Servitude to Serpents

7. To own is to… Covet

Chapter seven

To own is to… Covet

T he next few weeks passed with the same flavor of brain-numbing despair I felt in the months after Renee died. Constantly performing, wondering why me, why her, why us, the guilt and shame of being the one who came out of the water that day. The shame of surviving. None of it is as soul-shattering as the if I could just go back, I would tell her no. That we should stay in bed, that she’s too heavy for me to help into the float. We would’ve stayed in bed.

I would tell Clara no, that I don’t want to go to the Sour Grape, that I haven’t wanted to celebrate November 17 th since my sister died. I would’ve stayed home.

My body is free from my marks, but my soul is blackened to a husk. The rape, the abuse, the pleasure doesn’t stop, and all the same I’m standing at the precipice of something again, something altering. I begged Master, sobbed to Sir before he saw it fit to silence me. I begged to stay with the devils I knew, to remain at the House of Bloom. I’d even take Mistress' cruel hand over the unknown one to come. Would they be kind? Will they prefer to use objects like Sir? Ones that scrape my insides and send my screams bouncing off the walls? I trace the discreet white ink outline of the Bloom symbol tattooed on the back of my wrist, my brand . We’re cattle, and right now, I’m a Lily in a sea of carnations, their matching scarlet jeweled gowns fitting and exposing. The men are dressed in matching loincloths. My own dress made up of lilies, strung together to hide just enough, but nothing at all. We don’t speak—not because the Sirs instructed us not to, but because there is just nothing to say. Tonight is important. It’s our first introduction to our hopeful new owners, like a dog show, but where they get to fuck, beat, and drug the dogs. The silver collars on our necks sport a Bloom pendant, a single lily swathed in a cage of thorns. The party is already going by the sounds of rioting laughter and music, moans already filtering in from under the door of the room we’re being held in.

“Alright, alright! Welcome to the House of Bloom’s thirty-eighth annual auction ball, where the drinks are stiff, your pockets are fat, and the girls…well, they’re as pretty as a flower .” I recognize Master’s voice, anxiety needling my chest along with…excitement, maybe. Perhaps gas. I haven’t been permitted to serve at other parties like the carnation girls, only sometimes watch from afar, posed and displayed while polaroids of my training are blown up and displayed behind me like the before and afters at the dental office. Each slide shows my body in various stages of decay. The girls around me are ready, brimming, slipping into their roles, wiping away the empty eyes and thousand-yard stares. I fidget with the lilies on my floor-length dress. I’m not ready.

The fear battering my chest is all-consuming.

“Tonight will be one for the books, because tonight, Mistresses, Masters, and Lords of our domain, we have a rumor of sorts to confirm .” The room seems to fall silent with that. Even the music, an upbeat, energetic piece played live, seems to fall beneath the anticipation of the room. Succumbing to it like a willing victim. “Tonight will be our Lily’s debut. She is a talented pianist, obedient, submissive, and one hell of a lay.”

“Hear, hear!” Mistress calls from somewhere, making the room erupt again. Vomit curdles in my gut.

I don’t want to be touched .

I don’t want this.

Sir’s hand eclipses my throat, prodding at the place that hurts so much. “Be a good girl tonight, yes?” With that, the threat of pain and the offer of praise, my resolve slips. Such a disgusting thing, to be so easily swayed.

“Enough, enough!” Master laughs. “The ground rules change when such a rare flower is up for grabs, seeing as everyone will want a piece. You’ll need to be gentle with her. You may use any hole, as long as you treat it like you would any designer car on loan. No marks or wounds. She may receive your emblem, like the other girls, but there will be no on- or off -table offers for her until the auction. The carnation bidding starts tonight and will conclude tomorrow. Our Lily has been kept… sweet in near isolation for the past year. The carnations, on the other hand…” he chuckles. “Let’s just say they’re ready for the worst of you.”

One of the other people in the room sniffles. I don’t look up to see who. Only the sound of flesh hitting flesh comes next, followed by a whimper and a warning hissed through gritted teeth. None of us even flinch, the fear, the abuse, set into our tendons and bones.

“Let the party begin!” Mistress yells into the grand room. With that, Master throws open the double doors. The carnations quickly file out past him. I can’t see the crowd yet, and Sir’s hand keeps me firmly in place.

“Are you ready, little Lily?”

“Yes, Master,” I whisper, my voice breaking, betraying my nerves.

