Alyse is a faun mutt that gets picked up by a cruel elven lord named Valerius. He takes her as his pet and finds himself, inexplicably, favoring the lamb.
Refs: Alyse and Valerius, Alyse Picrew
Cw: Intimate Whump, sadistic whumper, carewhumper, slavery, blood, torture, general mind fuckery, possible noncon, Assume The Worst.
1. Mutt
A cruel elven master finds himself a new little pet
2. Silk Nightgown
Alyse figuring out that she needs to learn to wait
3. The Hands Of Her Master
Cont. Silk Nightgown - Alyse apologies
4. The Pain Of Acknowledgement
Alyse just wants a little attention
5. To Share One's Pain
Valerius being a sadist (tw: knife play)
6. Thirst Of Greed
Alyse drinking something she shouldn't
7. A Lamb's Nightmare
Alyse had a nightmare :(
8. A Man And A Woman
Valerius takes a bath and Alyse is very curious
)Female Amatuer Hero and Male Villain Doctor (pt. 11)
She waits as the ling rang, once, twice...the call picks up.
Silence.
Then, a soft woman's voice, "...Hello?"
Hero's heart lurches. That voice, she's waited so long to hear it again. Biting down her frayed knuckle she tries to keep herself calm.
"Ugh, Flyte, is this another prank call?" a heavy sigh, "You know this is a secure line."
"M--Mom!--"
The voices goes dead. "...oh my God," Hero hears heavy breathing on the other end, "Lai--Starflower--you're alive?"
Alive? How long had the villains tricked Superhero? "Y-yeah, I'm alive," the floodgates won't hold off for long, "I-I'm scared, I want to go home, you have to come to--"
The door swings open.
Choking, Hero jerks up her head. "Hey! I'm us--"
Her words die in her throat. Supervillain stands in the doorway. And she's crumpled on the floor beside the toilet, holding the phone.
"...Starflower..."
Hero hangs up, stealthing the phone into her hoodie pocket as she scrambles to her feet.
"I--I was just trying to calm down," she babbles, not looking at Supervillain as she hovers, ready to bolt for the door. "I feel better now, you can use it if you need to."
They don't say anything. Not at first. And the cacophony of patrons, servers, and blaring karaoke waft into the tiny space.
"We...need to stop meeting like this," Supervillain says, that wry grin on their lips as they step into the bathroom.
Hero pulls in her lip, her heart in her throat. She can feel where the phone sits heavily in her hoodie's pocket. She wonders if they can see it, too.
"Are you alright?" Their hand gestures towards the bruise on her temple.
Their voice pulls her out of her head. Hero flinches away, "I'm fine."
"Do you want to leave?" they continue, not moving from their stance which blocks her way.
She pulls in her arms, "I want to go home."
Supervillain chuckles, the low sound breaking through all other noise.
"Is that why you called home?" they ask.
Dammit, of course they saw. Why did she think they didn't? But the cellphone ping is out there now.
"They'll be here in ten minutes," she bluffs, walking towards the door, "You guys probably want to leave--"
Just as she's pushing past, their arm links around waist. Hero's feet lost contact with the ground. She clutches Supervillain's shoulder to keep from falling as they force her back into the single room.
"Let me go! I'll scream if you hurt me--"
Her mind short-circuits when she hears the click of the knob that seals them both inside.
Supervillain drops her to her feet. She stumbles against the grimy wall, cornered.
"Give it to me."
They reach for her pocket. Snatching the phone first, she pins it behind her back, shoving herself into the wall. "It's too late--the supers are coming--if they find me dead--""
"They're lucky you're alive at all," Supervillain interrupts. "You do know that every day you're with us, the odds that we'll be found out stack higher against my team."
"Then why let me out at all? Why haven't you killed me?" she asks, hating herself for the way her voice shakes and the tears that fall against her will. "Is it more fun to torture me?"
"Yes."
She expects that answer, but it still leaves her sick.
"But, and more importantly, it's fun to succeed where heroes have failed," Supervillain adds.
"How?"
Supervillain turns her towards the filthy sink and mirror. "Look at yourself."
Her hair hangs dry and matted with an alcoholic drink. Or more. Half the sequins on her hoodie are scratched off and it's horrifically stained. She doesn't dare look further down. Everything she sees makes her more ashamed.
"When the supers get here, are you hoping to come across as more of a lost kitten or a sewer rat?"
"What do you want?" she blurts out. "Do you want me to be scared of you? To roll over and play dead?"
"No, but they will," Supervillain says, stepping closer. "Think about it, Starflower. The Supers burst into this awful place, find you sad, wet, and pathetic in here. They won't see the three minxes you knocked out cold--with some help, but still. Instead they'll see the poor little supergirl who couldn't even patrol on her own."
Her blood runs cold, "How did you know--?"
"And the second they get their hands on you, they'll never let you even look at a hero suit again."
They lock eyes with Hero in the mirror as they pull out their vape pen. The smell of maple sugar mixes with the pungent bathroom smell.
"Tell me, Starflower, is that really, really what you want?"
CW: Nudity, Mild Sexual References (Not Explicit), Assume The Worst
Part 8: A Man And A Woman
Alyse had been given a simple instruction, as simple as they come. “Wait, I will not be long.”
Simple as they come. Wait. Do nothing. Just sit and wait. There was no task, no action. Truly, there was nothing easier than just waiting. Alyse knew this, knew this was something she should be able to do with ease and yet–
It seemed so incredibly difficult.
Alyse had nodded, as she always did to show she was listening and settled herself down onto the low stone bench. It sat just outside her master’s bathing chambers, carved of limestone and cold. Even through her dress, Alyse could feel the chill seeping up against the bottom of her thighs.
Valerius hadn’t asked this of her before. His bathing was a private ritual, an event with no onlookers. It happened deep in the shadows of night and seemed a task that, of course, happened but left no mark. Valerius never had damp hair, never walked from his chambers as if even a drop of water had touched him. He bathed and cleaned and dried all within his time there, a long, long– grueling long time.
The door had closed behind him with a soft, definitive click. She had heard the latch engage, heard his footsteps retreating across the stone floor, heard the distant sound of water beginning to run.
Or so, she could have sworn.
She sat. She waited. She counted the cracks in the opposite wall. She traced the pattern of the floor tiles with her eyes. She listened to the water, the soft splash of movement, the occasional clink of glass against stone.
She had never understood how anyone could spend so long simply getting clean, but she had never asked. Asking was not her place. Wondering, however—wondering was something her simple mind did whether she willed it or not.
The corridor was dark, lit only by the faint glow of a single candle in a sconce at the far end. The flames of the few others had burned down to pools of wax, their light long since faded into smoke. Shadows pooled in the corners, thick and patient, and the only sound was the distant crackle of a fire in some room she could not name. The manor was sleeping. Or as close to sleeping as it ever got. And she was here, on this cold bench, waiting for a master who had said he would not be long but who was, by any measure, being very long indeed.
She did not know how much time passed. Minutes, certainly. Perhaps an hour. The candle at the end of the corridor guttered, its flame shrinking to a small, desperate blue. She watched it, focusing on its dance, trying to lose herself in the movement of light and shadow. It did not work. Her mind, that simple, restless thing, kept drifting back to the door behind her. To the sound within. To the question she could not ask and should not ask and yet could not stop asking herself: what was he doing in there? What did it look like, the bathing of a lord? Was it like hers—a quick splash of water, a rough scrubbing with harsh soap, a hurried drying before the chill could set in? Or was it something else? Something slower. Something stranger. Something she could not imagine because she had never been allowed to imagine it.
The door was not closed.
She noticed it slowly, the way one notices the first drops of rain on a cloudy day. A sliver of light, thin as a blade, where the dark of the corridor met the dark of the door. It was not much—barely a crack, barely a gap—but it was there. The door had not latched. Perhaps it had never latched. Perhaps he had left it that way on purpose. Perhaps he was testing her, watching from within to see what she would do, whether she would obey the simple instruction or whether her curiosity would get the better of her.
She should not look. She knew she should not look. The instruction was to wait. Not to watch. Not to peer through the crack in the door and see what her master did in the privacy of his own chambers. Waiting was passive. Waiting was still. Waiting was something even the simplest lamb could do. She had been given one task, only one, and that task was to sit on this cold bench and do nothing until he emerged, clean and dry and impossibly composed, and told her that her vigil was over.
And yet.
Her hands twisted in her lap, the silk fabric of her dress bunching between her fingers. Her ears, usually so still and demure, twitched toward the sound of water—a soft splash, a gentle ripple, the kind of sound that spoke of slow, deliberate movement rather than hurried washing. She could smell him now, or rather, she could smell the soap he used, something sandalwood and sharp, something that cut through the damp stone scent of the corridor and wrapped itself around her like a thread pulling her toward the crack of light. The steam that seeped through the gap was warm on her cold cheeks, a whisper of heat that made her shiver even as she leaned toward it.
She rose from the bench.
She did not mean to. Her body moved before her mind could catch up, drawn by the crack of light, the whisper of sound, the unbearable curiosity of knowing there was something on the other side she was not supposed to see. Her feet were silent on the stone, bare as always, and she crossed the short distance to the door in what felt like both an instant and an eternity.
She stood before the door. The gap was wider now—or perhaps she was simply closer. She could see the edge of the tub, a curve of dark marble, and the flicker of candlelight on water. The candles were many, their flames reflected in the surface of the bath, turning the water into a pool of liquid gold. The steam rose in lazy curls, obscuring and revealing by turns, and through it all, she could hear his breathing—slow, even, unhurried.
Her hand, trembling, reached for the wood.
She did not push. She did not open. She simply pressed her eye to the crack and let her gaze wander into the steam-bright room beyond, her breath held in her chest as if the slightest exhalation might give her away.
He was there.
Valerius sat with his back to her, the water lapping at his chest, his shoulders broad and pale in the candlelight. She had seen his shoulders before—through the thin fabric of his shirts, the tailored cut of his coats—but never like this. Never bare, never wet, never with the soft gleam of water tracing the lines of muscle and bone. His hair, usually bound or combed into sleek submission, hung loose and dark with moisture, clinging to his neck and shoulders in heavy, silver strands. The ends of it trailed in the water, fanning out like the roots of some pale, underwater tree.
His eyes were closed. His head was tilted back against the rim of the tub, his throat exposed, his lips slightly parted. He looked peaceful in a way she had never seen him—peaceful and unguarded, the sharp edges of his authority softened by the warmth and the steam and the simple act of being alone. His chest rose and fell with each slow breath, the movement so steady it almost seemed like sleep.
She had never seen him like this. Not once. Not in all the months she had lived under his roof, in his shadow, at his feet. The lord was always composed, always controlled, always watching—his eyes cool and assessing, his posture perfect, his voice a blade wrapped in silk. But here, in the candlelit dark, he was simply a man. A man with wet hair and tired eyes and a body that, for all its power and elegance, was still made of flesh and bone. She could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight furrow of his brow, the small, unconscious parting of his lips. She could see the way the water beaded on his skin, catching the light like tiny jewels, and the way his fingers, resting on the edge of the tub, curled slightly inward as if reaching for something that was not there.
