So we have a new mod @natk2002 who has graciously volunteered to maintain the Whumpapedia!
Major cleanups have been underway and a new link has been created.
Please continue to use the submission links that are in the pinned message on the top of this blog. We appreciate all the kind messages and questions asking about the blog and spreadsheet!
We are looking forward to adding your favorite whumpy scenes to the list! <3
”Word of advice,” he had said. One of the first things they said to each other. “He gets rid of you if you stop fighting.”
His voice was hoarse. It was always hoarse, right up until the end.
You didn’t think much of it at the time. Of course you wouldn’t stop fighting. What he was doing to you — to both of you — was wrong. There’s no way in hell you were going to just lay down and accept it.
Then weeks went by. Months, probably. Maybe years. It was hard to tell. And it never let up. And you watched him get quieter and quieter. Watched him struggle less and less each time he was taken away.
You tried talking to him. Reminding him how unfair this was. Stoking his fire. You think it helped, for a time. But he began to always give the same reply. “I’m just so tired.”
It was lonely now, without him. You tried not to dwell on it. Tried not to think about how the pep talks you were giving yourself are the same ones you used to give him. Tried to focus on staying alive.
You’re vaguely aware that you used to be determined to stay alive until you were rescued. Or until you had a chance to escape. You haven’t thought that way in a while. You’re not sure when you started trying to stay alive long enough to warn the next one.
the hottest thing a guy can be is barely conscious on the floor while someone lifts his head up by the hair so that you can see his glazed out eyes and the blood running down his face
the hottest thing a guy can be is barely conscious on the floor while someone lifts his head up by the hair so that you can see his glazed out eyes and the blood running down his face
wanna see a whumpee whose just someone’s fucked up little experiment-lab-rat-thing and like. whumper tinkering around in the workshop section of the basement, inventing various cruel torture devices while their poor captive is chained to the floor across the room and when whumper finishes a prototype they turn to their restrained helpless little victim with a big smile on their face and hold up some ugly mess of metal and leather straps and their poor victim just starts instantly begging and fucking crying cuz they have no idea what that thing is but they don’t wanna find out and they’re fucking terrified and shaking and begging whumper not to use it on them like their life depends on it
I like this idea even more when the whumper is like….bad at what they do. Like all of their experiments fail. And it either doesn’t matter to them because the fun of hurting whumpee matters more, OR they get mad at whumpee and blame them for the experiments failing even though it’s not their fault
quarterly reminder that if i reblog something ai-generated it is 110% and always an accident and for the love of god please tell me so i can delete it from my blog
Writing a character who becomes severely malnourished/dehydrated/sleep-deprived?
Here’s what you’ll need to know! Learn all about the wonders of the human body and add scientifically-accurate drama to your stories.
MALNOURISHMENT
DEATH: average - 21 days (3 weeks), max ever recorded - 70 days (2.3 months)
6 HOURS: grouchiness and hunger due to lack of glucose.
24 HOURS - 48 HOURS: hunger very apparent; pains in stomach; body has entered ketosis and is using fatty acids as energy.
72 HOURS+: muscles begin to get broken down for energy.
You will become: increasingly depressed, irritable, hysteric apathetic; decline in concentration, comprehension and judgement; social isolation and withdrawal; possible self-harm.
If your character doesn’t eat for 5 consecutive days, they are at risk of Refeeding Syndrome. This is extremely dangerous and can be fatal.
recommended reading:
The Minnesota Starvation Experiment
Psychology of starvation based on the above experiment.
DEHYDRATION
DEATH: average 3 days; some live 8 - 10 days
for the calculations: TWV = total water volume in body; average adult loses 2.5 litres of water per day.
Assuming that your character does not eat, drink or absorb any moisture.
9 HOURS/2% TWV: thirst, discomfort, dry skin, loss of appetite; 50% loss of performance for athletes; elevated body temperature, rapid heartbeat, fatigue, dizziness when standing, decreased fluid secretion (sweat, urination, tears, etc).
24 HOURS/6% TWV: sleepiness, severe headaches, nausea, tingling in limbs.
DEATH: not known, but can stay awake for 11 days; max chronic sleep deprivation ever recorded (until death) - 6 months.