My dress pinches and catches as I stand, following Master out over the stage and into the elaborate ballroom. I find myself wishing my hair wasn’t pinned high on my head so I could hide behind it. The room is silent aside from the music. Everyone’s eyes are on me, making my gut swirl uncomfortably. I’m not surprised when I’m led to the band's area, still refusing to look at the crowd when I’m ordered onto the bench. My chest squeezes my heart in a vice grip, anxiety and sickness pooling in my stomach in a dangerous dance as I play, wishing for the bite of the ruler, praying for anything that might take me back home. Back to that girl, the wasted child prodigy, the boring, stick-in-the-mud dental assistant.

When the piece ends, it’s Mistress at my side instead of Master, her skintight dress showing the expanse of her cleavage as she bends, forcing her mouth onto mine. I gasp as she passes a bitter, tiny pill to me with her tongue. When she pulls away with a wink, I swallow, no longer caring what it is or what effect it may have on me. It’s not the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. “You cannot ignore them forever, baby. This will help. Join the Masters. Watch the others, but keep sweet .”

“Yes, Mistress,” I whisper as I stand, turning for the first time into the crowd. My eyes widen on the scene before me, carnations already taking cocks and cunts. Half of them are already nude. The men and women all seated in velvet booths at elaborately decorated tables scream power. There are other men and women too, most of them nude, kneeling or joining in with the carnations. Slaves already owned, I assume, brought tonight as a display of wealth like designer accessories.

My lip’s part, my core heating at the slight before me. A strange but pressing warmth starts at my fingertips. I blink my eyes rapidly, my left one watering against the contact I’m wearing, making me mostly blind in an eye I could already barely see out of. I’m careful not to look at anyone directly, remembering my manners. Shifting my weight on my feet, that warmth battles with my anxiety and I…I freeze. I don’t know what to do. Panic rears its head, ugly and pungent. Everything I was taught, the steps I practiced, are gone, like they never existed in the first place.

Tears well in my eyes, so I drop, hanging my head palms up, trembling wildly on my lap. The eyes in the room follow me as my chest heaves. I’m lost to my own anxiety, so much so that I don’t realize I’ve been approached until polished black shoes fill my vision. The warm press of the drug doesn’t mix well with my panic and empty stomach. Sweat beads on my brow, signaling impending vomit.

“Stand.”

Relief floods me at the sound of the command, stripping me of my uncertainty. The man helps me to my feet, my hands coming up to hide my breasts as my neckline dips.

His chuckle is nearly as warm as his hands. “Modesty, even at a place like this? Come, Lily, let's strip you of that. I imagine you’ll be covered by tonight’s end. Eternally honored that my emblem is the first to mar your skin.”

I keep my eyes on the expensive baroque tie he’s wearing until he angles my head back, his hand guiding my chin upward with ease, all while my heart pounds in my chest. His free hand drifts across my neck, so gentle, it tickles, but I’m bracing for pain. My gasp leaves me roughly as something cool and damp presses into the column of my neck, my entire body freezing, not so much as a breath escaping as his lips find my ear. “Be still. You’d hate to smudge my mark.”

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper, my eyes on the vaulted ceiling and elaborate chandeliers, a mural of debauchery and lust painted behind it all. The man blows on the wet spot once the tool is pulled away, drying it, my head still kept upturned. The sensation drives at that pressing warmth, making my stomach tighten.

“There, little Lily. By tomorrow, you’ll belong to the House of Tyet. You may look at me.” Goosebumps bubble my flesh as his lips follow the path of my jawline, gentle teasing nips in their path. The sound of the surrounding room, the music, the pleasure and whimpers, fade when his lips overpower mine. It’s the only way I can think of to describe the type of kiss he shoves onto me. Overpowering. A battle of wills, but only he is fighting.

“Overconfident as always, Harun. Stop hogging the belle of the ball. Either fuck her or pass her.”

The man breaks away long enough to laugh at whoever spoke, his dark, wavy hair tickling me as he glances back at the voice. He’s an older man, the one slowly hitching up my dress, revealing the white lacy stockings and garter underneath. Much older than his voice had implied, but not quite Master’s age. “When I am done with her, the entire venue will be well aware .”

Whoever spoke seems to think that’s funny, settling it with another hear, hear , before turning toward the gathering crowd. “Harun, second son of the House of Tyet, has put his first claim on the Lily. Shall we watch how prettily she deflowers?”

