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My Most Beautiful
Instruction. It had been the reason Vellioth had come to the palace in the first place, over half a decade ago, as his tutor, back then. It is also the reason, Cazador suspects, that Vellioth has one of his more creative punishments in mind.
A few days previously, he had failed to perfectly learn a particularly long and bizarre drowic murder ballad. This insubordination had, of course, been punished at once by a stinging lash of the martinet for each and every mistake. It had lasted for hours, until the sun’s glow began to edge around the heavy drapes of the bedroom they still shared, until Cazador’s back was burning and raw, but he knew Vellioth’s changed, vampiric nature well enough by now to realise that a mere lashing would not be the only chastisement he would receive, and it would not matter how much pleading, begging and assurances to do better that had been wrenched from his lips - both during the whipping itself, and the harsh fucking that had followed it.
Vellioth, who usually insisted that Cazador must never leave his side, delighted in being able to dress Cazador, but Cazador has not seen him for several hours now which is unnerving in itself. At first, in the early months of his enslavement, Cazador used to wonder why Vellioth would trouble himself unnecessarily with a task usually firmly delegated to a servant. He had decided, back then, that perhaps it was nothing but a vestige of Vellioth’s humble beginnings, a secret hope, even, that the drow still recognised that he was beneath Cazador. He knows better than that now: the dressings and the beautiful clothes are nothing more than whimsy for Vellioth, an amusing game with his favourite doll.
The tattoo had been first. The letter V was heavily stylised, illuminated like the handwritten books of ancient temples and accented with some typical sights of the Underdark: sussur blooms and delicate spider webs in varying shades of dark, when Cazador had first seen Vellioth idly sketching at his desk, looking thoughtful, as he often did when he was in a creative flow.
“How do you like it?” Vellioth had enquired, easing Cazador down into his lap and sliding one hand idly under the laces of his loose breeches.
“It’s beautiful, Master,” Cazador murmured, dutifully.
Privately, he wanted to mock Vellioth. Here he was, an under-elf of no noble house, without even a surname, designing his own family crest. It was laughable. Ostentatious, even -
“It pleases me to hear you say it, my Cazador,” Vellioth said, moving his hand slowly around to rest on Cazador’s lower back. “You will wear it here, permanently. Your body will be my canvas - and you, my most beautiful masterpiece.”
Cazador recalls the heartskip of fear, the tremor that writhed its way through his stomach, but even then, he had known that protests would only alter the outcome for the worse: Vellioth was clearly aroused as he watched the artist he had brought from the Lower City and enthralled.
Blank-eyed, she used her needles and ink to bring Vellioth’s vision to life. Afterward, for his good behaviour, his master had permitted him one swallow from the young human woman’s neck before he drained her dry.
Yet he had not stopped there. To celebrate their first anniversary as master and spawn, Vellioth had pierced Cazador’s ears himself. Cazador, as yet undisciplined, had cried out in pain as the hot needle speared his sensitive lobes, but this had not dissuaded so much as encouraged Vellioth, who had enjoyed the effect so much, he had decided to pierce Cazador’s nipples as well, decorating them proudly with gems set in metals mined from the tunnels circling Menzoberranzan itself.
Now, alone, freshly-bathed and hair loose, he is Vellioth’s waiting doll once more, save for the collar, the only other adornment aside from the piercings that Cazador is never allowed to remove without Vellioth’s permission. The collar is a full inch thick, with a flat metal buckle at the back and a small ring at the front, designed, perhaps, for a tag of some sort, but instead, just for fun, Vellioth had attached the Szarr family signet ring he had removed from Donnela’s corpse.
The items in the velvet box the servants had left were as beautifully wrapped as any lover’s gift. The first was the only item of clothing, and even this was a stretch: it seemed to consist merely of two sections of diaphanous, deep blue silk, one that hung from his waist in front, and the other over his backside. It had ties at either hip, and, of course, Vellioth has made certain that it sits low enough that the mark, the tattoo on his lower back, is on unfettered display.
The rest is jewellery: sapphire studs attached to fine metal webbing that stretches all the way up to the points of his ears and ending in a delicate arc; bracelets that draw graceful, shimmering curves around his upper arms, displaying the long slender lines of his muscles, with more tiny dark gemstones that glitter on his bloodless skin.
A bell tolls somewhere down the hall, and it is only then that Vellioth arrives, sweeping into the room, and filling it with his presence.