She should look away.
She did not.
She could not. Her eye was fixed to the crack, her body frozen in place, her mind blank and full all at once. She was seeing something she was not meant to see, something private and intimate and entirely not for her, and yet he had left the door cracked. He had left it cracked on purpose, she was certain of it now. He had left it cracked because he wanted to know what she would do, because he was always testing her, always watching, always waiting to see if she would prove herself worthy of the strange, suffocating, terrible privilege of being his.
“Are you watching me, little lamb?”
The muscles in her legs melted to liquid in an instant. She was a fool, a fool who had been caught and was now simply… dissolving. Yes, that was it. She would dissolve, right there. Out of fear or– rather embarrassment. She would melt and leak into the cracks of the floor and never, ever, ever return.
Through the crack, she heard him laugh. Not his usual cold, cutting laugh, but something softer. Something almost fond.
"The door is cracked for a reason," he said, and she could hear him shifting in the water, could imagine him turning to face the door, though she did not dare look again to confirm. "I did not think you would take so long to notice."
She could not speak. Her throat was too tight, her face too hot. She had been caught. She had been bad. She had broken the simplest instruction—wait, do nothing, just wait—and now he would be angry, and he would punish her, and she deserved it, she deserved all of it, every stroke of the switch, every cold word, every reminder that she was nothing but a stupid, disobedient lamb who could not even manage to sit on a bench without—
"Alyse."
His voice cut through the spiral, calm and steady, and the sound of her name on his lips was like a hand reaching into the dark to pull her back from the edge.
It would not let her melt, dissolve, or whatever pitiful thing she was trying to do. It would gather her up, mold her back into the trembling, disobedient, curious, audacious little lamb. It would not let her hide or slink away or do anything at all besides what it demanded, what it wanted. Her master’s whim.
To which she was to obey, to which she was to whisper and pray to as if it were god’s word. To which she was not supposed to test or sneak or peep. Bad lamb. Bad Alyse. Wait. That was all she had to do. Wait and be still.
"Come here."
She stared at the door. At the crack. At the light spilling through.
"Now."
Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, drawn by the weight of his command, by the impossibility of doing anything else. She pushed the door open—just enough to slip through, just enough to feel the full force of the steam and warmth and candlelight wash over her like a wave—and stepped into the room beyond.
The bathing chamber was larger than she had imagined, though she was not sure what she had imagined. The ceiling was high, lost in shadow, and the walls were lined with dark marble veined with gold. Candles stood on every surface—on the wide rim of the sunken tub, on the marble ledges, on the small table near the fire—their flames multiplying in the mirrors that hung between the windows, doubling and redoubling until the room seemed to hold more light than should have been possible. The air was thick with steam and the sharp, clean scent of sandalwood, and the heat pressed against her skin like a living thing, chasing away the chill of the corridor and the cold of the stone bench.
She did not look at him.
She could not. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, on the wet stones, on the small puddles of water that reflected the candlelight like scattered coins. Her bare feet were dark against the pale marble, and she watched them carry her forward, step by step, until she could will herself no further.
There was a silence between them, one that seemed longer than the duration of all of Alyse’s waiting ten fold. The steam clung to her, seeping into her silk, sticking to her skin. The sandalwood, which had been so pleasant from afar now turned and turned in her head, sickening her to her core.
“You were told to wait, were you not?”
He spoke, at last. But Alyse wished he hadn’t.
“Yes, master.”
“You looked though, did you not?” It was not a question, not truly. It was delivered in the same cold tone that he spoke when he said the night was dark or the fire hot.
Alyse shifted, the dampness of the stone beneath her making her toes feel far too warm. As if they were burning, about to burn straight off, crinkle up and turn to ash. She had no defense. No excuse. The curiosity had been a living thing, a creature in her chest that had clawed its way up her throat and pressed her eye to the crack before she could stop it. She could not explain it, could not justify it, could not offer any reason that would not sound like the bleating of a stupid, simple lamb who could not even manage to sit on a bench and do nothing.
“Yes, master.”
Valerius clicked his tongue, loud as a gun shot. Alyse flinched, the water squeaking beneath her feet as she nearly scuttled to the opposite end of the bathing chamber. Though, graciously, she managed to contain herself.
“It was just one word. Wait. A word you know. It was not a difficult task.” He paused, but Alyse did not speak. “Can you not follow one word commands, my darling?”
“I can, master.” She whispered, a tiny pip from her trembling lips.
“Then I shall give you another, see if you can handle that.” The water splashed, sloping up along the edge of the tub but Alyse’s gaze could not, and would not, rise. “Strip.”
The word landed between them like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the steam-thick air. Alyse's breath caught in her throat, her lungs seizing as if the heat had suddenly become too thick to breathe. The sandalwood scent, which had been making her head spin, now seemed to press against her from all sides, heavy and cloying, and she could feel her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged thing desperate to escape.
Strip.
One word. Another simple command, another test she was already failing simply by hesitating, by standing there with her eyes fixed on the wet stones and her hands clenched in the silk of her dress. Her fingers had gone white at the knuckles, the delicate fabric bunched and twisted between them, and she could not make them let go. Could not make them move to the ties at her shoulders, the laces at her back, the small, simple fastenings that held her clothing in place.
She could hear him shifting in the water, the soft ripple of movement, the faint splash as he perhaps turned to face her or perhaps simply settled more deeply into the warmth. She could not look. She would not look. Her gaze was nailed to the floor.
"Alyse."
Her name, spoken in that low, patient tone, was worse than any shout. It reminded her that he was waiting, that he was watching, that every second of her hesitation was a wordless answer to his command.
"I am waiting," he said, and she could hear the faint edge of amusement in his voice now, the same almost fond tone he had used when he caught her at the crack in the door. "You wanted to see. Now I am giving you the opportunity to be seen. Or do you only want to look when you are not the one being looked at?"
The words were a barb, sharp and precise, and they pierced through the fog of her fear. She wanted to say that it was different, that he was different, that looking at him while he was unguarded and unawares was not the same as standing here, in the full light of a hundred candles, and letting him watch as she—
She could not finish the thought. Her mind shied away from it like a skittish horse, refusing to name what he was asking, what he was demanding, what he had every right to demand because she was his, because he was her master, because the word wait had been too difficult and now she was paying the price for her curiosity.
Her hands unclenched.
It was not a decision. Her fingers simply uncurled, the silk of her dress slipping free, and she reached up to the ties at her left shoulder. The knot was small, tight, and her fingers were trembling so badly that it took three tries to loosen it. She moved to the right shoulder, then to the laces at her back, her arms twisting awkwardly to reach them, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
The silk pooled at her waist, then at her hips, then fell to the wet stone in a soft, whispering heap. The steam curled around her, warm and damp, and she could feel his gaze on her skin like a physical thing, tracing the curve of her spine, the sharp lines of her shoulder blades, the soft swell of her hips.
A sound purred in the base of her master’s throat, a pleased noise of a predator who’s prey was baring her throat. Alyse heard the water splash again, but this time it painted her skin as her master curled around her. Her feet slipped and if he was not as precise as he was, her head would have cracked against the marble.
Yet, for all his cruelness, he was gentle as he captured the lamb, taking her off her feet. Her skin pressed up against his, the water seeping between them, hands gathered around her tiny waist until she was dispensed with ease into the tub alongside him.
The water was a shock, not of cold, but of heat so profound it stole the breath from her lungs. It was a different heat than the air, a liquid heat that seeped into her very marrow, a warmth that felt both like a comfort and a brand. Alyse sank for a moment, her body limp and unresisting, until his arm, strong and sure, hooked around her waist and drew her back against his chest. Her back was flush against him, skin to slick skin, and she could feel the steady, solid beat of his heart through her own spine. The silver strands of his hair, now wet and heavy, brushed against her shoulder, and the scent of sandalwood was no longer in the air but was on her, in her, a part of her own breath.
She was in the bath with him. She was naked in the bath with her master. The thought was so immense, so terrifying, that her mind refused to hold it. It slipped away, leaving only the raw, immediate sensations: the heat of the water, the hardness of his chest against her back, the weight of his arm holding her in place, the soft lapping of the water against her breasts as he settled her more firmly against him.
“What are you thinking?” Valerius breathed, the air tickling her ear and making it twitch.
“I am scared, master.” She whispered back, afraid to speak too loud, as if the water around them was made of glass and if she dared to raise her voice it would shatter and splinter into her vulnerable skin.
But her master would not allow such a thing. No, of course not. Valerius wouldn’t allow a single hair on that lamb’s head to be touched by anything but him. And in that moment, he wanted to touch her. Desperately.
Her tiny body was pressed so tight against his, so warm, she kept shifting if she knew it or not. Her knees knocked against his, the curves of her body fit just perfectly into his. Did she not know? She must not. Or she would not be squirming so much.
Innocent little thing. Prime for the picking. Nude and helpless and entirely his.
“It is not often you see me like this, is it?” He cooed, easing a hand so that it splayed flat over her stomach. “Did I look like your master then? When you were spying on me? Or did I look like someone else?”
Alyse willed her body to relax, willed it to still as she knew she was meant to. “Someone else, sir.”
“And who did I look like to you, lamb?”
“Like a man.” She tilted her head up, catching a glimpse of his expression.
It was amused, heavily, a smile played across his lips. But there was something else in it, a hungry thing. A thing that would ravage her if just given the chance. A single word and it would take her, all of her, right, then, splashing in the water, in the heat and the sandal wood and her cries would echo like an angel’s melody off those hollow walls…
Not tonight, if he could help it. Though with each passing second, Valerius for the first time was not so sure of his own control.
“Am I not a man to you?”
The question hung in the steam-thick air, heavy and strange, and Alyse felt it settle into her chest like a stone dropped into deep water. She could feel his hand on her stomach, warm and solid, the weight of it both a comfort and a brand. His fingers were still, not moving, not tracing patterns—just resting there, as if he were cataloging the feel of her, the softness of her skin, the way her breath came in short, shallow gasps beneath his palm.
"Am I not a man to you?"
She did not know how to answer. The question was too large, too complex, too full of meanings she could not untangle. He was her master. He was a lord. He was the figure who loomed over her in her nightmares and held her through her tears and punished her when she was bad and praised her when she was good. He was all of those things, and none of them, and something else besides—something she did not have words for, something she had only glimpsed in the crack of the door, in the quiet moments when his mask slipped and she saw the tiredness in his eyes, the softness in his mouth, the small, private smile that was not meant for anyone.
"You are my master," she said, because it was the only truth she knew for certain.
His hand on her stomach tightened, just slightly, just enough for her to feel the strength in his fingers. "That is not what I asked."
She swallowed, her throat dry despite the steam. The water lapped at her collarbone, warm and gentle, and she could feel his breath on her ear, soft and steady. He was so close—closer than he had ever been, closer than she had ever imagined anyone could be. She could feel the thrum of his pulse through his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing, the heat of his skin where it pressed against her back.