NOTE: This does not mean you can stay awake for 6 months. It means you can survive that long with chronic sleep deprivation - going days without sleep and then sleeping once or twice.
24 HOURS: mental ability impairment of someone who has blood-alcohol content of 0.10%; everything is worse - emotional control, memory, attention, decision-making, hand-eye coordination.
36 HOURS: hormonal spikes everywhere; losing time; lack of motivation; head buzzing like you’re dehydrated.
48 HOURS: microsleep, regardless of what you’re doing (you fall asleep for 1-30 seconds and then become disorientated);
72 HOURS+: say goodbye to higher mental processes like decision-making and planning. Also, say good bye to saying goodbye because even simple conversations are hard.
80 HOURS+: … and hello, hallucinations!
recommended reading:
this article of a soldier’s experience with sleep deprivation.
Writing a character who becomes severely malnourished/dehydrated/sleep-deprived?
Here’s what you’ll need to know! Learn all about the wonders of the human body and add scientifically-accurate drama to your stories.
MALNOURISHMENT
DEATH: average - 21 days (3 weeks), max ever recorded - 70 days (2.3 months)
6 HOURS: grouchiness and hunger due to lack of glucose.
24 HOURS - 48 HOURS: hunger very apparent; pains in stomach; body has entered ketosis and is using fatty acids as energy.
72 HOURS+: muscles begin to get broken down for energy.
You will become: increasingly depressed, irritable, hysteric apathetic; decline in concentration, comprehension and judgement; social isolation and withdrawal; possible self-harm.
If your character doesn’t eat for 5 consecutive days, they are at risk of Refeeding Syndrome. This is extremely dangerous and can be fatal.
recommended reading:
The Minnesota Starvation Experiment
Psychology of starvation based on the above experiment.
DEHYDRATION
DEATH: average 3 days; some live 8 - 10 days
for the calculations: TWV = total water volume in body; average adult loses 2.5 litres of water per day.
Assuming that your character does not eat, drink or absorb any moisture.
9 HOURS/2% TWV: thirst, discomfort, dry skin, loss of appetite; 50% loss of performance for athletes; elevated body temperature, rapid heartbeat, fatigue, dizziness when standing, decreased fluid secretion (sweat, urination, tears, etc).
24 HOURS/6% TWV: sleepiness, severe headaches, nausea, tingling in limbs.
DEATH: not known, but can stay awake for 11 days; max chronic sleep deprivation ever recorded (until death) - 6 months.
NOTE: This does not mean you can stay awake for 6 months. It means you can survive that long with chronic sleep deprivation - going days without sleep and then sleeping once or twice.
24 HOURS: mental ability impairment of someone who has blood-alcohol content of 0.10%; everything is worse - emotional control, memory, attention, decision-making, hand-eye coordination.
36 HOURS: hormonal spikes everywhere; losing time; lack of motivation; head buzzing like you’re dehydrated.
48 HOURS: microsleep, regardless of what you’re doing (you fall asleep for 1-30 seconds and then become disorientated);
72 HOURS+: say goodbye to higher mental processes like decision-making and planning. Also, say good bye to saying goodbye because even simple conversations are hard.
80 HOURS+: … and hello, hallucinations!
recommended reading:
this article of a soldier’s experience with sleep deprivation.
YES, YOU CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT DISCORD'S AGE VERIFICATION
But while cancelling Nitro and boycotting Discord CAN be a form of protest, it sadly may not be effective.
Why? Bc their hands are tied due to the recent trend in age verification bills worldwide.
All of the bad internet bills. One website.
This site helps send emails to your lawmakers to oppose certain Internet bills in the US, many of which would push age verification if passed
HOWEVER, calling your lawmakers on the phone is most effective.
If you're not in the US, you can still help by spreading the word.
The only way to prevent age verification (On Discord and ALL other social media platforms) is to prevent the bills that are forcing it. Look at the site for more info
hey. if someone tries to smear you on the internet for something asinine, what you need to do is block every single person engaging with the post and remind yourself that absolutely under no circumstances are you obligated to draft a PR response defending some out-of-context screenshot or kink fanfiction or thing you said when you were 15 or whatever put your blood in the water. you are not a public figure or a brand. you do not have to respond to something if you know in your heart it is bullshit.
