Chapter 11: The Queen of the Owls

(Content warning: This chapter is also heavy on slavery themes.)

Scene 50 (M/F)

A minute earlier, the Queen’s arrival had demanded Damascus’ attention.

He had been deeply in the moment: Zofia’s eager mouth consumed all his senses, to the point that he could forget where they were, what they were doing. Both in the cover and out of it, it made perfect sense for him to ignore every other slave there in favour of his gorgeous, passionate princess. But as soon as the woman descended from the warden’s office, all eyes were on her.

It wasn’t that she shouted ‘look at me’. But her heeled boots clicked on the stone floor in a way that cut through all the noise. Those boots were red leather, hugging tightly to long, fit legs, all the way up to her smooth, snow-white thighs. Her matching dress had a split-tailed skirt: though the hem of each tail fell to her heels, the slits flaunted that pale white with every step, her movements blending the grace of a swordmaster and a seductress. The leather hugged every curve, her body both fit and endowed, and the neckline dared low enough to weaponise her cleavage.

But the most striking part was above. Her masque was based on a great horned owl, and it spread wide to cover most of her face. He could still glimpse her soft, red-glossed lips, but more importantly, he could see the sparkle in her eyes, see her perfectly silky, neck-length hair. Those were the most convincing pink he’d ever seen; she must have ground actual tourmalines into the potion.

No wonder she made them call her Queen, with a pretence like that. In her right hand, she held a riding crop like it was a royal sceptre.

And she wasn’t alone. Her left hand trailed a leash, pulling Pita alongside her. Pita, naked except for her collar, chains keeping her arms behind her back, and stiletto-heeled shoes. Pita, her light skin marked — handprints on her thighs and rear, tighter crop marks along her back. Pita, unsteady on her feet, seeming to resist just enough that the Queen had to yank her along. Pita, her eyes hazed with lust.

The Queen dragged Pita up onto one of the stages, one with a set of stocks. She shoved Pita forward, forcing her to bend, and locked her in the stocks, keeping her in a sharply-bent pose. She gave Pita’s already-marked ass one last slap, then announced to the room three simple words. “Free to use.”

The sight of them shocked Damascus into freezing up entirely. Zofia, not understanding his sudden tension, redoubled her efforts. Filling him with moaning vibrations, taking him deeper. His whole body soon buzzed with pleasure.

He tried to ignore Pita’s plight, the way she was forced into such vulnerability. He didn’t want to associate that with the kind of pleasure Zofia was giving him. He threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling lightly to urge her to slow down. Even without going down her throat, it was enough to make him moan sharply.

That sound caught attention. The masters left Pita stewing for the time being, instead all turning to watch Damascus’ slave working to please him.

All including the Queen. Tourmaline eyes locked onto him, then widened with vicious glee on seeing the silky, tourmaline hair of the woman kneeling for him. She glided towards them, every step full of liquid sensuality.

Damascus’ tension tightened into every muscle. The Queen of the Owls — the woman who’d had people murdered or enslaved for even mentioning her existence — was headed right for him, she was literally catching him with his trousers down, and despite it all, he was so close...

Zofia whined, her need matching his and humming into him.

It was too much. It was exactly enough, exactly right. Even with his head whirling with the caution and outright fear of the situation, thunderbolts of pleasure struck him. Zofia’s glee only rose, gulping every spurt. As his vision cleared, he saw how the Queen was looking at them. Looking at Zofia, awe in her eyes, as the princess finally drew off Damascus and took a breath.

“Amazing,” the Queen said, and the princess froze. “That enthusiasm. Enjoying it is one thing, especially with that collar. But she really wants it, doesn’t she?”

Without Damascus even asking her to, Zofia already tucked him away and closed his pants. He hurried to put his mind and facade back together. Fortunately, a lot of the facade came easily: he petted Zofia’s hair, his affection thanking her for her ‘service’. “Oh yes,” he agreed, his voice breathy with pleasure. “Like you wouldn’t believe. I never could have imagined a royal had that kind of raw sluttiness buried in her.” There was no need to fake the affection in his tone. Then he smiled more sardonically at the Queen. “No offence to present company, Your Majesty.”

She laughed musically as she poured herself into the seat beside his. “None taken. Heavens know the rest of the family is utterly prudish.” How far did her royal facade go? She glanced away, always keeping an eye on the hall leading back to her office, but turned back to Zofia. “Let me have a look at her.” It was such a strange intonation. Asking him, not asking the woman she wanted to see; and with a firmness that put it just shy of a command.

Damascus looked down at his ‘slave’. Ever since the Queen had made her presence felt, ever since their deception had been thrown into stakes so high, Zofia had been stiff as a board and silent as the grave. He couldn’t spend long checking in with her, not without it being suspicious; none of the other Owls would seek their slave’s permission. But he took her hand with a firm squeeze and looked deeply, probingly into her eyes.

That was enough. With his touch grounding her, she started to breathe again, and she gave him a single, nearly-imperceptible nod.

He pulled her leash, drawing her up. She actually relaxed more once she was in his lap and facing the Queen directly, especially as his arms slid around her waist.

The Queen leaned in closer, her attention intense on Zofia’s face. After a breathless moment, she sat up again and started laughing. “The real Zofia has much paler lips. You used too much of whatever’s giving her the Tourmaline pink.”

