The silence after her whispered thanks was thicker than the Whisper Wood's gloom. Silk remained on her heels, head bowed, a hollowed-out vessel. The cold night air was a mockery on her damp cheeks. Doom did not move, did not speak. The only sound was the faint, contented hum of the Ossuary Blade still held loosely in his right hand, a stark counterpoint to the utter stillness of its master. His obsidian gaze, the stellar voids within it cold and assessing, lowered from the top of her head. It travelled down, past her trembling shoulders, to fix upon the object of her recent, degrading attention. His own flesh. He inspected it with the same detached, analytical focus he might give a newly acquired weapon or a piece of terrain. It stood thick and erect, a pale, veined column of flesh amidst the silver-traced, scarred landscape of his body. A faint sheen of moisture, the evidence of her terrified, mechanical handiwork, glistened in the dim light.
It was not enough.
A low, grating sound, the precursor to speech, rumbled in his chest. Silk flinched at the vibration, a fresh tremor wracking her exhausted frame. "It is not clean enough," he stated, his voice flat and absolute. The declaration hung in the air, a final verdict on her inadequate servitude. "Lick it." The command was so simple, so barbarically specific, that it bypassed thought and struck directly at the primal core of her revulsion. Her head jerked up, eyes wide with a fresh wave of horror that momentarily pierced the numb void she occupied. To touch it with her hand was one thing. To bring her mouth to it, to taste him… that was a descent into a new circle of hell. His gaze remained fixed on her, waiting. There was no threat, no impatience. Only expectation. The universe, in his presence, had only one possible configuration, his will, and its fulfilment. A choked, ragged sob was torn from her throat. She shook her head, a tiny, frantic motion of denial. "Please…" The word was a ghost, a final, pathetic shred of the person she had been. Doom's expression did not change. He took a single, deliberate step forward, closing the small distance between them. The intimidating tip of his shaft was now level with her face. The scent of him, of clean skin and the faint, cold ozone of the void, filled her senses, overwhelming.
"Now," he rasped.
Defeated, utterly broken, Silk leaned forward. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners. Her tongue, dry and unwieldy, darted out. The first contact was a shock, salty skin, warm and unnervingly alive. She dragged her tongue along the length in a quick, jerky motion, like a cat cleaning something foul from its fur. "Again," he commanded, his voice a low thrum. "Slower. Cover it." A shudder wracked her entire body. She obeyed, her movements becoming a slow, deliberate ritual of degradation. She licked him from base to tip, her tongue laying a wet, glistening trail over the thick veins and smooth skin. The act was intimate and utterly violating. The only sounds were her hitched, sobbing breaths and the soft, wet slicks of her tongue. She worked methodically, coating him in a layer of her saliva, her own body's fluid used to prepare him for a purpose she dared not name. The taste of him, a faint, metallic tang mixed with the clean scent of his skin, would be seared into her memory forever. When he was slick and gleaming, she stopped, pulling back slightly, hoping against hope it was over.
His hand moved again, not to her hair this time, but to cup her chin. His grip was firm, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were pits of endless night. "Open your mouth," he instructed, his tone chillingly matter-of-fact. "Take it in. A deeper cleaning is required." The final command. The ultimate violation. There was no air left in her lungs. Her jaw felt locked. His thumb pressed against her lips, a silent, inexorable pressure. With a whimper that was the death rattle of her spirit, she parted her lips. He guided himself forward. The feeling of him pressing into her mouth was overwhelming. He was thick, stretching her lips, the head of his shaft bumping against the back of her throat. She gagged instantly, a violent, reflexive convulsion. Her eyes flew open, wide with panic, meeting his cold, observing gaze. He did not thrust. He simply held himself there, allowing her body to struggle against the invasion.
"Breathe through your nose," he said, the words a calm, instructional rasp. "Clean it."
