Unstoppable Force (Dottore having the skill and resources to treat Pantalone and scold him for his poor health decisions) vs Immovable Object (Pantalone's absolute belief that Dottore can fix whatever health issue he has and therefore not changing his behaviors)
Warnings: Afab!reader, fem!reader, not gender neutral, BIG age difference, segment shenanigans;
With 25 - noncon, bondage, medical exam, pelvic exam, speculum usage, vaginal fingering, squirting, anal thermometer, anal fingering, overstim, forced orgasm (2), general science/medical fuckery, there is blood and a brief bit of gore (not our own, I'm not into that), dehumanization/objectification/degradation, humiliation
With Zandik - nonconsensual spanking, spanking punishment, over the knee (my fave), spanking while someone else watches (Dottore), anal fingering, slight infantilization, humiliation, degrading dialogue, slut shaming (don't take this too seriously)
Webttore - masturbation with an object (slipper), him being a little freak, yes, that needs to be its own warning
Part 1 & 2 Part 3
A/N: Please make sure to pay extra attention to the tags from here on out, guys! We're kicking it up another notch, I fear. I want everyone to be safe and in a good headspace when they read my fics, so that's why I decided to give the individualized breakdown for warnings like this. Please feel free to skip if its too much!🙏🥹
⭐
Dear mama,
I still have not heard anything back from you yet, and my worry for you continues to grow with each passing day that I am not handed a letter addressed with your handwriting. Please, at least let me know that you are safe and sound, even if you presently don’t have much else to say. I understand that you are probably quite preoccupied with your treatment but I just miss you so very, very much.
The last time he was here, well over a week ago now, I asked Lord Regrator to check in with you on my behalf and he gave me his word that he would do so as soon as he was able. He has not been back since then to relay any sort of message to me though, if you perhaps thought to entrust him with some sort of communication to deliver. Of course that is even assuming he’s been able to fulfill my request of him yet. Her Majesty, the Tsarista, appears to keep him quite busy indeed. I’m sure he would come by to see Master Zandik much more often if he could, especially now that I know the full extent of their relationship.
But I pray that all is going well with you and, as strange as it probably sounds, I hope that you are doing the same for me. Some days I think I need that more than anything else. Perhaps I’m making it sound a bit dramatic, though? In truth, it is not nearly something as harrowing as all that.
In my previous, hastily written letter, if you’ll recall, I shared my silly fears with you over the seemingly supernatural happenings in this place and I have since come to realize exactly how silly they really were. Although I cannot say why he would keep this from me, I’m somewhat pleased to announce that Master Zandik has relations with someone who, for the sake of simplicity, I shall call his son. I know how odd it is for me to word it that way but I hope you’ll believe me when I say it is for a very good reason. The situation here is even more complicated than I first thought it to be, but I think I am finally starting to glean a clearer picture now.
You see, even for as reticent as he is to share many personal details about himself, Master Zandik still let a few things slip when he was visiting with Lord Regrator. I’m quite certain he did not do so on purpose, or at least not with the intention of sending me off on a wild goose chase, but that was indeed the end result of it.
Yes, mama, as you might suspect, I once again made the foolish decision to disregard Master’s warnings not to wander about the house. And mere hours after the first, on top of that. I cannot recount to you the full story or even many of the specifics in how I reached the conclusion that further investigation was warranted, but I can assure you I did so with perfectly good reason in mind. Of course, I have since come to regret that decision immensely, but …
Oh, it would certainly help if I had a better understanding of what information was expressly prohibited from being shared so I could pen my letters around those details instead of trying to side step a whole battlefield of unseen and unknown landmines. As it stands, though, I simply have to fall back on playing it overly safe to avoid letting potentially sensitive matters slip into the outside world. I promise I’ll explain everything much better to you in person, once I am able to.
I suppose, then, that the short and sweet of it is this: ignoring the warning signs and my own common sense, I ventured back to the basement of the house not even a full day after I finished penning my last letter to you. There I found a second lab, this one even more extensively furnished than the one upstairs where Master Zandik so often does much of his toiling. After allowing myself some curious looking around, as you know I am so wont to do, mama, I rather unexpectedly found myself in the presence of the individual who I have chosen to refer to as the Master’s son. He’s … a surgeon, I think. Or perhaps a doctor. For reasons I can’t share, I’m starting to suspect this line of work happens to run in the family.
At first he didn’t even seem to give my presence there with him a second thought, and he instead jumped straight to having me play assistant for him. I went along with it, not knowing what else to do at that moment and having no easy means of escape. Even so I thought the situation was going well enough, all things considered, until he pulled out a specimen of some sort and started cutting into it. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you about my fear of blood, mama.
The results were, of course, disastrous, much to the flaring temper of the young surgeon and to my own immense embarrassment.
That being said, I am no longer of the opinion that this house is haunted and am instead finding myself ever more convinced that it is indeed far more occupied than I had thought it to be. That is why it has taken me a few days to sit down and write out this letter to you, even though the two incidents happened within the same period of each other. This and the fact that, well … for reasons I shant get into, I’ve been much more inclined to keeping busy than in sitting as of late.
As such, I have spent much of the time since just trying to figure out how I should navigate the situation from here, but I admit to having quite a bit of difficulty with this aspect. And not for a lack of effort on my part.
Regrettably, Master Zandik was not the slightest bit pleased to learn of my transgressions and I have had to spend much of the past few days dealing with his sour moods.
Please send me all the luck you can spare, mama. I hope to hear from you soon.
With love
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Standing in the foyer together, your cheeks still burn with lingering excitement even as you hand the Lord Harbinger his fur lined cloak.
“Thank you, my dear.” Pantalone says, accepting it from you most graciously. “It really is a shame that I can’t stay and play with you some more, but perhaps I will have a slightly less pressing schedule next time. That being said, I do hope you will continue to take such excellent care of Zandik in my stead, hm?”
You’re immediately struck by the urge to fidget under that condescending leer but you stubbornly hold your erect posture in place through sheer force of will. You refused to give in to that nearly overpowering compulsion to squeeze your thighs into a tight press like some sort of blithe fool in front of him.
Especially when your panties were already thoroughly soaked and every little shift seems to draw your attention to that uncomfortable fact. You really did not want to ruin them any further than you already had when it looked like you were due for yet another midday change of underwear once the banker took his leave. If you kept this up for much longer you’d have to start laundering them every night to avoid running out of backups to change into.
And it wasn’t exactly helping your physical state how quickly, how seamlessly the switch had been flipped in the drawing room once Zandik had gotten his pleasure. Just like that, the heat of the moment was gone and everything immediately went back to normal, as if nothing had even happened, while you were left to awkwardly navigate these ever changing tides which was made only all the more difficult when your pussy still ached terribly for attention.
Attention it wouldn’t be getting any time soon.
You couldn’t very well ask that sort of thing of Pantalone, and you now find yourself anxiously fiddling with the ruffled hem of your apron while you try to ignore that terribly distracting pulse in your loins.
“Of course, my lord. I will do my utmost to ensure his needs are fully met. You have my word.”
Even if that meant having to neglect yours.
His expression softening in a way that only makes it look as if he is belittling you, Pantalone reaches out to caress a tender brush of his hand across your cheek. “That’s a good poppet. Believe me, you wouldn’t be here right now if Zandik did not want you to be, so there really is no need for you to get so shy about everything. No one here is going to punish you for enjoying yourself while you carry out your duties.”
Somewhat petulantly, you nudge your chin up as if in challenge to that. “But they might do it if I refuse?”
The gleam in his lovely violet eyes sharpens slightly, turning almost rueful now. “Well, I certainly won’t say that’s not a possibility. However, judging by the way you couldn’t seem to sit still and kept on squirming in your seat in the other room, something tells me that won’t be a problem for you.”
Your cheeks start to feel sore from how much blushing you’ve been doing these past few days, but Pantalone merely chuckles a knowing sound at your predicament before turning to leave.
“Wait.” You impulsively blurt, hand coming up as if to reach for him but you abort the mission half of the way through. Quickly retracting your fingers when he pauses and turns to look back at you again. “I … I’m sorry for speaking out of turn like this but — may I ask something of you, my lord? Please?”
His interest seems to be mildly peaked as he settles into place again there in front of the doorway. “I don’t see why not. I can’t make any promises, of course, but I’m listening.”
In truth, even that was more than you’d dared to hope for. A very real part of you had naturally assumed he’d write off anything you had to say without so much as a second thought to the topic, so little did your feelings and opinions seem to matter in this place.
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. And I know I’m hardly in any position to ask for favors from you, but it’s just … I was wondering. When you return to the city, if you find a moment of free time, could you perhaps … check on my mother for me at the hospital? I - I haven’t received any word from her ever since I came here. I’m starting to worry.”
“Oh, my. That is rather troubling, isn’t it?” Pantalone murmurs, bringing his hands together in a loose clasp before him. If you didn’t know any better you might have thought he was indicating a spiritual impetus to the Holy Mother’s blessings, asking for her guidance and mercy, but the way he idly taps at the inlaid gem on one of his rings quietly gives him away.
“Have you been writing to her, then?” He goes on, a vague note of sympathy creeping into his voice now.
“Yes, my lord. With some regularity, in fact. When I was first brought here by Lord Dottore I asked him if it was alright if I corresponded with her this way and he said it was, so long as I gave the letters to him first for them to be looked over.”
“Mm.” Pantalone hums his understanding. “That does sound like a caveat he would insist upon. He is, as you know, very conscious of the possibility that something — delicate might reach the wrong ears. Not only are you now involved in matters concerning one of Her Majesty’s Harbingers, but there is also a wealth of potential contrivances stored within this house. Both my own and Zandik’s.”
You blink at that. Contrivances? Was it really something as unremarkable as he made it sound?
“However,” he goes on, smoothly changing the subject from one to the other. “If it will put your mind at ease, it would be well within my capabilities to pay your mother a visit where she’s currently staying at. I can’t say when, exactly, that might be, or how soon I’ll return to relay whatever findings I may uncover but as long as you don’t mind a little wait then I’m perfectly amenable to this request.”
That easy acquiescence manages to surprise you a fair amount, and you find yourself standing up straighter with the chilly tremor that works down your spine. “Really? You actually mean it, my lord?”
“Why, of course I do.” He chuckles, bringing one of his hands up now to cover the humored tug of his mouth. “You certainly are adorable when you get that startled look on your face. No wonder Zandik enjoys teasing you so much. I might start to fall into the same habit too, if you’re not careful.”
As if he hadn’t already teased you enough in both of your fleetingly short meetings.
As if he wasn’t teasing you right now.
Fresh embarrassment creeps across your face and camps there, but you press your mouth into a tight line to resist the urge to argue back at him as you fish out a slip of paper from your apron to jot down your mothers name and which hospital she was at. It does sting a little, though. Zandik was only somewhat easy to deal with because his waning physical condition meant he was fairly limited on what he could easily do to exact punishments upon you. Or pleasures for that matter. Just like he’d said the night before, actually fucking you might be a task that was a bit beyond his current abilities.
But Pantalone suffered none of the same physical handicaps when he was both young enough to still be relatively spry and seemingly in good health. There were any number of things he could choose to do to you, if you happened to truly agitate his ire, and you weren’t so sure you wanted to test your luck where he was concerned.
To your mild pang of surprise, though, when you hold out the hastily scrawled note to him, he ignores it completely in favor of reaching out to slip sensually gloved fingers underneath your chin, tipping your face towards him with a final lingering chuckle.
“How precious you are. But fret not, my dear. Your request will be honored at my earliest convenience. Shall we seal it with a kiss?”
You give a small jolt. “Wha - -“
He abruptly leans down before you can get the rest out or even to think about scuttling back, enveloping you in a faint drift wind that smells of tobacco, coffee and cologne more expensive than anything you’d ever owned. With a faint rattle from the dangling chain on his glasses, Pantalone tips his head to place an unexpectedly chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth where he lingers for a drawn out moment.
Your face immediately grows hot enough to spark, but that is all he does once everything is said and done. No undue demands of you, no expectation of submission, not even one single attempt to disregard your boundaries beyond that simple little peck. It’s entirely polite and congenial. Gentlemanly, even.
And then he straightens up, pulling back to fix you with another frustratingly charming smile. “I had a lovely time today, dear. I do hope we get to do it again soon. You take care.”
He plucks the note from your fingers and, with a creak of the old door and a blustery gust of icy wind, he is gone. Leaving you standing in the foyer staring after him like a complete twit. Even knowing his pleasant smiles were fake is still not enough to scare you away, it seemed.
But you don’t get the chance to linger on your own foolishness for very long before the soft, tinkling chime of a small bell reaches your ears.
Pivoting on your heel, you make your way from the front door to step down the hall and back into the drawing room you’d just come from a few short minutes ago. You find Zandik right where you’d left him, comfortably lounging in his chair with his pants and belt now done up again. At complete and utter ease as he glances over at your entrance.
Scoffing a quiet sound when he sees your eager expression, he fixes you with a decidedly tired look that seems to slightly deepen the creased wrinkles on his face. “What took you so long, eh? You and my most trusted confidant weren’t necking each other and stealing kisses out in the hall behind my back, were you?”
You try very hard not to laugh at that but can’t quite seem to manage. It wasn’t an entirely inaccurate way to describe what just transpired in the foyer, you think. Or, at least, it’s not hard to imagine that such a scene might look familiar to a young noblewoman who was returning to her overbearing father after sharing just a few fleeting moments in private with her arduous young lord lover before he took his leave.
It’s a silly and romantic thought, but Zandik is not your father and Pantalone is not courting you any more than the old man was. And you certainly were not a lady born to polite society either.
Moreover, Zandik also isn’t sincerely questioning your actions. In fact, upon closer inspection, you realize that he appears to be as relaxed as you’ve ever seen him and not at all worried about what you may or may not have been doing with his handsome male lover. Either he was very confident in Pantalone’s loyalties or it looked like you would need to keep in mind the potent efficacy of having his cock sucked for the next time he started to fuss at you.
“No, Master, we were not, and I don’t think it is me who Lord Regrator would most like to neck with.”
You’d meant it only as a light jab, a playful nudge for one of his, but the old man faintly grimaces in reply.
“Ah, about that. I suppose I do owe you an apology, don’t I? It wasn’t my intent to keep it hidden from you this entire time or anything like that. In fact, if you want the truth of it, I’d had a feeling that I should have been more upfront with you regarding the broader picture of the situation even prior to today. I just never found the right opportunity. And not for a lack of trying, mind you.”
Drawing a slow breath that makes his shoulders dramatically rise and then fall when he exhales, Zandik gives his head a rather solemn shake before going on.
“Regretfully I must inform you that your skittish behavior makes everything that much more difficult for me. It’s sometimes hard to figure out what might send you running from me in tears or have you offering up that sweet little cunt for petting. In all honesty, though, you warmed up to the idea of Feofan and I far quicker and with much less fuss than I had anticipated you would. With that being said,”
Pausing, Zandik stretches his hand out across the cushioned arm of the chair to reach for you. The gesture itself is listless, imploring, perhaps even a little needy in its wretched execution, but his body language continues to read bone deep satiation. Almost like a cat that’s recently finished helping itself to a full saucer of cream and was now stretching out in its favorite sunbeam to sleep it off. Languid. Waiting for your decision.
Seeing no reason not to, you step forward to come up beside him where you slip your fingers into his waiting palm. Those always cool to the touch, bony digits close around yours, sharp and jutting, stiff with arthritis, but altogether gentle. Simply holding you in place while he peers up at you from that comfortably reclined sprawl.
“I am — sorry I didn’t tell you about us sooner. And I do mean that, girl. Even if it were not for the challenges you present, I still likely would have hesitated to go into much detail about it. As I’m sure you can surmise, it's a bit complicated. Do you forgive me?”
You nod, secretly quite tickled at how soft he is in this warm afterglow. Yes, you would certainly need to remember this method of soothing him for the next time he started to get in one of his moods. Perhaps he’d been right to call you a little minx, after all. Surely it was not normal for you to toy with the notion of leveraging sex in this way, but … as long as you don’t overdo it, you’d probably be fine.
“Of course I forgive you, Master. Even if I think calling it only a ‘bit’ complicated is probably an understatement, I can still understand why it might be difficult for you to talk about something like this with me. It looked like you and Lord Regrator indeed share a rather close relationship with each other. It’s not really my place to question you or demand an explanation though. And I … I know I don’t always make things easy for you either.”
He gives your captured fingers a tight, shuddering squeeze. “Just as I’m sure I certainly don’t make things easy for you. I guess that makes us even.”
“Yes.” You relent, smiling now. “I suppose it does.”
Zandik offers you a pleasantly drained twitch of his mouth but it quickly disappears with the slow, groaning yawn that proceeds to wash over him. “Goodness. Between this and last night, I fear I might be in need of a midday nap. You and Feofan both have taken quite a lot out of me it seems.”
You perk up at that. “Are you really that tired, Master? Would you like to go lie down?”
Scoffing a quiet sound, he releases you so he can start to stiffly push himself upright in the chair, grabbing for his cane with a faltering hand. “Don’t sound so surprised. I am an eighty year old man who was just lucky enough to have his balls drained by a pretty girl in a maid dress. Cut me some slack.”
You’re already moving to help him, the reaction to hurry to his aid almost instinctive now, but you still can’t seem to stop yourself from flushing even while you work to steady him so he can get up. “Must you say it like that, Master Zandik? Sometimes it feels like I’m living with a swarthy sailor more than a scientist.”
He grunts a nearly breathless laugh at that, struggling to get his balance evened out. “That’s all men, you silly girl. Some of us are just more polite about it than others. I am not one of them.”
Thinking that went without saying, you keep your hands braced along his sides until he finally seems to stabilize his footing, standing on his own now. He turns away to lean on his cane for support instead of you as his pride would dictate, and you slowly shuffle after him when he starts to make his way towards the door.
“I think I’d like to get in bed and really sleep off this fatigue. The loveseat just isn’t comfortable enough. Or warm enough, for that matter.”
You send him a silent, interested look.
There is a small little adrenaline fueled tightening in your gut that makes your pulse quicken, but you keep your expression neutral while you carefully assist him up the front staircase to the second floor. The idea that starts to form in the back of your mind isn’t a very smart one, you know that only too well, but you’re also keenly aware of the fact that you may not get another chance like this again. It was rare for Zandik to retreat to his bed in the middle of the day, usually keeping himself going through grumpy, sheer force of will and the endless supply of coffee he demanded from you.