Okay enough cute things back to Stomme suffering for our amusement <3
CW: stress position, bondage, switching/caning, interrogation, pananoia, going glassy with fear
*** Part 2 *** Masterlist ***
The princess was staring at her.
Stomme tried not to look at the eyes of others as a rule, and tried especially not to look at the general vicinity of the faces of people who were important, but even so.
Even so she knew. The princess was staring at her.
Every time it made her skin prickle and twitch, and she would glance around for what had suddenly unsettled her, only to find, near or far, busy or not, the princess was somewhere nearby, and she was looking at Stomme.
It had her ready to collapse. Constant fear now spurred to paranoia, she wasn't ever at ease in this castle that had once been so peaceful. The princess didn't just stay to one or two areas of her estate, like some noblewomen might, always taking her fiance for walks along the battlements, sparring with the soldiers, popping into the kitchen to grab herself a snack instead of sending one of her maids to fetch food for her, discussing supplies with Overseer Yan, playfully and gently wrestling with little Julia in the garden. And everywhere Stomme went, sooner or later, the princess would be there, and those heavy magenta eyes would be on her, and Stomme would swallow around a dry throat and her hands would shake as she tried to rush through the rest of her task and leave.
She didn't know what she'd done to get the princess's attention, other than being asleep on the floor the very first time the princess saw her. Was she waiting to see if Stomme would do it again? Checking to make sure Stomme was working hard to make up for it? Biding her time to punish her for it? Stomme begged at the feet of Overseer Yan twice more to be punished for falling asleep, because if that was why the princess was staring she needed to be corrected for it, and it was the only thing Stomme could think of!
The thought that it was because Stomme was a gift did cross her mind, but it seemed even harder to believe. The third princess was too—too confident. Too powerful. To self-assured, too sure in herself. What should she care if her brother sent her a present that was only meant to mock her? And Stomme was ugly, sure, much too ugly to be a house slave, but shouldn't people want to look away from ugly things?
No. It had to be because the princess was mad at her. And, and maybe, if the overseer punished her, the princess would stop caring, and it would be over at least. Stomme was exhausted, the perpetual fear dragged at her and made her slow and stumbling and scatterbrained, if, if she could just, be punished, then it would be over, and sure it would hurt but then at least the waiting would be over.
Stomme was in the stable, for the first time since the princess's return. She hadn't come here often before, to be fair, the large facility full of empty stalls and a grumpy groom that Stomme was still quite scared of. But now those stalls were very full, the horses and mules of the monsterhunting party contentedly cleaned and brushed and chewing on hay or oats, a multitude of grooms mucking stables and tending equipment and hanging feedbags. In the middle, so terrifying she could hardly believe they were here, were a pair of speed demons. Horse-shaped monsters known for being some of the fastest creatures living or dead. To pay to even catch one could buy a whole barony. To train the notoriously moody and fickle beasts was a cost afforded to duchies and royalty alone. Which. The princess was royal. That didn't make it any less weird to see two of them, just as contentedly emptying their feedbags as the massive draft horse one stall over, which would not look out of place before the plow of some peasant farmer.
But it wasn't Stomme's job to have opinions on the belongings of her owner. It was Stomme's job to gather the laundry from the stable into her basket and haul it down to the washroom and scrub it all clean. She turned with the large basket of (thankfully, mercifully) dirty laundry and choked on a scream, lurching back so quickly she tripped over some random piece of barn detritus and landed on her ass, laundry flying everywhere.
Magenta eyes looked down at her.
"I—Y-Your Highness," Stomme spluttered out, eyes wide and pupils nothing more than pinpricks, staring up at the third princess who stared, ever-dispassionately, down her nose at her. Remembering herself, Stomme snapped her gaze down, her shaking arms barely supporting her weight, braced in the straw behind her, her legs half-curling in on herself at the knee, splayed out from where she'd fallen and too petrified by the princess's glare to dare moving them. Her stomach was exposed, her chest, would the princess stomp on her? Smack her, since Stomme's height meant her face was right about smacking level without the princess needing to stoop too far? Kick her in the shins?
