Fourth Day (2 of 6)
Breaking the Breaker: Zudaeshi takes her pleasure, demands their poise, and Damion braces to kneel again, wrists kissed by dread and silk
'Breaking the Breaker' Content Warning: Erotic Horror
Story contains graphic violence, non-consensual sex, psychological manipulation, dehumanization, humiliation, and extreme power imbalance. Themes include: coercion, identity breakdown, forced obedience, and the long-term effects of captivity and control.
This story invites reflection on what happens to the mind under sustained horror, how identity reshapes itself around trauma, and what traces of agency persist when autonomy has been stripped away.
Proceed with extreme caution.
"I'm sorry, Your Radiance," he says with his voice still hoarse.
"Well?" she rubs her thumbs into his hips in what would normally be a massaging motion, but with her, with her talon sharp nails, she instead presses uncomfortably firmly and cuts arcs into his skin. She sighs dramatically, "I'm waiting."
Mulsae's skin flushes down to his chest. He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate. Zudaeshi whips out a hand and grasps Mulsae's throat and hisses, "Look at me. No need to imagine. I'm right here."
He opens his eyes and casts his gaze across her face, down to her lips, down her neck, and down into her dress where her cleavage lies. Her long locks of hair dangle down on either side of his face. Trapping him. Here. With her.
She wraps a hand around his cock that is slowly increasing in length and hardness, and keeps her other hand firmly around his neck. She strokes him. Too hard. Too dry. He bites back a grimace, and tries as he can to do what she demands.
Damion watches. He shouldn't have an expression of sympathy, Mulsae wouldn't want that. But damn, do I sympathize. I wouldn't want to be forced to get hard for her. Perhaps I should just look down at the floor. Attempt to give Mulsae some privacy as he struggles through this.
Damion hears a satisfied moan from Zudaeshi, and then the bed starts rhythmically shifting. It grows faster and more ferverent. He hears Mulsae breathe audibly through her strangled grasp, it saws in and out at an uneven pace.
Damion glances up and sees Mulsae's head tilted back as he gasps for breath. His face is red and sweat is collecting on his brow. Zudaeshi's head is also tilted back, her lightly bronzed skin turning a pink hue as a flush grows across her flesh. While Mulsae is struggling to survive, Zudaeshi takes her pleasure.
She reaches her crescendo with a loud moan and punctuates it by completely cutting off Mulsae's airway. His face is beat red and veins pop from his skin. He kicks his legs and thrashes side to side. She just holds on to his neck while panting. Taking time for her own come down and giving no care to Mulsae's struggle.
She flicks her head up and whisks her arms behind her so she may lean against them. Mulsae gasps wildly. She scans his form beneath her, noting the bruises, puncture marks, slashes and scratches across his skin. She looks upon his battered form with a lustful expression, with just a hint of a smile on those blood red lips.
She hops off the bed with agile grace and is up by Mulsae's restraints. She deftly opens them and releases his wrists.
"Get up, get dressed," she says as she approaches her own wardrobe, "I need you to get ready for the Statecraft Salon this evening." Mulsae sits up on the edge of the bed and rubs his wrists while he listens.
She opens the wardrobe, her fingers skimming past gowns like she is selecting a weapon, "You'll be at my side tonight. I expect you polished, poised, and sharp enough to remind them why I keep you close."
She looks back at Mulsae and waves a hand over her neck, "And do cover that up." She turns back to selecting her weapon, a gown.
"Bring your pet, of course. He makes you look formidable," she pulls out a dress and assesses it. "His arms bound. In fact, I expect him bound whenever any of my ministers could see him." She puts the dress back then turns to Damion and looks him up and down, "That will be any time in public, I suppose."
She saunters over to Damion and cups his face, "I know that's unfortunate, Damion dear. But politics. You understand, right?" Damion nods dumbly. His jaw tightens within her grip despite himself. He doesn't pull away, but his nostrils flare, a single breath away from flinching. Her thumb brushes too close to his mouth, and for a heartbeat, he forgets how to breathe.
She returns to the wardrobe and eyes her arsenal. She removes a gown and cocks her head to one side as she considers this choice. She nods to herself then hangs it on the door.
She turns back to the men and claps her hands once, "Get a move on! I don't want you to be late!"
"Yes, Your Radiance!" Mulsae jumps up and puts on his pants faster than any one reasonably should with all the slashes across his body. He hurriedly swings his shirt over his arms and buttons it half way. He picks up his shoes, socks, and underwear in a bundle he holds in front of him.
Mulsae jerks his chin to Damion as his instruction to follow. Damion snaps to his feet and is at Mulsae's side in just three long strides. The movement is automatic, practiced, discipline carved into his very bones.