Cazador does not need to be told to kneel before his master, not any more. Vellioth’s boots click softly against the carpeted floor, heels adding unnecessary height, and they come into view as Cazador bends, nose inches from the floor.
Vellioth does not speak immediately, he simply pushes the toe of his boot to Cazador’s mouth by way of greeting, the tails of the martinet a languorous caress along his naked spine, from his waist to between his shoulder blades as he bends, head to his master’s foot.
Vellioth can compel him to do his bidding, Cazador knows this, but he has never done it, not yet. It is not needed: Cazador knows what to do - knows each pair of Vellioth’s boots intimately, not merely by colour and design but also by taste, and the texture on his tongue - the soft kiss of pewter silk, the rough lap of suede, and tonight, the smooth slick glide of glossy black patent.
“Perfect,” Vellioth murmurs eventually, and the pleasure in his voice still sends a small shiver of delight from Cazador’s navel to his undead heart.
“Perhaps tonight you will learn how to properly follow my instruction after all.”
He withdraws his foot. “Up,” he says, after a beat. Cazador stands, hands clasped in front and head down, as he has been taught, but Vellioth’s fingers grasp his chin and raise his head. He touches the sparkling jewellery and his fingers are gentle, caressing, on the edges of Cazador’s ears, on his cheek.
“You look exquisite in your gifts, my love.” Vellioth says, his hands wandering down Cazador’s back to rest on the exposed tattoo. “I trust you will deserve me indulging you so, particularly after your conduct of late.”
“I'm sorry, Master,” Cazador says. He does mean it, he thinks, although he doesn’t know if it is because he is still in love with Vellioth, in spite of everything, of if he is just afraid, now, of what Vellioth might decide to do next, because he cannot leave him now - whatever Vellioth becomes, Cazador has no choice but to bear witness to it all.
But Vellioth remains soft. He leans down, and kisses Cazador, tenderly at first, and then with more passion. Cazador returns the kiss - this is not difficult for him to do. He does want Vellioth to be pleased with him: his kisses and that dazzling smile reminds him of when they both had beating hearts and they loved each other in a way that was ordinary and mundane and untwisted, and it gives Cazador hope that some kind of version of the old Vellioth still exists inside him, somewhere, and it isn’t just his imagination or the fact that hope dies last.
It is this thought that makes him risk looking up at Vellioth directly, which he does rarely these days but this time, Vellioth allows it. He is dressed for the occasion, even though Cazador does not dare to ask him what that occasion might actually be. He has never seen Vellioth dressed like this - with his white gold curls and moon-kissed pallor so light that he could pass easily for a surface elf, Cazador often forgets the vicious, subterranean city that birthed and created him.
Tonight, Vellioth is every inch a proud drow. His boots are high, making him seem even taller than he already is, the black gloss accentuated by a pattern of narrow, shimmering webs and the long lines of black spidersilk armour fall to his knees. His white curls flow magnificently long and loose, and Vellioth wears the piwafwi - the traditional drow cloak, breathtakingly well, the whisper-fine fabric slung loosely across one shoulder and falling almost to the floor.
“I wish to be proud of you this night,” Vellioth says, a note of amusement in his voice as he notices the flush high on Cazador’s cheeks and the barely concealed twitch of interest in other places. “You will not disappoint me, will you, my Cazador, as you have so recently, in other things?”
“I will try to, Master,” Cazador murmurs. “I will.” he corrects, as he sees Vellioth’s fingers stray to the martinet at his belt. “I promise I will make you proud.”
He knows he can, is sure he can. He is bathed and dressed and suitably submissive, he has studied and practiced the poems. He is word perfect, not quite pronunciation perfect, but Vellioth is lenient with that, for the most part, in their lessons, he simply leans back in his chair, sips wine and grins and calls him darthiir.
Vellioth hums, now, as if he does not quite believe Cazador’s assurances, but he beckons him over anyway, as he sits on the edge of their bed.
“Come,” he says, in a voice so tender that Cazador almost believes in it. “There is something else we must do, before we join our guests for tonight.”
