Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Only once had I tried asking a question. I couldn’t even remember, on waking, what it had been. Something about how it could be so warm in a space that seemed so much like a dank dungeon out of a fairytale.
“Don’t ask useless questions, columba,” had of course been Malleus’ answer.
Nor had he said much of anything else. “This is your cell,” I thought I remembered. And, when he had come to take the tray away, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
My “recruitment” the previous day seemed a haze of discomfort and shame. I shivered as memories of the waxing surged through my mind—the nurse’s firm hands spreading warm wax over my most intimate places. The humiliation had seemed unbearable. It had left me vulnerable, exposed, and worst of all, submissive in ways I couldn’t understand, and didn’t want to try.
My hand drifted between my legs almost unconsciously. My fingers brushed against the smooth, bare skin of my pussy, and a soft whimper escaped my lips. The lingering soreness in my backside from Malleus’ huge, hard hand only heightened the sensation. I had never felt this kind of need before, this desperate craving for something I couldn’t name. I hadn’t ever felt the urge to play with myself before. I had always regarded it, when I did consider it from a purely intellectual point of view, as a waste of time. My touch grew bolder, exploring the sensitive folds, and a wave of arousal washed over me.
“Please…” I whimpered, softly, to no one, as if I needed to ask permission. My fingers moved faster, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The shameful bareness of my pussy seemed to amplify every sensation, turning my innocent exploration into frantic, lewd masturbation. I was so close—so achingly close—when the cell door creaked open.
“Stop.”
Malleus’ voice cut through the fog of my desire like a blade. My hand froze, and I looked up at him with wide, guilty eyes. His stern expression sent a shiver down my spine.
“Get up,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. “You are not permitted to touch your pussy except to keep it clean, columba, unless I command you to do so.”
I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding in my chest. Malleus stepped into the cell, carrying a leather bag. I watched, my curiosity mingling with trepidation, as he placed the bag on my little bed and began to take out its contents. Short straps of stout black leather, fitted with metal rings, emerged one by one.
“These are your Ostia leathers,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “As a columba, you will wear them at all times from now on.”
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry, as the implications of his words sank in.
Malleus’ gaze never wavered from mine as he approached, two of the leather straps held lightly in his right hand. He knelt before me, a position that paradoxically established both intimacy and control. I had the sudden urge to beg him to rise up again, to loom over me the way something deep in me felt certain he should.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded softly, yet with authority. My heart pounded in my chest as I complied, feeling the chill of the stone floor against my bare feet. I bit my lip as I felt the tension flow through my backside, the bruises from Malleus’ hand reasserting themselves as if to bring back the feeling of helplessness and submission.
The first strap, an ankle cuff, was wrapped around my left leg. The leather felt cold and unforgiving against my skin, its weight both foreign and strangely comforting. Malleus fastened it with practiced precision, ensuring the fit was snug but not constricting. The second followed on my right, mirroring its twin, creating a sense of symmetry that only heightened my awareness of my vulnerability.
“These cuffs will remind you of your place at all times,” Malleus said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate through me. “They are a symbol of the Guard’s ownership of your body.”
Next came the thigh cuffs. He moved closer, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs as he secured each one. I shivered, the touch sending electric tingles up my spine. The cuffs were heavier, their presence more intrusive, forcing me to acknowledge every inch of flesh they encircled.
“Intelligent as you are, columba,” he continued, shifting his attention to my wrists, “you understand the significance of these leathers. They are not merely restraints; they are a declaration.”
He bound my wrists next, the cuffs feeling heavy and impossible to ignore: a sign, every time I looked, of my bondage to the Order and to the Pretorian Guard. The silver rings set into the leather seemed like a promise of domination to come. With each click of the buckles, my breath hitched, a mixture of fear and unwelcome excitement coursing through me.