“I do not–” Alyse hesitated again, ears folded back against her hair that frizzed in the humidity. “-I do not understand, master…”
A chuckle, one that raised an army of goosebumps along her skin. “That much is very clear, my lamb. You do not understand that I am both. Your master and a man. A man with a woman on his lap, a naked squirming woman who cannot–” His lips pressed against the curve of her throat. “ –seem to sit still.”
A soft whimper escaped her lips, a sound swallowed by the steam and the gentle lapping of water. His words were a revelation, each one a stone turning over to reveal something she had never dared to imagine. A man with a woman on his lap. The phrase echoed in her mind, strange and electrifying. She was not a servant being punished. She was not a lamb being tested. She was a woman.
And he was a man.
The distinction was terrifying. A master could be obeyed, a lord could be served, their motives were clear, their expectations a known landscape. But a man… a man was a wilderness. A man had wants that had nothing to do with obedience or service, wants that were primal and unpredictable. And a woman was the object of those wants. She was no longer a creature of tasks and duties, but of flesh and feeling, and she was utterly, terrifyingly out of her depth.
"I am sorry, master," she stammered, the apology an automatic reflex, a shield against the unknown. "I will be still. I will."
"No," he murmured against her throat, his voice a low, intimate vibration that made her tremble. "You will not." His lips moved from her throat to the sensitive skin just below her ear, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate circle that made her gasp and arch against him. "You will not be still. You will not be silent. I do not want a statue on my lap, Alyse. I want the woman who was curious enough to put her eye to a crack in the door. I want the creature who cannot seem to stop squirming."
His hand, the one that had been resting so heavily on her stomach, began to move. It was not a demanding touch, but an exploratory one. His fingers splayed wide, his thumb stroking the soft skin just above her navel, tracing the delicate line of her ribs. Each movement was a question, and her body's response—a shiver, a hitched breath, the tightening of her muscles—was an answer she could not control.
"Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice a husky whisper. "That is not the touch of a master correcting his property. That is the touch of a man learning the shape of his woman."
His woman. The words struck her with the force of a physical blow. She had been his servant, his lamb, his charge. But his woman was something else entirely. It was a claim, a possession of a different kind. It was a claim not on her service, but on her very being.
His hand drifted lower, bypassing the place where her fear coiled, a tight, hot knot, and moving to her thigh. His fingers curled around it, his grip firm but not painful, and he gently pulled, parting her legs until her knee was hooked over his, opening her to him in the warm, water-laden air. A fresh wave of heat washed over her, a blush so deep it felt like a fever. She was exposed, vulnerable, laid bare in a way that had nothing to do with her nakedness.
"Look at me," he commanded again, his voice leaving no room for disobedience.
With a supreme effort of will, she forced her gaze to meet his. The amusement was still there, but it was banked, hidden behind a fire so intense it made her want to look away. His eyes were dark pools of want, of hunger, of a need so profound it seemed to pull at her very soul.
“Get out of my tub, lamb. Before I forget that you are my pet and not my woman.”
She should move. She knew she should move. Her body was screaming at her to obey, to scramble out of the water, to wrap herself in a towel and flee to the safety of her cold, lonely room. But her limbs would not cooperate. They had turned to water, to steam, to something insubstantial that could not hold her weight.
"Master—" she began, but the word died on her lips.
He shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible motion. "Do not. Do not say that word right now."
His hands were still on her—one on her thigh, still gripping, still holding her open to him; the other on her waist, his fingers splayed wide, as if he were measuring her, memorizing the curve of her hip, the softness of her skin. But he was not moving. He was holding himself still, holding himself back, and she could see the effort it cost him in the tight line of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.
"You are my master," she whispered, because it was the only anchor she had, the only truth she could hold onto in the shifting, uncertain landscape of this moment.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the fire was still there, but it was banked, contained, hidden behind a wall of will that she could almost see, almost touch.
"I am," he said. "And you are my lamb. My pet. My charge. But you are also a woman. And I am a man. And men and women do things that masters and pets should not."
She felt a shiver run through her—not of cold, not of fear, but of something else. Something that made her want to stay, to press closer, to see what those things were.
"Alyse." His voice was strained now, the control slipping, just a little. "Get out of the tub. Please."
The word please was what did it. Not the command, not the warning, but the plea—the acknowledgment that he was asking, not demanding, that something in his was straining. Something she did not understand and something she did not want to test if it would bring even her master to his knees.
She moved.
It was clumsy, ungraceful—a fumbling scramble of limbs and water and the desperate need to obey. Her knee slipped on the wet marble, and his hand shot out, steadying her, helping her rise without falling. He did not look at her as she climbed out of the tub. His gaze was fixed on the candle flames, on the dancing shadows, on anything but her naked, dripping body.
She grabbed a towel—the first one she could reach—and wrapped it around herself, clutching it closed with fingers that would not stop shaking. The stone floor was cold beneath her bare feet, a shock after the warmth of the water, and she stood there, shivering, waiting, not knowing what came next.
He did not move. He stayed in the water, his back to her now, his head bowed, his hands resting on the rim of the tub. The muscles in his shoulders were taut, corded, as if he were holding himself together by sheer force of will.
“Go, lamb. Quickly now, your master only has so much strength.” His eyes flickered over his own shoulder, taking her in just a second longer.
Someday, he would ruin her. Someday their flesh would meet, someday she would be his woman and not just his pet. Someday. But not today.
love that you responded with a great spanking whumperflies post, thank you. ill provide some ideas in exchange. feel free to build off them for inspiration
caretaker/carewhumper being reluctant about it, but whumpee will punish themselves if caretaker doesn't. it could be a maintenance thing, it could be the caretaker making rules that slowly get less strict as recovery continues, there could be aftercare, so on.
having to choose between a more brutal beating or a series of spankings. on one hand, the beating would be harsh, but done with relatively quick. on the other, the spanking healing process would be 'safer', less bloody, and likely less scarring.
intimate/sadistic whumper reassuring whumpee that they aren't going to do *that* to them as they're manhandling them. no, they just enjoy whumpee's 'cute' reactions and the end result.
obedient whumpee is rewarded for adapting to their 'new role' so fast that whumper usually uses spanking for them instead of the typical torture punishments other whumpees get from whumper. of course, the others get jealous, why do they get off 'easy'?
will probably send more later, if you're interested, this is my *shit*
alyse waking up from a bad dream and wondering if she can seek out valerius for comfort?
or maybe alyse hanging out with the kitty again?
idk i just love alyse and the whole story is great
Lamb To The Slaughter
Alyse has a nightmare, the poor thing.
CW: Assume The Worst
(I'm sorry this took me so long)
Part 7: A Lamb's Nightmare
What could a lamb have a nightmare about? The well water running dry? The grass falling dead? A wolf in the pastor? A shepherd who has gone and not returned? Silly little things. Silly little lamb.
If she thought at all about the dream, Alyse that is, she would have realized it made no sense at all. But senselessness was lost on her. She did not think too hard about anything in particular, that was for her master to do. Thinking got her in trouble. Thinking started to make her feel and she wasn’t supposed to feel. Not really. Just happy and content when Valerius permitted.
Spoiled little thing. Rotten spoiled little thing.
“Ungrateful.”
“No– no, master- no, sir!”
The ground rumbled beneath her, cracks forming in the filthy concrete. Iron poles erupted like daisies, up, and up and blistering through the stone, forming a prison around Alyse. She spun, desperately, clinging to each pole, trying to find a way out but they just kept coming. An onslaught until she was entirely confined.
It was a space she knew, of course she knew it. She had spent her life within in. The tiny little cage that she’s merely survived in at the pet shop. The filthy and the flies and the odor… Oh god, she was going to vomit. Truly, she was going to!
“Master? You’ve never called me that before, mutt.”
A face flashed up against the bars, skin squelching and spilling through like melted butter. Alyse recoiled in an instant, landing on her behind, suddenly dressed not in her silk nightgown but in the pitiful potato sack garb of her past.
It was not Valerius as she had thought at first, not as the voice had been. Instead there, spilling over like bile was the shopkeeper. His fat squealed, popping as if it were placed on a castiron skillet, bubbling and oozing and– oh! She couldn’t look. She couldn’t!
“Look at me! Look at me, you worthless fucking lamb!”
No– no… No- she couldn’t. Please! She couldn’t!
A hand grabbed her, she expected a sloosh of grease, the awful little stubby fingers of the shopkeeper but that did not come. They were slender fingers, gloved in silk, rough and firm and pulling her head up. “Does my lamb have something in her ears?”
Master- Valerius but— It had just been the shopkeeper, hadn’t it? If only she was smart enough to know this was a dream, but alas, that was expecting too much from her.
The cage was closing in. The iron bars, slick with something she didn't want to name, pressed against her shoulders, her back, her ribs. The smell was the worst part—old straw, old fear, old sweat, and beneath it all, the sweet, cloying rot of something forgotten. Alyse's breath came in short, sharp gasps, her chest too tight, the air too thick.
The shopkeeper's face had melted back into the shadows, his voice still echoing, but the grip on her chin was new. Cold. Certain.
Valerius's eyes bored into hers, twin chips of amber in the gloom of the dream-cage. His gloved fingers were bruising on her jaw. "Have you found my orders disagreeable?"
She tried to shake her head, but the motion was trapped, stifled by the bars. Her lips wouldn't part. Her tongue was a dead weight.
"Am I not worthy of your eyes, my lamb?" His voice was soft, almost gentle, and that made it worse. The devil's tongue indeed—silk wrapped around a blade. "Have we grown a little big for our breeches?"
No. No, master, please. I was looking. I was trying to look. The shopkeeper was there—he was there and I couldn't—
But the words were stones in her throat. She could only stare, wide-eyed, as his grip tightened, as the cage shrank, as the familiar, hated stench of the pet shop wrapped around her like a shroud.
"You think you can leave?" he asked, his head tilting, his smile thin and cruel. "You think you can go back to the way things were? To the dirt and the chains and the hands that didn't know your worth?"
She was shaking her head now, frantic, desperate motions that made her teeth rattle. No. No, I don't. I don't want to go back. I don't—
"Then why do you dream of it?" His voice was a whisper, right against her ear, his breath cold. "Why do you return, in your sleep, to the place I rescued you from? Is my house not enough? Is my bed too soft? My hand too gentle?"
Gentle? The word was a foreign concept in the nightmare, bouncing off the iron bars. His hand was many things, but gentle was not the first that came to mind. And yet, compared to the shopkeeper's greasy, grasping fingers, compared to the cage and the flies and the endless, hopeless waiting—
"Master," she finally choked out, the word a broken, wet sound. "Master, please—"
"Please what, little lamb?" He released her chin, but the cage didn't expand. The bars held firm. He stepped back, just out of reach, his silhouette dark against the flickering, uncertain light. "Please save you? Please keep you? Please want you, when you are so eager to return to the gutter in your dreams?"
I'm not. I'm not eager. I hate it here. I hate it.
But the cage was familiar. The fear was familiar. The shopkeeper's voice, still echoing somewhere in the shadows, was a lullaby of misery she had known for years. And Valerius, standing outside the bars, watching her with those cold, assessing eyes—he was the stranger. The variable. The unknown.
“Alyse.”