Mulsae bows low, "I'll see you again later this evening, Your Radiance." She hums an affirmation without looking at him then waves him off to go away. Mulsae opens the bed chamber door and the two of them attempt to step over the threshold holding onto as much dignity as they can. Mulsae snicks the door shut when Damion crosses into the next room.
They pause and look at each other and take a deep breath together. Damion exhales like he's been holding the same breath for hours. His shoulders roll back, stretching under unseen weight. Mulsae sneaks a seat in a chair to put on his shoes and socks. He shoves his underwear in his pocket as he stands then buttons his shirt while he approaches the exit of the suite.
He pauses at the door, finishes buttoning his shirt, fixes his cuffs and smooths down his shirt and pants. Then he puts on an air of confidence and exits the suite like the Sanctum Master he is. He nods at the guards as he passes to give them respect then heads down the hallway.
Damion can see Mulsae is leading them back to their room. But that won't do. Mulsae needs his wounds treated.
"Mulsae," Damion whispers quietly. No acknowledgment. "Mulsae!" Damion says more harshly, more urgently.
Mulsae whips around and hisses, "What?!"
Damion flinches at Mulsae's harshness and blinks momentarily. He shakes it off and whispers, "We need to take you to the infirmary."
"No time," Mulsae says quietly, curtly, then turns around and strides forward.
"Mulsae!" Damion hisses back.
Mulsae spins around and eyes him intently with an expression saying 'Well? What? Spit it out!'
Damion approaches so Mulsae can hear him clearly as he whispers, "You cannot afford to bleed on your clothes tonight." He eyes Mulsae sternly, daring him to question his reasoning.
Mulsae rolls his eyes and looks to the ceiling. He exhales, "Fine," he says tightly. Then proceeds to lead them towards the infirmary.
They enter a brightly lit room, brighter than candles can provide alone so Damion looks up and can see the spirit lights lining the ceiling. There is a Sky-Touched man wearing a soft and layered set of sea green robes standing at a counter grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle.
His eyes dart momentarily at the newcomers then back to his work, "Anything you need, Water Master?"
"I have some bleeding wounds that need to be closed," Mulsae says hoarsely through his abused throat.
"And your voice needs to be fixed," the healer says as he turns around. He looks Mulsae up and down in an assessing gaze. "Show me," he says curtly. The healer steals a glance towards Damion while waiting for Mulsae.
Mulsae takes off his shirt. It's clear which wounds need the most attention because blood already has dripped down his skin. Mulsae turns a full circle so the healer can see his back and sides while saying, "I don't have time for a full healing," he struggles to say through his throat, "Just enough to not ruin my clothes."
"Sit," the healer gestures to a stool and Mulsae obliges.
"Your voice is more important than clothes right now. I'll start with that." The healer raises his hands to Mulsae's throat, and Mulsae flinches. He backs his hands away.
"I'm going to very gently touch your throat. You'll mostly feel the healing energy, and it will feel soothing. Okay?" Mulsae nods. The healer holds his hands up again, "Watch my hands as they move towards you." Mulsae watches the healer slowly bring his hands towards his neck. The healer places light fingertips on the tender skin and initiates the healing energy. Mulsae's shoulders soften as he releases tension.
Damion glances around the room and quickly notices a large drawing of the anatomy of Windborne wings. The parchment is old and curling at the edges. And the image is inaccurate. But why is there an image of Windborne wings?
"Speak," the healer pointedly demands.
"How does my voice sound now?" Mulsae says almost in his normal voice, but there is a husky undertone.
"Almost," the healer resumes on Mulsae's neck.
Damion's eyes keep being drawn towards the image of the wings. It looks to be a drawing of a dissection with joints and tendons labeled like a butcher's guide. Damion shifts his feet and flexes his neck. He's seen too many battlefields to be squeamish, but something about this drawing feels... invasive. What kind of healer is this?
"Speak," the healer's voice breaks the hold the drawing has on Damion. He turns his gaze back to Mulsae as he tests his voice, "How does my voice sound now?" The healer motions for him to continue, "You seem to have successfully returned my voice. The Harmonarch should be pleased." Damion can see the bruises on Mulsae's neck have reduced and the puncture marks have become smaller and no longer bleed.
The healer turns to the sink and fills a bowl and grabs a cloth. He returns to Mulsae and carefully washes the blood off his skin. Mulsae tries to maintain a stoic demeanor, but the corner of his eye twitches betraying how much the treatment stings.
"I assume you're going to the Salon tonight." Mulsae nods. "You're right, we don't have much time. I'll close everything that is bleeding or could bleed if it's disturbed and then you need to get washed up and dressed." Mulsae nods again.