But there was something you needed to double check, and you just couldn’t run the risk of him catching you doing it. In truth, you’ve already made your decision before you even reach the top of the stairs.
Anticipation settles over you in earnest as you finally get him up to the landing and then trail in his wake down the corridor to his room. Once inside, he shuffles over to the side of the bed where he leans his cane up against it before settling in to undo his shirt with faltering hands. While he works on the top half, you come up behind him and reach around narrow hips to undo his belt with only a brief amount of fumbling. You were so used to dressing and undressing him by now that you make almost as quick work of it as Pantalone had down in the drawing room, although you lack much of the same sultry, seductive flair he’d shown.
With a rattle from the buckle you get the strip of leather loosened and then tug at the button and zipper on his slacks. The two of you work in near perfect tandem, so that by the time you start to kneel, pulling his pants down to his ankles, Zandik is beginning to shrug out of his outer jacket and then the billowing, blue button up underneath. Groaning a soft sound, he then carefully eases himself to perch on the side of the bed while you nudge his shoes and pants off, leaving the old man in only his underwear.
You make a concerted effort not to look at his lap as you quickly gather up his stripped clothes and set them aside to be refolded, very conscious of the fact that you were still wet and wanting. Neither of them had touched you there once all was said and done. But as much as you wanted to feel that hot, hot surge of release again you tell yourself you just can’t afford to get distracted by your cunt right now.
And yet, when you return to his side with a fresh set of pajamas in hand, even your best attempts to stop it can’t seem to keep your eyes from fixing on the front of his white underwear. He is completely soft though, only a faint lump under the fabric to indicate his current state rather than a hard, seeking tent. It was hardly any wonder, of course, given the bone deep satiation that permeated the air around him.
Still, you can’t help but feel a small tinge of disappointment and he doesn’t seem to miss the look that passes over your face, snorting a quiet laugh in response.
“Insatiable little thing. You really want it bad, don’t you?”
Despite the lack of bite in his words, you self consciously hunch your shoulders even as you start to work on getting him dressed in his night clothes. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean, Master Zandik.”
“Hah. That’s funny. You’re not very good at hiding it, you know. Feofan was right. You get this glistening look of hunger in your eyes, like you’re little more than some half starved beast or something. Although, I suppose, that’s not an entirely inaccurate description for you, eh? To still be a virgin at your age …”
You don’t think he’s being cruel in saying that, at least not with any intentional malice anyway. Just as most people of his age, he seemed to simply lack a polite filter — but of course, that was even assuming he’d ever had one to begin with. Given his ego, you aren’t so sure he did.
Still, you deliberately keep your head bowed and your attention fixed on the night shirt you’re buttoning him into, so you won’t have to look him in the face when you speak next. “Is it really that surprising? I know what Lord Regrator said about … about street urchins not living such comfortable lives and he probably wasn’t wrong about that, I’ll admit. But even so. That doesn’t change the fact that I’m a person with the right to choose what I do with my body, does it?”
Silently, Zandik eyes you from just a scant few inches away for a long, drawn out moment, only deigning to speak again when he reaches up to remove his monocle with a stilted sigh. “Perhaps. But you’re also a very lovely young woman, as I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you. Sometimes men — selfish men, will make that decision for you. Much like I have, I’d wager.”
Your stomach gives a tiny flip at that, wrenching softly at his acknowledgement. At least he was self aware enough to admit it, even if that wouldn’t change the outcome of anything.
“I don’t think I’d lump you in with the likes of them, Master Zandik.” You tell him truthfully, kneeling back down now to work his feet into the legs of his cozy sleep bottoms. “Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but although it’s not necessarily wrong to say you also have a selfish streak, I don’t believe that this is the only reason for your behavior towards me. It’s just as Lord Regrator said, isn’t it? You haven’t been shown much kindness in your life and you’re … lonely. Aren’t you?”
The following stretch of quiet hangs heavy for but a fleetingly brief moment and then, startling you slightly, Zandik barks a sudden laugh.
“What a precocious little girl you are. And smarter than you look, if you want my opinion. I can’t say I expected such a sharp sense of perception from you, but …” Pausing, he puts his head to one side and squints down at you, as if a thought has just struck upon him, right as you finish feeding the loose material over both his ankles.
And when you slowly stand to help him up, he tracks the motion with sharp, hawk-eyed interest now, one hand lifting to take hold of your arm in a sharp squeeze as he struggles to his feet in front of you. The slight hunch of his spine puts him at nearly perfect eye level with you, and you questioningly look into his face when you notice the imperative way he grasps at you, refusing to let you go.
“Answer me something. Where did you come from, girl? Who were your parents?”
You blink at that, genuinely taken aback by his sudden interest in the topic. “Mine? O - oh, surely that’s not actually anything so noteworthy?”
Your attempt to wave off the question fails miserably, and his fingers dig deeper into the meat of your bicep when you try to move away, stopping you.
“You know I expect an answer when I ask you something. Tell me.”
It looked like he was right back to his usual grumpy self again. That comfortable lull certainly hadn’t lasted long.
“M - my apologies, Master. I didn’t realize it was such a … pressing question.” You stammer, swallowing hard to clear your throat of obstruction. “I come from Snezhnograd where I was born and raised my whole life. This is really the first time I’ve ever been anywhere else. My father wasn’t anything special, just another soldier in Her Majesty’s armies. He’s been missing in action for almost ten years, and my mother … w - well, technically she’s just a civilian now, like me. But she used to be a high ranking member of the church. A — a deacon, if I remember correctly.”
Zandik’s expression falters at that, and then seems to slacken with what you think just might be sincere surprise.
“I see.” He says rather curtly, struggling to recover from whatever had just caught him off guard. “So that’s why you are not only perfectly literate despite coming from poverty but you also have the manners one might expect to see in the courts. How curious. And I take it, then, that she raised you in virtue and strict expectation?”
You nod slowly, unsure how to read this reaction from him. “Yes, sir. She gave up her own life of moral integrity for my father, but she still taught me many of the same lessons that the church espouses. I think she wanted me to … live a proper, respectable existence despite being a commoner.”
A wholly mirthless laugh punches out of him then, sharp and to the point. “And yet here you are.”
“Yes. Here I am.”
Slowly, his fingers begin to ease up their pinching death grip on your arm and then finally fall away another moment later. You hesitate briefly, uncertain how to proceed from here, but when he makes no further move to speak, you cautiously bend down to grab the top hem of his slumped pants. With gentle discretion for his current demeanor, you tug them up to sit on the ridged jut of his hips, somehow soft yet pointy at the same time, and then neatly tie off the drawstring to keep them held in place.
Only when you’ve finished and start to retract your hands from his person does he finally draw an uncharacteristically tentative breath.
“Let me ask you one more thing, girl. And be truthful with me, now. I won’t tolerate any lying. Do you worship the gods the same way? Do you believe in divine authority over mortal lives, as I’m sure you were taught to?”
Frowning slightly, you give yourself a moment to think on that.
Then, with exceeding gentleness, you reach back out to straighten his sleep shirt where it had gotten rucked and slightly twisted in the fastening of his pants.
“No, Master Zandik. I don’t think I do. And it’s not so much that I don’t believe in their dominion to rule over humanity, especially not when our own Tsaritsa is so very powerful and great. I just — have to wonder, sometimes. That’s all. If it’s really the natural way of the world or if it was … orchestrated to be like this. And who gave them the authority they wield?”
Finishing your fussing with his clothes, you settle back on your heels and expectantly peer up at him only to find Zandik looking at you with what might very well be a spark of pride lighting up his pale eyes.
“That’s a good answer.” He tells you, surprisingly candid. “A very good one, in fact. I have to say, I’m rather impressed with your ability to think critically and form your own conclusions instead of blithely parroting whatever tripe you were spoonfed in your childhood. It’s one of the indicators of a high intellect, you know.”
Your brows slowly lift. “Goodness, Master Zandik. Are you praising me in earnest right now?”
His expression turns rueful, his coarse mouth tugging sharply to one side even as he reaches across the short space that separates you from him to give your side an unusually playful pinch.
“And don’t let it get to your head, girl. I never was very forthcoming when it comes to compliments so you’d best not expect many more of them from me. But I believe that is quite enough of that unpleasant discussion. Help me into bed, now.”
Quickly doing just that, you hustle to get the sheets pulled back on one side of the mattress and then use your hands to assist him under the covers, where he immediately heaves a very tired sigh as soon as his head hits the pillow. Flitting over him for another moment longer, you make sure he’s nudged far enough over not to risk rolling off the bed, taking care to tuck him in nice and snug to ensure he doesn’t take a chill while at rest.
“Would you like a fire in the hearth, Master?” You ask, right as you’re tugging the blankets up to his chin.
Leaning over him like that, you don’t see his nearest hand snaking out from underneath the duvet you just finished placing on top of him. It’s only when you feel a rough, suggestive nudge of sharp knuckles over the front of your breast do you give a little start, looking down at him in surprise.
“No, you silly girl. I suspect that thoughts of this sumptuous young body of yours will keep me warm enough for now.” Zandik murmurs, lightly dragging the back of his hand across your nipple which all too readily springs up at the contact to poke through your top. “As much as I’d like to play with you right now, I’m afraid I simply don’t have the stamina for it anymore. You’ll have to forgive this old man for that too. But after I’ve rested up some, perhaps you’d like to try a little experiment with me? I’m curious to see how your excitable cunt reacts to having my mouth on it.”
The entire world seems to tilt sideways around you, the edges of your vision faintly blurring from the sheer intensity of the arousal that rips through you.
Faltering unsteadily there on your feet, you have to force your lungs to pull in a slow, hissing breath. “Y - you … you want to put your mouth on me, Master?”
“Of course I do. I’m sure you taste just as sweet as you look. I dare say you might even come to find you prefer my tongue over my fingers, once all is said and done. There’s only one way to find out though.”
You whimper softly in response to that, unable to hold it back. It felt like you were dangerously close to fainting dead away from how intensely your pussy clenches, squeezing down on itself as if it could eke out even just some small, shuddering relief if it only tightened enough.
Of course that doesn’t work, though, and Zandik merely chuckles a low, rumbling sound at the needy, disoriented expression on your face as he drops his hand back to the sheets.
“You’re a very good girl for me. Thank you. Now let this old man get some sleep or your cunt will never get properly eaten. Wake me up for supper if I haven’t called for you by then.”
“… y - yes, Master Zandik. Rest well.”
Somewhat awkwardly giving the blankets over his chest one last, fidgety pat, you straighten up and turn, moving first to the window to draw the curtains closed and envelope the room in some approximation of darkness before then heading to the door.
Out in the hall, you have to take a moment just to catch your breath while you struggle to reorient yourself. It really was too much on your poor body. You were sensitive and eager anyway, likely due to ignoring your own physical needs and urges for so long. Overly excitable, as he liked to call it. But dragging it out like this, your arousal ratcheting tighter and tighter with each fleeting encounter, was a unique misery unto itself. Every inch of you felt like it was tingling, aching, begging to be touched. Licked. Sucked, and whatever else. It felt like it really was going to drive you mad.
Unable to make yourself move from the spot, your cheeks feel like they’re positively on fire as you slowly ease back to rest against the outside of Zandik’s door. This thrumming need, the pulsing desire deep inside your cunt makes it impossible to think of literally anything else. Neither common decency nor your secret plan to go snooping around seemed to matter anymore as you numbly peer down at yourself. Taking stock. Working out the logistics.
Hesitantly, one of your hands comes up to curve over the weight of your own breast and give it a light squeeze. It’s nothing like the way Zandik does it though, nowhere near as sharp or pinching, so you try again. A little harder this time.
But your fingers are much too soft, too feminine. What you craved was the ache of stiff bony ridges, the arthritic jut of digits that don’t seem to know their own strength sometimes and the coarse, cool to the touch pads of fingers that had tinkered, built and disassembled for a lifetime.
Even when you find your nipple, still tentatively pebbled underneath your clothes from the last time he’d touched you, fitfully tugging on it now, you find that it does very little to alleviate the tension between your thighs. It just seems to make you want it to be him touching you even more, and your mind slowly, inevitably drifts towards the other side of the door.
Would he welcome you into his bed if you went back inside and crawled under the blankets with him, pitifully mewling about how badly you need his attention and that you couldn’t wait until later? Would he pull you in close to him, safe and snug, and secure, pinned up against his side just like the night before, so you could only squirm in place while he fingered your cunt open?
Such an intense shudder tears through you at the hazy fantasy that your legs almost seem to turn into limp, overcooked noodles and you nearly collapse into a heap. No, as much as you wanted it you just couldn’t do it. Your master already told you he was tired from the morning’s excitement and he would play with you later.
You should focus on your other objective while you still could instead of wasting time with this. You should …
Impulsively, you slide your other hand forward over your hip and reach under the skirt to find your panties. They register as dump to the touch but you choose to ignore that for the time being while you experimentally caress over the outline of your slit. Trying to mimic the way Zandik had touched you there, recalling the pressure, the speed, the angle at which he dug those rude fingertips into fleshy lips to make them part for him.
Nothing seems to work though. It just doesn’t feel right and, in turn, it doesn’t feel good. At least not the way you’ve come to expect it to, and you cling desperately to the memory of his masterful hands playing in your pussy as if he was already intimately familiar with it. Even if you did manage to bring yourself to orgasm, finding your release out there in the hall, would it really even feel all that satisfying in the end?
Quickly growing frustrated with all of this useless pawing at yourself, you drop your hands with an impatient huff. This clearly wasn’t going to work. You would just have to wait, and hope that Zandik felt up to the task when he awoke. How very unfair it was.
How very disgraceful.
Self consciously straightening up from the door, you run your hands over yourself to smooth out your uniform and, hopefully, get a grip on your baser urges. You’re not so sure it works but, finally, you manage to unstick your feet and drift away from his room like a lost specter.
Luckily by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs you start to feel a bit more in control of your motor functions, even if it does occur to you much too late that you should have changed your panties before coming down. It's not worth the extra trip though and, determined to be at least somewhat productive, you put that out of your mind as you step back into the drawing room to clean up after the Lord Harbinger’s visit.
You’re fairly chagrined by the much depleted cigarette butt you find floating in Pantalone’s cup of half drunk coffee where he must have dropped it when he stood to come around the table. But, you comfort yourself, at least he hadn’t put it out on the china itself or even the nice tablecloth.
Making quick work of gathering up the used place settings, you then carry it all back into the kitchen where you’re greeted by the resounding silence of an open, empty space. Here, you take a moment to just surreptitiously glance around to make sure you really are alone and that nothing seemed to be out of order. All was exactly as you’d left it though and, feeling more than a bit silly, you take your burden over to the big sink where you start to wash everything up.
It certainly would have been nice if there was at least one other person on staff here, so that you wouldn’t have had to do everything yourself when Zandik had neither the ability or the desire to help you with these menial tasks. Your one and only saving grace thus far was the weekly Fatuus deliveries that kept things stocked and well prepared, from a never ending supply of coffee beans, tea tins, flour, jams and spices, meats and eggs, and milk, which you could only guess had been arranged and paid for by the Doctor.
But no matter how you sliced it or what angle you tried to look at it from, there simply was not enough food for more than two people. Not in the cupboards or the icebox, and certainly not in the crates that were dropped off by masked men and women every Tuesday. If any of it had started to go missing you certainly would have noticed it by now.
Did that, in turn, mean that the Doctor didn’t know about the mysterious presence down in the cellar? He certainly had not accounted for a third person's provisions as far as you could tell. You were relatively certain of that, and Zandik had never said anything to you that might suggest he was aware of it either.
Not until today, that is, when he and Pantalone had discussed some vague, nebulous ‘others’ between themselves.
That hadn’t even been the only strange, somewhat worrisome comment they’d made to each other, but as you stand there replaying everything back in your head you find that you are more certain than ever what you must do next. Even if it was only to assuage your fears, at least you could put this foolishness to rest.
Finishing up with the last delicate saucer, you set it aside in the drying rack, pull the plug on the drain and then slowly turn in place, wiping your hands on your apron. The hallway that would lead back to that unassuming cellar door in the rear of the house was just outside the kitchen. It wouldn’t even take you five whole minutes to find it again. You could be in and out in even less time, just long enough to check what’s going on in there and then right back out. Easy. And stupid.
Drawing a steadying breath, you decide to just get it over with and step across the paneled flooring to come out in the connecting corridor.
It’s as still and quiet as you would expect an otherwise empty house to be, the sound of your shoes moving over the wood grain the only sound you can make out. You’re almost embarrassed by how much braver you feel in the light of day, how little your heart pounds out a nervous staccato rhythm as you follow the long hallway down until you reach the door in question a few moments later.
You only hesitate there in front of it for a brief moment before you reach up and wrench the door open with a hard yank.
Darkness and silence alike rush up to greet you as you squint through the gloom of low filtered, dust mote ridden light coming in from the small window along the adjacent wall behind you. It doesn’t do much to actually illuminate the interior of the tiny room though, and you somewhat belatedly realize you were going to need a lamp. You’d been so focused on amping yourself up to do this that the thought hadn’t even occurred to you until now.
Leaving the door ajar, you backtrack down a ways to a low table you’d passed. Keeping one eye on the far end of the hall, you open one of the drawers but find nothing that will help you. Opening the other, you find a half melted candlestick and an old box of matchsticks. You take a moment to wrap the bottom in your handkerchief so that you will not burn your hand when it starts to melt, and then quickly get the wick lit.
Back down you go, nudging the door open and then cautiously leaning inside. And this time you make absolutely certain to double check the immediate walls to ensure that someone isn’t lurking just within. It really is completely empty though.
You inch a little further inside, scanning the floor in search of your missing slipper but there’s no sign of it at all. There also isn’t any evidence of your broken lamp, either, you’re quite disconcerted to find. Someone had cleaned it up, and … and taken off with your slipper while they were at it?
Perplexed and more than slightly frightened of what this discovery likely meant, you swing your attention up to examine the bookshelves a little closer, like you’d wanted to do the night before. The spines are indeed brittle and ancient, just as you’d initially suspected, and in running your finger over a few of them you soon realize why they seemed so different from those in the upstairs library.