And that, right there, was half of why he had Zofia use the cosmetic oil. “Good eye.” The other half was in case anyone wore diviner glasses, but with the Queen herself using such transfiguration, he could see why nobody brought them to Darlinalia. Sure, everyone ‘knew’ those colours had to be fake, but that wasn’t the same as erasing the mystique by confirming it.

The Queen’s eyes were back on Zofia again, like she just couldn’t keep her eyes off. “But the likeness is impressive. You must introduce me to your alchemist.”

Damascus grinned. “You’re not carrying enough purses for me to give up the golden goose.”

She laughed, as if the act of not giving her what she wanted was in itself a funny joke, but she didn’t persist. Her gaze was still on Zofia, but ... not her face, and eyeing her body just heightened the interest in the Queen’s expression.

Zofia saw it too and went rigid in Damascus’ lap. But even though she didn’t relax, she did give his wrist a soft touch. A signal. She wasn’t backing down.

Internally, Damascus thanked her for that courage. Outwardly, he smiled as lazily as if there had never been any question of his next offer. “If you want to see more of their handiwork—” He stroked his fingertips across the straps of her slave dress. “—one purse, and this dress is yours.”

Before he’d even finished speaking, the Queen had plucked a purse from her chest and set it down, hunger in her eyes.

“You know what that means, princess,” he whispered into Zofia’s ear. He released her from his embrace, though gave her one last pat on the hip. “Strip.”

Her hands rose immediately to the straps on her shoulders, but her momentum slowed into something more deliberate. It wasn’t the collar making her move; it was Zofia following her command under her own will, her own interpretation. She knocked one strap off her shoulder, letting the dress sag to expose her delicate-looking clavicle, her rounded shoulder, and just a little more cleavage. Her posture adjusted, arching, offering. Teasing, but also buying time as her hand hesitated on the other strap.

Then she pulled, peeling the leather down to her waist. The neckline caught at her chest for a second, the pressure making her breasts bounce as they came free. A communal gasp seemed to vacuum all the air from the room: every eye was on her, and her pinkened skin flushed even more beautifully.

But she wasn’t done yet. She rose from Damascus’ lap, moving with the grace of a swordmaster; and she pushed the tight leather over her hips, until gravity could claim it and pull it to the floor around her heels, before she took one graceful step out of it. She was naked, the entire lounge her audience.

Damascus could hear her breath trembling, but ... he knew those tremors weren’t fear. That thought sent a shiver through him. How much was because of the collar, and how much of that excitement was her own?

Among the crowd, the Queen was the first to start breathing again, while her gaze was ravenous on Zofia’s naked body. “Remarkable.” She wiped her mouth. “Oh, the colours are wrong, true. A true royal would have nipples so pale you could barely see them.”

Damascus frowned. How would a counterfeit Queen know that?

“But ... remarkable,” she repeated. “A try-hard would give her short, pink, and curlies to try to drive it home, but your alchemist gets it. Smooth and flawless. And that body ... as fit as a trained knight, as curved and beautiful as a woman of the highest breeding. So like princess-knight Zofia Tourmaline.” She let out a shivering sigh, her hand starting to lift.

Honestly, hearing the Queen gush about her made it hard for Damascus to keep his eyes off her. But that motion brought him back to the present. He managed some slyness in his tone as he said, “Another purse, and your hands can find out just how flawless she is.”

That halted the Queen’s hand. She considered for a moment, but she let out a hot sigh. “No. No, I’m not going to let you upsell me this time.” She rose to her feet, proving just slightly taller than the princess. “There’s no rush. Darlinalia goes for three nights. And I already know I can have you when I want you.” Her tone grew firmer. The Queen needed to assert control, but not over a slave. Over herself. She downed her wine and turned to leave.

Damascus coughed. “Don’t forget your prize, Your Majesty.” He plucked the discarded dress from the floor as he rose, then held it out to her. “This dress is yours now. She’s not putting it back on.”

The Queen’s breath hitched at that reminder, her gaze immediately jumping back to Zofia. But she took the dress along with a steadying breath, then strutted her way across the lounge to take a couch to herself. It had a view of all the lounge ... and it sat right beside the hallway leading to the warden’s office, the Queen herself acting as a sentinel.

The moment Damascus was seated again, Zofia fell back into his lap. “I can’t believe I just did that.” Her tone was complex, her voice itself undecided between embarrassment and thrill.

He wrapped his arms around her, finding his possessiveness coming naturally to the fore. She was his. A treasure the whole kingdom would marvel at, a prize that every Owl wanted, and she was his. That embrace soothed some of her trembling. He kissed her on the cheek, then whispered, “How are you feeling?”

Zofia opened her mouth, but after a moment’s silence, shook her head. “Later.”

They would need privacy for whatever she had to say, and that would soon be in even shorter supply. Now that the Queen had taken her due, the other masters wanted their turns with the ‘princess’.

Scene 51 (M/F, F/F)

Zofia was honestly glad of the collar’s influence, how easily she could obey. There was no way she could have kept up without it. Her mind was still reeling from what she’d learned.

But she couldn’t think about that now. A slave girl, like the role she was playing, couldn’t have recognised it; only the true Princess Zofia Tourmaline could, and she couldn’t let them know it was her.

So to clear it from her mind, she focused on the experience. The feeling of sitting in her master’s lap, feeling that warmth and comfort steady her, while every eye in the room was drawn to her naked body. It should have been shameful, discarding her royal modesty and getting herself stared at like an object.