His voice was different now, cutting through the fog and the grime and the fear. Alyse stilled, eyes wider than diner sauces.
“Alyse.” She jolted forward. That was him. That was her master. Her real one– “Wake up, lamb.”
Valerius had heard his lamb stir from his own chambers. Every whisper and every drop in the manor went to his ears. He could hear Alyse’s soft breathing, deeply twisted in sleep and then heard as it hitched.
Mercifully, he’d wake her if it got too much but for the moment he simply listened.
It was subtle– a shift from the deep, even rhythm of sleep to something shallower, more rapid. Valerius stilled, relcined in his own chambers, having been pondering away the hours til dawn.
A soft whimper. A rustle of sheets. Her breath caught, then released in a shaky exhale. There was something there, something in his lamb’s mind, crawling up from the very dark corners that she tried to keep hidden even from him.
Dare he think this to be… cute in a way?
The thought surfaced, unbidden and he examined it with cold amusement. A lamb, dreaming of wolves. Of course it was predictable. Of course it was, in its own way, pathetic and yet—
Through the slumbering halls, he heard her gasp again. A small choked sound, like someone trying to scream and failing. To anyone else, it would have been barely a brush of air but Valerius heard it so clear. His ears twitched. The sheets rustled again violently, a thrashing motion.
He should wake her. It was practical, merciful. A distressed lamb was a useless lamb. An inconvenient lamb.
Still, he did not move.
He listened to the symphony of her horror– the whimpers and the hitched breathing and the tiny broken little sounds that escaped through her clenched throat. He heard her mumble somethin, a word swallowed by sleep and then another, clearer this time.
“Master…”
It was not a call for rescue, she was still fitifully asleep. It instead sounded depserate, an unconscious reaching.
It did something to him. Something he didn’t care to name. It tightened in his chest, a strange possessive ache. He caused her fear, intentionally, deliberately, with practiced movements. This was not that. This was a version of him that he did not control, that he did not yield. What was it doing to his lamb? In her dream, she was afraid.
Of me? Valerius wondered. Or for me?
What could her head be dreaming up? Alyse thought of such wonderfully stupid things sometimes that Valerius couldn’t even begin to crack open that strange head of her’s.
He couldn’t figure it out. The distinction of fear of and fear for mattered, somehow, though he didn’t know why.
Her breathing grew more ragged. A soft, broken sob escaped her, followed by a wordless, keening sound that raised the hair on his arms.
Enough.
Alyse
His voice carried through the halls, slithering beneath her door and whispering in her ears. He waited a second but she did not stir.
Alyse. Wake up, lamb.
Her eyes flew open.
The darkness of her room was a different darkness than the dream—softer, familiar, smelling of lavender and old wood rather than rot and iron. For a moment, Alyse was suspended between worlds, her heart a frantic drum, her breath caught in her throat. The cage was gone. The shopkeeper's melted face was gone. But the echo of his voice—her master's voice—still lingered, cold and sharp.
She was alone.
The realization crashed over her, cold and disorienting. She was in her bed, in her room, tangled in her own sheets. The fire had burned low, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The silence was absolute, save for the pounding of her own heart.
He woke me.
The thought surfaced slowly, pushing through the fog of terror. His voice had cut through the nightmare like a blade, pulling her from the depths. But he wasn't here. She could feel his absence like a physical thing—the empty space beside her, the cold sheets, the stillness of the room.
She sat up, her body trembling, her chemise soaked through with sweat. The nightmare clung to her like a second skin—the bars, the smell, his cold, assessing eyes. Why do you dream of it? the dream-him still asked. Is my house not enough?
A sob caught in her throat, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle it. She didn't know if he was still listening. He could hear everything—every whisper, every breath, every broken little sound. The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it was another cage, another set of bars.
It is enough. It is more than enough. She is grateful, so grateful. The most grateful lamb to ever be, didn’t he know that? Didn’t she make it clear? That was just a dream thought, not real, not ever real.
Except if it wasn’t real why couldn’t she stop these awful tears?
“Master?” She called out into the emptiness, praying that he was still listening. Her voice felt so small, swallowed up by the night air that cooled and stilled unlike her shivering form. “Please… Master, please…”
She wanted him. No, needed. She needed him.
“I am not–” She hiccuped, dropping her head down in a shudder. “ –allowed to leave my chambers undressed but– please, please… I need you. I really really need you.”
There was nothing that could calm her like him, nothing that would quell her fears. She needed her master. A lost little lamb needed her shepherd, but he did not answer. Perhaps he was no longer listening.
The thought was a blade, twisting in her chest. Of course he wasn’t. He had woken her, one his dutym returned to his own concerns. She was not his priority She was a pet, a possession, a creature to be managed, not coddled. She knew this. She had always known this.
Then why did it hurt so much?
Another sob escaped her, broken and raw. She pressed her fist to her mouth, bitind down on her knuckles, trying to stifle the sound. If he was listening. If he cared to listen.
He doesn’t. He woke you. That’s all. That’s all you get.
Alyse uncurled from herself, her movements slow and sluggish and out of her control. She needed him. Needed. She couldn’t wait here, not in the dark, not where the nightmare still clung ot her skin. She stepped out into the hall, dressed in nothing but a thin silk nightgown.
Stupid lamb. Rotten, spoiled, stupid lamb. He gave you a room and clothes and food and this is how you repay him? With tears? With nightmares? With pathetic, whimpering pleas in the dark?
She hated herself in that moment. Hated her weakness, her need, her endless, grasping hunger for his attention. She was supposed to be content. Happy, when he permitted. Grateful, always. That was her role. That was her purpose.
But she wasn't content. She was hollow and shaking and cold, and the dream was still there, lurking at the edges of her consciousness, waiting to drag her back under. And he wasn't here. He wasn't coming.
And just in those few moments, she found herself lost. The halls were not the same without the candle light. They were dark, wide, hopeless and endless. She wondered further, not sure how many times she had turned or if she had turned at all. Was she there yet? Or was she closer to stumbling down a flight of stairs?
Is my house not enough?
It is, she thought, the words a desperate silent prayer. It is enough. You are enough. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please–
She bumped into something, hard and warm. It took her a second to feel the shift in the air. A change in pressure, the subtle unmistakable presence of him.
The candles flickered on, her head lifted, eyes wide, breath caught in her tiny throat.
He stood there before her, a silhouette against the dim light of the corridor. His face was unreadable, shrouded in shadow but she knew the shape of him– even the smell of him. Those were his broad shoulders, not the shop keepers. That was his proud set, his quiet commanding stillness.
“Master.” She breathed, watching to crash into him but instead only managing a broken, grateful whisper.
He didn’t speak, not for a moment. Instead he ran his knuckles along the side of her face, brushing away some of the tears that glistened off the fire light. He was unreadable but steady.
“You called for me,” He said. It wasn’t a question.
She nodded, a jerky motion, her throat too tight for words.
“And you left your chambers. Undressed.” His voice was flat, but there was something beneath it– something she couldn’t place. It did not sound like anger, but she rarely heard that on his tongue to begin with. “You broke a rule.”
The words were a slap, cold and sharp. She flinched, her gaze dropping to her lap. "I know. I'm sorry. I just—I needed—"
"You needed." He cut her off, his voice soft but edged. "And your need supersedes my rules?"
"No!" The word burst out of her, desperate and raw. She looked up at him, her eyes swimming with fresh tears. "No, master. Never. I just—I couldn't—the dream was so real, and you weren't there, and I thought—I thought if I just called, if I just asked—"
She broke off, a sob catching in her throat. She was making a mess of this, a terrible, pathetic mess. He would be angry. He would punish her. And she deserved it, she deserved all of it, for being so weak, so needy, so—
His hand came up and cupped her face.
The touch was gentle—shockingly, impossibly gentle. His thumb brushed across her cheek, wiping away a tear. She froze, her breath hitching, her eyes wide.
"You are a trial," he said, his voice low. "A constant, exhausting, bewildering trial."
She nodded, because it was true. She was. She knew she was.
"You call for me in the dark. You break my rules. You weep into my sheets and beg for my presence as if I were the air you breathe." His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow and deliberate. "And I find myself—inexplicably, annoyingly—unable to ignore you."
Her heart stuttered. "Master?"
"Do not mistake this for weakness," he said, his voice hardening slightly. "I am not here because you 'need' me. I am here because your distress is an inconvenience, and I prefer my property to be functional. A lamb that cannot sleep is a lamb that cannot serve."
It was cold. It was clinical. It was exactly the kind of thing he would say.
But his hand was still on her face, and his thumb was still brushing away her tears, and he had come. When she called, he had come.
"I understand," she whispered.
"Do you?" He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Do you understand that this—" he gestured vaguely between them, "—is not a precedent? That I will not come every time you cry, every time you dream, every time you feel the vast, empty space of your own inadequacy?"
She swallowed, her throat dry. "Yes, master."
"Good." He released her chin, but his hand remained on her face, warm and solid. His thumb stilled, resting against the curve of her cheekbone. "Then why are you still standing in my hallway, dressed like a ghost, reeking of tears and terror?"
Alyse blinked, the question pulling her from the haze of relief. She looked down at herself—the thin silk nightgown, the bare feet, the trembling hands. She had broken a rule. She had left her chambers undressed, wandering the dark halls like a lost, pathetic thing.
"I didn't mean—" she started, but the words died in her throat. She had meant. She had meant every step, every turn, every desperate, stumbling search for his presence. She had needed him, and her need had overridden everything else—her training, her fear, her understanding of her place.
"You didn't mean to break my rule," he finished for her, his voice dry. "You simply… did. Because your feelings were too big, and your head was too small, and the dark was too dark." He tilted his head, studying her. "Is that an accurate assessment?"
She nodded, a jerky, shameful motion.
"It is not an excuse." His thumb traced her cheekbone again, almost absently. "But it is an explanation. And explanations, while not excusing behavior, can inform its correction."
She flinched at the word. Correction. She knew what that meant. The switch, the hairbrush, the sharp, stinging lessons that painted her skin in stripes of fire. She deserved it. She knew she deserved it. But the thought, in her current state, was almost more than she could bear.
"Please," she whispered, not even sure what she was begging for. Mercy? Punishment? His arms around her? She didn't know. She only knew she needed him.
Valerius was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching her face. The firelight from somewhere behind her caught the edges of his features, casting them in sharp, golden relief. He looked like a statue—cold, beautiful, untouchable.
Then, he sighed.
It was a soft sound, almost inaudible, but she heard it. She always heard him. "You are fortunate," he said, "that I find your distress more irritating than your disobedience. If you were merely disobedient, you would be over my knee by now."
A fresh wave of tears threatened, but she blinked them back. "I'm sorry."
“Do you want me to rethink my mercy?” He asked, sharp as a blade. “Are you truly sorry without my say so?”
She didn't know how to respond to that. She was sorry. She was always, always sorry. For existing, for needing, for being too much and not enough all at once.
He seemed to read the thought on her face. His expression shifted, something flickering in his eyes—not anger, not quite. Something softer, though he would never admit it.
"Come," he said, and turned.