Cazador is accustomed to this part of the ritual. Most likely, he will be used as he normally is: an ornament to decorate Vellioth’s arm, when he is allowed more dignified clothing at respectable parties, or more frequently, at the less respectable ones, leashed and prettified, a living trussed-up trophy of Vellioth’s victory over Donnela Szarr. He steps forward, into Vellioth’s waiting arms. They circle his waist: gloved hands offer gentle touches and strokes, and Cazador almost begins to relax into the pleasure he knows Vellioth can give him, still does give him, despite all the other, darker and more frightening parts of the man he loves that Cazador doesn’t like to think about now. They will kiss and fondle, and then Vellioth will casually loosen the laces on his dress clothes, to give Cazador the gift of feeling his master’s spend trickle slowly down his thigh as he sits in public at Vellioth’s feet, so, as Vellioth likes to tell him, he never forgets who he belongs to.
This time, though, Vellioth doesn’t bend him over the foot of the bed. Instead, he takes another small box from inside his cloak and opens it. Cazador watches as he produces a small, soft pouch of dark suede. He holds it up, stroking the soft nap thoughtfully. The pouch has long ties on one end, and slightly shorter ones on the tip. Vellioth grins as he pushes silk aside and slides it snugly over Cazador‘s half-hard cock, fastening one pair of ties tightly around Cazador’s waist, and the other around his thigh, holding him firmly and restrictively in place.
“Slaves are not entitled to any undue excitement,” Vellioth murmurs, still smiling. “Are they, Cazador?”
Cazador swallows.
“No, Master.”
“I am pleased you agree, my love. It helps make your education easier for you.”
Vellioth reaches over to take the last item from the box. Cazador stares. At first, he does not know what it is, this strange object that covers the palm of Vellioth’s elegant hand. Then he recognises it - spherical in the centre, with eight metal legs: a spider, but with two angled chains on each side that hooked onto a metal ring meant to be worn at the back of the head so the body of the arachnid functions as both a gag and as a muzzle. Vellioth gazes at it, his glowing red eyes full of a strange delight.
“Wonderful,“ he breathes, almost reverently. “It is exactly as I imagined. I had this made only for you, my darling. It is going to look exquisite.”
He presses a thumb down onto Cazador’s bottom lip - the now-familiar command to open his mouth and receive whatever his master deigns to give him, but although Cazador does open his mouth by well-trained reflex, he shakes his head and looks at Vellioth, knowing that pleading is useless but trying it anyway.
Vellioth pauses, not angry, not yet.
“Such ingratitude, my pet. We have discussed this behaviour, Cazador, have we not? You know my patience has its limits.”
He paces, circling like the predator he is, drawing out the moment agonisingly slow, the way Cazador knows he loves more than anything. He shakes his head, theatrically sad. “Why must you do this each time I try to teach you? Even as I try so very hard to help you accept my lessons, you complain and defy me incessantly, thus proving beyond all doubt that you require an ever-firmer hand.”
“I don’t, I will behave." Cazador begs, "Just not that, please - I can’t -”
“Oh, Cazador,” Vellioth says, leaning in close and smiling like a viper about to devour a particularly succulent piece of prey. “You will do anything for me. You simply don’t realise it yet. But you will. Meanwhile, perhaps I ought to take you at your childish words and leave you for a tenday or more in one of the more disreputable Menzoberranzan pleasure houses. Is that what you would have me do?”
“No, Master, please.”
“No? Why, then, do you insist upon this show of insubordination? I think perhaps I am not enough for you, and this is one of your secret little fantasies. All those frustrated men, waiting to use you…”
Cazador, sensing the danger in Vellioth’s mood, can only manage a whisper.
“You said I’m only yours to lie with.” he says, hating the way his voice shakes, though his fear seems to pacify Vellioth.
“And so you are,” he says softly, “but when you get to know the Drow better, my Cazador, you will understand that their pleasures are far more diverse than you imagine. I promise you, you will be begging for even my least gentle touches before they even think about violating your precious little holes. There is no need for such ugly talk, though. I hope you will not force my hand. You know how I adore you. How precious you are to me.”
Cazador nods. He is defeated, he is always defeated.
“My good boy,” Vellioth kisses him again, sliding his warm tongue into Cazador’s mouth. Then the warmth is all gone and cold metal replaces it: the fat body of the spider stretching his mouth, and beyond all hope and reason, Cazador feels his cock swell and ache and leak against its bindings.
“You are right, though,” Vellioth says, thoughtfully his voice a satisfied purr as he fastens the gag in place. “I would never allow it. You are only mine. You will only ever be mine.”