Tears streamed down her face as she fought her own gag reflex. She tried to obey, her tongue moving weakly against the underside of his shaft, her mouth a tight, wet prison. The sounds were unmistakable now, the wet, sucking noises of her efforts, the choked gags she tried to suppress, the soft, slick friction of flesh against flesh. It was the soundtrack of her utter annihilation. He began to move then, not with passion, but with a slow, rhythmic precision. A shallow, piston-like motion that fucked her mouth with terrifying control. Each forward push made her gag, her throat convulsing around him. Each withdrawal was accompanied by a slick, messy sound. He used her mouth with the same efficiency he used the Ossuary Blade, a tool for his needs. His gaze never left her face, watching the play of agony and humiliation in her eyes, listening to the degrading symphony of wet, choking sounds she was forced to produce. Then, he picked up the pace. The slow, measured rhythm became faster, more demanding. The wet, sloppy sounds intensified, becoming louder, more frantic. Schlup-Schlup-GAG. Schlup-Schlup-GAG. Drool, thick and stringy, began to drip from her stretched lips, coating her chin and his shaft, making a mess of her tunic. Her nose ran, mixing with her tears. She was a wreck of fluids and misery. The Ossuary Blade was plunged into the earth beside them with a final, decisive thud, freeing his other hand. Both of his hands now came to rest on the back of her head, his fingers tangling tightly in her hair, locking her in place.
The message was clear, her participation was no longer required, only her submission. He drove forward, deeper this time, aiming to bury his entire length down her throat. It was too much. Her body rebelled violently. Her throat seized, and with a horrific, wrenching heave, she vomited. The acidic burn of half-digested travel rations and bile erupted around him, a hot, chunky flood that spilled from her lips and nose. The sloppy, wet sounds were now mixed with the gurgling, choking noise of her sickness. The stench of vomit filled the air, adding a new layer of filth to the violation. Doom did not pull out. He held her there, impaling her mouth as she convulsed, vomit splattering against his lower abdomen and thighs. He grunted, a sound of minor irritation, not disgust. The world dissolved into a wet, suffocating hell. The taste was a vile cocktail of salt, skin, and the acidic burn of her own vomit. Silk's body was a frantic, convulsing thing, trapped between the unyielding pressure of his hands and the brutal invasion of his flesh. Her throat, stretched taut around him, rebelled in a series of ragged, choked gags that sent fresh waves of bitter fluid bubbling up around the obstruction. Glllk… Hrrk… Glllk… The sounds were animalistic, the desperate protests of a body being forcibly unmade. Doom grunted again, a low, guttural sound of frustration that vibrated through her skull.
He held her fast, not retreating an inch, his hips making small, insistent adjustments as he tried to force the final, impossible inches past her constricted oesophagus. Her vision swam, dark spots blooming at the edges. The pressure in her head built to a screaming pitch. Her lungs burned, starved for air, her diaphragm spasming uselessly. Instinct, primal and blind, took over. Her hands, which had lain limp at her sides, flew up. Her fingernails, blunt and broken from scavenging, scratched and clawed at the iron-hard muscles of his thighs. It was like trying to carve granite. She slapped at his legs, a series of weak, pathetic impacts that he didn't even seem to feel. A high, muffled keen, the last sound she could make around him, was torn from her violated throat. He ignored her struggles, his focus absolute. He pushed harder, a relentless, piston-like drive that felt like it would split her jaw and crush her windpipe. The thick, veiny underside of his shaft scraped against the roof of her mouth, a grotesque, intimate friction. Her slaps became weaker, her struggles losing coordination. The dark spots in her vision expanded, swallowing the sight of his silver-traced abdomen, the grim set of his jaw. A roaring silence filled her ears, the sound of her own brain shutting down from lack of oxygen. Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, began to lose focus, the pupils dilating. Her head felt light, ready to float away from the agony. Just as the darkness threatened to consume her completely, as her eyes started to roll back into her head, the pressure vanished.
He pulled out.
It was not a gentle withdrawal. It was a swift, wet shluck that left her throat raw and gaping. Air, cold and shocking, flooded her tortured lungs. She collapsed forward, her body wracked by a massive, whooping gasp that was immediately followed by a violent coughing fit. She vomited again, a thin, clear bile that splattered onto the mud between her trembling hands. She choked and sobbed, her entire frame shuddering, strings of saliva and vomit dripping from her lips to the ground. Her throat felt flayed, every breath a searing agony. She could still feel the phantom shape of him, the brutal stretch, the violation etched deep into her flesh. Doom looked down at her, his obsidian gaze cool and assessing. He was still fully erect, glistening with the evidence of her ordeal. He watched her retch and gasp, her body fighting to reclaim the basic function of breathing, with the detached interest of a scientist observing an experiment. The brief, failed attempt to fully sheath himself in her throat seemed to be a minor data point, an obstacle to be overcome, not a limit to be respected. He let her cough and gasp for a few more moments, allowing the very basics of life to return to her broken form. Then, his voice cut through her ragged breaths, flat and commanding.