I blink past the tears welling in my eyes as someone else joins behind me, a woman by the feel of it. I’ve long since shut my eyes. Suddenly, I’m not here. I'm back in the water, my sister's garbling screams filling my ears as water laps at my face. My dress is unzipped, left to pool at my feet before she departs. I didn’t think I could still blush as it heats my cheeks and floods down to my chest, my breasts and sex bared to the room. Men and women appraise me with various degrees of appreciation. Some are snickering, commenting on what they don’t like before joining others still lost to their own bliss and conversation. I’m on display, a fuckable piece of art, and it's every bit as terrifying as I thought it would be. And then there’s…something else I can’t quite put my finger on. A feeling that makes little sense, one already budding deep in my core, that warmth pushing and pressing until I squeeze my thighs together tightly. I don’t want to feel this way, preferring fear, but already, my core is pulsing.

I yelp, my eyes slamming open again as I’m lifted and deposited on one of the high backs of a velvet couch. I don’t have time to steady myself before the Sir who marked me shoves his penis in, bucking into me with the same blend of sloppy violence I felt in his kiss. It doesn’t feel all that good, but a breathy moan leaves me anyway. My body is already doing what Sir has trained it to do. Already, the dry thrusts are growing slicker, and I’m fighting for that pleasure. I don’t dare touch the man between my thighs or look at the spectators. Frustration fills me as I lose that faint tendril of heat I’d felt as he explored under my dress. Anxiety makes it hard to reach that blissful spot, not even the pressing warmth reaching adequate heights yet. I behave how I’m expected to: eyes closed, grinding back despite the rough, uncontrolled way he fucks, the pain and burning despite his modest cock. My breasts heave, and I’m not ready when he brings one of his wide hands down, slapping one of them, hard. I whimper as he slaps it again. The reddened flesh stings as he grips it, tugging and pinching. I’m grateful when the man comes, shooting his hot, sticky ropes all over my chest and stomach.

He hasn’t got his cock back in his pants when girls come with warm cloths, wiping away the trace of him on my chest and between my legs. It's rough and clinical. I’m left panting as I slide down the back of the couch, my fingers shaking as I gently pad at my abused breasts. My mind drifts after that, and soon, I lose count entirely of how many men and women grab me, where they fuck me and to what degree they inflict pain. The screams erupting throughout the room tell me I’m lucky to not be a carnation. The flashes of blood make it hard to keep my eyes open, especially as exhaustion presses down on me like a heavy, wet blanket. The effects of whatever Mistress gave me hits its peak quickly enough, sending me barreling into climax after climax, seemingly at the littlest touch. It barely takes the edge off the throbbing, raw, puffy spot between my legs. My inner thighs are rubbed bright red, my lips swollen and my throat screaming for a drink of water to wash down the cum coating it. My hair has long come undone, my blonde waves hanging around my face as I’m shoved off someone's cock, another one of the countless stamps pressed into my neck as I gasp on the floor, close to a pile of passed-out men and women.

I barely feel it when the girls who have been tasked with our upkeep tonight jerk my legs open, washing me quickly while the other pinches my chin, urging me to open my mouth. She doesn’t warn me before she dumps the room-temperature water in, but I suck it down greedily. She scrubs at my teeth like they’ve angered her before making me spit in a bowl. I’m shoved away and finally left to lie on the plush rug, rubbing my cheek along the soft, fur-like fabric of it. Every sensation is alluring thanks to whatever drug I was given, even the agony sending me barreling over the edge. My clit is swollen and pulsing, despite each throb bringing more discomfort.

I must’ve dozed off for a moment, my consciousness jerked back into me in the form of a cock plunging into my ass. I scream as the man fills me, tears freefalling in cascades down my raw, puffy cheeks. It's raw, bloody, and each thrust is hell as he urges me to my hands and knees, my limbs shaking with exhaustion. His cock is like sandpaper, and for a second, I wonder if I disobeyed, if I acted out, if Sir would just let me take the prod and I could be done for the night. My bad eye is in a sorry state, burning like hell from the contact, but judging by the faint light coming in through the large windows and the growing number of people passed out, we’re well into the morning hours. Again, my mind wanders somewhere else. This time, I can't dig up anything remotely positive, wondering what expression Grandma would make if she could see her prodigy now, desperately rubbing her raw cunt in a need to come, being raped and abused on the ground like a whore. A very obedient whore. What if she knew the way I let myself come, that the lines between rape and sex were blurring for me? That sometimes, I could no longer tell if I wanted it or not. My body rarely cared either way. In less than a year in this hell, I’d traded my will to fight like a musty pair of bowling shoes.