He didn't reach for her hand. He didn't guide her. He simply walked, expecting her to follow. And she did, her bare feet silent on the cold stone, her nightgown trailing behind her like a ghost's shroud.
He led her not to her room, but to his.
The door was open, the fire within crackling low. His chambers were larger than hers, warmer, smelling of him—sandalwood and old books and something cold, like winter air. She hesitated on the threshold, her eyes wide.
"You have already broken one rule tonight," he said, not looking back. "What is another?"
It wasn't permission, exactly. It was an observation. A test. She stepped inside.
He moved to the fireplace, stirring the embers with an iron poker. The flames leapt, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. She stood in the center of the room, shivering, her arms wrapped around herself.
He didn't look at her. "The bed. Get in."
She blinked. "Master?"
"You are cold. You are shaking. You are wearing a nightgown better suited to a summer evening than a winter night." He set the poker aside and turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "Get in the bed, Alyse. Before you catch a chill and become an even greater inconvenience."
She hesitated for only a moment, then crossed to the massive bed. The sheets were cool, but the blankets were thick, and the mattress seemed to swallow her as she crawled beneath them. She lay on her side, facing the fire, watching him as he moved about the room.
He poured himself a glass of water—not wine, not spirits, just water—and drank it slowly, his back to her. The fire crackled. The silence stretched.
Finally, he set the glass aside and crossed to the bed. He didn't get in. He sat on the edge, his weight dipping the mattress, and looked down at her.
"The nightmare," he said. "Tell me what you saw."
She swallowed, her throat dry. "The cage. The pet shop. The shopkeeper, but his face was… wrong. Melting. And then you were there, but you were angry, and you asked me—" Her voice broke. "You asked me why I dreamed of it. If your house wasn't enough."
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered. "And what did you answer?"
"I couldn't. I couldn't speak. The words were stuck." A tear slipped down her cheek, tracing a hot path to her ear. "But I wanted to say—I wanted to tell you—it is enough. You are enough. I'm not—I don't want to go back. I never want to go back. I'm grateful. I'm so grateful. I just—"
"You just dream," he finished. "Of cages and shopkeepers and the past you cannot escape. It is not ingratitude, Alyse. It is memory. And memory is not something you control."
She stared at him, surprised by the words. He rarely spoke of such things—of minds and memories and the things that lurked in the dark. He was a creature of action, of consequence, of cold, hard reality.
But here, in the firelight, with her trembling in his bed, he seemed almost… human.
"Tonight," he said, "you will sleep here. In my bed. Under my roof. And if you dream again, I will hear you. And I will wake you. And we will do this again, if necessary."
She blinked. "You… you want me to stay?"
"I want you to sleep," he corrected, his voice sharpening. "I want you to stop crying. I want you to be functional in the morning. What I want is irrelevant. What is necessary is that you rest."
It was the closest thing to care he had ever offered. She clutched it like a lifeline.
"Thank you, master," she whispered.
He didn't answer. He stood, crossed to the other side of the bed, and lay down on top of the blankets, his body a rigid line beside her. He didn't touch her. He didn't pull her close.
But he was there. He had come when she called. He had brought her to his room, his bed, his space. He had chosen to stay.
She closed her eyes, the warmth of the fire and the weight of his presence wrapping around her like a blanket. The nightmare was still there, lurking, but it seemed smaller now, farther away. He was here. He was here.
"Master?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for coming."
He was silent for a long moment. Then, so softly she almost missed it: "Sleep, lamb."
i saw on one of your posts that you were thinking about making a post purely about spanking (in reference to “act like a child, i’ll treat you like a child” type thing) did you ever do so?
Soo it only took me like 5-ish months but I did it!!! I am so sorry.
Link
i know it's been a while since you got asked this, but i'll add my vote to the tin for some spanking whump posts. no specific thing in mind, ill take your favorite parts gratefully. ...if you're still interested in writing it, of course
Here
Ahhhh I'm so sorry it took me so looonnngggggg. Please add some if you think of any!!!
It is humiliating. There's nothing else to say about it. It is just downright humiliating to be spanked. And I fucking love it.
A grown ass male whumpee getting wrestled, fighting with all his might because Fuck you I'm not a child. You can't just do this to me. And he ends up bent over a surface, really any surface.
Maybe his arm is twisted behind his back. Maybe he is sweating. Maybe fighting hurts more than the actual punishment but its the idea. The idea that someone is taking this much control. That someone is treating you like a child-- Less than a child.
Or if Whumpee doesn't know they are getting spanked. They just know Whumper is mad. They just know they did something wrong and Whumper is stalking towards then and manhandling them. They just know they're bent over a table, a bed, a counter, a couch and suddenly Whumper is reaching for their pants.
Whumpee might be relieved when its not that. Or maybe they're even more embarrassed that they though it could be that. Or they're angry. They're scared. They're having flashbacks to their own terrible awful childhood.
It's a display of power. Look how I can place you. Look at you. Bent over to my whim. Vulnerable. I could do anything to you from this angle. Legs splayed, arm twisted, squirming with no where to go. And what am I gonna do exactly? Hurt you. Hurt you in a way you'll remember. Hurt you in the most embarrassing dehumanizing way I can think of.
It's just so versatile too. Hands. Hair Brushes. Canes. Paddles. Fire Pokers. Crops. Spoons. Belts. Straps. Almost any hard object.
It can be anywhere from "This is just embarrassing and doesn't even hurt" to "I can no longer stand or sit or lie down or do anything"
Welts. Bruises. Hand Prints. Stripes.
Being bent over someone's knee for extra credit!
"Bend over, Whumpee. You seem to have a listening problem."
"If you want to act like a child, I will treat you like a fucking child."
"Get over my knee."
*Sound of a belt being unbuckled and pulled through the loops*
*Whumper delicately going through each and every object they could use to spank whumpee in front of them, commenting on the pros and cons of each*
"See this one? This one would leave beautiful welts but this one? Oh this one would make you listen real well I think... Or No--no... That one would break skin for sure. We shouldn't... should we?"
*Whumper soothingly (or not) running their hand over Whumpee's ass after their punishment*
"Do you want an ass beating?" (Whooping, belting, spanking, ect.)
"You know I kinda like this, your pants around your ankles, wiggling all over my lap, that sweet whimper. Gives me some ideas for our future."
Okay I'll prob add more (or YOU SHOULD ADD MORE) but I'm out of ideas.
Awww, thank you for the tag @laurenpiplupfluff2!! You're the best <3
Here's Lisl, my little fantasy whumpee from "Her Roots Run with Blood"
Tags: @melpomenelamusa, @sorrowful-hyacinth, @tilldeathiwillwrite, @whumpsandwhimpers, @auroragehenna, @it-is-whumptastic and anyone else who wants to hop on the train!
I fear everyone knows my girl by now... Alyse from Lamb To The Slaughter. I love her. I just can't stop making her.
Tag List: Open (But also) @whumpitisthen @whumblr @elfwhump
alyse waking up from a bad dream and wondering if she can seek out valerius for comfort?
or maybe alyse hanging out with the kitty again?
idk i just love alyse and the whole story is great
Lamb To The Slaughter
Alyse has a nightmare, the poor thing.
CW: Assume The Worst
(I'm sorry this took me so long)
Part 7: A Lamb's Nightmare
What could a lamb have a nightmare about? The well water running dry? The grass falling dead? A wolf in the pastor? A shepherd who has gone and not returned? Silly little things. Silly little lamb.
If she thought at all about the dream, Alyse that is, she would have realized it made no sense at all. But senselessness was lost on her. She did not think too hard about anything in particular, that was for her master to do. Thinking got her in trouble. Thinking started to make her feel and she wasn’t supposed to feel. Not really. Just happy and content when Valerius permitted.
Spoiled little thing. Rotten spoiled little thing.
“Ungrateful.”
“No– no, master- no, sir!”
The ground rumbled beneath her, cracks forming in the filthy concrete. Iron poles erupted like daisies, up, and up and blistering through the stone, forming a prison around Alyse. She spun, desperately, clinging to each pole, trying to find a way out but they just kept coming. An onslaught until she was entirely confined.
It was a space she knew, of course she knew it. She had spent her life within in. The tiny little cage that she’s merely survived in at the pet shop. The filthy and the flies and the odor… Oh god, she was going to vomit. Truly, she was going to!
“Master? You’ve never called me that before, mutt.”
A face flashed up against the bars, skin squelching and spilling through like melted butter. Alyse recoiled in an instant, landing on her behind, suddenly dressed not in her silk nightgown but in the pitiful potato sack garb of her past.
It was not Valerius as she had thought at first, not as the voice had been. Instead there, spilling over like bile was the shopkeeper. His fat squealed, popping as if it were placed on a castiron skillet, bubbling and oozing and– oh! She couldn’t look. She couldn’t!
“Look at me! Look at me, you worthless fucking lamb!”
No– no… No- she couldn’t. Please! She couldn’t!
A hand grabbed her, she expected a sloosh of grease, the awful little stubby fingers of the shopkeeper but that did not come. They were slender fingers, gloved in silk, rough and firm and pulling her head up. “Does my lamb have something in her ears?”
Master- Valerius but— It had just been the shopkeeper, hadn’t it? If only she was smart enough to know this was a dream, but alas, that was expecting too much from her.
The cage was closing in. The iron bars, slick with something she didn't want to name, pressed against her shoulders, her back, her ribs. The smell was the worst part—old straw, old fear, old sweat, and beneath it all, the sweet, cloying rot of something forgotten. Alyse's breath came in short, sharp gasps, her chest too tight, the air too thick.
The shopkeeper's face had melted back into the shadows, his voice still echoing, but the grip on her chin was new. Cold. Certain.
Valerius's eyes bored into hers, twin chips of amber in the gloom of the dream-cage. His gloved fingers were bruising on her jaw. "Have you found my orders disagreeable?"
She tried to shake her head, but the motion was trapped, stifled by the bars. Her lips wouldn't part. Her tongue was a dead weight.
"Am I not worthy of your eyes, my lamb?" His voice was soft, almost gentle, and that made it worse. The devil's tongue indeed—silk wrapped around a blade. "Have we grown a little big for our breeches?"
No. No, master, please. I was looking. I was trying to look. The shopkeeper was there—he was there and I couldn't—
But the words were stones in her throat. She could only stare, wide-eyed, as his grip tightened, as the cage shrank, as the familiar, hated stench of the pet shop wrapped around her like a shroud.
"You think you can leave?" he asked, his head tilting, his smile thin and cruel. "You think you can go back to the way things were? To the dirt and the chains and the hands that didn't know your worth?"
She was shaking her head now, frantic, desperate motions that made her teeth rattle. No. No, I don't. I don't want to go back. I don't—
"Then why do you dream of it?" His voice was a whisper, right against her ear, his breath cold. "Why do you return, in your sleep, to the place I rescued you from? Is my house not enough? Is my bed too soft? My hand too gentle?"