They appeared to be written in a different language. Not one you recognized and nothing you could decipher, but all of them seem to be printed in decidedly strange characters that you couldn’t recall ever seeing before. You naturally have to assume that they must be exceptionally rare then, although you are admittedly a bit surprised Zandik or the Doctor, or even Lord Regrator for that matter would have these here instead of in a highly curated collection to show them off.
Did that mean these were possibly for personal use, then?
Deciding to give up on your perusal of the books for right now, knowing you can’t put it off any longer, you hold your candle up and turn towards the hidden door on the right. It really was so thoroughly sandwiched between the two shelves on either side that you very well might have missed it again if you didn’t already know it was there.
Your nerves start to make themselves known as you step up to it but you quietly tell yourself everything is fine. If someone or something really was on the other side you could just run away, same as you did last night. As far as you could tell that unknown entity hadn’t even tried to give chase. But it was better to know now than to risk wondering and jumping at every curious shadow in the house for the foreseeable future.
Reaching for the knob with your free hand, you give it a careful turn and the catch gives with an equally small click. You ease it open just enough to put your ear close, listening, but all you can make out is more resounding silence. There’s a small draft coming through the crack though, so you know this one must actually lead somewhere.
You allow yourself another slow breath in, holding it inside your lungs as you start to ease the door the rest of the way open. Your opposite hand comes up with the candle and you soon find that you’re peering down into a dark stairwell into what appears to be a bottomless void. The darkness is truly oppressive down there and that alone is nearly enough to send you scampering away in tears, but you stubbornly press on. You have to.
The stairs creak softly while you make your way down, one halting step at a time, with the flickering candle held out as far in front of you as you can reach. You’re starting to sweat, both from fear and how stifling the air starts to become the lower you go. It’s decidedly freezing in here though, and you conversely begin to shiver.
You finally spot the floor what feels like an eternity later and you gratefully step down onto the rough bricks with your heart in your throat. This new space is cramped, yet more bricks on either side of you, but when you nudge the candle towards the right you see that there is yet another door.
Almost feeling a bit exasperated at this point, you heave a shuddering exhale and grab at the new door handle, yanking it wide open.
And you’re immediately greeted by glaringly bright illumination that positively sears your retinas to make you cringe back as if you’d been scalded, dropping the candle in your reeling surprise. Momentarily blinded, your panic rapidly swells and crests to leave you mindless with it. You just didn’t understand. Why would there be light down here?
It takes a long, painfully harrowing moment for you to blink the stars from your eyes, and when you finally glance up you realize quite immediately that you’re standing at the threshold of a lab.
You know this for certain after spending so much time with Zandik in the one upstairs, but this is not only much bigger but much fancier too. The equipment looks newer, for starters, and you disbelievingly drag your attention over the vials and beakers, test tubes and complicated machinery, the likes of which you’d never seen before. Wires and bulbs, and circuitry, stacks of paperwork littering various surfaces, some of it neat and tidy while other piles were a haphazard mess. Sterile tools and various instruments, gadgets and devices you couldn’t even begin to guess the use of. It looked like a well furnished playground for a whole fleet of scientists.
But … but this didn’t even begin to make any sense.
Even if you were to assume that this was simply another one of Zandik’s work spaces, perhaps even his true lab whereas the other was more for idle tinkering, why in the Tsaritsa’s name would he have set all this up in the basement? There was no feasible way he could have ever possibly managed all those stairs by himself. And that was to say absolutely nothing of the fact that you spent almost every waking minute with him. He never could have found a chance to sneak off by himself to come down here.
And yet — as you look over everything you can’t help but notice that there is a very limited amount of dust or cobwebs, and you don’t spot even so much as a hint of the rats Zandik claimed were living in the cellar. As far as you can tell the space looked like it was used regularly, and rather lovingly at that.
A very real part of you wants to turn tail and beat a hasty retreat back up the stairwell. To slip back into whatever constituted for your normal life around here and pretend you’d never seen anything. That would be the smart thing to do. You know it would.
Despite your better judgement, though, you soon find yourself inching further inside to peer around at everything, completely dumbstruck by all that you see. Even as it all comes as a great, reeling shock to you, you still can’t help being impressed by it. In many ways this was what you’d envisioned when the Doctor had rather curtly informed you that you were now working for a much accomplished genius. You’d thought he meant Zandik.
Was this possibly his lab then? Was it really possible that this was where that bird masked fiend retreated to, out of sight and out of mind, only to reappear later when you least expected him?
That may have been an otherwise perfectly reasonable explanation, but … that didn’t account for the strange person you’d seen up in the landing last night. You felt relatively certain that it had not been the Doctor skulking about in the dark. The hair wasn’t right, for one, and those blood red eyes …
You’d never seen the Doctor’s eyes before, as he always insisted on keeping them hidden behind the featureless mask he wore, so you supposed maybe they could have been his. Somehow you very much doubted that though.
Feeling even more confused than when you’d started, you tip toe down the aisle formed between desks and tables, and machinery banks, giving everything a curious look over. Most of it you couldn’t even begin to guess at what it might be used for, but the more you glance around the more you start to notice something that strikes you as particularly odd.
Even without any formal discernment between all of the tools and staging set ups, and the heavy cabled equipment, it looks to you like there might be a handful of different projects taking place all at once. One table you pass looks like it’s being used to assemble what appears to be a prosthetic arm made up of sheet metal and wires. Another is housing a series of petri dishes with something very much alive swimming around in them. At a dim lit monitor you can see a progress bar flashing at you, showing that whatever task the internal computer had been programmed for was currently at thirty-six percent completion.
It very much leaves you in awe of all that you observe. You couldn’t even begin to fathom how any one person could possibly find the time or the brain power to split their attention between so many things, so many varied pursuits at the same time.
Unless there really was more than one.
‘The others are, for the most part, content to simply stay away.’
That’s what Zandik had said in the drawing room earlier.
But you’d just naturally assumed he’d meant that they stay away from the house. Not that they merely stayed in the cellar, minding their business.
Such a violent chill creeps up your spine at that thought you start to feel well and truly faint. Were there really multiple people living down here? And you’d never even noticed?
Dazed and confused, you find yourself stumbling from one piece of equipment to the next studiously cluttered desk, and then on to the next strangely colored fluid in a corked test tube. You couldn’t even begin to make any sense of what you were seeing, for the most part, but towards a far back wall you finally spot something that looks to be at least somewhat recognizable.
It very much resembles an operating theater, with a big, powerful, three-bulb light hanging over a steel gurney table. There are cabinets and shelves lining the immediate area, clearly separated and sectioned off from the rest of the lab's other designated stations. There’s a decidedly heavy atmosphere around the sterile corner it’s pressed back into, and you feel mildly nauseous when you look at it. But still, you wander closer.
Everything is clean, thankfully, and the only smell that invades your nostrils now is that of cleaning agents, antiseptic and soap. If you didn’t know any better you might have even thought it was just a staged prop of some sort that had never seen any real cutting or slicing, given how unused everything looked at just a glance. But even you were not so naive as to truly believe that.
Giving the steel table with its drainage troughs a wide breadth of space, you instead set your sights on the small utility table set up just behind it. There’s an open book laying across the surface and when you lean close, scanning the page, you can see that it’s some kind of medical text. You have no interest in the stuff yourself but you do find it curious indeed. If your suspicions were correct then at least one of them had a keen interest in the science of medicine — whoever they were.
If you had to guess based on what you’ve seen so far, you would probably wager that at least one had an interest in machinery and mechanics. Another with biology, perhaps even virology specifically. And although you couldn’t be sure, you’d seen one desk that looked to be so full of heavy tomes that you could only surmise they were hungry for broader knowledge as a whole rather than a single narrowed down subject.
Ever so slightly moving the open book aside, you find a small stack of papers underneath. The handwriting is neat and precise, sharp, and you scan over the nearly incomprehensible medical jargon in search of any clues as to what might be going on down here. Many of the words are complete gibberish to you, though, and you struggle to make any sense of it. So much for the literacy Zandik had lauded you for.
Towards the bottom of the top sheet, however, you finally spot something that looks easy enough to understand. ‘Test Sample: PT0083.’
Your head comes up to scan the equipment laid out on the narrow work station. Sure enough, situated in front of a row of neatly organized medical journals, you spot a steel rack full of vials. It looks like there’s some strange, thick fluid inside, and you carefully reach out to spin the labels towards you, one by one, until you find it. PT0083.
You know exactly how much you should really leave this stuff alone, but your gnawing curiosity ultimately wins out and you ever so gently start to ease the vial out of its holder.
Lifting it up at an angle makes the fluid inside run towards the opposite end, so dark it almost looks black. It’s only when you’re watching the last little bit cling to the interior of the glass does it strike an uncomfortable chord within you. Was that … blood?
You come very close to regurgitating everything in your stomach in a sudden, wretching heave, fumbling now to put it back where you got it from. But either your hands are too clammy with sweat or your recoiling grip on the vial is too weak, because you drop it to the table with an ear shattering CLINK!
Your hand instinctively snaps out to cover the petite vial, stopping it from either bouncing or rolling away, as your heart pounds such a violent rhythm against your ribcage your breathing starts to come short. Silently praying you hadn’t broken it, you cautiously lift your palm to find that the delicate lab equipment is indeed still in one piece. By some unexpected miracle you hadn’t even so much as cracked the thing.
You exhale a very relieved sigh at that discovery.
“What are you doing with the equipment?”
To say you nearly jump right out of your own skin would be an understatement.
Your soul actively leaves your body for all of a single, terrible heartbeat before returning just in time for you to spin around, back pressed painfully tight to the work station.
The man that steps into the little operation theater from around the back of a dark blackout curtain is neither Zandik, the Doctor or even the mysterious individual you’d run into last night. You’re quite certain of that because this one is wearing a pair of thin glasses perched atop the bridge of his nose. Other than Zandik’s monocle you’re sure you’ve never seen any of them wearing any sort of lenses before, not even the one with his eyes showing through his mask.
Stunned into mute silence, your mouth works even when nothing comes out, not even a peep, but the bespectacled man doesn’t so much as glance up at you.
His attention remains fixed on a clipboard he holds from the top, bracing it along the length of his forearm as he almost thoughtfully seems to step past the steel medical table in the center. Even without looking away from whatever he’s reading, he manages to bypass it completely and come stand next to you in front of the small work table.
It’s like your overtaxed brain has completely shut down now as you stare up at him, realizing in a vague, distant sort of way that his height reminds you very much of the Doctor. You know it’s not him though. Even with his mouth hidden behind a perfectly clean white surgical mask, you can already tell that this one is much more serious and less prone to whimsy. It’s in the almost bored set of his brows.
Gods, who could have ever thought you’d meet someone who would make you think of the Doctor as whimsical?
“Here.” He abruptly speaks, passing you the clipboard, again, without even looking at you.
Reeling and shellshocked, and not to mention highly confused, you automatically take it from him without even thinking.
“Familiarize yourself with the objective. You have five minutes.”
Once again your mouth opens, nothing comes out, and so you close it.
Dropping your attention to the clipboard, you have to force your vibrating eyes to fix upon the words as you frantically look them over only to belatedly realize that you were holding the damn thing upside down. Fumbling to spin it upright in your hands, you give it another try. All that greets you is yet more medical jargon that you don’t understand.
“U - um …”
He’s already walking away though, angling towards what you think might be a huge icebox standing upright against the opposite wall. Not knowing what else to do, you flit after him with the clipboard clutched to your chest like a shield.
“Sir? Uh, I - I’m sorry. Sir. If you could just - -“
It’s as if he doesn’t even hear you as he yanks hard on the outside handle to pull the freezer door open. You give a faint squeak and cower back from the thick plumes of icy, heavily condensed steam that billow out from the container, sinking to the floor and disappearing in a fine mist. Rather surreptitiously, you peer inside around his shoulder, but all you truly process are vague lumpy shapes that make no sense to you in that moment.
Entirely unconcerned by your presence, he reaches inside with a gloved hand, plucks something up from one of the shelves, pulls it out and slams the door closed.
You jump at the sound but he is, once again, already in motion, stepping past you to come up with the steel table. You’re right in tow though, desperately trying to get his attention, and you move to stand next to him just in time to watch him slam whatever it is onto the surface with a near deafening BANG.
Whimpering softly in the back of your throat, you glance down at the table and something in your gut slowly starts to turn with the vague note of comprehension that sparks in the back of your mind.
“Is that … is that meat?”
Finally, the bespectacled man shoots you a sidelong, utterly droll glance. “Didn’t you read the paperwork like I told you to?”
Swallowing hard, you send him an utterly helpless look. “That’s wh - what I’ve been trying to tell you, sir. I don’t know what any of this means.”
One of his brows gives a rather condescending quirk at that. “What sort of assistant can’t even read a basic objectives sheet?”
You have no idea how to respond to that, staring up at him in utter bewilderment. Assistant? He thought you were here. To assist him?
For a harrowing stretch of seconds the two of you just stand there, looking at one another.
Then, he turns to fetch something from a nearby drawer, momentarily giving you his back.
Desperately trying to kick start your brain, you decide to try again. “I - I’m so sorry. I think there’s been a mistake. A big one. I don’t even have the first clue about any of these medical terms. I don’t know what any of this means. I’m not a lab assistant.”
“Well, it looks like you’re just going to have to do your best then, won’t you?”
You draw a sharp breath to insist that you can’t, you won’t.
But then he turns from the drawer with what you can only think to describe as a meat cleaver, the kind meant to cut through flesh as if it were butter. Long, sharply pointed, and so finely serrated that it gleams faintly in the overhead light.
It is at this exact moment that you come very close to wetting yourself.
“W - wh - … wait. What are you doing …”
You start to back away when he retraces his steps, holding the clipboard up as if it will actually save you and ward off any of his attacks. He isn’t even looking at you though, his almost disinterested gaze fixed upon the lump of meat on the exam table.
Without so much as a single word, his arm comes up, blade glinting, and swings back down with a vengeance, cleaving right into whatever it was he’d placed out.
And you watch, utterly horrified beyond even your wildest imagination, as the hunk splits down the middle to a thick, fleshy THWUMP! that separates it into two halves. Revealing that what you’d thought was perhaps a frozen rump or even a breast is, in fact, a heart.
A heart that still beats against all odds and logical explanation.
Pumping its oxygen carrying blood through the attached ventricles, the valves, the veins, on what was once a closed off circuit that fed infinitely into itself, but now spills out all over the table. In an abrupt wash of vibrant, futilely congealing hemoglobin, it runs into the narrow trenches along the sides of the table which proceed to carry it all down, down, down where it at last feeds off into a round drain.
Your mind completely short circuits at what it is you’re seeing.
And then your consciousness starts to rapidly recede, darkness rushing in to consume you, when you faint dead away from the shock.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
You don’t immediately recall what happened when you finally start to come to. All you really know with any certainty is that everything feels like it’s spinning around you dizzily fast, making you feel even more nauseous than you already did. And also the sensation of something squeezing down tight on your ankle. You’re very aware of that too.
Groaning a quiet sound that shudders and breaks as you roll your head forward, utterly disoriented, you force your eyes to crack open. It takes a few seconds for your vision to adjust, to catch up and process what you’re looking at as the smothering darkness slowly recedes, only for you to realize you’re staring down at your own lap. If the familiar shape of your thighs didn’t give it away then the flouncy housekeeping uniform certainly did.
“Wha - at happened … to me?” You croak, almost startled by the rough quality of your own voice.
But movement down by your left foot catches your attention, rouses you further out of your lolling stupor, and you look to see the bespectacled man from before kneeling there. Head bowed over the task of cinching a strap into place. Around your ankle.
You give a great start when you finally manage to make sense of what you’re seeing, jolting upright to scuttle away from him. Or would have, had your wrists not already been locked in place along the armrests of the highly uncomfortable chair he’s got you in. It’s hard and angular, with only a small plank seat that barely accommodates your bottom and steel stirrups that are not unlike the foot holds on a wheelchair. Clearly some sort of medical contraption.
Frantic, jittery panic rapidly rushes in to make your breath come short as you give your limbs another desperate tug, only to confirm what you already knew.
It was too late. You were as good as trapped.
If you had woken up even just a few moments earlier, you might have been able to - -
“Ah, you’re finally conscious again. That’s good. I was starting to wonder if I should fetch the smelling salts.”
Nervously flexing your fingers as if to ensure they were still yours and they still worked, you send the man at your feet a deeply troubled look. Everything was still a bit blurry at the edges, not quite clear enough in your mind to trigger real recollection. But the more you stare at him the more it gradually starts to come back into focus. And then you remember it a little too clearly.
That still beating heart.
Even if you’d wanted to lie to yourself that it was anything other than that, there was just no mistaking what you had seen. The veins and ventricles gave it away. From the outside it had looked like little more than a lump of shapeless flesh but on the inside …
Feeling sickeningly queasy, you turn your face away and screw your eyes shut, trying and failing not to hyperventilate. Gods, that mental image was going to haunt you for the rest of your life!
“Oh, blessed mother. What was that thing?”
Evidently satisfied that all four limbs were secured now, the man sedately rises to his feet where he proceeds to peer down at you with a truly demeaning edge in his expression. You’d thought Pantalone was bad, the way his polite smiles and pretty violet eyes always seemed to carry with them just a hint of condescension, but this one is somehow so much worse. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact he’s staring at you as if you were little more than a bug to be studied and then squashed.
“Do you truly wish to know?” He asks you lightly, though not without just a smidge of irony lacing his tone.
“I … I think some sort of explanation would be nice. Haven’t I earned even that much?”
The bespectacled man gives his head a slow, perfectly controlled shake. “You misunderstand me. I am asking if you’re certain you’ll even understand my explanation in the first place, or if I would simply be wasting my time and energy. I prefer not to do either, if I can help it. I’m sure it goes without saying that I will not be answering any of your questions if it’s just going to go in one ear and out the other.”
You send him an utterly bewildered look, almost too stunned to take offense to that decidedly unwarranted jab at your intelligence. He really did sound just like the Doctor with that arrogant, mile wide ego and an apparent love for hearing the sound of his own voice.
And now that you’ve stopped long enough to get an actually good look at him you notice his hair, too, is that same pale, wispy shade of blue as well.
