The Girl in the Iron Mask
Copyright© 2020 by Rachael Jane
Prelude
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Prelude - Aelin Galathynius has surrendered to Maeve, the Fae Queen. Now she must endure the humiliation and degradation of the cruel queen's torments while Aelin tries to recover her magic power. Succeed and she can make Maeve regret ever tangling with her; fail and Aelin will condemn herself and many others to a life of slavery or worse. A dark fantasy sequel to Sarah J. Maas's Empire of Storms. Knowledge of the Throne of Glass series is helpful but not necessary.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Magic Mind Control Slavery Fiction High Fantasy Humiliation Torture Masturbation Royalty Slow
(from the end of Empire of Storms by Sarah J. Maas)
Aelin Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen, simply nods towards Maeve, the triumphant Fae Queen. Acknowledgement of Aelin’s surrender. Moments later, she sees the iron box the Fae Queen’s escorts carry between them. An ancient iron coffin. Big enough for one person. Crafted for her.
They open the lid of the box, pulling out long, heavy chains from within. One of the escorts hands Maeve an ornate iron mask. The mask, the chains, the box ... they had been crafted long before now. Forged to contain and break Mala’s scion.
Maeve lowers the mask and drawls to Aelin with a serpentine smile, “Rumour claims you will bow to no one. Well, now you will bow to me.”
She points to the sand. Aelin obeys. Her knees bark as she drops to the ground.
“Lower.”
Aelin slides her body until her brow is in the sand.
“Good. Take off your shirt.”
Aelin hesitates, realising where this is going. Why Cairn’s belt carries a whip.
“I said take off your shirt.”
Aelin tugs her shirt out of her pants and slings it over her head, tossing it into the sand beside her. Then she removes the cloth from around her breasts. Two Fae males come forward. Aelin doesn’t fight as they each grip her by an arm and haul her up. Spread her arms wide. The sea air kisses her breasts and her navel.
“Ten lashes, Cairn. Let her have a taste of what to expect when we reach our destination if she doesn’t cooperate.”
“It would be my pleasure, Lady.”
Aelin holds Cairn’s vicious gaze, willing ice into her veins as Cairn thumbs free his whip. As he rakes his eyes over her body and smiles. A canvas for the sadist to paint with blood and pain.
“Why don’t you count for us, Aelin?” says Maeve dangling the mask from her fingers. Aelin keeps her mouth shut.
“Count, or we’ll begin again with each stroke you miss. You decide how long this goes on for.”
Never. Never, vows Aelin. But as Cairn walks slowly towards her, savouring each step as he let his whip drag along the ground, her body betrays her. She begins shaking. She is no stranger to pain. Knows what it’ll feel like; what it’ll sound like. Her dreams are still full of it.
“Begin,” Maeve says.
Cairn’s breath sucks in and he lets fly. Even bracing herself, even clamping down hard, there is nothing to prepare for the crack; the sting; the pain. Aelin doesn’t let herself cry out. She only hisses through her teeth.
Blood slides down the back of her pants; her split skin screaming. But Aelin knows how to pace herself. How to yield to the pain. How to take it.
“What number was that, Aelin?”
She refuses to count. She will never count for that rutting bitch.
“Start over, Cairn,” Maeve says. So Cairn does. Again. Again. Again.
They start over nine times before Aelin finally screams. The blow had been right atop another one, tearing skin down to the bone. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Cairn is panting, but Aelin still refuses to speak.
“Majesty,” murmurs one of the males holding her. “It might be prudent to postpone this until later.”
“There’s still plenty of skin,” Cairn snaps.
Maeve makes a small noise of distaste. “We’ll continue later. Get her ready.”
Aelin can barely lift her head as the males heave her up. The movement sets her body roaring in such pain that darkness swarms in. But she fights it, grits her teeth and silently roars back at that agony, that darkness. The males half drag her towards Maeve. Towards the iron box; the chains, and the iron mask.
Every inch her feet drags through the sand is a lifetime. Blood soaks her pants. She likely won’t be able to heal her wounds encased within all that iron. Not until Maeve decides to heal them herself. But Maeve won’t let her die. Not yet. So Aelin Galathynius dries her tears and doesn’t resist when Maeve straps the beautiful iron mask over her face.
Blood coats Cairn’s whip, still dangling at his side, as Maeve’s soldiers finish strapping the mask over Aelin’s face. Then they clamp irons on her wrists. Ankles. Neck. No one heals her ravaged back, barely more than a bloody slab of meat, as they guide her into the iron box; make her lie upon her wounds. And then they slide the lid into place and lock it.