She was just staring, and the longer she stared, the worse Stomme shook, breathing starting to wheeze as she fell apart beneath the princess's unwavering gaze, dread seeping through every inch of her as she waited for what would happen.
"Alright," the princess said, and though it was again neither soft nor harsh, the sound still cracked like thunder booming in Stomme's ears and she flinched, full-bodily, with it, "this has gone on long enough."
She took two steps forward, her boot landing between Stomme's too-gangly legs, and Stomme squeezed her eyes shut, shoulders hunching, every muscle in her body locking tight to brace for the pain which would now come.
Slender, strong fingers hooked beneath Stomme's collar, and tugged. Her head was forced back, made to look up again, her chest dragged forward by her neck, and it wasn't harsh but it was not yielding either. The princess was in absolute control, and whatever she demanded of Stomme, she would have.
"You remember my laboratory. We met there."
"F-Forgive me, Your H-Highness," Stomme begged, tears pricking at her eyes again.
The next tug on her collar was harsher, making Stomme gasp, lifting her off her hands briefly.
"Confirm, girl. You remember it."
"Yes! Your Highness, yes Your Highness!"
"You will be there at six tonight."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Her collar was released and she fell back so hard she had to go down onto her elbows, instead of her hands, and stared, drunk from fear, as the princess strode away from the mess of laundry Stomme had dropped and to the stall of one of the speed demons. She hauled herself onto its back by its lightning-blue withers, bare-backed, no bridle, and clicked her tongue with a squeeze of her knees that had the monster obediently clopping out of its stall before setting off in what must have been a light trot for the beast, but was so fast it stirred Stomme's hair from the wind in its wake.
It took her three tries to rise back to her feet. Her limbs kept giving out beneath her, still shaking with terror, and tears fell haphazardly, unheeded, as Stomme staggered up, gathered the laundry back in the basket, and tried to get back to work.
If the dread, the fear, the paranoia, the anticipation, had been unbearable before, it was all but lethal now. She couldn't stop shaking. She dropped the soap into the washbasin so many times one of the servants who'd been with the princess's entourage grew short with her and shooed her away from the laundry. She shambled listlessly between tasks that she normally could do with duty and vigor, and was pathetically incapable of now. Even Overseer Yan got dragged into it, informed one way or another of her inadequacy. She collapsed on the floor at his feet, still shaking, and choked on a sob that she was already in trouble and she still had hours left to wait.
"Stomme," the overseer said gently, kneeling down in front of her and laying a gentle hand on the back of her head, which she pressed harder against the stone floor. She squeezed her fingers over her mouth, trying to silence her ugly, wretched breathing, the sobs that kept trying to wrench out. "Stomme, what's all this? Easy, girl, what's got you so scared?"
"I—" she choked, "the—princess. Her, laboratory, she—"
"Oh, Stomme," he said pityingly when she gagged on her own words, a knot of fear in her throat, "Is this still about the time you fell asleep? I, oh bother," he cut himself off with a short, sharp huff of air out his nose. "Stomme. Would it… make you feel better if you were punished for that?"
I will be.
She shook her head, a cracking little half-noise escaping from her lips. "She. I am. To be there. At six this evening. Her Highness has demanded."
"Oh," he murmured, and it sounded like he knew what that meant, the kind of recognition that meant Stomme had stumbled her way into something bad. "Oh, I see. Well." His hand patted at the back of her head gently. A little awkwardly, if she were the kind of person who could ever dare describe others as awkward. "It likely won't be too bad for you."
What won't?! she wanted to ask. But it wouldn't matter. Whether she knew or not, she would be there at six, and she would dread every dragging moment until "it" happened.
"Hey, chin up girl, you'll be alright," he soothed kindly. "Stomme, why don't you see if you can't catch a little sleep before your meeting with the princess? I'll wake you up at five so you don't have to worry about missing it. You've got terrible bags under your eyes, and you'll want to be sharp for your meeting with the princess, won't you?"
She instinctively wanted to insist that she could work, that she'd be good, that she'd try harder, but that last question lanced through her reflexive protests and she locked still.
If. It. If she.
She swallowed hard, and nodded, trembling fingers fastened again around her worthless mouth.