For a split second you think they’re one and the same. The Doctor without his bird mask. But you know that can’t be. The hair lengths were wrong, and so was the overall style. This one’s was much shorter, cropped nearly down to his skull, but even that is not enough to truly hide the fluffy wave in those powdery locks. The same kind of wave in Zandik’s hair, even though his had started to dull and fade.
Your eyes immediately go round as saucers. “Who … who are you?”
Clicking an impatient sound with his tongue, he brings a latex gloved hand up to adjust the set of his glasses. “Either you aren’t very bright or you’re asking me something you already know the answer to. Which is it? Choose wisely.”
You can’t help the way you cower back from him, even when you already know you have nowhere to go. This one seemed to be utterly ruthless in his exacting nature, and what an ass on top of that. “I - I have my suspicions. Very strong ones, in fact. Will you tell me if I’m right?”
“I will not.”
Deflating slightly, you warily follow the motion when he folds his arms behind his back and sets in to pace a slow path around the chair you’re strapped to. Just like the Doctor had back in the Northland Bank. Oh, god. Was it really him?
“I think I’d rather watch you squirm with the not knowing than put your worries to rest just yet. Maybe I’ll give you my answer by the time we’ve finished with your exam, if I’m feeling generous enough. But I probably won’t.”
He disappears behind you then with a soft creak of his boots on the ground, sedate and perfectly casual about it. Not being able to see him or what he’s doing makes your fear skyrocket, and you quickly begin to suck in quick, painfully short gasps of air. That knife he’d had, oh god, the knife.
“However,” he goes on, his voice slithering out from somewhere just behind you. “If you promise me you’ll listen carefully and not interrupt to ask anymore stupid questions, I just might give you the explanation you’d wanted.”
Thinking it might be a good idea to keep him talking so he doesn’t have the time to do anything else, you quickly nod your head, not knowing if he can even see it. “Yes. Y - yes, I’d appreciate that very much, sir. I promise I’ll listen. I’m a good listener.”
“Very well then.” Coming up along the other side of you, the man in the surgical mask reaches out to curl his gloved hand under your chin, mercilessly tugging your face back to make you look up at him.
“What you saw, and the experiment you so rudely botched, I might add, was a test of the new rejuvenation elixir I’ve been working on. After previous studies were conducted, I began to form a hypothesis around the idea that the effects of aging on the body might be stymied through the blood rather than on the molecular level, as I had previously conjectured. It took some time, of course, but I was at last able to make the necessary adjustments to the biological hard coding of the red and white blood cells — that is, I reprogrammed them, you see — to take on the function of self sustaining, semi organic nano bots. Ones that do not decay over time or slow down their physiologic imperatives no matter how much time has passed. Or what external conditions they might be subjected to.”
It feels like your eyes are about to start spinning around inside your head, but you more or less understood the gist of it. Or at least, you think you do.
“T - that’s why you … had it in the freezer?”
He lifts his brows at you, entirely condescending. “Very good. Perhaps you are not quite as dull as you look.” Nudging your chin a little higher up, he puts his head to one side to study you from a slightly different angle. Behind the thin, delicately framed glasses, his red eyes narrow upon you in assessment.
Wait. Red eyes?
He abruptly releases you before you can examine them any closer, sauntering the rest of the way around the chair to stand down by your feet again.
“Yes, that is exactly right, my dear assistant. Before you had the nerve to collapse on the floor in a useless heap, I’m sure you observed exactly what I did. Despite being nothing more than a chunk of meat, frozen quite solid and unattached from any sort of connective system to supply outside oxygen or even the stimulation of a nervous system, the heart indeed continued to pump. Endlessly. Tirelessly. Without fail, without dying and without need for a host to facilitate its functionality. It really is quite a remarkable accomplishment, don’t you think?”
You valiantly swallow the bile rising in your throat. “It’s … certainly impressive, sir. I won’t deny that. But — but what are you possibly going to do with something like this? F - for what purpose?”
Frankly, you already had a few ideas and none of them were good.
Turning his head, the man sends you a rather biting look despite how unmoved his expression otherwise remains. “That is another stupid question, isn’t it? I thought I told you not to bore me with such — uninspired thinking.”
He pivots to face you then and you instinctively recoil, pushing back against the chair you’re strapped to even when you know it’s a lost cause. You’re suddenly out of your mind with animal self preservation though, frantic and wheezing, sniveling, as he comes up to stand at your hip. Even when his body language and demeanor continue to read perfectly cool and calm, your fight or flight still goes absolutely haywire to have you wildly tugging against your restraints.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt me, I swear I won’t tell anyone about any of this, please! I promise I’ll - -“
“Oh, do stop that inane blubbering, won’t you? If I was going to harm you I’ve had ample opportunity to do so already, haven’t I?”
Panting so hard it makes you feel lightheaded, you force yourself to calm down enough to speak. He was right. He could have already hurt you in any number of ways had he so wanted, and he hadn’t. Not yet.
But why?
“Wha - … w - what are you going to do with me then?”
He puts his head to one side, once again reminding you a little too much of the Doctor in that gesture.
“Yet another stupid question after I already warned you once. That’s strike two. I would advise you to choose your words much more carefully from here on out, assistant.”
One of his hands reaches down then, not even giving you a word of warning before he pulls on some sort of lever on the side of the chair. All at once the whole thing jerks back with you in it, no longer locked in place, and you shriek a horrified sound at suddenly finding yourself looking up at the ceiling. That abrupt rush of vertigo comes very close to sending your stomach contents flying from your mouth but you grit your teeth, holding it back.
Still moving as sedately as ever, he then reaches above your head to push down on the top of the backrest, which lowers even further to eventually lock with a sharp, metallic click. You’re flat on your back now, struggling to breathe around the choking panic, while he moves a little closer to stand by your shoulder.
It’s only at that moment when, self consciously mindful of your skirt, you attempt to squeeze your thighs together only to find that they’re stuck in the wide v he’d strapped you in, does it occur to you what sort of exam he’d likely meant.
“W - wait - -“
“Hush, now. This won’t hurt so long as you cooperate. Be a love for me, now.” Calmly bringing his hands together over your chest, he doesn’t even hesitate to begin unbuttoning the front of your shirt with detached, clinical efficiency. You feel the first give way to loosen the fabric around your throat, and you quickly turn your face to the side with a nauseous groan.
“You know,” he goes on, amicably enough. “I’ve heard much about you. Omega thinks rather highly of you, in fact, and I suppose the old man must rather like you too if you’re still around. Judging by the confused look on your face, though, I take it that neither of them have told you about us yet?”
At the mute shake of your head, he snorts a quietly harsh laugh.
“That doesn’t surprise me. I seem to recall Omega warning us that we needed to keep ourselves hidden away unless we wanted to go back to taking care of that old fool ourselves. I suppose he feared we would scare you off.” Pausing when he’s half of the way down your front, he sends you an almost thoughtful look. “This probably isn’t helping that, is it?”
You press your lips into a warbling line and shake your head again, scared that speaking might further agitate his ire.
Without another thought to the matter, he seamlessly picks right back up where he’d left off, opening the front bodice of your uniform straight down to the waist where the apron was cinched and the flouncy skirt began. Then, coming back up, he parts the material and shoves it out to the sides to expose the silky slip underneath.
“No matter. It’s already too late for you, anyway. An entire month is a long time to find oneself embroiled in the matter of a Fatui Harbinger’s affairs. Even if you tried to escape the house right now, fleeing out into the wilderness alone, I very much doubt either of them would let you go that easily. However, with that being said, I have to admit to a certain curiosity where you are concerned.”
Reaching into your open top, he slips one latex encased hand down the top of your slip to latch onto the left side of your chest. You outright seethe at the contact when his glove is faintly cold and impartial, and it finds more traction on your skin than a bare hand would have. Whimpering softly as he uses the other set of fingers to tug the chemise down, carefully pulling your breast out until it slips completely free a moment later. The nipple is already tightly coiled and stiff from the chilly air as much as the treatment, and you give a dazed shudder there on the chair when he switches to the other side to repeat the process.
“Although we all share much of the same tastes, naturally, it is rare for Omega to be so adamant about keeping us such a big secret. And in our own house at that.”
He must see the way you twitch in response, sending you a slow look of consideration now.
“That’s right, little assistant. We all lived here before you did, coming and going freely as our individual whims and research dictated, just as I’m sure we will continue to do long after you’re gone. I can see you’re curious so I suppose I’ll give you this answer for free. As you might have already started to guess, Feofan gave this manor to his beloved old wretch so that he might conduct his research in peace and quiet, with limited interruptions all the way out here in the country. And of course that included us too. We’re something of a package deal, if you want the truth.”
Turning his attention back to your restrained body, he brings two of his fingers close to deftly pinch the pebbled peak of one breast between the digits. No aplomb, no warning, no build up.
You jerk so hard the chair rattles underneath you, choking on a wholly undignified sound as he sets in to roll that sensitive bud between the two pads. The sharp rush of friction on your teat is only further highlighted by the latex, which seems to grip and pull at the flesh more than it should. And the thrill of it shoots straight down to your neglected core, making your earlier arousal come crashing back as if the floodgates had been released. You were starting to slick again, even when you desperately try to will yourself not to. Dammit.
“These are sensitive.” He announces, with absolutely no inflection to indicate what his opinion on that might be.
Drawing in a slow, painfully clipped breath, you shyly flick your attention towards him and then away again when you find him closely watching your reaction. His gaze is so cold and impartial that you can’t quite seem to wrap your head around what he’s doing to you, or why. Even as that steady hand ignites your nerves, setting you aflame, you fight it, begging yourself not to give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm.
It’s an entirely lost cause, though, and you quietly wheeze once he abandons the first teat, puffy and aching, sticking up off your body now in an almost painfully sharp point, so he can switch to the other. The jarring sensation of latex on your hitherto neglected nipple makes your back arch almost supplicatingly in the chair, whining a harried sound in the back of your throat.
This was bad. You were already thrumming for it even prior to this, and now …
“O - oough!”
“I see. Your receptivity is quite high to this sort of stimulation. It looks like you’re quite enjoying this.”
Tossing your head back against the chair, you make another futile attempt to turn away from him but his looming presence over you is utterly inescapable. Even when you give your arms another desperate wrench, trying to force the leather straps to loosen, all you succeed in doing is making your tits jostle and bounce. But the pinching hold he’s got on your teat is absolute and the resulting recoil makes the flesh pull to send another breath-stealing shockwave through your already sensitized system.
A slow, drawling chuckle slips out of him then, and you glance up in surprise at hearing that sound come from him even as you seethe another tortured noise through your teeth. The look on his face, somehow contrived and coldly amused at the same time, is enough to ice your veins over. And, yet, the fingers relentlessly plucking at your breast still keep you burning from the inside out, stoking your fire faster than you would have thought possible.
The contrast of it shocks you almost as much as the way his narrowed eyes do when they dance at you, clearly finding amusement in your unfortunate predicament. And so very, very red. They were just like the ones you’d seen last night, nearly identical, except … this one’s seem somehow sharper. Wiser. More mature?
Oh, why couldn’t you have just stayed away from the cellar like you were told?
“Is this why those two are so partial towards you, then? I might have expected as much from Zandik, but he has always been a bit of a fool in his own way. Of course that goes for me too, but …”
Pausing, the bespectacled man brings his other hand up and latches onto the first tit again, using both sets of fingers now to roll and twist the aching buds. Lightly tugging and tweaking, and squeezing them, gradually increasing the pressure until he’s doing it vigorously enough to register as hurt.
You go absolutely wild where you’re strapped down, heaving against your bindings and trying to twist away from him, but it’s utterly useless. He just follows you wherever you try to turn, relentless and merciless in equal measure.
And the worst part is how much your pussy absolutely floods in response, turning molten and drippy. Melting for him, even when you really wished it wouldn’t.
“I almost would have expected better from Omega.” He goes on, still not sounding particularly moved by any of this. “He is the prime, after all. So I would have thought he’d have better control over his urges than even me, and yet it’s looking as if I am truly the only one with any real objectivity here. What a pity.”
He suddenly releases you, just like that, to leave you woundedly lurching on the chair. Struggling to draw enough oxygen into your lungs, you slowly tip your face down to look over your own breasts where they obscenely spill out of your top. Full and heavy, the tips sticking up in flushed little points. It’s nearly enough to send you over the edge right then and there.
The surgeon — you don’t know what else to think of him as — turns from you then to pull open a drawer. You take that moment to finally peer around at your surroundings but nothing looks outwardly recognizable. Just a brick floor and brick walls lined with shelves and cupboards, a small desk, and a drawn curtain on one side. Were you even still in the cellar?
He silently turns back to you now, and you warily watch him unscrew a cap off of a small glass bottle which he then dips two of his fingers into. They come back goopy, smeared with some kind of semi clear liquid, and you immediately suck in a wheezing gasp when he then reaches for you again.
“Wait - -“
He does not wait, almost disinterestedly smearing the mystery substance over your left nipple with the same clinical efficiency you were beginning to expect from him. At first it just registers as almost painfully cold on the already sore teat, but then it quickly starts to warm up upon settling into your skin. Then a sharp, prickling sensation starts, almost burning, and you sob a nearly hysterical sound when he reaches across to do the same to the other side.
“Stop it! What is that?”
“It’s a topical ointment derived from mist flowers and menthol. Rather potent, isn’t it? Since you seem to enjoy this sort of stimulation on your breasts so much, I thought you might appreciate it while I focus on other things.”
Blinking through the sting of tears, you shoot him a pinched look of question.
But his only response is to send a slow, deliberately pointed glance down the length of your body, making you shudder hard enough to have your back molars aching.
“Please don’t … oh, gods, please don’t do it.”
Without a single word, he turns from you, leaving you to hiccup sadly while he sets the little bottle aside on a wheeled tray down by your hip which you hadn’t noticed before. Taking his time as if he had all day to toy with you like this — and for all you know he really might — before then nudging it further down past your line of sight. It sounds like he leaves it just within the circle of your spread legs before going back over to the row of drawers along the wall to rummage around again.
It’s a real struggle to tear your eyes away from him, terrified of what he might come back with next, but you force yourself to fretfully glance down at your chest again. It doesn’t exactly come as a surprise that you find your nipples fat and engorged where the mystery goop seemed to be making them swell with the constant, borderline painful stimulation. As if they were being lightly pricked a million times over even as they wetly glisten there under the glaring lights. They’re darkly flushed, too, and the sight of them like that seems to make something in you crack, letting out an oddly lilting wail of horror at what he’s done.
“Please. Do be quiet, won’t you?” He says, shuffling back to stand over you once more. “Surely it’s not so bad as to warrant all this fuss, is it? The response to your nervous system will start to wear off in about ten minutes unless I apply more in that time, and there are no side effects to speak of either. I have to say, you are certainly easy to frighten.” A thoughtful pause, but it doesn’t last very long and he seems to make up his mind in record time. “Then, if it will stop you from making that godawful noise again, I’ll share another piece of information that I believe you will find quite comforting.”
Pausing to give his glasses a quick adjustment, he impassively peers down at you for a long stretch of seconds as if to ensure he had your full attention and that you were listening. Even in your twitching misery, you can’t help but think of him as arrogantly full of himself. Easily the worst personality you’ve met so far in this place, and that was certainly saying something given the rest of the company you were keeping.
Evidently satisfied by your continued silence, save for the labored breaths that shudder out of you, he finally nods once to indicate his approval a drawn out moment later.
“Very well. Then I can give you my word that, at least for today, you are safe here with me. I will not kill you or maim you, nor will I inject you with any sort of experimental substances. This is because, my dear assistant, we still have use of you. It is imperative that Zandik’s care is seen to and none of us have the time or the patience for it. I’m quite sure Omega explained this to you, did he not?”
Your mouth pops open at that but not even a single sound comes out. He was talking about the Doctor?
The corners of his eyes turn up at the shocked expression on your face, as if he were smiling, but the surgical mask keeps the gesture thoroughly hidden from you prying eyes.
“You’re starting to understand now. Good. Then, you see, I have no reason to jeopardize the current arrangement by disposing of you just yet, do I? I’m merely curious, that’s all. And once I’m finished I will be happy to let you scamper off back to the old man so that you might resume your duties like a good little pet, still in one piece and unharmed. Relatively speaking, anyway.”
He abruptly smacks something against the palm of his hand, emphasizing that last bit, to make you jump at the sound. Anxious and uncertain, you watch him wave whatever it is rather blithely in the air, as if he truly found this all to be so very dull.
“Frankly, dear, I would have been perfectly content to keep ignoring your presence upstairs as I have been. But since you decided to come snooping around down here, I simply see no reason as to why I should continue to hide. You really only have yourself to blame, you know. Now, open up nice and big for me.”
You outright jolt, wide eyes tracking the motion of the implement he holds out towards your face. It’s only at the last possible second that you realize it’s a thermometer and you quickly press your lips into a tight line, turning your head away from it.
“Oh dear ,” he clicks his tongue, following you with that poised hand to try again. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to make this any harder for yourself than it needs to be?”
The cool glass tip just brushes your lips, prodding at your mouth, but you only squeal a muffled sound of protest and turn the other way. You had no idea where he’d had that thing or if it was even clean!
To your surprise, though, he retracts the thermometer after the second attempt and gives it another agitated little flick. “Alright. Have it your way.”
He moves away from you then, down towards your feet, and you soon catch the sound of a soft little clink when he sets it down on the metal tray. You immediately let out a big, whooping breath of relief, panting to catch your breath.
That moment of respite is regrettably short lived, however, and you give a sudden jolt when you feel his hands come up to grab at the small bench seat just under your butt. Giving it a good wrench, the panel snaps down and locks in place to leave your panties utterly exposed in this position. You squeal a horrified sound and renew your earlier struggle against the restraints with mindless desperation to make the chair — or what was left of it — rattle again.
But even when you twist so hard it makes your arms and legs hurt, you get no further than you did before. And the surgeon is just as unmoved by your panicked writhing as before when he calmly reaches up to adjust the angle of the metal stirrups, one at a time, with a faint click, click, click of the inner mechanisms. Wheezing in terror at the way your knees are forced to accommodate a tighter bend now to point towards your chest, you lift your head up as far as you can manage to peer down the length of your own body.