Hell, I’d traded it within just a few months.

She’d be disappointed.

I am too.

Movement in front of me draws my attention back to the here and now—the black slacks of a man I vaguely remember collapsing in front of before, the odd-collared women at his sides, their collars different from the others. They’re not decorative silver and gold bands sporting a house emblem, but true collars made for dogs, with shiny bone tags to match. I try to squint, focusing on what the tags say, but I quickly give up.

I watch as he makes a gesture with his hand, the back of it budging with veins. The woman climbs onto the couch, taking his cock in her mouth. No words pass between either of them. I’ve seen enough sex acts tonight to fill Pornhub’s entire library, but still I watch intently. My fingers work my clit as the man behind me groans and mumbles all sorts of odd things I block out, hoping he doesn’t mark me or hasn’t yet. I’m shocked when that pleasure builds despite the brutality of the one fucking my ass, even with sleep edging me—or maybe because of it. I moan loudly, dipping my fingers gently inside my raw core to wet them before swirling them around my clit in tight circles. My eyes widen as the man silently orders the girl off his reddened length, taking it in his palm instead. He works his cock slowly, methodically, matching the rhythm on my clit. I’m in a sorry state, so I can’t possibly look very appealing, but there's no question he's doing it for me. The girls at his sides watch the act with detachment, perhaps a little confusion.

He lifts his free hand, gesturing upward, making me frown; I don’t understand what he wants when he does it again. My eyes dart to one of the girls at his side. “Master wants your attention,” a curvy woman with raven black pixie hair clarifies, and I hesitantly obey.

I don’t know what I had expected from the man, but handsome would be an understatement. He’s gorgeous, in a hardened, severe way. His jawline is sharp enough to kill, with eyes ready to deliver the final blow. When I meet them, allowing myself a moment of dissidence to lose myself in their golden hazel depths, his thick brow furrows in a deep-set frown, deep enough to assume it's his usual expression. The fear that hits me is immediate, eliciting a gasp as I slam my eyes down to his chest. He works his cock harder; I do the same to my battered clit, waiting for a punishment that doesn’t come. The man in my ass becomes jerky as I’m edging my release. My moans grow in volume as the man on the couch makes a heady, sensual sound, releasing ropes of cum in my direction. I don’t know why I open my mouth, only that it sends me over the edge when the salty flavor hits my tongue, pleasure rocking me like a thousand-volt shock. I scream my release, but the man at my back doesn’t like that.

I yelp as his hand covers my nose and mouth, taking my breath as he fucks me harder, slamming into me like he's trying to split me open. “Did I tell you to come, whore? Huh?”

Panic finds me quickly, my fingers digging into the plush rug, the man at my front forgotten as I struggle to fill my lungs. I'm no stranger to the feeling, but it seems it's not something your body ever gets used to. There’s no peaceful acceptance, just pure and pungent fear. I barely feel the man in me by the time he finds his release, darkness spotting my vision as I’m dropped back to the floor, coughing and spluttering, cum and spit dripping down my chin. He doesn’t mark me, which I suppose is a silver lining. I’m fairly sure he hadn’t before, but my neck is littered with emblems. I really wouldn’t have a clue either way.

The black dress pants stretch as the man on the couch stands, his movements brimming with a lethal grace as he bends beside me, removing his own stamp from his pocket. His fingers aren’t gentle, but they aren’t harsh as he maneuvers my neck, looking for something. I don’t miss the smirk that edges his bowed lips when he finds whatever it is, pressing his stamp near where I vaguely recall getting the first one. My breath slows as he bends, blowing gently on the spot before his fingers find my lips, running the pad of his thumb over the swollen, raw flesh. It takes my exhaustion-riddled brain a moment to catch up to what he 's doing: spreading his cum across them like a gloss.

He says nothing as he stands to his daunting height, and I watch him silently as he stalks away. His black suit is tailored to him as if it was painted on. He clicks his tongue twice, getting the attention of the nude, collared women still seated by the couch. “Come.” His voice is a gruff, deep timbre. They do, following behind him at a respectful distance, their own leads in their hands. I’m asleep before they clear the ballroom.