Strong, sure hands slid under her and helped her to her feet, Stomme staggering slightly and her right leg buzzing with pins and needles as she rose, putting an embarrassing amount of her weight on her overseer.
"There, now, there we go. Easy does it." He set a kind hand at the top of her back, bending a little so he could smile where she could see it, her head bowed and eyes respectfully downcast. "Go get some rest, Stomme, I'll see you at five."
She nodded, and—still trembling—headed towards the little room she shared with another slave, who didn't seem to like Stomme very much and didn't speak to her beyond insisting that they keep to their respective halves of the room. Stomme had never known what Noe meant by that. The only things Stomme ever did in that room were dress in her one outfit and sleep in her bed. The bed she curled on now, glad that Noe would be busy elsewhere in the castle and couldn't reprimand her for sleeping in the middle of the day (even with the overseer's permission, it felt naughty).
It briefly occurred to her that maybe Overseer Yan wouldn't wake Stomme up in time. That he would use her foolish, naive trust to get her into worse trouble with the princess. But that—that would be cruel in a way far outside of Overseer Yan's character. He was a kind man, and more than that, didn't care about the servants that much. He did his job, they did their jobs, and he spent time with his family, Stomme was beneath his notice more times than not, and he'd been merciful to her the times he did take note of her. He would wake her at five. And. And he was right. If Stomme was going to present herself to the princess to be punished, she should. Should be at her best. She shouldn't be shaking and fumbling from exhaustion from being scared all day. She should sleep.
She didn't.
She tossed and turned, her mind conjuring wild stories of what the third princess would do to her. Lingered on the cold, dispassionate gaze of those magenta eyes as they sneered down at Stomme, how this had been weeks in the making. Stomme wondered what had made the princess pick today, why she was finally punishing Stomme now. Wondered if the princess had found some new fault in Stomme. If this was even related to when she'd fallen asleep in the laboratory—it had to be, right? That was why the princess had ordered her back there. Punishment in the same location as the crime. But if it wasn't that, if the princess wanted her for something else, then what could it be?
Stomme didn't know. She spent hours agonizing over it. At this point, the punishment would be a mercy, just so Stomme could know which pain she was receiving and so it finally would be over.
Overseer Yan came to collect her right as the bell tolled five, and had her stay with him, his silent and shaking shadow, until six drew near, and she was sent to the princess's laboratory.
Standing in front of its door, she wondered if she would've ever made the mistake of feeling at ease in this room, if she had known what it was, that fateful day. Who it belonged to.
Claudia wasn't here to knock for her. Dandelion wasn't here to follow at the heels of. Stomme had to lift her own shaking hand, had to double over and cover her gasping mouth and try not to collapse down onto her knees, had to rally herself and raise her hand again, had to knock on the door herself.
Had to open the door and force her own two feet forward, kept upright only by the fact that she'd been ordered to enter, and to fail to do so would be disobedience.
Lord Mori was here, because of course he was. He was smoking from a long, thin, ornate pipe, green smoke rising off the tip that danced in shadows and kaleidoscope refractions, some sort of magic emanating off of him that made the room simultaneously dark, blanketed in shadow, and yet Stomme could see perfectly. His eyes were no longer pale, but bright shimmering emerald and lustrous rich amethyst, his irises eerily vivid and crystalline like gemstones. He lounged in the single plush chair the room had, draped in the fur of some large grey creature, and smiled as his eyes dragged down Stomme's form, blowing out smoke that curled and glowed.
Stomme diverted her gaze.
The princess was winding a length of rope into a loop, over her elbow then palm then elbow then palm again. The fireplace, close to the door, cast a ring of warm glow that grew thin and weak against the magical shadows rising from Lord Mori nearby, and in the deepest, darkest part of the room, the wall furthest from the door and the fire, the princess snapped her fingers once and pointed at the bare, stone floor.
"Kneel there."
Stomme went, and Stomme knelt. The darkness curled around her like billowing fog, silky and moving, and it should've been too dark to see—it was too dark to see, and yet Stomme could make out every detail of the room as though they were standing in broad daylight. Brighter than daylight, since even the places that would've been cast in shadow by the sun were now equally as visible. It was disorienting. It was frightening.