It’s difficult when you were laid out flat on your back though, and all you’re really able to see is the bespectacled man standing between the vulnerable spread of your legs, twisting a small component on the joint of the second stirrup to set it in place. With that done, he turns towards where the tray must be situated without even sparing you so much as a glance. A curious sound of metal scraping against metal filters through the air and then, to your gobsmacked horror, he holds up a shiny pair of scissors.
You tense up painfully stiff, bracing for the worst, as you screw your eyes shut so you won’t have to look. To your whimpering surprise, though, it is not the chill of steel that reaches out to touch your cunt but rather a sure and steady hand. A harsh gasp catches in your throat to nearly choke you on it even as you fitfully shudder against that dispassionate contact, squirming helplessly in response.
But he patently ignores your useless struggle while he traces the outline of your slit, those latex encased fingers spending a long, prolonged moment merely caressing over the length of you, up and down. Up and then back down. Only once your panties are plastered to the pudge of your labia does he then, on the next upward stroke of his wrist, tug at the underwear to pull it taut against you. He doesn’t stop at the apex of your mound though, pulling the material tighter and tighter until it’s digging into delicate lips and you start to feel dizzy from the sharp friction.
You hiss a sensitive little sound at that, lifting your head again to look beyond the plump swell of your tits, the fat, throbbing nipples that dot them and beyond the soft curve of your belly to watch how he almost thoughtfully nudges your panties into an even tighter pull. From this angle you’re able to see down the front of them where he’s got the fabric pinched between thumb and forefinger, and you whine a low sound at the sight of ripe, fleshy cunt lips dimpling under the pressure.
“Oh - oouuughhhn!”
“Interesting.” He murmurs, more to himself than to you. “I wasn’t expecting you to respond positively to this as well. Yes. Yes, I’m starting to get a better picture now.”
He lifts the scissors then, slipping the sharp blades over the fabric above your hip from bottom to top. With one clean slice, that side of your underwear falls loose, and then he repeats the process on the other. With nothing left to hold them together anymore, he slowly starts to peel them back to expose your heated pussy to the cool air, making you twitch at the dull realization of how very wet and puffy you actually are.
So thoroughly soaked, in fact, that your cunt stickily tries to cling to your panties as the gusset is ever so slowly eased away in excruciating slow motion. You clench your teeth to try and stopper any of the highly embarrassing sounds that might try to slip out, but it’s just too much. Between the second heartbeat in your cunt, reflected twice over between both of your aching nipples, you can feel yourself slipping into a heady, intoxicating daze.
If only Master Zandik or even Lord Regrator had just reached down and played with your pussy in the drawing room earlier, maybe you wouldn’t have been in such a wretched state now.
It’s much too late for that, however, and a surprised little groan punches out of your mouth when the surgeon comes back up to casually cup the palm of one hand over your swollen cunt. He takes a moment to just squeeze at you, pinching the labia and making them squish together in a terribly wet press, smearing arousal with his glove, before retracting his hand again.
But it’s quickly replaced by a seeking digit which slips between the pudgy seams with shameful ease, to take a slow, slippery swipe up the length of your slit. You tremble fiercely at the touch, trying your best to block it out, to pretend like it’s not happening. And yet when he reaches the top and then presses into you with two fingers, stretching the digits wide to pull you open and bear to him the velvety inner petals dripping in eager dew, you can’t seem to stop the frazzled little mewl that slips out.
“Hm. Already this excited, are you? I take it that means you’re either secretly enjoying this quite a bit more than your facial expressions would seem to suggest, or … is it that you had one of them helping themselves to this sweet little cunt before you came down here? Well? Which is it, dear assistant?”
He punctuates this question by slowly closing his fingers and then rubbing over your clit with them in tortuously sedate, coaxing circles. The glide is made mind numbingly smooth by the excess of arousal as much as the latex of his glove and you suck in a ragged gasp, juddering faintly under his attention even as you try yet again to yank at the restraints around your wrists.
“I’m waiting.” He all but purrs, the sound dangerous more than it is sultry when it was coming from him.
“N - no. Neither. I — oh, gods — I don’t like this, and … nnghn! I didn’t … I didn’t get to - -“
“Ah!” He cuts you off with that harsh bark, as if he has just struck upon an interesting breakthrough. “So, that’s what it is. You were left waiting and wanting, weren’t you? Oh, but dear assistant, you should have said something much sooner. I would have been happy to help you with that.”
The way he proceeds to trail off into a rumbling, vaguely ominous chuckle does not make you feel particularly good about where this is going. Even after he’d said he wouldn’t kill you, that he still had use for you, there really was no telling what he might choose to do that would still technically fall under the definition of leaving you ‘unharmed and in one piece’.
And you simply don’t get the chance to puzzle out how you should appeal to him intelligently before he withdraws his fingers from your vibrating quim in favor of landing a hard swat to one side of your defenseless ass.
Swat!
“But first, your temperature.” He announces, skimming right over the startled squawk you give at that heavy handed slap and almost successfully distracting you from the resulting sting.
Your temperature? He hadn’t given up on that after all?
It takes a great deal of self control on your part not to full on sob as you weakly lift your head again, hoping to see what he’s doing, but this, too, is no use. Your position is completely prone like that and you can’t make out much of anything other than the fact he appears to be fiddling with something. Having no other choice and powerless to stop any of it, you let your neck roll back with a defeated groan.
A moment later the surgeon shuffles back up into the space between your legs where he rather unceremoniously swipes a goop covered finger over the pucker of your asshole, quite without warning or even much care for the task from what you can tell. And you jolt so hard you would have easily come straight up off the chair-turned-table if you weren’t strapped down. It comes as such a great shock, both physically and mentally, in fact, that for a horrible stretch of seconds you can’t even make any sense of what’s happening.
But then you feel him shift, bringing his hand close again, and something smooth presses right in on the center wrinkle of your back entrance. It’s so smooth and so petite that the tight ring of muscle puts up little to no resistance at all, and it slides right past that external barrier to wedge inside your ass.
Dizzy and nauseous from the sharp little searing sting of being penetrated like that, you unsteadily lurch in place there on your back while your guts quiver and shudderingly contract around it.
“Eh - aaugghhhh, please! No more … take it out!”
“Ah, ah. Keep it in, now, darling. I will not be pleased with you if I have to reinsert it for you. That’s right. Clench down. Good girl.”
It’s exceedingly difficult to do when that substance he’d coated you in first was so very slippery but you force your body to cooperate, to tighten the muscles and hold that slim thermometer in your ass while he turns away to step back over to the row of drawers along the wall. At least it was not the same ointment that he’d put on your nipples, you think, sniffling rather sadly as you turn your head against the chair to watch his back. In that sense things really could have been much, much worse.
A brief moment passes and, flexing your fingers nervously against the armrests, you watch him turn with some sort of metal contraption in hand now, but you can’t even begin to guess what it might be. You’ve never seen anything like it before, but you got the sense it was nothing good. Unfortunately you’re completely at his mercy and all you can truly do is whimper a frightened sound when he slips between your legs again.
He seems to set the implement aside on the little tray, though, instead taking his finger and lightly nudging at the exterior end of the thermometer to make it wriggle around inside you.
“Almost there, assistant.” He says over the threadbare moan you let out. “You’re trying awfully hard to be good for me now, aren’t you?”
“Ahh … y - yes.”
Snorting a quiet sound, he curls one gloved finger just a pinch lower to feel along the faintly raised rim of your asshole, paying extra close attention to the meaty little pucker formed around the stem of the instrument. You can’t stop yourself from shaking wildly at the sensation, unused to having something wedging your ass open like that, no matter how petite it may be, and even less used to being touched there. It feels wrong and dirty, somehow even more disgraceful than everything else you’ve experienced up until now.
And yet, despite it all — the deep felt pang of humiliation, the embarrassment, the terror and the regret for what you were becoming — your pussy just continues to drool excessively for him. So, so hungry for attention that any would do, apparently.
He makes a quiet tutting sound then, almost as if he were cooing at you as he starts to slowly ease the thermometer out. Much slower than was necessary, to ensure you can feel the drag along your guts and the way your fleshy, lubed up pucker desperately tries to cling to the shaft while it’s gradually being taken away. A keening noise suddenly rises in the air and a split second later you realize you’re the one making that sound.
Finally, the end pops free to leave your asshole loosely puffed up after it, but he’s quick to replace the instrument with the tip of one finger, stiltedly pushing it inside to fill you back up. It’s a nearly seamless transition and that untested ring of muscle doesn’t even have a chance to fully close again before he’s sliding right through on another slow searing stretch.
You writhe helplessly against your bonds, shoving your heels into the footwells on the stirrups in a desperate bid to escape that seeking, unrelenting pressure to no avail. His long digit is just suddenly wedged inside of you, plugging you, and when you haltingly bring your head up again you’re nearly shocked to find he isn’t even giving you his full attention right now.
The brunt of his focus is on the thermometer reading, which he makes a vague hum at before giving it another quick flick in his hand before setting it aside. He swivels his gaze back around to the spot between your legs, then, placing his other hand over your mound in a curled, almost possessive gesture, so he can lightly brush that deft thumb against your clit.
“Nn - nnghnn! Pl - please! Oooughh …”
“Please, what?”
You hiccup miserably even as your hips twitch up into the contact, entirely against your will. “Wh - … wanna’ cum.”
Another slow, grating chuckle. “Do you, now?”
A naive little flutter of hope starts up in your chest, against all your better sense and logic, but that fleeting tendril is soon quashed when he pulls his hand back. At the same time that finger in your ass gradually starts to retreat, once again making sure you feel the drag, the internal clench when your guts instinctively cling to it on the way out. The searing burn of penetration. It has you choking on a disappointed little sob when he slips free of you, the salt of bitter tears gathering in the corners of your eyes to wet your lashes.
If he would just let you cum already you could think so much clearer …
That does not seem to be his priority right now, though, despite what he’d said to suggest otherwise, and you give a full bodied twitch when you feel him switch his hands around. The one that had just been fingering your asshole open now comes to lightly rest across your lower belly, giving the soft crease there a vague squeeze when it settles. The other set of fingers find your weeping slit and push in just enough to slip between the meaty press where he proceeds to take his time casually drawing them up and down, up and down through the slick mess.
Your pussy feels so much like warm, melty honey that you can only supplicatingly shake for him, tense and halting, and so utterly helpless in your bondage. You barely even feel like a real person anymore as you lie there, forced into an unseemly spread, while he caresses over the fleshy grip of your labia in such a way that only makes you that much more desperate for release. It’s as if your consciousness is receding again, fading down to nothing more than a fine, pulsing pinprick of sensation that begins and ends in your cunt. Like that was all you were now. A set of hot, drippy holes and nothing else.
If his goal was to dehumanize you, he was certainly succeeding in that endeavor.
But then, on the next downward swipe when his first two digits pass over your eager entrance, he starts to push in instead of completing the full motion again. You jerk at the sudden invasion, feet braced against the stirrups as hard as you can in another failed attempt to scuttle away from that invading hand. You’re much too wet though, too primed and ready, waiting and wanting, and he slides up into you with a truly embarrassing lack of resistance. Straight to the knuckles where he’s forced to halt by simple virtue of having no further to go.
“There’s a good pet.” He’s cooing at you over the sound of your breathless, wounded gasps. “Just relax for me and it will all be over soon. That’s it. My, you’re certainly tight, aren’t you?”
Slow blinking in a disoriented haze, you mewl a needy little sound up at the ceiling but he’s no more moved by this wordless plea than he is by anything else. He just leaves those gloved fingers wedged within you, still and incomprehensibly heavy, for the time being while he curls his thumb up to brush over your clit. It’s only when you feel the resulting, fleshy nudge do you fully comprehend exactly how spread open you are like this. He could see everything. Every last little part of you that even you had never glimpsed before.
And trying to reject it does you absolutely no good, exhaling a stilted, shuddering sigh when your cunt reluctantly starts to warm up to his ministrations. Your inner sleeve pulses around the intrusion, clit tingling warmly, buzzing, under his thumb, even when the gesture seems to lack much finesse. He’s just stimulating your body in the way biology would dictate it should be stimulated, knowing what would net results and what wouldn’t without much care for anything beyond that.
But then why did it feel so overwhelmingly good if his touch was this impartial, this clinical? Was your pussy really that easy to please, willing to respond to anyone and anything if they just gave it the attention it so desperately wanted?
You wildly toss your head against the backrest as if in outright rejection to that horrifying thought. “Gods! No, nooooo … p - pleeeeaaase!”
“Hush, dear assistant. Hush. Your exam is almost complete.”
At that the hand laying across your belly adjusts its positioning, the whole length from palm to fingertips nearly spanning from one hip to the other. Then he pushes down, firm and slow. The pressure that bears down on your internal organs has you stuttering a quiet sound of alarm, writhing stiffly when it seems to compress your womb. It forces your already palpitating cunt into an even tighter squeeze around his fingers to make them feel somehow even bigger within you, weighty and so very, very hot.
And with those fingers lodged deep in your guts, he starts to prod upward. Feeling along your upper wall with a perfectly casual motion to — do what, you can’t even begin to guess. You have no real understanding of what this is supposed to accomplish, but you are painfully aware of the moment he nudges against something that makes the thrumming tension in you swell to a truly incomprehensible degree.
It's like static electricity zapping from one nerve ending to the next to set them all alight, in the span of a single heartbeat. Buzzing, vibrating, it steals your breath away, leaving you gaping like a beached fish on your back, but he only offers another one of those low, drawling chuckles in response.
“You aren’t supposed to enjoy this part, you know. Ah, but my darling little assistant seems to have quite an insatiable, greedy cunt, doesn’t she? Hmmmm.” Pausing to exhale a somewhat wistful breath, he rubs his fingers over that spot again with an increasing sense of demand while his thumb continues to stay busy at your clit. “I suppose I can’t really hold it against you though. I have good reason to suspect why those two find you so very fascinating, after all, and I can’t say I’m not in agreement with them on that. You are very fun to toy with, I’ll give you this much. The way you can’t seem to hide your reactions coupled with this overwhelming sensitivity make for a rather interesting experiment indeed. I do wonder though … if you even enjoy receiving your pelvic exam, of all things, then what won’t you like?”
You flinch as if he’d reached out and struck you with his hand, but you can’t seem to find your voice now. It’s lost somewhere in the heaving, painfully clipped breaths that wrack through your trembling frame, making your tits shudder with each labored gasp. The sensation is very different from how it felt when Zandik was the one playing with you, when he focused so much of his keen attention on your receptive clit, but you were still fairly certain you were about to cum. If he just kept rubbing you like that a little longer, if he would just continue to nudge his thumb over that throbbing bundle of nerves for another moment or two, you would finally tip over the edge. You were sure of it.
His behavior up til’ now makes you unwilling to trust it though, and you half expect him to yank the source of your stimulation away with a cruel, condescending laugh. You even brace for it, expecting it to come at any moment now.
But that is not what happens. Even when you quake and stretch out along the backrest as much as your restraints will allow, arching your spine so enthusiastically it hurts, he just keeps rubbing, brushing, curling in a come hither motion that has you swelling for him. Your stomach hurts from how dramatically it flexes, torn between either sucking in a much needed lungful of oxygen or angling down into that constant, continuous, mind melting rush of sensation. His first and middle finger, his thumb, the weight of his palm across your belly, the clinging drag of latex on soft, sensitive flesh, the grip of your guts on him, the swollen nudge of flesh. The noise coming from between your legs is by far the worst of it though. That thick, sloppy schluck, schluck, schluck, schluck —
Every single inch of your body suddenly locks up, stiff as a board and quaking uncontrollably.
“Oouuughhhhhn!” You full on wail, stiffly thrashing at your bondage now. “Ooughn! I’m — I - I … m’gonna - -“
“Then do it. Now.”
That sharp bark of command, so much like the Doctor’s, seems to shock it out of you and you go ramrod stiff, the chair rattling underneath your sweat coated body from how violently you devolve into a fit of spasms. Your pussy flutters wildly around his probing digits, contracting and squeezing, pulsing with a heartbeat all its own.
And somewhere in the squealing throes of your delight the floodgates seem to come down, because your cunt positively erupts all over his wrist and forearm. You see the spray of liquid arousal at the edge of your periphery almost as much as you hear it in tiny little splatters against the floor underneath you, although your quim is much too busy pulsing for you to truly feel it coming out. But a fresh wave of horror instantly grips you even while you’re still cumming, while your inner sleeve still works to positively strangle his fingers, and you snap your head up with a wheezing gasp.
Standing between the spread of your legs, the surgeon just impassively peers down at you, watching the flagrant animal display in your release. His hand is still moving within you no matter how tight your constricting walls clench around him, still jabbing upward with malicious precision. And you watch in total disbelief as another healthy squirt of fluid sprays out of you to pitter patter against his white outer coat, leaving behind tiny wet spots in its wake.
“Nuh - noooooo, oh god! No no nononononooooooh!”
Your head thunks back against the chair while you continue to twist and writhe, the orgasm hardly even coming as a relief when he won’t give you the chance to truly bask in it. His keen fingers just seem to drag it out well past the point of comfort, encouraging your pussy to keep throbbing until you almost can’t stand it anymore. It leaves you oversensitized and overstimulated, all but sobbing when it quickly becomes much too much.
Until finally, an eternity later, those digits grow still within you and just sit there, feeling the way you thrum around him, although his thumb doesn’t cease it’s almost thoughtful nudge at your clit even then. You continue to twitch and judder, instinctively trying to shy away from it, but there’s no escaping him. Not like this. All you can do is endure and pray it will be over soon.
He seems to have other plans though, and he slowly slips his fingers out to the sound of another thick, sticky slurp that still somehow manages to embarrass you despite everything else, grimacing at the noise. Giving your stomach a rather pleased pat with the other hand, he then turns away to fiddle with something on the metal tray at his side while you struggle to catch your breath. But you’re well and truly exhausted by this point, unable to do anything except lie there when he at last turns back to you a moment later.
You try to nudge your chin down to see what he’s doing now but the angle is wrong, and you no longer seem to have the energy needed to lift your head. Left to listlessly squirm in your restraints, you make a very valiant attempt to ignore him, to come the rest of the way down from your nauseating high. You’d gotten the orgasm you had so desperately wanted so now you should be able to think a little more clearly … right?