-
Though no former Szarr servants survived to witness his fall from grace, Cazador does not know if he will ever become used to the cheek-burning humiliation of being all but naked, feet bare, collared and bejewelled, Vellioth’s prized pet. No other options exist, now, though, those days are long gone.
The ballroom and hallways are all occupied but not with guests, only with the servants, all cleaning and polishing, or at least pretending to, and Cazador has no doubt in his mind at all that Vellioth himself has issued this order. Vellioth snaps the leash onto his collar and winds the end of the chain around his gloved wrist. He flicks the Szarr family ring mockingly as he does it.
“This silly little trinket does amuse me so,” he remarks. He tugs on the leash and chuckles to himself. He has kept the Szarr family portraits in the hallway. He says he likes to look at them.
“Are you not going to ask me what the occasion is?” he asks, falsely ebullient. “Ah, you cannot, of course. No matter,” he said, the delight unmistakable in his voice as the servants try and fail to hide their glances. “I shall tell you when we arrive, so as not to spoil the surprise.”
-
Standing at the entrance to one of the most remote chambers of the Tourmaline Depths, Cazador hears voices inside the room, goblets clinking and bottle corks being eased out of the wine, no doubt from Donnela’s Szarr’s well-stocked cellars. He tenses, and stops before the door, but if Vellioth notices his trepidation, it gives him no pause.
“Tonight, my love, we are honoured to receive guests from the city of my birth.” he announces. “A few former…associates, shall we say? They were most curious to see what I have achieved here on the surface. And now I wish to to show them the very best achievement of all.”
Cazador has not been inside this chamber before - the sheer expanse of the Tourmaline Depths was still new to him. Here is a circular cave, not more than twenty strides wide, but large enough to fit a low table that looked as if it had been sliced whole from a great tree. In its centre is a glowing brazier that burns with flames of silver and lavender blue. Whatever this is, it is certainly no formal gathering. Bottles, both empty and half-full, litter the table along with dishes of fruit and sweet tarts, and other foods that Cazador does not recognise. Even the ceiling has been charmed to resemble a vast stone cavern studded with the multicoloured and ever-shifting lights of the tiny wormlike creatures that inhabit the caverns of the Underdark. Shimmering crystals glow against rocky walls, casting strange shadows in the flickering lights.
The floor is covered in thick rugs and cushions, and arranged around the table are several low, velvet slipper chairs and chaises. Some of the seats are already occupied: drow women, their white hair elaborately styled and decorated with thin iridescent silver threads, lounge idly - mostly with a whip in one hand and a wineglass in the other. Their skin, unlike Vellioth’s pallor, runs the spectrum of pale lavender to jet black. All of them are wearing copious amounts of dark gemstones about their necks, gleaming like deep water, and attending all of them, in various different manners, are a group of nine or ten male drow slaves wearing nothing on top and very little below. Two other men dressed similarly to Vellioth, in dark armour and long cloaks, are conversing quietly together in a corner, one holding a long-plumed hat and snaking his arm suggestively around the waist of the other.
There was only one other male in the room - not a slave, but clearly beneath the other drow in status. He sits apart from the others, hunched over in a bare stone seat and wrapped in voluminous grey robes. His skin, too, was grey, but across his nose and cheeks he had strange, red scars sliced into it, deep red and deliberate.
As soon as the drow notice Cazador, an obscene cacophony of cheering and applause rises up, echoing around the room.
“So this is your little secret!” one of the women laughs. “Look, our own Lord Vellioth has a pretty pet!”
“A faerie!” gasps another, turning and kicking one of the slaves roughly away from whatever task he had been performing under her robe. “I see that at least it is properly restrained.”
“One must train them, Elaria,” Vellioth says, smoothly, drinking in Cazador’s humiliation, “Until they learn.”
“Indeed. Let me look upon it - never have I seen one up close. Wherever did you buy the creature?”
“Ah, this one came with the palace,” Vellioth says, smiling and tugging on the leash. “I disposed of the aunt, of course, but the nephew was worth keeping.”
“You and your tastes, Velli,” one of the men remarks wryly, but they all nod approvingly - such tales of bloody conquest were satisfying. They rise, some unsteadily, and move closer.
“Its hair is most unusual. I have never seen such a colour.” Cazador feels fingernails scraping the nape of his neck and pulling his head back, before a sigh of irritation. “But make it kneel. It is too tall to look at properly.”