She could see the underside of the worktables as clearly as if she had upended them, each knot in the woodgrain and the nails securing their legs. She could see the individual letters along the spines of each book, though Stomme obviously was not literate and could not read them. She could make out individual pages on the books that had been pulled from the multitudinous shelves, left on the princess's desk or workbench or piled next to a potted plant. She could make out individual leaves and tiny branches on the plants, the metal ribbing on screws, the joints in metal casings, not only could she see perfectly in this dark but it was like as though her vision was now better in it. To call Stomme unsettled would be a laughable understatement. The wrongness of it all was enough to petrify her where she knelt.
The rope made soft, percussive noises as the princess dropped the newly finished loop to the floor, even that much enough to make Stomme flinch. "Up," the princess ordered, hand on Stomme's collar, and Stomme lifted onto her knees, bending awkwardly to ensure she didn't resist the princess's hand on her even slightly, and the princess slid a bar in snug against the backs of Stomme's knees, pulling on the collar to have Stomme kneel down again around it, the metal instantly uncomfortable.
Stomme tried to hold herself still as the princess lashed first her left knee, then her right, to either end of the bar, then secured her ankles to her thighs, then tied her ankles together. It left Stomme's soft inner thigh's helplessly exposed. She knew the layer of her pants, good and sturdy as they were, would not actually do much to prevent the sting of a crop or heavy bruising of the rod.
Eyes starting to glass over with terror, she felt it secondhand, on a delay, as her elbows were pulled together, a little roughly, enough to make her head bob back and forth from the motion, and tied, forearms bound to each other, wrapped down to her wrists, which were then fastened to the large knot at her ankles.
The result left her with her shoulders pulled back, her chest thrust helplessly forward, her sensitive inner thighs spread and vulnerable. She stared vacantly at the ceiling, breaths coming out shallow, her lungs having to strain against the tightness of her body forced into positions it wasn't used to, unable to fully expand. She wanted to beg for mercy, but while her mind was capable of thinking words, she found herself unable to convince her mouth to form them.
"Alright," the princess said, lifting a switch from the table, and in that horrid darkness Stomme could see it with perfect clarity. The switch came up beneath Stomme's chin, tapping it only just barely with the tip, and she was too glassy to even flinch. "Let's start easy: why are you here?"
Stomme's lips parted, but no sound came out, her mind a white sheet of linen where words were meant to form. She tried, wild desperation beating at the wall of empty senselessness now filling her mind, she really did try to answer the princess's inquiry, to do as she was bid, as she was meant, but all that escaped her throat was a dry, cracked sound.
Laughter, lilting and cruel, came from the plush chair near the fire.
"Oh darling we may have been too effective. I think we already broke her."
"Mm," the princess hummed brusquely. "I'll be the judge of that. Girl. Why are you here?"
Stomme tried, she really really tried, to break through the numb and blank wall of terror that blocked up her tongue, but not hard enough.
The switch fell on her inner thigh with a sharp snap and Stomme lurched, shouting at sudden pain, body reflexively trying to bend over double to safeguard her vulnerable parts but the ropes merely making it so she jerked like a fish on a line. She heaved, breaths coming fast and shallow, and the pain, at least, broke through the glassy silence.
"I will not ask a third time, slave."
"T-to, serve, ma'am—Your Highness, Your Highness, I am here to serve!"
"Serve who?"
"Y-You, Your Highness," Stomme gasped, bewildered by the idea that she could even possibly be here to serve anyone else. The only other person who even really gave her orders was Overseer Yan, and he was in the princess's direct employ.
The princess did not seem pleased with that answer, magenta eyes narrow and lips pressed thin (thin for her) and downturned.
"And why?"
Stomme floundered again, no longer fighting against a wall of numbness to find her words, but unable to locate them all the same. Her thigh burned in reminder that the princess would not give her time to compose her thoughts, and the bar beneath her knees pressed ever present and bruising into her thighs and calves, but even knowing there was a timer on her answers, she couldn't think of a good one.