The healer finishes cleaning up Mulsae's wounds and sets about healing the slashes across his body. He approaches Mulsae slowly, and verbalizes everything he's about to do before he does it. Damion is reminded of when he was at the hospital in the Marsh Sanctum. Everyone kept trying to touch him without notice and Damion kept flinching uncontrollably. But the expert healers always said what they were going to do and moved slowly. He was calm with those healers. Watching the healer's gentle treatment of Mulsae's trauma responses deepens Damion's understanding who this person may be. He's observant, and patient.
The healer's hands move across Mulsae's skin, pausing over slashes just long enough to prevent them from bleeding again before moving on to the next one. The healer finishes and inspects his work, poking and pulling at some slash marks to ensure they're secure. Mulsae is still littered with scratches, but they're no longer slashes. They still likely hurt whenever he moves, though.
"Alright. You're done. Get ready for the salon," the healer dismisses them with a wave of his hand. He washes the bowl he used at the sink while Mulsae puts on and buttons his shirt.
"Thank you," Mulsae says with a now clear voice, "Good night." Mulsae inclines his head as a show of respect. The healer just flicks his hand behind him to wave them off.
Mulsae leads them back to their room. Before the door even finishes shutting, Mulsae is grabbing a pillow off the bed. He throws it over his face and screams as loud as he can in it. He tosses the pillow back on the bed as he says, "Gods, I've needed to do that for hours." Damion chuckles.
Mulsae unbuckles Damion's arms and tosses the binding on the chest of drawers. "I need to get into the bath fast," Mulsae is already halfway to the bathing chamber before he finishes his sentence.
Damion rubs at his arms. This is the longest he's ever been bound for. Almost an entire day. He shudders and rubs the muscles harder. He rotates his arms around his shoulders then crosses each arm across his chest to stretch it. He's going to be bound again shortly, he needs to get movement in now.
His legs suddenly buckle and his knees slam into the floor. Fuuuuuck. He leans forward and supports himself with his arms. The arms he won't have access to soon. Fuuuuuck. His breathing becomes choppy. His inhales shudder and his exhales hitch. Fuck! We don't have time for me to have a panic attack! He rolls his body down so his forehead is on the floor and his arms are tightly wrapped around his head. Fuck fuck fuuuuuck!
Damion doesn't know how long he remained in that position, but long enough for him to suddenly realize Mulsae is at his side with a comforting hand on his back, trying to get his attention by repeatedly saying his name.
"... Damion! Can you hear me?" Mulsae's voice is a mixture of softness and desperation.
"Yeah," Damion croaks out.
"What's happening?" concern laces his words.
"My arms..." he unwinds himself and sits up, "We have to bind my arms again." Mulsae immediately repositions himself and starts massaging Damion's shoulders. His head bobs as Mulsae presses into his muscles. "It was just so long this time," his gaze is glassy and cast to the floor, "And we're clueless as to how long this next time will be."
"I'll do what I can for you tonight, okay?" Damion nods dumbly. Sure, unless you're tied up, too. He sighs.
"Stop," Damion backs up and pushes Mulsae's hands away, "You need to get ready. I'll be fine. Go get ready."
Mulsae nods and whisks himself up onto his feet, opens the wardrobe, and sets himself to the task of assembling this evening's armor. Damion stays on the floor, fingers curling and uncurling, arms flexing and relaxing, testing every twitch like he's making sure these arms are still his.
Mulsae's pick for this evening's armor is an all-black outfit designed to hide his injuries without raising suspicion. The high-collared shirt covers the bruises on his neck completely, but the sharp tailoring and subtle embroidery make it look intentional, not like he's trying to conceal anything. The fabric is lightweight so it won't irritate his healing skin. He throws on a long sleeveless coat to add formality, then fastens it with a row of understated toggles. Everything fits perfectly, clean and commanding, exactly the image he needs for the salon.
Once he's completed getting ready, Mulsae kneels down in front of Damion again and reaches for his shoulders. Damion pulls away. "Let me take care of you while I can," Mulsae insists. Damion sighs and doesn't resist when Mulsae picks up an arm and starts massaging the elbow. Maybe I do need this... Mulsae works on Damion's arms while they wait. He keeps even attention on both arms to ensure each gets the same treatment.
There is enough time to get down to massaging Damion's fingers by the time there is a knock on the door and it opens. A bored looking servant steps in, "You have been summoned for tonight's salon. I shall escort you."
Mulsae nods to the escort and grabs the arm restraint off the chest of drawers. Damion sighs deeply, but offers his back to Mulsae with his arms folded up behind him. Mulsae snakes the restraint around his arms and buckles it, loosely, then gestures to the escort to lead the way.
Continue reading: Fourth Day (3 of 6)
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