Geas Ch. 02

She has dressed in a long satin gown that compliments her eyes and a delicate webbed shawl that cups her cleavage. He looks at her reflection as she does the same, searching for imperfections. Inevitably, there are none. Satisfied, she blows him a kiss as she leaves, and the door closes behind her like a terrible omen. It is not locked, but he won't leave without her express permission.

Still nude, he drops to the floor and begins his workout. One hundred push ups pulse in his arms in perfect form, capable of defending her from attackers or perhaps even crushing her in his grasp, but that is not what is on his mind. He would never do anything to hurt her or escape her; thoughts like that have been erased from his psyche for good. Instead, because she told him to, he thinks of how easy it is to fall to his knees before her, how difficult it is to be anything but gentle with her impeccable body, how weak he is in mind and soul to the power that she holds in the Geas. His arms might be healthy, but his control of them is fragile. His legs might be sturdy, but he would break them if she told him to. His core might be tight and defined, but it sinks and shivers when he subjects himself to her.

One hundred crunches, one hundred lunges, and one hundred prostrating bows at the foot of her bed later, he has worked up a naked sweat. Breath short, he shuffles toward the bathroom. The water she had used is now cold, of course, and it stinks with yesterday's desires, like the salted lagoons where he had first been defeated.

He takes a deep breath in self-loathing preparation, then submerges himself in it. He washes himself quickly, dries himself as the bath drains, then kneels on the slick porcelain to osculate his mouth with that of the cold metal pipe at the bath's base. There he can smell the soap, taste the accumulation of two people's filth, feel the texture of the grime. His ass is up and his tongue is out as he performs for no one. It is a fresh new debasement that she will not even witness, and the intimate privacy of this indignity makes it that much more humiliating.

Eventually, he rises to his feet. He wipes his mouth, goes to the little box beneath her wardrobe, and removes his required clothes. He wraps himself in the corset, shrugs on the harness, tugs on the tights, and straps the cuffs over his wrists. He ties back his wet hair, then tests the flexibility of the outfit. It is restrictive and stifling.

Her suite includes another stone door on the other side of the bed, which he stares at for as long as he dares to. A sigh escapes him, part exasperation but also part anticipation. He hates what he is about to do, but he also loves it. And he can't remember whether she told him to.

The door opens to reveal a massive altar table. It is framed by two braziers and long enough for him to lay on, if it were not adorned by various bowls and knives and talismans. But these are not the features that catch his gaze. Instead, he looks up at the giant statue of a spider, easily five feet high, its long legs spread over a carving of an even larger web that stretches over the floor and ceiling. His bare feet press into the grooves as he tidies the altar from its last use. He dusts; he straightens; he tends.

When that is done, he kneels at the center of the room and faces the great arachnid, indulging in the ability to meet its eight stone eyes. He inhales, and exhales. Then he pulls his tights down to his thighs and holds his cock in his hand.

This is not his choice, of course. The entire act is a compulsion, instilled in him by instructions delivered with a haughty grin. His body will move, his mind will wander, his words will be spoken - but only because it is her design. He gives himself a squeeze and a stroke, dabbing his lips with the tip of his tongue. He can still taste the soap and metal and humiliation from the drain, which he draws forth in his saliva as he spits into his palm.

With a shudder, he wets his stiffening member and begins his eightfold prayer.

"I am a lowly insect," he begins, and not without a stifled moan. "Caught in a great spider's web." He imagines himself entangled in the web's sticky strings, helpless beneath the gaze of a terrifying predator. The more he struggles, the further he is caught in the tangled threads. Every personal thought and tiny act of defiance is futile in the face of Queen of the Demonweb Pits's omniscient malice.

"I am a servant to Lolth's greatest servant, and through service to her I serve Lolth." The pressure is building in his cock and tingling in his balls as his hand moves to follow his arousal. Not his, rather, but hers, and Hers. His pleasure, just like his actions and thoughts, do not belong to him. The prayer he speaks is made of her words; the worship he enacts through his voice and his sex is devoted to Her.