That does not appear to be the case, however, and you can’t help the way you suck in a startled breath at the abrupt sensation of his fingers on your cunt again. Utterly clinical now, he presses two digits into the pudge on either side of your labia and presses, forcing them to spread apart for him. Then something slips between the parted folds to find your entrance where it slowly yet firmly starts to slide in, thin at first but gradually tapered to widen out the more of it he feeds into you. Cold, and far too solid to be his hand — or any part of his body for that matter.
In a distant, vague sort of way you realize he’s inserting some kind of steel implement into your cunt and you squeak a harried sound, jolting in place. It just keeps coming though, deeper and deeper, stuffing your inner sleeve full until, at last, the exterior of it settles against fleshy lips. He shifts slightly in the space between your legs and seems to bring both hands together. A nudge at the contraption and a near silent crank of an inner mechanism follows, and your mouth promptly drops open in shock when the narrow shaft inside you slowly starts to widen.
Your already frazzled and overloaded mind struggles with this information, almost as much as your pussy struggles to accommodate the stretch you’re forced you to endure. But that cold, unfeeling metal is completely merciless, uncompromising in its demands of your body, and you let out a quiet sound of hurt when it proceeds to wedge you wide open in a gaping spread.
Fidgeting with something that you can only assume locks the implement in place, the bespectacled man then straightens up and reaches high overhead for the glaring bright light that hangs from the ceiling. He gives it a good yank to adjust its angle, abruptly washing your lower half in a faint rush of warmth before bending down to get a better look at you while you just whimper and whine, pitifully sniveling in your disoriented stupor.
“Messy little girl.” He murmurs, barely even heard over your own frantic breathing.
And your vibrating panic only continues to ratchet up another notch when he reaches into you with one finger to feel along your quivering insides. The sensation is all wrong, like you were being inspected as cattle might and any comfort or pleasure you might derive from that was only a mere byproduct. Perhaps even an unintended consequence. He didn’t actually care about how much you enjoyed or hated this experience, only that he was able to glean interesting results in the process.
You’re not sure how long he spends just touching you like that. Without any intention of bringing you pleasure but only a single minded pursuit for picking out what makes you tick, especially when every second feels like hours and every minute felt like whole lifetimes. But, eventually, he finally pulls back, returning to that wretched little tray again.
“Please … no more.” You croak, head lolling bonelessly on the table. “No more. Please. I … I want to go home.”
The surgeon snorts an entirely mirthless laugh at that. “Don’t be silly, dear assistant. You’re already ‘home’ and you won’t be going anywhere else for the foreseeable future. That much, at least, I can promise you.”
Leaving you to gape wide around the unbudging instrument in your cunt, he huddles close and you abruptly feel his fingertips brush over the pucker of your asshole again. They’re slick with a fresh dollop of goop, which he proceeds to lightly smear over the exterior of your back entrance even while you beg him not to do it. He doesn’t listen, of course, and you soon find yourself seething a vicious hiss when he starts to push in again, breaching that tight ring of muscle one tortuous, slow moving centimeter at a time.
“Eh - eeeyaaaaghh! Stop it, stop it! Please, I … oooughnn, I don’t like it!”
“Oh, I’m not so sure I believe that, darling dear. Look at how well you’re already taking me, and I barely even had to work for it.”
He chuckles a cruel sound just as his finger finishes sliding home, straight up to the knuckle, to leave you woundedly lurching, gasping for air. Try as you might to shove against the stirrups or to yank at your wrists, your range of movement is so terribly limited like this that there’s just no way for you to escape it.
And with your legs propped up in the air like that, his finger stuffed in your ass and your pussy wide open, tits spilling out of your shirt, something within you seems to crack. The tears are streaking down your face in a sudden rush as you wail, crying out for Zandik to come save you. You wanted nothing more than to return to his side, to have him pet and praise you, to meet you on somewhat equal footing, not — this, whatever this inhumane treatment even was.
The man between your legs doesn’t seem to appreciate it much though, clicking his tongue in clear annoyance now. “He isn’t going to be able to help you all the way down here, I’m afraid. But I suppose that does tell me who your favorite is. Really, now, even Omega wasn’t able to charm you more than that old fool? I can’t imagine that bodes very well for the rest of us.”
Sniffing rather disdainfully, he starts to ease his hand back until only the tip of that finger remains sunk inside your ass. Then he pushes back in, right up to the knuckle, settling into a steady paced pumping motion to fuck you with it. And your groaning alarm only turns more dire when, once he’s satisfied with how much the tight passage has opened for him, he begins to pull all the way out to leave your pucker loosely clenched just so he can penetrate it again. It leaves behind a burning, throbbing ache in your sphincter which weakly clenches around the intrusion, gripping and clinging on a glide made utterly smooth thanks to the sticky lubricant as much as the latex of his glove.
You absolutely hate how much it has your pussy thrumming with reluctantly renewed interest. It’s especially agonizing when you’re unable to squeeze down or feel the inner pulse of your own arousal, left with no other choice but to uselessly slick for him. Open and waiting, but so regretfully empty.
“There’s a good girl,” he coos once the overwhelmed, gasping sobs have started to subside, replaced by stuttering moans. “That’s much better, isn’t it? You like having your ass played with, don’t you?”
“N - noooo …”
He noises a soft sound of doubt, humming rather pointedly, as he sends a slow look down your open cunt. “I’m not so sure I believe that either. But it matters not. You’re going to cum for me again, dear assistant, and you’re going to thank me while you do it. Are those instructions clear enough for you?”
You’re already shaking your head, rejecting that directive outright, but he clearly doesn’t care whether or not you want to do it.
Still fucking into your ass with the one hand, he reaches up with the other to find your clit with his thumb again. You immediately jolt as if he’d just electrocuted you, whining a deeply frazzled sound as you try in vain to swivel your hips away from that indifferent touch. Ever unperturbed by your protests, he simply follows after you to continue rubbing that overworked, throbbing pearl even when you whimper in dire distress.
“There. Isn’t that nice?” He croons in a rather droll tone of voice. “You really should be thankful, you know. This is the sort of service you aren’t likely to get anywhere else. Not from any of the others. You must remember to thank me when you cum, assistant, or I will not be pleased with you.”
You briefly consider telling him exactly where he can shove his thanks but you don’t quite have the oxygen for that right now, and the thought is gone almost as soon as it appeared. Your body is far too busy rebelling against you to do much else but shake as your shuddering arousal rapidly starts to swell again. It seems to defy all logic and reason, and yet the simmering tension in your loins had not been in any way appeased by the first explosive release that had so tortuously rode the line between pleasure and pain. You’re not convinced this one will be any different when he was the one coaxing it out of you, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
Especially not when he slips his finger out of your ass, hovers there for a drawn out moment, and then pushes back in with two this time. The extra stretch to your passage has you helplessly bucking, which only nudges your cunt up into his hand. It’s an insidious cycle that seems to feed off of and into itself, driving you ever closer to the edge of madness the longer it goes on.
And it doesn’t take long at all for your eyes to start rolling back while he relentlessly attacks you from both ends. Your clit positively aches where it rolls under the pad of his thumb and your ass gives an occasional, bone deep throb where he’s got it stretched around his digits, burning at the thick stretch. Unable to close either of your holes, forced to keep them both open and wide, drives you inexorably out of your mind. But you’re too sore, too overtaxed to cum, even when you desperately will yourself just to do it and get it over with. You just can’t.
“Ooh, what’s wrong, little dear? Do you need more ointment on your pretty tits to help you along?”
You give a disoriented shake of your head, panting much too hard to verbally respond, but you don’t really need to. He was just going to continue to do whatever he wants, regardless of what you had to say about it anyway.
Chuckling a brief laugh, he abandons your clit to leave it pulsing in the aftermath, pounding with a heartbeat all its own, so he can stretch his arm up between your legs. You can see what he’s doing, what he’s aiming for, and you squeak a frantic, wheezing protest but it’s too late.
Finding one of your nipples, he catches it between thumb and forefinger, giving it a sharp, pinching tug that nearly makes your soul vacate your body.
You squeal a hoarse, overwrought sound, back bowing violently and only increasing the sting on your tit twice over when you pull against his hand. All at once you suddenly find yourself cumming again. It doesn’t just wash over you but slams full force, wracking you straight down to the bone while you shudder and shake, wailing a mindless shriek into the still air.
“Say it.” He growls, giving the captured teat a punishing twist.
“Thank you!” You blurt, practically screaming it at the top of your lungs. “Thank you, sir, thank you! I’m so — so grateful to cum aga - aaaahhhhn!”
Your tongue refuses to cooperate any further, lolling uselessly in your mouth while you spasm wildly through the throes of release. It feels somehow hollow despite the sheer intensity of it, though, as if in not being able to squeeze your cunt you were only experiencing a measly little third of the pleasure. In fact, you seem to feel it in your ass more than anything, that deep, deep, pounding clench of muscle that positively steals your breath away, trying to milk his fingers of something they simply didn’t have to give.
This orgasm feels like it lasts even longer than the last as a result, the overtaxed muscles almost unable to stop spasming, contracting. It absolutely shreds you to pieces in the process, leaving your mind fragmented and shattered when you finally start to slip back into your body an eternity later. You don’t even really feel like you anymore while you lay there, raggedly gasping for air, and so very far removed from yourself that you almost don’t notice him finally moving to slip his fingers out of your loosened ass.
It’s only when you realize he’s fumbling with the implement in your cunt do you snap out of it enough to stir, heaving a very frazzled groan. Dazed. Confused. Disoriented. You’re not even entirely sure where you are anymore.
But the contraption easing its unforgiving grip on your twitching inner walls manages to catch your attention, and you whimper a quiet sound of relief when he begins to carefully pull it out. He leaves behind a mess of arousal, thick and goopy, sticky, that makes you feel deeply uncomfortable when you’re at last able to close again, raw and sore in the wake of his attentions.
Gently, he sets the steel equipment aside on the tray and then turns back to peer down at you. Sweating and heaving, flushed, stretched out on your back as much as the restraints will allow … much too exhausted and spent to show any amount of shyness for your exposed body parts.
Even in your dozing stupor you’re aware of the little thread of tension that seems to shoot through his thin frame, the way he holds himself just a bit straighter. Rigid, almost.
You’re already groaning a despairing sound when he starts to reach for the clasps on his white surgeon's coat, his posture clearly eager now. The thought of what he was going to do to you next nearly sends you into a spiraling pit of anguish even as you desperately try to fortify yourself and brace for it. If you could just hold out for a little bit longer, surely he would start to tire himself out.
“Yes, I think I understand quite well what they like about you so much now. You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you? Would you like to have a taste my cock as a reward, my darling assistant?”
“Stop.”
Both of you startle, you more so than him, and you snap your head to the side just in time to watch the Doctor slip through the dark curtain. His body language is perfectly calm and casual, as though he had merely been passing through the neighborhood and decided to stop in to say a friendly hello. If you had been standing at that moment you would have crumpled right onto your ass from the shock of it.
“So, this is where you scampered off to. Not a very smart decision, if you ask me.” He drawls, smirking under the hooked beak of his mask as he slowly saunters across the small room. Utterly laidback and unhurried. Not the least bit shocked or appalled by your current predicament, you can’t help but notice.
“It’s not really my place to scold you, I admit, but I’m afraid I must advise you to exercise better caution in the future. There are any number of potentially dangerous devices, potentially dangerous experiments and potentially dangerous … persons you could have encountered down here, little mouse. And that is to say absolutely nothing of the consequences that could have befallen you if you’d actually broken something important.”
Coming to a halt just at your hip, he keeps his arms neatly folded behind his back for the moment and just tips his head to one side. That curious carrion bird gesture again.
“But,” the Doctor goes on smoothly. “I am glad to see my counterpart found you and has been taking very good care of you from the looks of it. Even though I do not think it was quite yet time to introduce you to them, I suppose what’s done is already done. Well, then, darling. Tell me. Did you have fun on your little playdate today? Was the excursion worth the risk?”
You just stare up at him in plain faced disbelief for a long, uncomfortable stretch of seconds, desperately struggling to make any sense of what your overtaxed brain is trying to tell you. And what’s been bothering you this entire time finally clicks into place with a sudden jolt.
Now that you have the two voices to compare, you’re struck by how very alike they sound. No. No, that’s not quite it. They were identical, in fact, from the cadence to the register right down to that arrogant, self assured drawl. The only real difference you could make out between them was that the surgeon sounded a bit younger, his tone clearer, whereas the Doctor’s had a faint rumble to it, like that of a full grown man. Someone who has stopped filling out and reached the pinnacle of his life, physically as much as in his mental capabilities.
‘Omega is the prime, after all.’
Ever so slowly, your eyes widen to the approximate size of dinner plates. “You … you’re the same person.”
“Very good.” The Doctor croons at you, as if he were speaking to someone with the intelligence of a toddler. “And now can you guess who the original is? Hm? I’ll even give you three chances to take a stab at it.”
Your shellshocked brain stumbles over the answer, almost refusing to accept the simplicity of it when it seemed so far removed from reality, but you know it must be true. Some small part of you had even started to suspect it on some level.
And it was impossible not to when they all had that same wispy shade of blue in their hair, the same wave and, you could only presume, the same red eyes. It wasn’t just that they were similar in the way a parent and a child share certain features or characteristics between them. They were the same, only … younger and older? A — a man at different stages of his life?
A nearly hysterical, oddly pitched moan bubbles out of your tight chest as you stare up into that featureless mask. You couldn’t believe it.
“Y - you’re … Zandik … when he was younger. Aren’t you?”
The surgeon snorts a quiet laugh, almost as if to say ‘it took you long enough to figure that out’, moving now to impatiently start undoing the straps at one of your ankles while the Doctor chuckles a rather condescending sound.
“That’s right, my poor, unassuming little mouse. Bully for you. I know very well just how difficult it can be to reach the right conclusion when your only point of reference is between Zandik and I. We’re similar enough to draw certain suspicions, perhaps, but not enough to give up the game too quickly. And yet, when you start comparing the younger segments with each other?” He clicks his tongue, tut tutting as he gives his head a slow shake. “It becomes obvious much too fast, doesn’t it? That’s why I strongly suggested that they stay hidden and out of sight, at least for the time being.”
That last bit had been directed at the bespectacled man who, glancing up from the task of unfastening you from the stirrups, knits his brows in a grumpy frown. “You can’t put the blame on me for that. I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. She made the decision to come down here all on her own.”
His haughty grin slipping slightly, the Doctor swivels his attention back around towards you. “Is that true, little mouse? Did you decide to go snooping where you weren’t welcome? I know for a fact that you were expressly prohibited from venturing outside of where you have already been permitted to be. And the cellar was not one of those places.”
“I …”
Trembling fitfully there on the table, you shoot a nervous glance between the two of them. But the one in the surgeon's mask appears to be resigned to the fact that his fun with you was over, at least for today, and Dottore … you just couldn’t wrap your head around it. For him to be this closely related to Zandik, even closer than that of a father and a son, seems like a true impossibility. Even when you can see the similarities in them, the mirrored mannerisms and speech — which you most certainly do — it still seems to defy all logic and reason. How were you possibly supposed to reconcile any of this in your mind, let alone come to terms with it and make peace in time to save your own hide? You had to think fast.
“I - I am sorry, my - my lord. It was not my intention to disobey you or Master Zandik, but … but I saw someone, sir. Someone unknown to me. A stranger. And I was worried that they had snuck into the house without my noticing, that they might pose a danger to the Master. That’s why …”
“Who?” He demands, his tone a sharp, chilling whip.
“I - I don’t know. It wasn’t him.” You stammer, indicating the surgeon with a nudge of your chin. “It hadn’t even occurred to me that there might be more than one before I came down here. Honest. I swear. The person I saw had … he had a mask that was different from yours. His had cut outs for the eyes. That’s who I was expecting to find in the basement level. Not all of — this.”
The Doctor hums a thin sound of annoyance, staring down at you in consideration as if he were weighing out the veracity of your story. He seems doubtful at first, and understandably so, but something you’d said must have rang true enough for him to buy it, because at length he scoffs and glances away.
“That damned impulsive bastard.”
“He was just here earlier.” The bespectacled man chimes in then, working on the last strap around your left wrist now. “He said he had something to take care of elsewhere but I didn’t bother to ask for any other details. Frankly, I don’t really care.”
Swinging his attention back around, the Doctor curls his mouth into another vague smirk, but it’s somehow tighter than the last. “No matter. The damage is already done so all we can do now is move forward. And you. Little mouse. Now that you know the truth of the matter, how will you choose to proceed from here? Will you continue to see to your duties or shall I arrange for a carriage to transport you back to the city? And I suggest you decide fast.”
You shudder at being addressed by him as much as the question he poses. A very real part of you almost jumps at the chance to escape this place, to return home and wipe your hands of all matters concerning any Fatui Harbingers from here on out. You’d already suffered enough at their whims, certainly. And yet …
Some innate sense or intuitive understanding tells you that this is another trap, another snare he’s laying down to see what he might catch this time. Another mouse? Or something bigger? Even though it had not sounded like a threat, that’s very much how you interpret it, especially when you remember what the surgeon had said not that long ago at the start of this ordeal.
‘Even if you tried to escape the house right now, fleeing out into the wilderness alone, I very much doubt either of them would let you go that easily. ‘
He was right. You were in much too deep to be able to leave, to just waltz right out of here and return to your old way of life. Not when you knew so much of their comings and goings, their secrets. They’d sooner kill you than let you go free now, of that you were quite sure. And even if your own life were not at risk, your mother … you’d never be able to pay for her care another way. This was your one and only choice. Dammit.
Swallowing so hard you nearly gag, you force yourself to speak the words even when bile rises in the back of your parched throat while you’re forming them on your tongue.
“That won’t be necessary, my lord. I’d prefer to stay here and — and continue to care for Master Zandik … i - if that’s alright.”
The way his smile broadens, turning into a real grin now, assures you you’ve made the choice that would keep you alive and breathing for another day. At least one, at the rate you were going, and you got the sense that was really all you could ask for at this point.
“Why, of course it is. Don’t be silly. In fact, I was so hoping that would be your answer. It really would be such a pity to have to see you leaving so soon, you know. Maids can be surprisingly hard to find in this day and age. And with that decided, let’s get you put back together and escorted upstairs. Quickly, before a certain someone gets even more worked up than he already is.”
Your eyebrows numbly lift straight up to your hairline. You can’t help it. Master Zandik had … noticed your absence?
Oh, this certainly could not be good. How long had you been down here?