"I—to, because, I am, a slave? And, and you are a princess, and it is the law of nature that the weak should serve the mighty, and I was a g-gift to you from His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince Viktor, and—"
She cut off with a sharp gasp, wincing, somehow either bold or out of control enough that she jerked away, when the princess brought the tip of the switch up to her cheek. Thankfully, not striking, but making her cringe and shut up and wince. She tried to lift her thighs from her ankles—a futile effort—in order to relieve some of the pressure from the rod beneath her knees. It hurt, it hurt badly, and Stomme knew the longer she was kept in position the more unbearable it would become, but she couldn't fathom this line of questioning. Wasn't this supposed to be a punishment for sleeping? Or was this how the princess chose to remind her of her place, of her duties, by having the words ring clear from Stomme's own mouth? No other owner had been interested in Stomme talking, before, but no other owner was Princess Rayana.
"And what orders, exactly, did my dear brother give you when he sent you to me?"
Stomme gaped, eyes blown huge in the darkness and sweat pouring down so hard it beaded on her chin and cheek, the loose flyaways from her hair at the back of her neck sticking to her skin and catching beneath her collar.
"I—he—didn't, Your Highness, he didn't speak to—me. I'm, beneath him."
Lord Mori snorted, and blew out another roiling cloud of faintly glowing green smoke, the shadows in the room rippling outwards from it in a way that hurt Stomme's eyes to look at, making her wince again.
"Honestly that's the most convincing thing she's said yet."
Con—Convincing??? Was Stomme supposed to be convincing??? What was she supposed to be convincing of??? Did, did the princess not believe that Stomme knew her place? Oh, of course that was it, that had to be it, Stomme had gotten used to people not projecting defiance onto her here, how foolish she was, she needed to lower herself and prove that she knew her place, she needed to convince the princess that she knew she was nothing.
"I, I am, merely a tool at the disposal of the royal family, Your Highness, I am a maggot beneath your boot, I am a worthless and meager creature who is blessed utterly to even breathe the same air as those who are my betters, I know this Your Highness, I know I am nothing more than a wretch at your feet—"
"That's enough."
"I'm—"
Stomme yelped, high and sharp and cracking in the middle, as the switch came down again, on the same thigh, in the same place. Tears stung her eyes and she gagged around a gasp, body trying to pitch forward, to bow, to lower her head and grovel, but the ropes and the rod prevented her.
"You will not make me repeat myself," the princess said stonily, a demand and factual truth both. Stomme grit her teeth, and nodded, silent save for her breathing. Save for the drumming of her own heartbeat in her ears. Silent because the princess had not yet ordered her to speak again. A single tear fell, landing on the fabric on her thigh, and Stomme cowered beneath her owner.
Slowly, the princess began to circle Stomme, twirling the switch around so it landed across her other palm, the sound of the light tap still enough to make Stomme flinch. She tried, again, to provide some sort of relief to her legs, to lift up enough that the rod did not cut into her quite so harshly, but her limbs were bound tight, and the simple weight of her kept the rod a burning, agonizing presence.
"Do you know why my brother sent you here?" the princess asked when she was fully behind Stomme, out of sight, her tone a leading question, like Princess Rayana herself knew the answer.
"I, I don't, Your Highness, I, I don't know, I don't know—"
"Speculate."
A strangled whimper curled in her throat, eyes closed, body tense, still wriggling vainly to try and get just a little relief.
"I, was sent to insult you, Your Highness."
"To insult me?"
Stomme winced, leaning hard to the side, but unable to tilt over, even if she wanted to, her shoulders straining against the ropes in her attempt to hunch, to curl into herself, to in any way protect herself from the pain of being an insult to this princess.
"Be-because I am ugly, and, clumsy, and I am, I am low-quality, so, it is, an insult, to give, something like me, to a princess, because, because you deserve to receive only fine goods, and I do not deserve to be here." She tried not to stutter, to stumble over her words, to get it out quick so the princess would finish sooner and let her off of this horrible rod, but true to form she was a stupid mess despite her efforts.
"Well," the princess said, sounding in better humor, at least, as she finished rounding Stomme and stood imperiously over her once again, head tilted so the line of her bare neck was exposed and her lidded magenta eyes stared down at her face once more, "I wouldn't call you ugly."
Stomme could feel herself approaching that blank and glassy terror, again. This was—the, kindest thing anyone had ever said about her appearance??? And she had no idea what to make of it, or why this princess was saying it to her, or if she was meant to respond to that or if she'd get another strike to the thigh for speaking out of turn again.