"I am a pet to play with. I am an object to neglect. I am a piece of property to admire." The staccato of these sentences throbs in him, eliciting another grunt of rising desire. His hand quickens on his shaft as he is forced to remember his subjugation in detail: being captured from the surface, chained in the slave kennels, chosen by the yath'tallar, spread across the altar, and cursed with the Geas.

"I am a toy, made to be used by whomever my jabbress wills." A pitiful groan escapes him as his mind shifts to memories of one of the yath'tallar's many parties. Sometimes he would be chained to a post, or sometimes made to simply stand in some corner, while he was inspected or abused or worse: ignored. He recalls those he has been lent to, made to follow their commands. Each face flashes before his eyes, as further words fall from his lips in a rehearsed rhythm.

"I am a slut who receives suffering and pleasure by the whim of my jabbress." This one hurts the most. He does not dignify it with a further noise, though he can feel his burning lust grow and grow. He pinches his nipple, cradles his testicles, prods his asshole. He runs his fingers over his neck and chest, raising the hairs there. He spits on his dick again, inciting a slurping percussion beneath the song of his prayer.

"I am nothing without my jabbress to serve." And so his mind, having lurched between so many compulsory thoughts, falls into yet another. This time he is thrown into a darker place, the despair of nothingness, of worthlessness, of insignificance and inadequacy. A tear threatens to break free of his upturned eyes, but with a sniff he holds it in. Meanwhile his hands continue to work on his body and his edging pleasure.

"I am desperate to serve my jabbress, because I exist to please her." He sees her in his mind's eye then, her bright eyes and dark skin, her luscious body and commanding posture. He tastes her on a tongue that licks his dry, panting lips. He hears her voice reciting the lines of his prayer for the first time. He pumps himself, hard and fast, as he reaches the final line:

"Thank you, Lolth, for choosing me to serve."

Only then does the tear fall, running down a cheek that is sheened with a fresh layer of frenzied sweat. It is far from an orgasm, but that isn't the point. Sometimes he cums on that first run through, but he knows he needs to pace himself. The rules of the eightfold prayer are that he always starts over from the beginning. His mind ricochets from trapped fear to selfless devotion, to his identities as an object and a plaything and a slut, to dejected insignificance and to proud belonging, and finally to desperation and to gratitude. His elbow bobs beside him as he pulls endlessly on his cock.

"I am a lowly insect caught in a spider's web. I am a servant to Lolth's greatest servant, and through service to her I serve Lolth. I am a pet to play with. I am an object to neglect. I am a piece of property to admire. I am a toy, made to be used by whomever my jabbress wills. I am a slut who receives suffering and pleasure by the whim of my jabbress. I am nothing without my jabbress to serve. I am desperate to serve my jabbress, because I exist to please her. Thank you, Lolth, for choosing me to serve."

His breaths are shorter now, the first wave rising and rising and rising...

"I am a lowly insect caught in a spider's web. I am a servant to Lolth's greatest servant, and through service to her I serve Lolth. I am a pet to play with. I am an object to neglect. I am a piece of property to admire. I am a toy, made to be used by whomever my jabbress wills. I am a slut -- "

The worst word takes him over the edge. The shiver falls, the flower blooms, the fang pierces. The prayer's venom, its mind games and its manipulated truths, courses through his veins. He looses a long, unguarded moan that echoes through the otherwise empty room. His seed shoots onto the engraved floor before the altar and he falls forward onto his hands, his spent dick twitching against his taut stomach.

He takes a few moments to catch his breath and regain his vision. Then he bends low and opens his mouth, and slowly licks the cum off the floor. His tongue moves over the cold stone and into the webbed grooves of the floor, making sure every drop is accounted for. Dark tears drip between the spots of white, and he laps those up as well. Once there is no trace left of his orgasm, he returns to his spot and looks up at the great and horrible idol on the wall.

He takes his cock in hand and begins to stroke again. And he will do it again, and again, and again, even after he is milked dry, even after his pleasure turns to pain, until she returns to stop him.

"I am a lowly insect..."