For better or worse you don’t get the chance to truly fret over what consequences await you on that front when the Doctor is so quick to reach for you, snagging you by the arms and hauling you up into a sitting position. You’re not sure how but you still find the presence of mind for your cheeks to grow warm as you very self consciously shove your tits back into your shirt with no shortage of effort. Your limbs don’t want to cooperate after being strapped down and desperately yanked on for such a long period of time, for starters. And for another Dottore is much too impatient to wait. He simply grabs you around the waist and slides you down to stand with him even when you don’t want to.
Or would have, if your legs were not weakened to the state of a newborn fawns, and you half collapse against him with a whimper. To your fast mounting surprise, however, he takes a moment just to coo over you, clucking his tongue rather chidingly while he tugs you tighter up against him.
But you quickly realize that his behavior does not stem from any sense of chivalry or true concern for you when, in the process of gathering you to his front, he shoves your tits up against himself to observe the fleshy squish. You suck in a sharp breath, trying to lean back in his hold but it’s no use. His hold on you is absolute and even without being able to see any other part of his face besides his mouth you can still feel the way he leers down at you, burning into your skin.
“You’re lucky I found you when I did.” He intones, giving your middle a too tight, possessive squeeze. “I know perfectly well what sort of interests ‘I’ had at twenty-five and judging by the state you’re already in … yes, I don’t imagine ‘my’ excitement would have abated anytime soon. Not with such a lovely specimen right at my fingertips.”
You don’t exactly like the way he says it in such a sultry, seductive tone, as if it was something erotic and not the invasive procedure you’d just had to live through. Yet you still find yourself clinging to him while you try to steady your weak legs, hands balling in the front of his coat pitifully.
“I wasn’t going to hurt her. Not really, anyway.” The other one says, coming up next to the two of you. Crossing his arms over his narrow chest with his hip cocked to lean into the table, he sends you a cool look behind his glasses. “I already told her that we still have use for her outside of this little dalliance. My assistant was in no danger.”
Both you and Dottore turn your heads to stare at him, in near perfect unison, although you could only guess that the reason for his surprise was not the same as yours. You just can’t accept the word ‘dalliance’ given the context, though. Was it really something so benign in his eyes? You felt violated in a way that even the Doctor’s hasty probing of your cunt had not left you feeling the other day in the library, and the spot between your legs was an uncomfortably sticky, excessive mess in the aftermath. Everything hurt, sore and achy where he’d touched you, penetrated you, wedged you open for his own sick amusement. Gods, you couldn’t wait to take a bath.
“I - I really am sorry.” You murmur, bringing Dottore’s attention back around to you. “For disobeying your orders and … and the Master’s. I wouldn’t have come down here if I hadn’t seen that strange person. I swear it.”
Drawing a clipped breath, the Doctor nudges you away from him to stand fully on your own now, and you’re quite glad when your body decides to cooperate this time. Still a bit uncertain and weak, but thankfully you don’t fall to the ground like a puppet that’s had its strings cut as he takes pinching hold of your wrist to steer you away from the exam area and the bespectacled man.
“Frankly, little mouse, I don’t particularly care what you do or with whom. If you’d like to carry on with all of us in addition to Zandik himself then that is of no concern to me. However, I must admit that I had thought to keep this specific aspect of the situation a well kept secret for a little while longer. At least until I was certain you wouldn’t in good conscience be able to flee in fear of what you have discovered inside this place. Luckily, though, it seems like you have already made the correct choice. Isn’t that right?”
His gloved hand tightens on your arm with a low creak of leather, making you wince. But you can’t really say you don’t understand why he would be upset with you, given how many rules you’ve broken, how many orders you’ve disregarded in your misguided search for answers. You’re certain Zandik is likely displeased with you too, and you absolutely hate how much the thought of that makes your chest twist up.
Stumbling to keep pace with the Doctor as he leads you back through the tables, the banks of machinery, the experiments and the litany of complicated tools, you fumble to get your shirt buttoned up with the use of only one hand. But he doesn’t slow down or shorten the length of his strides to accommodate you, even when you reach the steep stairwell another moment later. In fact, he practically drags you up them, tripping the whole way, before you finally come out at the landing.
It’s like you can finally breathe again and you gratefully suck in a much needed mouthful of relatively clean air. Although it is a bit dusty in here you still find a great deal of relief in this. At least you can no longer taste the bitter flavor of oil and metal on the back of your tongue now, or the chemical spritz of antiseptics.
But he still doesn’t let go of you just yet, pulling you out of that tiny room and down the hallway, past the kitchen and down another corridor until you reach the seldom used formal dining room. You have no idea why he would bring you here, of all places; and yet when he throws the door open and yanks you inside, pulling you like a disobedient child, you quickly get your answer.
Zandik sits in one of the finely crafted wooden chairs, turned to face the doorway expectantly, which surprises you enough to briefly distract you from the deep scowl on his face. How had he gotten down here? Surely he couldn’t have managed the staircase on his own, or … was it possible that the Doctor had helped him down to the first floor after finding the old man alone?
Oh, you really were in big trouble, weren’t you?
“Where were you?” Zandik rattles out now, startling you from your disoriented stupor. Both of his hands are on the grip of his cane where it’s propped up between his knees, one stacked on top of the other, and they visibly shake from how vigorously he seems to be squeezing it.
That manages to surprise you too. You’d never seen him this mad before and you almost don’t even know what to say in this face of his anger. Somehow, it was even more frightening than the Doctor’s simmering displeasure with you.
“Well?” He goes on, demanding an answer when your nervous silence prevails. “What have you been doing this whole time? I could probably take a guess but I want to hear you say it. I’m waiting.”
Your mouth slowly opens but nothing comes out. What could you even say?
Unfortunately, the Doctor is right there to jump in and answer for you.
“Someone found their way down into the cellar where they had a very interesting encounter indeed, given the unfolding scene I just so happened to walk in on. Isn’t that right, little mouse?”
You turn your head to gape at him in utter disbelief. Why would he say it like that to make it sound as if it were something so tawdry? As if you’d even had a say in the matter.
“You — you!” Zandik struggles to find the words, so enraged he can’t seem to get them out for a moment. “I told you not to go wandering off on your own, you stupid little girl! Why did you disobey me?”
“I … I’m sorry - -“ You try, but he’s quick to cut you off. He simply doesn’t want to hear it.
“Enough. I don’t care for your excuses. Give her to me. Now.”
Shocking you a great deal, the Doctor obliges that request and starts to tug you further into the room by your arm. You wouldn’t have thought he’d do much of anything the old man asked of him, at least not without giving him snark about it first.
And it’s exactly that easy acquiescence that seems to set off every single alarm bell in your head, making your skin prickle as you’re drug over to Zandik’s chair. Something about the situation strikes you as dangerous and you instinctively try to pull back on that constricting grip but it’s no use. The Doctor’s fist is like an iron manacle on your wrist as he steers you right up alongside the old man who reaches up to grab your arm from him, pulling you towards himself.
For a split second you’re struck by a naive, hopeful little flutter that Zandik is going to embrace you and check you over for injuries or bruises. Coddle you and pet you as he has been so inclined to do as of late. A very real part of you wants to believe he was only worried about you, and rightfully so, given your most recent harrowing ordeal.
But that is not what happens.
Instead, he gives your captured limb a hard yank that pulls you off balance when your legs were already weak enough as it was. You tip forward, practically collapsing against him, and Zandik quickly grabs at the back of your neck with his other hand to force you the rest of the way down. Over his lap.
A painfully sharp breath catches in your throat, so violent it makes your eyes vibrate in their sockets.
That’s all you can manage to do before the first hard swat lands across your upturned ass to make you jolt. You’re so shocked by it, so stunned that you almost don’t believe it’s actually happening until another heavy handed blow sends you lurching against his thighs just a split second later.
“Don’t even think about trying to get up off my lap, you damned stupid girl.” He snarls at you, very aware of the way you grow tense and stiffen, as if you were readying to do just that. “You’re going to take your spanking and you’re going to thank me for it when I’m done, do you understand me? You’re lucky this is all I’m going to do to you.”
When you don’t answer quickly enough, he smacks your ass again to make you yelp.
“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer!”
“Y - yes, Master Zandik! I understand! I’m so sorry!”
Another squeak soon follows when his palm immediately claps down on your backside hard enough to make tears spring up in your eyes. It hardly even registers though when you’re so stunned, so humiliated to be taken over his knee like this. You’d almost thought he hadn’t been serious about that threat issued in the drawing room earlier, that he wouldn’t actually do it, but now you could see just how serious he really was. And right in front of the Doctor too.
Your face is positively on fire while you force yourself to stay in that embarrassing position when you want nothing more than to jump up and flee while he rains punishing blows upon your ass, one right after another, to a faltering, discordant beat of fleshy slaps. It shocks you how much force he’s able to put behind the swing of his sharp bony hand which seems to crack across the meat of your behind with withering precision to make you fidget. All of it seems to pale in comparison, though, to the way he continues to scold you and chide you, giving you a proper tongue lashing while he spanks your ass red and raw.
“You empty headed fool! I warned you, didn’t I? It was one of the first things I told you! Don’t go wandering around like a lost child. Don’t go into the cellar. I didn’t think that would be such a difficult instruction for you to understand. You have no idea what kind of trouble you’d be in right now if you’d touched something dangerous down there!” He rattles out above you, raising his voice to be heard over the sounds coming from the meaty slap of your ass and your wailing mouth, already panting hard despite the fact he’d only just started.
That realization sparks a tiny little flutter of hope in your aching chest, and you desperately latch onto it. The limited amount of stamina in his old body really just might be the only thing that saves you from a real thrashing, but it was much too late to save even a fraction of your ego.
Especially when you were still slick between the legs, both holes a goopy mess from the surgeon's cruel machinations. And after he’d cut away your underwear there was absolutely nothing standing between your cunt and the cool air other than the flimsy material of your skirt but it was laughable how easy that could be flipped out of the way. It has you self consciously squirming in place and squeezing your thighs, legs crossing at the ankles in a blithe attempt to shield yourself from his notice while he punishes you quite soundly.
But then, you hear it — just barely over the uneven tempo of your ass being ruthlessly smacked. The unmistakable creak of a boot on the hardwood and you suddenly remember that the Doctor was still there, standing right behind you. Watching this mortifying spectacle. Your skin feels like it’s trying to crawl away when you shudder at that reminder and you stiffly start to push upright against your better sense and judgement. You had to at least try to get out of this mortifying position.
Swat!
“I said stay put!” Zandik snaps at you. “And don’t make me tell you again, stupid girl. I can promise you you’ll come to regret it if you test my patience any further than you already have.”
Whimpering at the settling sting that starts to blanket over your trembling body, you awkwardly rock forward to stay prone just as the Doctor drawls a very amused chuckle somewhere just over your shoulder.
“I don’t think you have her quite procumbent enough, old man. Make her spread her legs for you. That should help.”
You draw a sharp breath to protest, to beg him to just go away, but one of his boots slips into the space between your feet to kick them apart, making you choke on it. He’s utterly casual about the way he nudges you into an even wider spread until the toes of your buckled shoes are just able to touch the ground and accommodate the stretch. Seething a quiet hiss under your breath, you quickly realize that being positioned like this makes you settle much more fully across Zandik’s lap on your stomach. Less leverage for you to try and scramble away.
“And keep them spread.” The Doctor warns, his voice that same low, almost sultry drawl, as he moves to step behind the chair now.
“I don’t need your help to smack some sense into a disobedient little girl.” Zandik snorts, still struggling to catch his breath in that brief lull. It’s obvious that this level of exertion is taking quite a lot out of him and you pray that means he’ll wrap it up soon. Maybe just another minute or so, if you were lucky.
But to your skin crawling horror, he instead reaches down to unceremoniously flip your skirt up without so much as a word of warning, not even giving you a chance to beg him not to do it.
What he finds underneath — or a lack thereof — makes him tense against you in clear surprise, the vibration of his shock roiling through his body into yours. Whimpering helplessly at the sensation of being so completely exposed from the waist down now, the waft of air against your bare cheeks and equally bare cunt, you helplessly start to squirm in place. You couldn’t get up though. Even if you’d wanted to make another attempt, you felt like you were going to pass out from sheer embarrassment as the room spins dizzily around you.
“You -!” The old man sputters, momentarily at a loss for words. But he recovers quickly enough to bring the flat of his hand down hard on your ass again, making you jerk at the recoil and squeal. “Is this why you snuck off on your own? To get this hungry little cunt of yours stuffed by someone else? Is that it?”
“N - no - -“
Barking a harsh, bitter laugh, Zandik slips that hand between the forced spread of your thighs to cup your quim in a tight, pinching squeeze. You almost catch yourself trying to close your legs and shield your pussy from being inspected by those cold, wizened digits, fighting the urge even as you instinctively nudge back into that touch. This only earns you another humorless scoff though, and you wince as if he’d just struck you again.
“Look at you. Even when I’ve got you over my knee you just can’t stop thinking with your cunt, can you? No wonder an old man’s fingers weren’t enough to keep you satisfied. You needed to go find a younger cock just to get your fill, didn’t you?”
You give your head a frantic shake, struggling to find enough oxygen to speak. “No, Master! I - it’s not like that, I swear! I wouldn’t - -“
“You’re still soaking wet, you idiot girl!” He snaps, roughly swiping his thumb down the pudgy crease of your slit to further smear the evidence of your arousal.
But even that condescending gesture is not enough to appease his ire, nor is the way you quake over his thighs and mewl a harried, undeniably needy sound at that impartial touch. You might have expected it from the Doctor, definitely the surgeon, but not Zandik. He wasn’t supposed to touch you like this.
And yet that is exactly what he does as he brings both hands down to grab two pinching handfuls of your ass cheeks, spreading you open with utter impartiality. Your head snaps up in hot faced alarm at the realization of what he’s doing but there’s absolutely nothing you can do to prevent it. You have no choice but to obediently stay in place, left to tremble uncontrollably in your prone position while he takes a good long look at you.
“Gods, girl.” He hisses. “Even your ass too? You really are a needy little thing, to have both of your holes freshly used and to still think you can present this sloppy pussy to me? You’re unbelievable.”
“I - it’s not like that!“ You wail, hiccuping on your own misery, but he doesn’t seem to care for anything at all you have to say right now.
“Don’t lie to me! Do you think I’m stupid? Just look at the creamy mess one of them's made of you. And which one was it, huh? Who’d you spread your ass for?”
The pad of a cool, wrinkled finger passes over the pucker of your back entrance then, a harsh, unforgiving swipe to make you outright jolt. But it quickly comes back to press into the slackened center and you shrill a startled sound when he starts to slip inside the constricting passage with relative ease. Still sticky with lubricant, still stretched from earlier.
And the worst part of all is how immediately your pussy responds to the penetration, squeezing tight with a renewed, tingling rush of warmth that is not even half as displeased as you’d like it to be. Even after being overworked and overstimulated down in the cellar, your body still somehow finds the energy to respond with eager enthusiasm, and something about that realization seems to further crack your worn down psyche.
Maybe he was right. Maybe you really were just a needy, stupid little girl who could only think with her cunt.
Just as you start to hang your head in defeat, wanting nothing more than to cry, a shift of movement at your peripheral catches your attention. You cautiously nudge your face to the side to watch as the Doctor steps out from where he’d retreated behind the old man’s chair to stand next to it instead. Just peering down at you. Still smirking under that horrible mask of his.
“Oh. Poor thing.” He coos, giving his tongue a sharp, belittling click. “Don’t look so put out. You’re still in good company here, even if we do have to see you appropriately disciplined for your transgressions. Rules are rules, as you know, and you broke one of the very few you were given. That makes for a rather pressing matter of concern from the standpoint of your employers, don’t you think? After all … if you’re even willing to go against such a simple, basic command then what else won’t you be willing to do, I wonder?”
Your slackjawed surprise at his instigating commentary is quickly washed away and replaced by simmering anger to leave you glaring up at him through the swimming sheen of tears from that awkward angle. The fact he does not even try to help you by explaining the situation — the real situation, as he’d seen it with his own eyes — does not exactly come as a surprise. But for him to actively make it worse like this? You could just scream.
Yet, Zandik scoffs a gruff sound of agreement then, drawing your attention when he evidently deems himself satisfied with his perusal of your ass. Your face feels like it’s hot enough to catch fire as he pulls his finger out to leave the fleshy pucker slightly raised and searching for more. There would be none forthcoming from here on out though, and he quickly sets back in to mercilessly swat your ass some more. Smack! Smack! Smack! Again and again, and again.
And it hurts that much more, you find, without the flimsy barrier of your housekeeping uniform in the way to offer even some small semblance of protection from those sharp strikes. Back and forth, back and forth between the left cheek and the right, he spanks you until the skin starts to feel sore and unbearably warm while the Doctor just continues to watch. Observing your humiliation from his front row seat. The sick bastard.
“Take your hands off the chair.” He abruptly says a long stretch of moments later, when it’s getting harder and harder to keep the sobs choking up your chest held back. “That’s it. Reach down and grab the legs instead. I want to see you completely prone and remind you that you are at our mercy here.”
As if that were ever even up for debate.
But you squeeze your eyes shut as you hesitantly obey, teeth clenched tight to stop yourself from full on wailing when the salty tears start to leak out. Releasing your death grip on the edge of the seat, you let your arms hang down to curl clammy hands around the wooden legs as he’d instructed. It seems to stretch you out even more across Zandik’s lap though, and you quickly come to understand why the Doctor had wanted to see you positioned like this. You have no way to brace against the hard, stinging strikes over your vulnerable ass, no way to lurch or absorb the blows now. All you can do is cling desperately and take your spanking until Zandik decided you were well and truly done.
Unfortunately for you, that seems to drag on for an eternity. Or maybe it just feels like it does. The only thing you know for certain is that your ass hurts, throbbing and smarting, the skin heated enough that you think you surely won’t be able to sit down properly for a week. And the fact your pussy just continues to obscenely drool throughout the course of your punishment doesn’t escape your notice either, even when you would really rather pretend otherwise.
But, finally, Zandik at last seems to wear himself out. After landing one last, toe curling swat across your ass, he deflates back into the chair with an overexerted huff. He has to take a moment just to catch his breath, panting vigorously over top of you, while you valiantly try to get yourself under control. It’s an exceedingly difficult task though, particularly after everything else you’d already experienced in but a single day, and now this on top of it. You were having trouble just processing everything, struggling to make any sense of it.