Lord Mori rose from his resplendence by the fire and crossed the workroom—now much busier and more cluttered than before the princess had returned—and draped himself over the princess's shoulders, leaning on her with a casualness that spoke to how high he was in her esteem, that she would allow a mere count's son to forgo propriety thus. Darkness sloughed off of him in ripples, his pipe smoking in his outstretched hand, and those disturbing gemstone eyes of shattered emerald and amethyst glowed faintly, as well, in this strange darkness, giving his likeness an added pallor that made his grin seem—monstrous.
"Well darling?" he crooned, and despite where he was looking it was obvious he was not talking to Stomme. "Does she pass muster?"
"Hm." The princess's expression did not change, though her body subtly leaned into her fiance, counteracting his (probably pretty slight, all things considered) weight.
"…One last question for you, slave."
She gripped Stomme by the collar, no two slender fingers like she had in the past but a full fist, choking Stomme and making her wheeze as the princess pulled her up, onto the very tips of her knees, windpipe half crushed under her knuckled grip and body floundering at the new and added strain.
"Do you know why I am questioning you thus?"
"I, I, no, mistress—I, Your Highness—I don't know, I don't know, I—"
"Speculate."
"I don't know! I don't know, please! Please! I don't know—"
The princess brought the switch down on her outer thigh, the hardest blow she'd delivered, and Stomme screamed, jerking like a fish on a hook, lurching so badly that even Lord Mori swayed shallowly with it, his large earrings swinging as his perch shifted.
"Please! Please, Your Highness!" Stomme begged. But the princess would not repeat herself. Stomme needed to answer. "Because—I, I don't kn—because, I, to, remind me of my place, so I, say it myself, to make the lesson stick!"
It was the best guess Stomme had. It was the only guess Stomme had. She didn't know what the princess wanted. She would give it to her, of course she would, if only she knew what answer the princess wanted! It felt like there was an entire second conversation happening, and Stomme couldn't hear a word of it. Stomme gagged, wheezing air around the fist on her collar, choking and most definitely crying now, a line of drool down from her mouth where she had to instead focus on trying to breathe. Her vision, despite the magical darkness, began to fade around the edges, Stomme trying desperately, desperately to breathe, but each breath was shallow and harsh and wheezing, choked off, and spots were swimming past her eyes, and she couldn't breathe, not enough, and she tried to struggle but she was bound and wriggling, tried to beg but nothing but half shattered "please!"s came out, she didn't know what answer the princess wanted, she babbled senselessly, words her mind couldn't keep, trying to say anything the princess would want to just please, please, please let her breathe.
With no indication that she'd made a decision, the princess released Stomme suddenly. She pitched to the side, hacking and coughing and wheezing, gasping in as fast and deep as her bindings let her. The rod between her knees kept her from tilting over, the rope kept her from falling forward, and as hard as it had been to breathe when she first was secured in this position it felt easy now.
Blearily, out of focus, she realized the princess was behind her again, Lord Mori leaning against a workbench with his hip cocked and his gemstone eyes still smirking impishly down at her. The rope securing her wrists to her ankles slipped free, and Stomme pitched forward, head down, chest heaving in air freely now, tears falling on the stone beneath her as she knelt there and trembled and wept.
It was a small mercy that the princess freed her legs before her arms, the places where the rod had dug into her throbbing and pins and needles sizzling at every muscle below the knee.
When the last of the rope was pulled off of her, Stomme laying there shaking, the princess simply began to wind the cords into a loop again, palm to elbow, elbow to palm, and walked past Stomme (making her flinch against the ground). Something on the princess's demeanor made Lord Mori laugh, cruel and light and airy, and Stomme cringed in weakly around herself.
"Dismissed," the princess said, and Stomme—
Couldn't get up.
Not for lack of trying. She tried very, very hard to get up. but her legs weren't cooperating, and her shoulders hurt so badly she could barely move her arms. She struggled, weakly, entirely uselessly, for far too long, more than conscious of the two sets of noble eyes staring at her, watching her fail, before giving up on the idea of walking.
With her head bowed low, Stomme crawled.
*** Part 4 (coming soon) ***
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