“Prince.” She draws the word out suggestively, Nicolas’s hand tightening ever so slightly around the back of my neck as he watches her. “I was hoping for the opportunity to meet with you to discuss some issues.” As she speaks, she runs her hands up the inside of her thigh, her sex on full display.
Glancing at Nicolas again, I see that his pleasure has turned to hunger. He tears his eyes away from her body, her thighs, and looks at me. Running his eyes down the column of my throat to my breasts, clearly outlined in the tight fabric, his hunger intensifies. I shrink beneath his gaze, willing him to look at her, not me.
“Come here.” He motions to her with two fingers. She approaches him slowly and he pats his lap, never removing his hand from me. He relaxes back in his chair and indicates to her to straddle him. She climbs onto him, pressed tight against the bulge at his zipper. He wraps his free hand around her hip and she slowly begins to grind against him, throwing her head back and exposing her neck.
The hand he has around my neck tightens again until I can feel the flow of blood slow, a slight haziness clouding my vision, as she continues to gyrate and press herself against him. Her breaths come faster and he releases the pressure onmy neck, allowing the blood to return to my brain. He rubs soothing circles against my racing pulse. Planting her hands on his chest, she moves faster, her breaths coming out in pants and moans. He resumes his squeezing of my neck, and the unfocused quality of my vision returns.
I can hear Genevieve breathing heavily from behind me, and feel her swaying slightly as her leg brushes against my back.
It's erotic and overwhelming, but also terrifying and violating. This display feels like a specially designed torture by Nicolas to keep me on edge, uncomfortable. I have grown used to, however uneasily, the free sexual nature of this court but this feels like I am exposed, and the entire room is watching me. The woman’s ministrations start to become erratic as she gets closer to orgasm, Nicolas giving every indication of being unaffected, but I can feel the slight tremble in his fingers on my neck and see the erection under the woman humping him. I drift somewhere outside my body, watching it all from above, where nothing can touch me. Where I am still whole.
She climaxes on his lap with a shout, calling out his name as though he were God. He wraps his hand all the way around my neck to the front and tilts my head back, forcing me to make eye contact while the woman grinds through her orgasm. As soon as she stops moving, he pushes her off his lap with a look of dissatisfaction.
“That’s the only audience you’ll get from me.”
I fight the revulsion I feel in my body, the need to vomit almost overtaking me, but I force it down. I can not show any more weakness than I already have.
“How are you feeling, love? Did you enjoy the show?” I know he is trying to goad a response from me and I can’t bring myself to formulate anything to say. This has crossed a line tonight and I feel dirty and used. His methods, his manipulationsand psychological torture have gotten more painful to endure with every passing day. He must catch sight of the hate written on my face, despite my placating attitude. His own face morphs into a terrifying look, one I have come to recognize.
I try to fix my response to something he will accept, but I fear the damage is done. He releases my neck suddenly, my skin cold from his missing touch. I loathe the feeling of his skin on mine, but it brings a certain amount of comfort knowing his wrath is hidden away when he is trying to be kind. He can’t keep it hidden for long.
“Nic-Nicolas, please. I’m sorry.” I beg him because I can feel the disappointment and coldness rolling off him and I know my night is going to get worse.
Casting me a glare that makes my knees tremble, he raises his hand for Claudel who immediately appears from the crowd. “You may take her now,” he tells him quietly before standing again. “Please wish my lovely Elina a pleasant evening, everyone.” Fifty eyes turn in my direction, but the only one I see is Marc’s as he looks at me knowingly. Claudel grips my arms and leads me from the room and down the hall, to the room with the concrete floor and the shackles. I hang my head and cry.
It could be minutes or hours later. I stand tethered as I watch my blood drip from my body into the floor drain. Today, I think I last longer, I don’t collapse as quickly. My vision doesn’t blur as easily. The blood slows faster. I feel stronger.
Marc, Jon, and Stephan gather around to watch me, restraints at my hands and feet. My dress has been removedand I stand naked and exposed, chained to the wall for them to watch. The nudity is more mental torture, the vulnerability, the helplessness of being unclothed. The same way that my shoes being taken was in the beginning. Stripped down, I can’t cover myself. I can’t protect myself.
Breathing heavily, my chin resting on my chest, my arms above my head, I allow myself a moment of escape. I focus on my breathing, on my heart pumping, and know that this is not the end. He can’t win. The room is silent except for the drip drip of my blood and the breath whooshing from my lungs. Tonight, I can hear the blood as it drains away, the water below the drain rushing by. I can smell the metallic scent and the dirty mixture flowing through the drain below us. Marc has left me alone, killing the lights on his way out. It’s an extra layer to his torture—the silence of the soundproof room. The absolute darkness of no windows.
The silence is so profound that I think I can hear the blood pumping in my heart, moving through my body, feeding my muscles.
Faintly, I hear a rustle and a whisper. I perk my ears, turning my head to try and listen harder. Something below me—beneath the floor—rips loose followed by a scream. Raw. Furious. Agonized. I catch a faint wisp of whiskey and smoke before I am alone again, in silence.
Bash?
