The moment my mouth opened, he shoved the wooden ball past my teeth. It was large enough to strain my jaw but small enough that I couldn’t push it out with my tongue. The taste of lacquered wood flooded my mouth as the leather straps tightened around my head, securing the gag in place.
“Perfect,” Gaspard murmured, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Just like I imagined.”
I made a muffled sound of protest, but all that emerged was a pathetic whimper. The ball pressed my tongue down, making even that small noise difficult. My hands flew to the straps, fingers scrabbling at the buckles, but Gaspard caught my wrists in one large hand.
“None of that now,” he said, his voice gentle as if soothing a child. “This is for thy own good. For our good.”
Tears of helpless rage and humiliation burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me broken. Not yet.
Gaspard released my wrists only to cup my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheeks in a grotesque parody of tenderness. “My favorite pet,” he whispered, leaning close enough that I could smell the wine on his breath from communion. “My most beautiful prize I’ve ever claimed.”
I tried to turn away, but the collar and chain restricted my movement, keeping me facing him. His eyes roved over my features with naked hunger, lingering on the leather straps that cut into my skin.
“Dost thou know what I enjoy most about thee like this?” he asked, one hand sliding down to trace the iron collar. “The terror in thy eyes. The way thy pupils dilate when thou art uncomfortable. It’s... intoxicating.”
His words chilled me more than any physical violence could have. This wasn’t just about possession or lust. He enjoyed my fear. Fed on it. The knowledge settled in my gut like a stone.
Without warning, he shoved me backward, my shoulder blades hitting the stone wall with enough force to drive the air from my lungs. Before I could recover, he was on me, one hand pinning my wrists above my head, the other ripping at the bodice of the fine blue dress he’d provided only hours earlier.
The fabric gave way with a tearing sound that echoed my breaking heart. All the careful stitches Margaret had helped me into that morning now lay in tatters around my waist, exposing my full breasts to Gaspard’s hungry gaze.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, releasing my wrists to palm my breast with bruising force. “Every part of thee is perfection.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to bear the sight of his face twisted with pleasure at my expense. The wooden ball in my mouth forced me to breathe heavily through my nose, making my chest rise and fall more dramatically, which only seemed to excite him further.
His fingers pinched my nipple with cruel precision, sending pain shooting through my body. I jerked against him, a muffled cry escaping despite the gag. This seemed to please him. He did it again, harder, watching my reaction with the clinical interest of a scientist observing a specimen.
“So responsive,” he murmured, his free hand working at the fastening of his breeches. “So perfectly made for me.”
Every touch was torture, too harsh against my smaller body. Gaspard was a large man, all hard muscle from years of hunting, and he used that strength without restraint. His hands left bruises wherever they landed, marking me as his property in the most primitive way possible.
When he finally took me, shoving himself inside without care for my readiness, the pain was blinding. I bit down on the wooden ball, grateful for once that it muffled the scream that tore from my throat. He rutted against me like the beast he claimed lurked in the forest, his movements jerky and selfish, concerned only with his own end.
Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes despite my determination to deny him that victory. They tracked silently down my cheeks, some catching on the leather straps of the gag, others falling to dampen the torn bodice of the once-beautiful dress.
How much more of this could I endure? The thought floated through the haze of pain and humiliation. There was the knife I’d hidden in my satchel, Papa’s hunting knife. I could use it. Not on Gaspard. He was too strong, too alert. But on myself. A quick slash across the wrists. A plunge into the soft hollow of my throat. Freedom, of a sort.
The thought terrified and tempted me in equal measure. Was this what my father had sacrificed himself for? So I could live as a chained pet, a thing to be used and discarded according toanother’s whims? Surely death would be kinder than this half-life of degradation.
“Live thy life in my honor!”
Papa’s last words to me echoed through my memory, drowning out Gaspard’s grunts of pleasure.Live.Not just survive, butlive.There was meaning in the distinction, importance in the difference that I couldn’t fully grasp through the fog of my current misery.
But somewhere deep inside, a tiny spark of defiance refused to be extinguished. I would find a way out. If not for my own sake, then for Papa’s. His sacrifice would not end with my surrender, either to Gaspard or to death by my own hand.
Gaspard’s movements grew more frantic, his breathing harsh in my ear. Like the night before, he withdrew at the last moment, spilling his seed across my exposed skin rather than inside me. A small mercy, though I doubted it was motivated by any concern for my well-being. More likely, he wanted to ensure I was not with child before our wedding.
The only reason I knew the difference was from a working woman in the tavern one evening. I had gone with Colette to enjoy her company, but we overheard the wenches. One just had a customer not remove himself, so she was angry his seed would force a child onto her.
Back then, I didn’t know the seed she spoke of, but after Gaspard’s release at the table, I did. Though, I wish I hadn’t. I wish her words had been another lie like when they mentioned how large members could be. Or how long their paying men lasted because Gaspard had barely lasted a few minutes, let alone an hour.
“Perfect,” he gasped as the last shudders of his release passed through him. “Always so perfect.”
He never lasted long. That, at least, was a reprieve. His assault might be brutal, but it was mercifully brief.
Gaspard straightened his clothing with efficient movements, tucking himself away and refastening his breeches as if he’d done nothing more significant than sample a new wine. He didn’t bother to clean me or cover my nakedness. Instead, he gazed down at me with the satisfied expression of a man who had just enjoyed a particularly fine meal.
“I’ll send Margaret to clean thee,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Don’t fret about thy dress. I’ve ordered more suitable garments for when I return. Ones that provide easier access to what’s mine without ripping the fabric.”