You’d never gotten spanked before, not even by your own parents …
“You may get up now.” Zandik sighs at length on a big, whooshing breath, sounding much less enraged now. “Quickly. Hurry it up, before I change my mind. Make yourself look presentable.”
Still weeping and sniffling sadly, you gingerly get yourself pushed upright with no shortage of effort and tug your skirt back into place. You’re a little too sore to be truly self conscious about it though as you fidget on your feet, trying to subtly shake off some of the stinging hurt. Of course it doesn’t work, however, and he doesn’t miss your tender fidgeting either.
“Look at me, girl. And fix your face while you’re at it.”
You visibly wince at the sharp reprimand in his voice, desperately working to school your expression into one that isn’t completely wretched and pathetic. But that doesn’t quite happen either.
Closing his eyes against the pitiful look you give him, Zandik slowly blows out a deep exhale that makes his still heaving shoulders deflate. He looked tired, perhaps more than you’d ever seen him before. And worried, now that the edge of his anger was starting to subside. “We will discuss this later. Tomorrow, perhaps. You are dismissed for today. Go up to your room and so help me, girl, you’d better not step a single foot out of there for the rest of the night. You will not enjoy the consequences if you disobey me again, do you understand?”
Unable to help it, you shirk back slightly, feeling appropriately cowed even as you quickly nod your acknowledgement. Like you were a child being sent straight to bed without dinner. Oh, you weren’t sure how you could ever hope to recover from this level of humiliation.
But then, the nearly forgotten Doctor chooses that moment to speak up again. “Wait. I’m not yet satisfied with - -“
“I don’t care.” Zandik cuts across him, sending his younger counterpart a tight look of warning. “You can do whatever you’re going to do on your own time. She’s my servant, if you’ll recall, not yours. For the time being I want her out of my sight. Everything else can come later.”
The waterworks are suddenly coming full force again, and your chest hitches painfully with the mournful breath you suck in, even when your constricting throat tries to reject it. You know you should probably just stay quiet right now, but —
“I - I - I’m terribly suh - sorry, Master. It w - wasn’t my intention … mmm, please, please don’t send me ah - away.”
Turning back to you, the old man softens his features in as much as he seems able to. It’s enough to violently wrench at your aching heart though, and your stuttering sobs start to come faster. Harder.
“Stop that senseless blubbering, girl. Before you make yourself sick. I’m not sending you away for more than a single night. I can manage just fine on my own in such a short period, so don’t fret unnecessarily over that. I will see you bright and early tomorrow morning. Is that clear?”
You nod again, even as another forlorn sob starts up in your chest. He really wasn’t going to dismiss you? Even after you’d upset him so terribly?
“Y - yes, Master Zandik. I understand. I - I’ll see you tomorrow muh - morning then.”
Bracing yourself to leave, you hesitate only long enough to send the Doctor a tearful glance. He just continues to stand there with his arms folded behind his back though, and he makes no move to stop you when you shuffle slowly towards the door. The throbbing pain that splinters out from your sore ass ensures you take every step carefully, mindfully, as you shuffle back out into the hall by yourself. Leaving the two of them to talk about you in private, no doubt.
You’re still crying when you at last make it up to the second floor some moments later but those great big, wracking sobs are gradually starting to lessen, bit by bit. It seems as if you just don’t have the energy for it anymore, which is both a good and a bad thing. Good, because you can barely see where you’re going through the tears. Bad, because you can’t even recall a time when you’d felt quite so drained and exhausted.
Well, if nothing else you should sleep very soundly tonight.
That knowledge is the only real source of comfort you have in the moment and you find that you are quite looking forward to resting up after this trying day. Perhaps things wouldn’t look so very bleak in the morning light.
But when you finally reach your door and pull it open, you’re forced to come up short before you can step inside. The shocking sight that greets you comes dangerously close to sending you crashing to the floor in an unconscious heap, especially after everything else you’ve already experienced today.
A young man aggressively hunches over your unoccupied bed, his gray slacks slouched loosely around his hips. He has his head bowed between his shaking shoulders in concentration and the mouth you can see through the side of his half-mask is pulled back in a vicious snarl, revealing two sets of bizarrely sharpened teeth. Wispy blue hair in a boyish tousle, full and fluffy looking even at a distance where it hangs down in his face.
You’re so gobsmacked by what you’ve just walked in on that for a tortuously long stretch of seconds you simply can’t make any sense at all of what he’s even doing. But then you notice it.
The slipper clutched in a crushing grip which he enthusiastically drives his cock into, fucking himself in its soft clutch with an almost wild abandon.
Your mouth warbles open in utter disbelief. Nothing comes out though, not even a scandalized gasp, as you just stand there, watching him shake and judder towards what you can only imagine will be an explosive release. He doesn’t even seem to notice that he has an audience now, so caught up in enjoying himself with your slipper to aid him that he evidently didn’t hear the door opening.
And watching him thrust like that, the center of his balance focused so singlemindedly on the hard shove of his cock, undeniably makes something low in your gut start to curl with growing interest. You’d never seen a man fucking, well. Anything before. The thought that they might look so … good doing it had never so much as crossed your mind. Even in spite of the lingering throb across your ass cheeks, the sore, violated ache deep in your pussy, your body still finds enough of an energy reserve to respond to the shameful display.
Gods, maybe Zandik was right. You really were something else.
For better or worse, though, it only takes another minute or two before the punishing force of his narrow hips starts to turn uneven, jerking aimlessly now while his groaning, faltering sounds of pleasure rapidly quicken. Growing more frantic, breathless, snarling a vicious sound as he finally tips his head back and —
Cums such a healthy, excessive load that you can see it dripping and oozing out down the slipper while he continues to fuck himself into the mess he’s made for another moment longer. Just grunting, sighing, hissing his relief until the tremors slow to a stop to leave him panting shallowly in the aftermath. Utterly spent.
You think you should probably beat a hasty retreat before you’re discovered but you can’t quite seem to tear your eyes away from him. It’s no mystery who he is. That wavy, wispy blue hair was all the introduction you needed, and that half-mask … he was the one in the cellar stairwell last night.
Your eyes go round as saucers. Then he must have also been the one who cleaned up your broken lamp, ensuring a fire didn’t start, and then he took off with your slipper afterwards. In truth, you hadn’t even considered that it might have been swiped for this purpose.
But why was he in your room then?
A fresh shudder tears up your spine when you watch him slowly ease back to slip his cock out, still hard and uncomfortably rigid even as it drips the sticky spend he’d worked up into a froth. There’s so much of it, in fact, that you can see the slipper is completely coated with clumpy, gooey, half dried semen even from where you were standing. And it hits you. This wasn’t his first round. He’d been using your slipper to jerk off for — for who even knows how long now.
“Oh.” You blurt, so startled by this discovery that you can’t quite catch it, and his head suddenly snaps up with a start.
For the stretch of a single heartbeat the two of you just stare at one another, both sets of eyes widened to comically shocked proportions.
Then he abruptly throws the slipper down and bolts for it, shoving right past you in a sudden rush to get out into the hall. He slams you back against the doorjam in the process, momentarily stunning you, but by the time you recover enough to peer down the corridor after him, he is already gone. Not even so much as a hint of blue hair or the tippy tap of distant feet. How very strange. How very … typical of what your life was slowly turning into.
Rather surreptitiously now, you close the door and lock it behind you before making your way over to the rumpled bed where you just stare down at the abandoned slipper for a terribly long time. Thinking he should’ve just taken it with him if he’d already soiled it this much, you gather your courage and hesitantly reach out to pick it up.
But you immediately grimace at the bubbly, creamy mess he’s left inside and blindly toss it away to land somewhere unseen. It could fall straight into the pits of hell for all you cared.
A fresh sob starts to make itself known in your hitching chest and, feeling so completely broken down you simply can’t bring yourself to stand any longer, you sink down to your knees and just let yourself cry.
Warnings: A lot of talk about childbirth, labor, and possibly inaccurate medical terms. Mentions of storing and freezing the placenta. Segments using swear words and being involved with the delivery (except 8, he's a minor). Segment 35 (Omega), being a little possessive and self-centered as always. No smut, but mentioned and implied nsfw.
Sitting in the labor room, you held the red scarlet-eyed baby in your arms, stroking the infant's tuft of blue hair every now and then. Segment 8, or "Little Doctor" as you like to call him, leaned over the side to look at the newborn, an innocent sort of curiosity brimming in his very own pair of red eyes.
Your baby was born healthy, looking just like a mix of both you and Zandik. He'd helped deliver it himself, muttering about how he trusted no one but him to take the task upon himself.
Well, technically, it was just Segment 25 who helped with the main task; the others volunteered themselves with other stuff, such as weighing the baby, stitching your tears up, cleaning the blood, storing your placenta and umbilical cord for research purposes, etc.
All the segments insisted on helping out, even Little Doctor, who unfortunately had to sit outside for most of the labor but was eventually allowed in to see the baby and check on you. Everyone's main goal was to ensure the mother and newborn were both safe and healthy.
Now that everything was successfully executed, you and the newborn were both taking a small, well-earned nap. All the adult segments turned to look at one another with suspicion.
Who the fuck was the baby's real father?
They all had slept with you, came inside of you, so the possibility that one of them was the father was 20%.
Except they were all Zandiks.
They all had the same DNA, the same blood. They might as well all be identical twins, if identical twins were all the segment of a man who died a century ago.
"Well? What were we all even expecting? That the baby would be born, and we could take a DNA test to verify the paternity? We all share the same blood dipshits. Ever thought of that?" Segment 18 spat out, looking at the other older segments after they'd all stepped out.
Segment 25 merely took off his mask and gloves, opting to let the other Segments deal with the guy instead.
"We were hoping to keep the peace until the baby was born to keep our Lady's pregnancy smooth. You know she gets troubled when we all get into unnecessary fights." Segment 65 explained, stepping closer to your door to make sure it was locked in case their argument woke you up. "A miscarriage would've been tragic. Besides, we all had our own goals to accomplish during this period. I doubt Omega is going to let you have a share of the placenta."
Omega, or Segment 35, who snuck off to the side to keep your placenta in a freezer, shot them all a dirty look. "How rude! Preserving the placenta has it's benefits-"
"We never said it didn't. But must you be so greedy as to keep it for yourself?" Segment 45 cuts off.
"-because I am the most research-oriented out of all of us, one who shall produce the most fulfilling results. In case of a genetic disease or a tumor, it will prove to be very useful." He preened
"You talk as if you're the real father." scoffs Segment 18.
"Well, of course I am. Who else but I could produce such brilliant progeny."
The comment riled up Segment 18, who walked up to Omega's face, his sharp teeth bare, "So sure of yourself, aren't you, old man? You sure your sperm can even swim that far? Your cock get that hard? Well, getting erect would be no problem for such a beauty; however, I bet her fallopian tubes shriveled the moment you got in you son of a-"
"Alright, alright. There's no need to stir up a ruckus right here," said Segment 25, wiping his hands dry on a towel, clearly the most tired of them all.
Unlike the other Segments, he had to be on-call and close to you that day, and hence had stayed by you till the moment you had pushed the baby out. "She's still inside, sleeping, taking a well-earned nap before one of us has to wake her from her blissful slumber in two hours to take her vitals again. Not to mention, we will need to attend to my newborn as well. For now, we could all take a moment, Segment 8 will alert us should anything happen-"
"What do you mean, 'my newborn'?" Segment 45 butts in, "You didn't even try to debate whether the child is yours or not."
"Well, of course, because it is mine. Only fools fight over what's not theirs-"
"Get a load of this asshole-"
"Can we all take this somewhere else, the baby might wake up-"
"Dottore!" a voice booms from down the hall, along with the sound of multiple footsteps.
All Segments turned around to see The Regrator, Pantalone, along with a few Fatui agents carrying many boxes and bags with them.
"I believe congratulations are in order? How is the missus and the baby?" asked Pantalone.
"Who let this guy know about her labor? I thought we were to keep this information from the other Harbingers," sneered Segment 25.
"And you certainly did, I assure you. No one other than me knows about this little joy of yours. I only happened to find out about this because the 8-year-old segment seemed quite anxious about not being let into the operating room. Seeing as you did not hesitate to let him watch the dissection of the original Zandik, my only conclusion about not allowing him in the operating room was that your wife was giving birth. That, and the fact I hadn't seen her for quite some time. Seemed easy to deduce." The Regrator stated, shrugging and rustling his fur coat.
"And what if it was a surgery like, say, an appendectomy? What use are the gifts then?" Segment 18 pointed out.
"Then I believe that you must get started on producing a progeny, no? Anyway, I've brought a few tokens of goodwill. I hope you'll accept them from a friend."
"Leave them out here. She's sleeping, and we'd rather not disturb her or the baby." Segment 65 said, pointing towards a table for the gifts to be kept. "We'll let her know of them as soon as she's able to concern herself with things other than herself and the baby. I hope you understand she's not in the condition to receive guests at the moment."
"That's alright." The Regrator signed his agents to keep the presents on the table and take their leave.
"Speaking of not disturbing the baby, though, what were all of you arguing about? Well, it's not rare to see each of you in disagreement with the other. Rather, it happens pretty often to be rare. But an opportunity that brings all of you together to have such a conflict......."
"We were discussing who the real father of the baby is," said Segment 18.
Pantalone nodded in understanding.
"I'd hardly call that a discussion. But does it truly matter? All of you are the same person, and hence, similar at your core. I'm sure the child would benefit from having multiple parental figures. I wouldn't call it a major issue."
"It is." Said all the Zandiks there in unison.
"Dear Feofan, it seems you still don't understand us all, even when you are a dear friend of ours. We all may be derived of the same Zandik, but as Dottore, we're all different," Omega explained, "Our values, our approach to research, our research, and our view of this world, they all differ due to the number of memories we carry. Determining the true father is determining whose legacy will be carried on. It isn't as simple as 'raising a child'."
".......so it has to do with your ego," Pantalone cheeked.
"How rude, I have genuine affection towards my wife and my child," said Omega.
"There he goes again," Segment 45 groaned, rolling his eyes.
"Oh my god, it's MY baby you twat," argued Segment 18.
"Well, you're certainly not raising my child with that mouth of yours," said Segment 65 calmly.
"Gents, gents," Pantalone raised his hands, trying to mitigate and calm down all the Dottores before it would escalate, lest they end up dissecting another one of them again.
"I have a solution. How about you solve this the way you know best? You're all intelligent and highly educated individuals; surely you can come to a conclusion amongst yourselves."
All the Zandiks looked at each other, as if they had never considered that idea.
"Determining the father of the baby through research. We can't do a DNA test, but....." mused Segment 45.
"Surely, only DNA can't be the only factor to determine the paternity," suggested Segment 18.
"If we can't find a way to find a match with blood, tissue, or DNA, we could always narrow down the possibility of one of us being the father by calculating the fertility factor of our sperm, the time between conception and delivery, and the general condition of the mother and the baby during pregnancy," Segment 35 muttered.
Pantalone sighed, seemingly relieved that he had managed to prevent another Zandik from being dissected today.
"I must, however, object to executing this plan right now," said Segment 25, "her postpartum period is to last for at the very least 2 months, and we have a newborn to care for as well."
"Naturally," all Segments agreed and nodded.
"Then," smirked Omega, "we shall have a time limit of 2 months to conduct our research. Whosoever manages to bring concrete proof along with the timeline and convinces everyone that the baby is theirs shall get to claim the progeny and raise them. Do we all agree?"
"Yes," said all the Segments.
"Then shall I volunteer as a referee? You know, as a neutral party, to keep things nice and fair?" asked Pantalone.
"Of course, friend. You're more than welcome to invite yourself to my research discussions. You are, after all, the one funding all of our experiments," said Omega gleefully.
Pantalone watched with interest as all of the Segments dismissed themselves, some going to rest after what he assumed was a long day of being in the delivery room, others sprinting to their assigned labs to get a head start on their research, while the rest stayed to be available for you.
'Ah,' Pantalone thought to himself, stepping outside and pulling out a cigarette, 'this whole ordeal shall be quite entertaining.'
a/n: hello hello everynyan |˶˙ᵕ˙ )ﾉﾞ I wrote this at 3 am in a fever dream lol. Fun fact: kids of identical twins are genetic half-siblings. SO if you have an identical twin and have a baby, the baby is also half of your twin lol. It gave me the idea about what if multiple people shared the same DNA and boom that's how I wrote this fic in 2 hours when I have like 12 other drafts that have been collecting dust ehe (ᵕ—ᗜ—) I might make a few edits here and there so pls excuse any grammatical errors lol I don't know english well ≽^•⩊•^≼ anyway enjoy ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡
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Idk if this is common knowledge and I'm the only person who didn't already know this, but I think every club in TWST represents something that the characters have in common.
The pop music club is made up of those who come off cheerful on the outside to hide their inner turmoil. Kalim, Lilia, and Cater all fit this.
The basketball club is made up of those who are rebellious and do not fit the standards their surroundings set for them. Floyd, Jamil, and Ace are all people who go against the norm.
The board game club is made up of those who will destroy themselves in order to get what they want. Idia and Azul have both sacrificed their own well-beings for their goals.
The equestrian club is made up of those who are strict in themselves, and often times others, as a result of their disciplined upbringings.
The track club is made up of those who give their all to be their best selves.
The spelldrive club is made up of those who strive to be stronger/on top.
The science club is made up of those who are deemed too eccentric to fit in.
The film study club is made up of those who are selfish and therefore misconstrued as cruel, when they actually care deeply for those around them.
The gargoyle study club and mountain hiking club only have solo members because they both represent isolation. Jade is isolated even amongst his peers due to being deemed untrustworthy and having strange hobbies. Malleus is isolated because of his upbringing and his long lifespan.
Maybe this is common knowledge or maybe I'm reaching, but I think the parallels between the club members are all really neat!!
i like to think that as zandik aged, his personality mellowed out a lot, he speaks in a much softer tone and his words are a little kinder when talking in comparison to when he was younger but that softness immediately disappears once he starts taming you for being a brat. suddenly the tone he uses when he was in his prime comes back and his words contain a sharp end to them, and you may or may not be turned on by the sudden shift in his personality
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