Gentle? The word was a foreign concept in the nightmare, bouncing off the iron bars. His hand was many things, but gentle was not the first that came to mind. And yet, compared to the shopkeeper's greasy, grasping fingers, compared to the cage and the flies and the endless, hopeless waiting—
"Master," she finally choked out, the word a broken, wet sound. "Master, please—"
"Please what, little lamb?" He released her chin, but the cage didn't expand. The bars held firm. He stepped back, just out of reach, his silhouette dark against the flickering, uncertain light. "Please save you? Please keep you? Please want you, when you are so eager to return to the gutter in your dreams?"
I'm not. I'm not eager. I hate it here. I hate it.
But the cage was familiar. The fear was familiar. The shopkeeper's voice, still echoing somewhere in the shadows, was a lullaby of misery she had known for years. And Valerius, standing outside the bars, watching her with those cold, assessing eyes—he was the stranger. The variable. The unknown.
“Alyse.”
His voice was different now, cutting through the fog and the grime and the fear. Alyse stilled, eyes wider than diner sauces.
“Alyse.” She jolted forward. That was him. That was her master. Her real one– “Wake up, lamb.”
Valerius had heard his lamb stir from his own chambers. Every whisper and every drop in the manor went to his ears. He could hear Alyse’s soft breathing, deeply twisted in sleep and then heard as it hitched.
Mercifully, he’d wake her if it got too much but for the moment he simply listened.
It was subtle– a shift from the deep, even rhythm of sleep to something shallower, more rapid. Valerius stilled, relcined in his own chambers, having been pondering away the hours til dawn.
A soft whimper. A rustle of sheets. Her breath caught, then released in a shaky exhale. There was something there, something in his lamb’s mind, crawling up from the very dark corners that she tried to keep hidden even from him.
Dare he think this to be… cute in a way?
The thought surfaced, unbidden and he examined it with cold amusement. A lamb, dreaming of wolves. Of course it was predictable. Of course it was, in its own way, pathetic and yet—
Through the slumbering halls, he heard her gasp again. A small choked sound, like someone trying to scream and failing. To anyone else, it would have been barely a brush of air but Valerius heard it so clear. His ears twitched. The sheets rustled again violently, a thrashing motion.
He should wake her. It was practical, merciful. A distressed lamb was a useless lamb. An inconvenient lamb.
Still, he did not move.
He listened to the symphony of her horror– the whimpers and the hitched breathing and the tiny broken little sounds that escaped through her clenched throat. He heard her mumble somethin, a word swallowed by sleep and then another, clearer this time.
“Master…”
It was not a call for rescue, she was still fitifully asleep. It instead sounded depserate, an unconscious reaching.
It did something to him. Something he didn’t care to name. It tightened in his chest, a strange possessive ache. He caused her fear, intentionally, deliberately, with practiced movements. This was not that. This was a version of him that he did not control, that he did not yield. What was it doing to his lamb? In her dream, she was afraid.
Of me? Valerius wondered. Or for me?
What could her head be dreaming up? Alyse thought of such wonderfully stupid things sometimes that Valerius couldn’t even begin to crack open that strange head of her’s.
He couldn’t figure it out. The distinction of fear of and fear for mattered, somehow, though he didn’t know why.
Her breathing grew more ragged. A soft, broken sob escaped her, followed by a wordless, keening sound that raised the hair on his arms.
Enough.
Alyse
His voice carried through the halls, slithering beneath her door and whispering in her ears. He waited a second but she did not stir.
Alyse. Wake up, lamb.
Her eyes flew open.
The darkness of her room was a different darkness than the dream—softer, familiar, smelling of lavender and old wood rather than rot and iron. For a moment, Alyse was suspended between worlds, her heart a frantic drum, her breath caught in her throat. The cage was gone. The shopkeeper's melted face was gone. But the echo of his voice—her master's voice—still lingered, cold and sharp.
She was alone.
The realization crashed over her, cold and disorienting. She was in her bed, in her room, tangled in her own sheets. The fire had burned low, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The silence was absolute, save for the pounding of her own heart.
He woke me.
The thought surfaced slowly, pushing through the fog of terror. His voice had cut through the nightmare like a blade, pulling her from the depths. But he wasn't here. She could feel his absence like a physical thing—the empty space beside her, the cold sheets, the stillness of the room.
She sat up, her body trembling, her chemise soaked through with sweat. The nightmare clung to her like a second skin—the bars, the smell, his cold, assessing eyes. Why do you dream of it? the dream-him still asked. Is my house not enough?
A sob caught in her throat, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle it. She didn't know if he was still listening. He could hear everything—every whisper, every breath, every broken little sound. The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it was another cage, another set of bars.
It is enough. It is more than enough. She is grateful, so grateful. The most grateful lamb to ever be, didn’t he know that? Didn’t she make it clear? That was just a dream thought, not real, not ever real.
Except if it wasn’t real why couldn’t she stop these awful tears?
“Master?” She called out into the emptiness, praying that he was still listening. Her voice felt so small, swallowed up by the night air that cooled and stilled unlike her shivering form. “Please… Master, please…”
She wanted him. No, needed. She needed him.
“I am not–” She hiccuped, dropping her head down in a shudder. “ –allowed to leave my chambers undressed but– please, please… I need you. I really really need you.”
There was nothing that could calm her like him, nothing that would quell her fears. She needed her master. A lost little lamb needed her shepherd, but he did not answer. Perhaps he was no longer listening.
The thought was a blade, twisting in her chest. Of course he wasn’t. He had woken her, one his dutym returned to his own concerns. She was not his priority She was a pet, a possession, a creature to be managed, not coddled. She knew this. She had always known this.
Then why did it hurt so much?
Another sob escaped her, broken and raw. She pressed her fist to her mouth, bitind down on her knuckles, trying to stifle the sound. If he was listening. If he cared to listen.
He doesn’t. He woke you. That’s all. That’s all you get.
Alyse uncurled from herself, her movements slow and sluggish and out of her control. She needed him. Needed. She couldn’t wait here, not in the dark, not where the nightmare still clung ot her skin. She stepped out into the hall, dressed in nothing but a thin silk nightgown.
Stupid lamb. Rotten, spoiled, stupid lamb. He gave you a room and clothes and food and this is how you repay him? With tears? With nightmares? With pathetic, whimpering pleas in the dark?
She hated herself in that moment. Hated her weakness, her need, her endless, grasping hunger for his attention. She was supposed to be content. Happy, when he permitted. Grateful, always. That was her role. That was her purpose.
But she wasn't content. She was hollow and shaking and cold, and the dream was still there, lurking at the edges of her consciousness, waiting to drag her back under. And he wasn't here. He wasn't coming.
And just in those few moments, she found herself lost. The halls were not the same without the candle light. They were dark, wide, hopeless and endless. She wondered further, not sure how many times she had turned or if she had turned at all. Was she there yet? Or was she closer to stumbling down a flight of stairs?
Is my house not enough?
It is, she thought, the words a desperate silent prayer. It is enough. You are enough. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please–
She bumped into something, hard and warm. It took her a second to feel the shift in the air. A change in pressure, the subtle unmistakable presence of him.
The candles flickered on, her head lifted, eyes wide, breath caught in her tiny throat.
He stood there before her, a silhouette against the dim light of the corridor. His face was unreadable, shrouded in shadow but she knew the shape of him– even the smell of him. Those were his broad shoulders, not the shop keepers. That was his proud set, his quiet commanding stillness.
“Master.” She breathed, watching to crash into him but instead only managing a broken, grateful whisper.
He didn’t speak, not for a moment. Instead he ran his knuckles along the side of her face, brushing away some of the tears that glistened off the fire light. He was unreadable but steady.
“You called for me,” He said. It wasn’t a question.
She nodded, a jerky motion, her throat too tight for words.
“And you left your chambers. Undressed.” His voice was flat, but there was something beneath it– something she couldn’t place. It did not sound like anger, but she rarely heard that on his tongue to begin with. “You broke a rule.”
The words were a slap, cold and sharp. She flinched, her gaze dropping to her lap. "I know. I'm sorry. I just—I needed—"
"You needed." He cut her off, his voice soft but edged. "And your need supersedes my rules?"
"No!" The word burst out of her, desperate and raw. She looked up at him, her eyes swimming with fresh tears. "No, master. Never. I just—I couldn't—the dream was so real, and you weren't there, and I thought—I thought if I just called, if I just asked—"
She broke off, a sob catching in her throat. She was making a mess of this, a terrible, pathetic mess. He would be angry. He would punish her. And she deserved it, she deserved all of it, for being so weak, so needy, so—
His hand came up and cupped her face.
The touch was gentle—shockingly, impossibly gentle. His thumb brushed across her cheek, wiping away a tear. She froze, her breath hitching, her eyes wide.
"You are a trial," he said, his voice low. "A constant, exhausting, bewildering trial."
She nodded, because it was true. She was. She knew she was.
"You call for me in the dark. You break my rules. You weep into my sheets and beg for my presence as if I were the air you breathe." His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow and deliberate. "And I find myself—inexplicably, annoyingly—unable to ignore you."
Her heart stuttered. "Master?"
"Do not mistake this for weakness," he said, his voice hardening slightly. "I am not here because you 'need' me. I am here because your distress is an inconvenience, and I prefer my property to be functional. A lamb that cannot sleep is a lamb that cannot serve."
It was cold. It was clinical. It was exactly the kind of thing he would say.
But his hand was still on her face, and his thumb was still brushing away her tears, and he had come. When she called, he had come.
"I understand," she whispered.
"Do you?" He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Do you understand that this—" he gestured vaguely between them, "—is not a precedent? That I will not come every time you cry, every time you dream, every time you feel the vast, empty space of your own inadequacy?"
She swallowed, her throat dry. "Yes, master."
"Good." He released her chin, but his hand remained on her face, warm and solid. His thumb stilled, resting against the curve of her cheekbone. "Then why are you still standing in my hallway, dressed like a ghost, reeking of tears and terror?"
Alyse blinked, the question pulling her from the haze of relief. She looked down at herself—the thin silk nightgown, the bare feet, the trembling hands. She had broken a rule. She had left her chambers undressed, wandering the dark halls like a lost, pathetic thing.
"I didn't mean—" she started, but the words died in her throat. She had meant. She had meant every step, every turn, every desperate, stumbling search for his presence. She had needed him, and her need had overridden everything else—her training, her fear, her understanding of her place.
"You didn't mean to break my rule," he finished for her, his voice dry. "You simply… did. Because your feelings were too big, and your head was too small, and the dark was too dark." He tilted his head, studying her. "Is that an accurate assessment?"
She nodded, a jerky, shameful motion.
"It is not an excuse." His thumb traced her cheekbone again, almost absently. "But it is an explanation. And explanations, while not excusing behavior, can inform its correction."
She flinched at the word. Correction. She knew what that meant. The switch, the hairbrush, the sharp, stinging lessons that painted her skin in stripes of fire. She deserved it. She knew she deserved it. But the thought, in her current state, was almost more than she could bear.
"Please," she whispered, not even sure what she was begging for. Mercy? Punishment? His arms around her? She didn't know. She only knew she needed him.
Valerius was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching her face. The firelight from somewhere behind her caught the edges of his features, casting them in sharp, golden relief. He looked like a statue—cold, beautiful, untouchable.
Then, he sighed.