"You will learn to take it all when am done with you."
The air she dragged into her lungs was a blessed, searing agony. Each ragged gasp was a knife in her raw throat, but it was life, a reprieve from the suffocating darkness that had nearly claimed her. Silk knelt, hunched over, her body convulsing with the aftershocks of her violent rejection. Strings of saliva and bitter bile dripped from her swollen lips, adding to the filth that coated the front of her tunic and the ground beneath her. The taste of him and her own sickness was a permanent stain in her mouth, a vile sacrament of her subjugation. Doom observed her recovery with the patience of a glacier. His erection, slick with her spit and the evidence of her failed gag reflex, stood as a monument to his unfulfilled will. The brief, messy struggle had been… instructive. An obstacle to be mapped and overcome. Her violent rejection was not a defiance he would punish, but a physiological response he would train. His right hand, which had been resting at his side, moved. It did not strike her. Instead, it closed around the back of her neck, his large, calloused fingers spanning her vertebrae. The grip was firm, unyielding, but not brutal. It was a statement of control. He pulled her upright, forcing her trembling body to straighten. Her head lolled for a moment before his other hand came up, not to her hair, but to cradle her jaw. His thumb and forefinger pressed against her cheeks, forcing her mouth open into a slack, 'O' shape.
"Look at me," he rasped.
Her tear-filled, bloodshot eyes, blurred and unfocused, slowly rose to meet his. The stellar voids of his gaze were chillingly calm. "You fought your own body," he stated, his tone analytical, as if diagnosing a faulty mechanism. "The reflex is a weakness. It can be controlled. You will control it." He shifted his grip, his left hand moving from her jaw to the base of his own shaft. He held himself firmly, the thick, veiny length pulsing in his grasp. With his right hand still on the back of her neck, he guided her head forward. The intimidating tip, glistening and ruddy, tapped once, twice against her trembling, bruised lips. The contact was a promise of renewed violation.
Tap. Tap.
"When I enter you again," he instructed, his voice a low, grating whisper that brooked no argument, "you will not fight. You will relax your throat. You will breathe through your nose. You will accept it." He tapped his flesh against her lips once more, a deliberate, demeaning gesture. "Do you understand?" A fresh tear traced a path through the mess on her cheek. There were no words left in her, no spirit to form a protest. Her survival, in this moment, depended on utter, mindless obedience. It was the only law left in her universe. She gave a single, shaky, almost imperceptible nod.
"Good."
His right hand on her neck applied steady, inexorable pressure. His left hand at his base guided the angle. The thick, bulbous head of his shaft pressed against her parted lips. This time, there was no frantic struggle, only a dreadful, passive anticipation. She focused everything, every shred of her shattered will, on the impossible task he had set. Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose. He pushed forward. The initial stretch was just as brutal, her lips straining around his girth. But she did not gag. She focused on the air whistling faintly through her nostrils, a fragile, desperate lifeline. He pushed deeper, the length of him sliding over her tongue, a familiar, terrifying invasion. She felt the head nudge the entrance to her throat. Her body tensed instinctively, a primal alarm screaming in her nerves. "Relax," his voice was a cold command, a lash against her wavering focus. She forced a breath out through her nose, trying to consciously unclench the muscles he was about to violate. It felt like trying to will her own heart to stop beating. He pushed past the threshold. It was a slow, deliberate, and utterly terrifying penetration. She felt the impossible pressure as the head of his shaft forced its way into her tight oesophagus. The sensation was one of being turned inside out, of a fundamental boundary of her body being irrevocably crossed. A low, muffled whine escaped her, vibrating around the flesh filling her. But she did not gag. She focused on the whistle of air in her nose, on the pressure of his hand on her neck, on the absolute command in his voice.