and fell in a merciless rhythm, each strike eliciting a muffled cry from Aelindra's bloodied lips. Her back was a canvas of crisscrossing welts, some split and weeping crimson. The crowd's roar had faded to a dull hum in her ears, overwhelmed by the thundering of her own heartbeat.
Aelindra's mind fractured, one part desperately clinging to memories of Lord Darian's gentle touch, another consumed by the primal need to endure. Her magic surged within her, a tempest barely contained. She bit down hard on her tongue, using the sharp new pain to focus. 'For them,' she thought frantically. 'For him. I must not break.'
Suddenly, the flogging stopped. Aelindra sagged in her bonds, chest heaving, breasts slick with sweat. Through the haze of agony, she felt rough hands at her neck. The cold touch of metal sent a jolt of fear through her - the Nullstone Collar. As it clicked shut, Aelindra felt her magic abruptly silenced. A sob of relief and loss escaped her as darkness crept at the edges of her vision.
The stockade creaked open, releasing Aelindra's bruised wrists and neck. Her legs buckled instantly, unable to support her weight. Rough hands seized her arms, dragging her upright. The sudden movement sent waves of agony through her battered body, drawing a strangled gasp from her parched throat.
Naked and trembling, Aelindra was marched through the jeering crowd. Her head hung low, tangled hair obscuring her tear-stained face. The Nullstone Collar felt impossibly heavy, a constant reminder of her new reality. Each step was torture, her flesh screaming in protest.
Finally reaching her chambers, Aelindra was unceremoniously shoved inside. She stumbled, falling hard onto the cold stone floor. The door slammed shut behind her, the sound of the lock turning like a death knell. Alone at last, Aelindra curled into herself, her body wracked with silent sobs as the full weight of her ordeal crashed over her.
Aelindra lay motionless on the floor, her mind reeling. The pain from her wounds pulsed in time with her heartbeat, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache within. Where once her magic had flowed, warm and comforting, there was now only a cold, echoing void. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, desperately seeking some trace of her innate power, finding nothing but the unforgiving metal of the collar.
Tears leaked from her closed eyes, tracing paths through the grime on her cheeks. Shame and relief warred within her - shame at her public humiliation, relief that she had managed to protect those she cared for. But underlying it all was a deep, gnawing fear. Who was she without her magic? Had she lost the very essence of her being?
The soft creak of the door barely registered in Aelindra's fog of misery. It wasn't until she felt the slight shift in the air, the warmth of another presence nearby, that she cracked open her swollen eyes. Lord Darian sat beside her, his face a mask of controlled emotion. He didn't speak, didn't reach out to touch her battered form. But his presence alone was a balm to Aelindra's fractured spirit. In the depths of her despair, a tiny spark of hope flickered to life. She wasn't alone. She was still his, still valued. Somehow, they would endure this together.