It was a soft sound, almost inaudible, but she heard it. She always heard him. "You are fortunate," he said, "that I find your distress more irritating than your disobedience. If you were merely disobedient, you would be over my knee by now."
A fresh wave of tears threatened, but she blinked them back. "I'm sorry."
“Do you want me to rethink my mercy?” He asked, sharp as a blade. “Are you truly sorry without my say so?”
She didn't know how to respond to that. She was sorry. She was always, always sorry. For existing, for needing, for being too much and not enough all at once.
He seemed to read the thought on her face. His expression shifted, something flickering in his eyes—not anger, not quite. Something softer, though he would never admit it.
"Come," he said, and turned.
He didn't reach for her hand. He didn't guide her. He simply walked, expecting her to follow. And she did, her bare feet silent on the cold stone, her nightgown trailing behind her like a ghost's shroud.
He led her not to her room, but to his.
The door was open, the fire within crackling low. His chambers were larger than hers, warmer, smelling of him—sandalwood and old books and something cold, like winter air. She hesitated on the threshold, her eyes wide.
"You have already broken one rule tonight," he said, not looking back. "What is another?"
It wasn't permission, exactly. It was an observation. A test. She stepped inside.
He moved to the fireplace, stirring the embers with an iron poker. The flames leapt, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. She stood in the center of the room, shivering, her arms wrapped around herself.
He didn't look at her. "The bed. Get in."
She blinked. "Master?"
"You are cold. You are shaking. You are wearing a nightgown better suited to a summer evening than a winter night." He set the poker aside and turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "Get in the bed, Alyse. Before you catch a chill and become an even greater inconvenience."
She hesitated for only a moment, then crossed to the massive bed. The sheets were cool, but the blankets were thick, and the mattress seemed to swallow her as she crawled beneath them. She lay on her side, facing the fire, watching him as he moved about the room.
He poured himself a glass of water—not wine, not spirits, just water—and drank it slowly, his back to her. The fire crackled. The silence stretched.
Finally, he set the glass aside and crossed to the bed. He didn't get in. He sat on the edge, his weight dipping the mattress, and looked down at her.
"The nightmare," he said. "Tell me what you saw."
She swallowed, her throat dry. "The cage. The pet shop. The shopkeeper, but his face was… wrong. Melting. And then you were there, but you were angry, and you asked me—" Her voice broke. "You asked me why I dreamed of it. If your house wasn't enough."
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered. "And what did you answer?"
"I couldn't. I couldn't speak. The words were stuck." A tear slipped down her cheek, tracing a hot path to her ear. "But I wanted to say—I wanted to tell you—it is enough. You are enough. I'm not—I don't want to go back. I never want to go back. I'm grateful. I'm so grateful. I just—"
"You just dream," he finished. "Of cages and shopkeepers and the past you cannot escape. It is not ingratitude, Alyse. It is memory. And memory is not something you control."
She stared at him, surprised by the words. He rarely spoke of such things—of minds and memories and the things that lurked in the dark. He was a creature of action, of consequence, of cold, hard reality.
But here, in the firelight, with her trembling in his bed, he seemed almost… human.
"Tonight," he said, "you will sleep here. In my bed. Under my roof. And if you dream again, I will hear you. And I will wake you. And we will do this again, if necessary."
She blinked. "You… you want me to stay?"
"I want you to sleep," he corrected, his voice sharpening. "I want you to stop crying. I want you to be functional in the morning. What I want is irrelevant. What is necessary is that you rest."
It was the closest thing to care he had ever offered. She clutched it like a lifeline.
"Thank you, master," she whispered.
He didn't answer. He stood, crossed to the other side of the bed, and lay down on top of the blankets, his body a rigid line beside her. He didn't touch her. He didn't pull her close.
But he was there. He had come when she called. He had brought her to his room, his bed, his space. He had chosen to stay.
She closed her eyes, the warmth of the fire and the weight of his presence wrapping around her like a blanket. The nightmare was still there, lurking, but it seemed smaller now, farther away. He was here. He was here.
"Master?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for coming."
He was silent for a long moment. Then, so softly she almost missed it: "Sleep, lamb."
Trigger Warnings: Misgender (both characters are male), Noncon, Assume The Worst
“M-mm… Mast– Master!”
“Easy, shh… That’s my pretty girl… Shhh…”
Whumpee whimpered in response, his back arched, legs wide spread.
It hurt. It hurt in a sort of awful miserable burning kind of way. A way that Whumpee was used to, sort of. A way that Whumpee would never really be ‘used to’ but more so was familiar with. It was a manic kind of hurt, skin fresh against fresh, his skirt ridden up along his waist bunched into globs of silk.
Whumper had Whumpee’s tail laced around his knuckles, taut like a leash, forcing Whumpee back and forth, rocking against his master. Back and forth… Back and forth…
The skirt was a torment all of itself, truly. Even if Whumpee could somehow slip away, break from this reality, that skirt would be there still. It rubbed against his sensitive flesh, silk like shredded glass. He hated that skirt, really hated it. Whumper said Whumpee was so pretty in it, he loved it. Loved when Whumpee wore those long flowing skirts and those tight corset tops, loved when it was so easy to ride up that fabric and force Whumpee over any nearby surface.
“That’s good, pretty girl. That’s so good.”
Pretty girl… Pretty girl…
A thick bile rose up from Whumpee’s stomach and burned. He might have thrown up, just maybe if a sudden rapid jolt of his tail didn’t make him reflexively swallow. Whumper’s body, slick and warm pressed hips down against hips.
“I’m almost done… almost done, sweet thing… Just a little longer, you can do that. Can’t you?”
He could. He could. Of course, he could.
But that skirt… That stupid awful skirt and how could Whumpee ever even begin to forget about the corset? Itchy. Hard. Cinched. Whalebone. Pinned and ribboned and beautiful. It took every inch of air from Whumpee, forced his back straight yet arched at just the slightest of angels. It presented him, with fine satin and lace, a darling little prize for Whumper to take and take and take and take.
“I adore you, you know that?” Whumper’s lips pampered over whumpee’s shoulder, gentle like a lover. It was hot, so hot and wet and Whumpee wanted nothing more than to shift from this skin. He wanted to shed it, twist within its tormented shell, break free and run. Oh, of course he wouldn’t. Not really.
He was a pretty thing. A good thing.
Horned and tailed and collared.
Beautiful work of art. Cut and shredded and burned. Leashed and cuffed. Corset and skirt. Perfect.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.” A thrust punched the answer out of him, his head tilting up. Whumper’s horns tangled with Whumpee’s, the obsidian slick with sweat and mingling together. It was such an intimate thing to their kind. Their horns. Their tails. Whumper was such an intimate creature. “Yes, I he–heard you. I heard you– I heard you!”
A satisfied purr vibrated through Whumper’s chest, a sound of pure, predatory ownership. “That’s right.” His voice dropped to a whisper, a hot secret breathed into the shell of Whumpee’s ear. “There is no god who adores more than I. Do you know that?”
The rocking pace changed, becoming deeper, more deliberate. Didn’t he say it was almost over? Hadn’t he said just a little longer? It felt like hours since those lying, hopeful words had been breathed into their shared air. Whumpee parted his lips to answer but found two fingers there to meet his tongue.
Suck.
Whumper did not have to say it, did not even have to think it. Whumpee knew. He was a good trained little creature even if his mind wondered in these moments. His training would kick in, always would or else he’d lose what he no longer had to give.
He finished like that. It was not a grand built it, it was not with whistles or bells. There was no smoke nor mirrors, unless of course you counted the stream simmering off Whumpee’s back. Whumper simply filled him, to the hilt and stilled.
That stillness was more jarring than anything else, truly. The motion had been rhythmic, expected, each trust met with the tug of his tail but now there was nothing. Just their heart beats fluttering, rapid, almost as one, and that god awful stickiness leaking down Whumpee’s pretty little thighs.
Whumpee sucked on Whumper’s fingers until he pulled them out with a wet plop, smearing the spit all along the side of Whumpee’s face. “Who adores you?”
“You, my lord, you do.”
“I do. That’s a good boy.”
A shudder coursed through Whumpee’s body as he was now returned to being a ‘good boy’ instead of a ‘good girl’. It was a mental whiplash that Whumpee had such a hard time keeping up with in his dizzy little head. Boy… Girl… Did it even matter? He was a girl when Master wanted to be sweet, kind, fuck him like a lover. He was a boy when Master was manic, frenzied, fucking him like a whore. Then he was a girl when he was mouthy, when Master slapped him, when Master popped his jaw and forced his cock down his throat. A boy when he was cleaning… When Master needed something to work on, something to cut.
Truly it was meaningless, there was no distinction. It was just what Whumper felt like in the moment. If he wanted to pretend to be fucking a bitch, he would. If he wanted hear his sweet little boy being carved into, he would. The difference was all in Whumpee’s head, just a silly thing trying to make sense of the senseless.
Whumper pulled out, slow, milking every inch. The loss was just as uncomfortable as the invasion, a sudden emptiness that felt so wrong. Whumpee had grown used to being filled but now… It was wrong to be there, wrong to feel the sick spilling down from his hole tracking even further along his thighs.
“Who do you worship?”
Whumpee looked up, a halo of light crowning his master. His teeth were out in a sickening grin, predator’s canines each and every single one of them. His horns curled, wings flared, the ultimate stance to show dominance and not a speck of doubt about it.
“You, my lord– My master.” Whumpee hadn’t even caught his breath yet, didn’t even have time to pry his skirt from the sweat that plastered it to his flesh. “With all my heart, with all my pitiful soul.”
“With all your pitiful soul.” Whumper hummed back, running his hand along his pet’s trembling thighs. “With all your trembling heart?’
“With all my trembling heart.” Whumpee would have agreed to anything, just to be able to get off his back. “With all my worthless flesh, with all my meaningless words. There is no merciful god besides you.”
Whumper’s smile grew just a hair, etched into his face. He reached out, pulling his pet up into a sitting position despite his whimpers. Whumper began to fix him, running his claws fingers along that beautiful soft hair, smoothing his corset, letting the skirt ripple down his legs once more, hiding their sin. “You have a pretty tongue on you, darling.”
The praise was a balm and a brand. Whumpee's body, still trembling, instinctively leaned into the touch, craving any scrap of gentleness after the storm. Whumper's claws, so capable of rending flesh, were now surprisingly delicate as they combed through his sweat-damp hair, untangling the knots. He smoothed the front of the corset, adjusting it so it sat just so on Whumpee's heaving chest. His master was tidying his masterpiece, putting him back on the pedestal.
"Thank you, my lord," Whumpee whispered, the words scraping his throat. He kept his eyes downcast, focused on the way the skirt now pooled around him, a dark, silken puddle that hid the evidence of their coupling. It was a lie, this pristine picture. Underneath, he was a mess of sticky fluids and aching muscles.
“How I adore you, my pretty little thing.” The master cooed, sliding his nails along the length of Whumpee’s face. “How very much I adore you.”
"I don't understand what you're saying!"
-Whumpee yells in sheer panic
-Whumpee sobs after trying, really trying, to understand.
