I exist only in wanting now. In sensation. In the sound of his voice and the touch of his hands and the fullness of his cock inside me. Everything else has faded away. The princess I was. The life I had. The future I might have wanted.
There is only this. Only him. Only the endless present moment of being touched, filled, possessed.
Sometimes it even feels like I can sense he's about to walk into the room. My mind plays tricks on me. Tells me it can feel where he's at in the castle. I know that's not true. Just a way my mind is passing the time.
Is this what it means to lose yourself? To have your identity stripped away until you're nothing but nerve endings and contradictions?
He knows everything about my body. What makes me gasp. What makes me clench. What makes me come even when I don't want to.
"Mine," he murmurs, and I feel his breathing slow, feel him starting to drift off to sleep.
But I know things too. I've learned things. Fifty years of observation, of listening, of being present for every moment of his life even as he thinks I'm absent from my own.
I know he's afraid of losing me. I know he killed his own father when he wouldn’t allow him to take me, and that guilt eats at him even as he justifies everything he does. I know he believes, truly believes, that he's protecting me. That he's the hero of this story.
I know he's insane.
And I know that somewhere, somehow, something is changing. I can feel it. Not in my body. My body is still frozen, still unresponsive, but in something deeper. In the magic itself.
Earlier, when he first pushed inside me, when the pleasure and pain mixed together in that overwhelming wave, I felt... something. A flutter. A loosening. Like a rope that's been pulled taut for fifty years, suddenly developing the tiniest bit of slack.
And I tried. God, I tried so hard. Tried to move my mouth, tried to part my lips, tried to make any sound at all.
I don't know if I succeeded. I don't know if anything actually moved. But I felt something. Something different. Something possible.
The thought terrifies me.
Because what happens if I can move? What happens if I can speak? What happens if he realizes I've been awake this whole time, conscious for every moment, aware of everything he's done?
Will he be horrified? Ashamed? Will he let me go?
Or will he be pleased? Excited? Will he find new ways to possess me, now that he knows I can feel it all?
I don't know which possibility frightens me more.
He's going to sleep inside me. Buried deep, his cock pulsing occasionally, his claws playing idly with my nipples. His heavy wing cocooning us together. This is what he wants. Not to just fuck me. Just to be inside me. To possess me so completely that even sleep doesn't separate us.
I hate this.
I hate how good it feels to be filled by him. I hate how my body has learned to crave this weight, this fullness, this constant intimate connection. I hate how safe I feel with his tail around my leg, and his wings protecting me from cold, and his hand on my breast, and his cock buried so deep I can feel it in my stomach.
I hate that I'm beginning to love it. Look forward to it.
No. No, I can't love this. I can't love him. He's a monster. He killed someone today and told me about it like he was describing the weather. He's kept me prisoner for 50 years. He fucks my unconscious body and calls it love.
The routine of it has become my entire existence. Wake to his voice. Feel his hands bathing me, dressing me, touching me. Listen to his stories about the princes he's killed, the knights he's slaughtered, the kingdoms that have sent their best warriors to die in my tower. Feel him inside me, around me, possessing me.
Sleep. Wake. Repeat.
For fifty years.
And somewhere in those fifty years, the girl I was has disappeared. Princess Adelaide is gone. There's only this now. Only the creature I've become. The thing that exists in the space between hatred and need, between resistance and surrender.
But his claws are so gentle on my nipple. And he's so careful when he enters me, making sure I'm ready, making sure the ridges on his cock stimulate me enough that my body opens for him. And he knows… he knows… exactly what I need.
I feel him twitch inside me, and my body clenches in response. Pleasure ripples through me, unbidden, unwanted.
Does he? Does he really know what I need?