“Cazador,” Vellioth says, but there is no need. Cazador has never wanted to kneel so badly, to be allowed to hide his nakedness and the humiliating marks of ownership Vellioth had carved into his body. He sinks to the floor, almost gratefully, and tolerates the prodding and poking and the laughter. They discover the restraint under the flimsy silk garment, and laugh even more, but fall short of putting their hands on him, there, at least - Vellioth’s rules are respected, here in this crowd.
“You have done well here, Vellioth,” the eldest of the women says eventually. “I recall well your many talents in Menzoberranzan, but I commend you for achieving such power and influence.”
“I have enjoyed the surface more than I thought.” Vellioth says. “I recommend it to you.”
“Most would have slaughtered a useless faerie,” another says. “It cannot be anywhere near as useful as, say, a duergar or a dwarf, for working these tunnels under the palace.”
When Vellioth laughs he shows his fangs, and Cazador wonders to himself if they will all return to Menzoberranzan alive. Vellioth will want to eat later and these women might believe themselves superior, but they speak to him with admiration: they know what he is, and fear is the only measure by which respect can be afforded, at least in Menzoberranzan.
“Are the jewels you wear functional, Mirel?” he asks her, with amusement. “I am sure even you are not above enjoying a pretty plaything, particularly as a trophy from your kills.”
Vellioth reaches down and caresses Cazador’s head, almost lovingly with the tips of his fingers.
“You pamper it, Velli, really,” she says, smiling. “Was it fresh, when you had it?”
“Completely. Shook and trembled the first time, but I assure you it is the best way. No bad habits to undo - they are trained to suit. To taste.” His voice lingers on the last word. Cazador cannot see his face but he imagines Vellioth running the tip of his tongue almost imperceptibly across the tips of his razor-sharp teeth. “They are but simple creatures, easily confused and they need to be clear about how to please. After all, one cannot properly serve two masters, or mistresses.”
“You are an inspiration to us all, Lord Vellioth, truly.” the eldest drow says.
Cazador feels them move away slightly, though Vellioth’s hand is still clamped hard on his short leash. Then suddenly all eyes turn to the corner of the room where the drow slaves had been kneeling obediently in position.
One of them, a handsome, lithe boy only a few years younger than Cazador, breaks his position and speaks to the drow Vellioth had addressed as Elaria. His voice is deferential, as he would have been taught, but it is high and clear, and Cazador notices that instead of maroon or red like the others, his eyes are a light silver grey.
“Mistress,” he begins, in a rush. Cazador looks at him. He has an excited flush high on his cheeks and it is quite obvious that, unlike Cazador, he was not wearing restraints. “Mistress, may I - may I touch the faerie?” he asks, “You said it pleased you when you watch me with the others,” he inclined his head towards the other slaves. “So I thought, maybe…”
Elaria steps forward. The other male slaves were already cringing, their shoulders tense and their eyes firmly fixed on their knees. She takes hold of the short leash dangling from the boy’s collar and wrenches him up by it.
“You dare to speak without permission, boy?” she barks, and all the others flinch, including Cazador. “Excuse it, Lord Vellioth. It is new. I believed it to be ready but it seems it needs more education. More than once, I have caught it with the other boy slaves without my permission.”
Vellioth laughs.
“It sounds a very enjoyable show, but it ought to know better than to beg use of its superior’s property.” he says. “But perhaps we should allow him to indulge a little?” He smiles, and unclips Cazador’s leash, pocketing it and dropping down lazily into the nearest chair. “Cazador, to me.” he instructs, indicating his lap.
“I ought to cut out its tongue,” Elaria says.
“Be at ease,” Vellioth says, silkily. “Let us be entertained, and see why it thinks it can earn such a pleasure.”
“If it pleases you,” said the drow woman, a little grudgingly, but she too seemed to recognise the underlying menace in Vellioth’s tone and had a macabre curiosity to see where it would lead.
“May I instruct it?”
“Be welcome. I shall sell the filthy little beast before the tenday is out.”
Vellioth draws a hand into his pocket and takes out a strip of fabric. He holds it out to one of the other slaves.
“Blindfold him.”
The blindfold secured over the young slave’s grey eyes, he is commanded to kneel.
“I find some of them like to be on the receiving end,” Vellioth says, conversationally, sliding a hand under Cazador’s backside to caress him gently.
“They seem to need it. And if one sense is denied, then the others all clamour to compensate. Bind his hands in front,” he barks suddenly at the other slave.