-Whumper, shaking Whumpee furiously in frustration, growls out.
Whumpees who partially understand:
"No-- no I know that word. Don't say that. Please don't say that!"
"I'm trying! Left-- you said left. Go left? I don't understand!"
"Wait-- what did you say? What did you say?"
"Stop. Stop! Please-- Stop! I'm saying it right, aren't I? Stop. Stop!"
Whumpee who are trying but simply can't.
"You're speaking too fast. Please... I'm trying-- I'm trying!"
"I'm not being difficult! I'm not! I just can't understand you!"
"I can't make it sound right..."
"How do I say it? How? Teach me. Please! I can't remember how to say it!"
"I don't know what you want from me..."
Whumper shutting down Whumpee.
"If you can't say it right, don't say it at all."
"You don't even fucking know what you're saying, do you?"
"That's cute. You almost got it. Try again, then maybe I'll stop."
"You talk like a child. Ignorant. Stupid."
"Shhh... No. Don't try. I like your native tongue better. It's pretty."
"Talk to me with that ugly tongue of yours again and I'll fucking hurt you, can you understand that?"
Whumper weaponizing translations
"I told them you said yes/no."
"Someone asked if you needed help. Don't worry, I told them you didn't."
"Wouldn't it be so much easier if you could talk to everyone else? Tell them what you need? Tell them what I do to you? But yo can't. That's too bad."
"Oh, yeah. See, I told you that meant thank you but actually its an insult. Maybe that's why they hit you? Not too sure, honestly."
Whumper getting frustrated.
"You know that word. You know it! Don't pretend like you don't."
"Listen. Fucking listen! Look at me! Damn it!"
"Say it back to me. Say it just how I said it. No, are you fucking stupid?"
"Aw? You're trying to tell me something? Too bad you speak that stupid language that no one but you and your other mutts understand."
"This would be so much easier if you just paid attention."
"I'm really tired of repeating myself, Whumpee."
Caretaker trying to be reassuring.
"I know you don't understand but it's okay. I promise it's okay."
"I don't know how to say this in a way you'll understand..."
"I'm not hurting you. I'm helping. Do you understand? Helping? I'm helping."
Caretaker desperately trying to communicate
"Does this mean anything to you? What I'm saying?"
"Please. I'm trying, I really am. Just-- Damn it! I want to understand you."
"Point to where it hurts. Like this, see? Point."
*Frantic hand gestures*
*Absolutely butchering Whumpee's native language to the point its gibberish*
*Drawing pictures for whumpee*
I
The next time Alyse saw the cat was in the hallway. The afternoon sun glittered off the fallen snow, sending slivers of sunlight that caught the dancing of dust. It was warmer that day, or perhaps Alyse had forgotten all about the cold when she spotted the grey and black shadow prancing dignified along the stone.
This cat was not a pet. It was hired help. A professional. Its payment was warmth, shelter, and the occasional mouse. It was a creature of particular dignity, known to the servants to offer affection strictly on its own terms. It would deign to brush against a leg, leap onto a vacant lap, but it despised presumption. Hands reaching out were an insult. A violation of treaty.
Alyse knew none of this. She saw only soft fur and remembered the rumble of a purr. The memory overrode all sense. She took a step forward, then another, her hand already lifting, fingers yearning to sink into that grey plush. “Do you remember me?”
If she knew cats, she would have seen the warning. The slight hunch of the shoulders, the way the tail stilled, the pupils contracting to venomous slits. This was not curiosity. It was a predator recalculating its space.
The concept of personal space was foreign to Alyse, a lamb raised in a cage. All space belonged to someone stronger; you took comfort where you could, when you could.
Her fingertips were an inch from the cat’s back when it moved.
A blur of grey, a hiss like steam, and then a flash of white pain. Four parallel lines scored across the back of her reaching hand, immediate and bright. Crimson welled in the trenches, beading perfectly before spilling over.
Pain flared, Alyse’s bare feet stumbling back. However, she wasn’t worried about herself, more-so the creature who flicked its tail in disgust before moving on.
“Oh I’m sorry– I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–” The fabric of her pale dress drank the blood as she cradled the cuts against her chest. “I didn’t! I swear– I swear–”
Valerius knew every breath that was taken in his castle, every word whispered, every step taken. And he knew as soon as he sensed Alyse approaching the cat, too fast, too excited. That it would not end well.
At last he stood, a few feet down the hall, waiting as his lamb whimpered.
“You have ruined a perfectly good dress.” Oh, she didn’t like when he snuck up on her. Not one bit! It woke her prey drive, made her muscles jump a foot into the air, made her breath skitter to a stop in her lungs. “Are you crying?”
“No…” A sniffle betrayed her. Each step was wobbly as she made her way to Valerius. A lie was the same as a slap in the face. But Alyse wasn’t thinking straight, her thoughts were scattered to the wind and back. “I didn’t– I didn’t mean to– I didn’t.”
She’d ruined it. Ruined the perfectly good relationship she had with the cat. A friend. A furry warm beautiful friend. And then she’d gone and fucked it all up. Like she always did. Always. Always. Always.
A squeaky hiccup broke through her trembling jaw as she leaned her head against her lord’s chest. “Didn’t mean to– didn’t– didn’t–”
Valerius stood before her, a dark silhouette against the brightening hall, and guilt coiled tight in her stomach. She opened her mouth to explain, but words caught like thorns in her throat. Ruined things echoed in her head, each syllable sharp as icy blades. How could she face him? How could she face the cat?
The sweet warmth of the manor was lost on her now. All she felt was the cold bite of failure as the air shifted around them, thick with unsaid words. She tried to wipe her eyes, but the fabric only smudged the tears further, leaving streaks that mirrored the pain in her heart.
“You are such a pitiful thing.” Valerius mumbled, raising a hand, stern but not harmful, and letting it fall against her curls. “You tempt me to teach you that I do not like my things wasted.”
Wasted?
It was only then that it occurred to her the stain, so incredibly vibrant against her chest. Her heart swelled, filling up the space in his ribs. Her mouth opened, then closed, sorrow so heavy and thick that no words would come out if she even tried. Instead she dropped her forehead against his chest, leaning against his gentle touch, wondering if it would be her last.
“Darling, hush now. I see the cat has taught you enough for the day. Let me see.” Without disturbing her, he grabbed ahold of her thin arm and examined the scratches. Superficial, barely a flesh wound. The blood had made it seem like she had torn out a vein. “Have we perhaps learned anything from this experience?”
“She–she hates me– she hates me and I ruin everything and–”
“Alyse, mind yourself.” His thumb hovered over the scratches, a calming warmth spreading up her arm as his magic slid beneath her skin. A spell to help with the pain, though he doubted she felt even an ounce through her hysteria. “She does not hate you.”
“She does!”
“She does not hate you.” His tone dropped a hair, swelling with a coldness that froze Alyse’s tears straight onto her reddening face. “Hate is a complex emotion, not as easily dished out as you presume. You are not important enough for her to hate, lamb. Calm yourself.”
His words, meant to diminish her drama, somehow made the wound deeper. She wasn’t even worthy of the cat’s hatred. She was a buzzing fly, swatted aside.
“She won’t ever let me pet her again,” Alyse whispered, the tragedy of it looming larger than any physical pain.
Valerius pinched the bridge of his nose, letting the cool hum of his magic drift off into quiet. Oh, the drama. His lamb was so very… sensitive. Yes. That was a nicer way to say it than the harsh words that clipped the edge of the lord’s tongue.
“Alyse, my darling. The cat will forget in the next hour. The world ends at every split hair, does it?”
She didn’t understand. Of course she didn’t. This was too much for her. Hate was given with ease. That’s what she was taught. One wrong move and hate would fill the air around her, growing hot, thick, suffocating. She had been too much, and in return she now begrudgingly owned the cat’s anger.
Alyse didn’t speak, but her brows furrowed in both denial and disbelief. Valerius could see it, that his pet did not accept his truth. So, he sighed. “Go to your room, burn the dress, you have soiled it. Come back here when you have finished. We will end this little war you are having with the feline. Will that stop these wasteful tears? Will that open your ignorant little ears so you will listen to your master?”
The lamb nodded, rubbing at her eyes and nodding with a slow childish movement. Master would fix it. He was good at fixing things. Things that Alyse ruined. What would she do without him? Perish probably. Ruin the whole world, cause every living thing to hate her. Stupid lamb. Always so stupid.
Alyse donned a different gown, smoothing her fingers along the fresh pink lines that were the only reminisce of the cat’s claws. A nervous twitch.
Valerius was waiting for his lamb, sitting on the nearby bench where the crime had occured. He had called a servant to bring him some scraps from the kitchen, the lines of fat off of a slab of beef. He let it sit at his side, waiting.
“Master…?”
“Sit. Be still.”
Alyse sat, snug up against her master’s side. They waited in silence, watching the streaks of sunlight shift across their feet.
Then, a shadow detached itself from a doorway further down. The cat appeared, padding with that same infuriating dignity, her gaze sweeping the hall with the bored authority of a landlord inspecting her property. She saw them on the bench. She paused.
Valerius moved, picking a slab off the plate. “Hold it out. Continue to be still.”
Her master’s hand enveloped her, holding her trembling hand out straight towards the creature. Nervousness struck her like a bolt of lightening. She did not want to do this. Not really. The cat was surely to recongize Alyse, realize its hatred, and take her fingers clean off this time. But her master would not allow that to happen. Her master knew what she was doing. Who was she to question an all powerful being such as him?
The cat approached, not with grace, but with tactical caution. She stopped just out of reach, her nose twitching. Then, with deliberate slowness, she stretched her neck and took a single, delicate bite from the edge of the fat. She chewed, watching Alyse’s face first then switching to Valerius.
The master was now involved, the feline understood. It was different. Not just the small prey.
Valerius did not let Alyse pull her hand back. He kept it there, extended, his hand over hers. “Now,” he murmured, his voice a low hum by her ear. “You wait.”
The cat finished its toilette. It looked at the empty palm, then up at Alyse. It took a single step forward and bumped its head, once, against her still-outstretched knuckles. A dry, perfunctory gesture. Then it turned and walked away, its tail a serene banner, its business concluded.
Only then did Valerius release her hand. He turned her to face him. Her palm was greasy, empty. The scratches were faint pink lines.
“A treaty,” he stated, his voice clean and final, “has now been signed. There is no hatred. There never truly was. The cat has accepted your apology. All is well. The world did not end. The sun is still in the sky, my dramatic little pet.”
Valerius produced a silk handkerchief from his pocket and began to carefully wipe the grease from Alyse’s palm. Her cheeks were pink now, a small sheepish smile spread over her lips. “Thank you, master. I’m sorry I got so… worked up.”
“It is your nature. I cannot fault you for it.” Valerius studied her palm for a moment longer then dropped it, rising up to his feet with finality. “Go now. No more tears. No more theatrics. Can you do that for me?”
Alyse swung her feet, wiping her palms together. She was giddy, she couldn’t help it. This was a victory, after all. The cat did not hate her after all! She hadn’t ruined a thing. “I can do anything for you, master.”