“I’m sorry, Mistress, Master, I’m sorry,” the boy begins to sob quietly, only now beginning to realise that something awful was almost certainly about to happen. Vellioth ignores the boy’s pleas. “You can use the oil.” he tells the other slaves, offhandedly. “But if I see even one of you being gentle with him, you’ll be next.”
The drow follow Vellioth’s lead and take their seats as if attending the theatre, to pour more wine and enjoy the spectacle about to unfold. The man with the long-plumed hat throws more powder on the brazier, and a sweet, intoxicating smell rises up. It seems to fill Cazador’s nose and mouth, making him feel like his mind could float away at any given moment. When the first of the male slaves approaches the bound boy, rubbing his hole up and down roughly with a little oil meant more for his own comfort, Cazador leans into his master, feeling lightheaded and dreamy and enjoying the feel of Vellioth’s erection pushing up against his backside; one long-fingered hand roaming over Cazador’s bare body and teasing the nipple rings as he noses at his neck.
The first slave comes with a groan and is replaced by the second, who doesn’t bother with the oil at all, and soon the boy’s moans become louder. He falls forward onto his elbows, and Cazador cannot tell if he is in pain or pleasure yet, but by the time the fourth and fifth slave finish roughly inside him and Cazador’s nose, finely attuned to the scent of blood, picks up the scent on the air, the boy is crumpled and screaming nonsense words - something in the drow language mixed with pleas to stop. All of them are ignored both by Vellioth and the other drow, who seem universally delighted by the show.
Vellioth’s hand has moved under the scrap of silk, but through the haze, Cazador doesn’t mind. He knows his heart doesn’t need to beat any more, but he still feels his chest tighten, the warm flush of arousal spreads through his body and he makes a small sound in the back of his throat, the only noise the gag will allow as he arches his back against his master. He feels Vellioth smile into his neck, near the marks he made when he first claimed him, and he eases his fingers in between Cazador’s legs. Cazador groans again as his cock hardens and strains against its bindings.
“I think you’re enjoying this,” Vellioth murmurs, fondling Cazador through the pouch, the end now damp and sticky with his arousal, “Wet little thing, aren’t you?”
Cazador isn’t really sure if he is enjoying watching as the eighth slave grunts and spends and the blindfolded boy screams and gasps. Mostly, he feels relieved that it isn’t him, that at least a little light humiliation before Vellioth’s fellow drow was all he had to bear. Then, without warning, Vellioth pushes him abruptly off of his lap and he slides in an undignified heap onto the floor as Vellioth stands to his full massive height. He approaches the boy now weeping and bloodied on the floor, bends down and uses the small flap of leather on the end of his whip to pull off the boy’s blindfold.
“Cazador,” he commands, and points with the end of the whip to the spot by his feet. “Here.”
Cazador obeys without thinking, unprepared for what was about to happen next. The drow are still transfixed by the scene, and Cazador has the unpleasant sense that this disturbing performance is approaching some familiar kind of culmination but he can’t put his finger on why. The boy slave has ceased his sobbing, and sits mere inches from him, his wet grey eyes still staring at Cazador’s body. Vellioth walks behind the boy, then, his boots clacking on the floor and when he bends to murmur in the his ear, his voice is calm, dreamy and almost hypnotic.
“Was that a pleasant experience for you?” he says softly. “Do you think you have earned the right to do to my slave what you just had done to you?”
The hapless boy is still staring at Cazador as he nods blankly. Cazador thinks the billowing smoke from the brazier must be affecting him as much as it affects Cazador, because he reacts with a little surprise and confusion as Vellioth produces the razor sharp dagger that Cazador knows he keeps on his person at all times, and slices through the bonds binding the boy’s hands.
“Very well.” he commands, “Touch him.”
Incredibly, Cazador sees the boy’s cock twitch as he pulls himself up and actually reaches out. Cazador doesn’t even realise Vellioth has moved at all - so quickly it happens, but then there is a spurt of warm blood across Cazador’s cheek and the boy collapses before his fingers can even make contact with Cazador’s skin, his throat slashed cleanly open by Vellioth’s silent dagger. A roar of applause and stamping rises up from the drow, who hold their glasses aloft, as if toasting their wretched victim.
A few minutes pass before the drow lose interest in the body. They turn away and return to their wine and conversations and clandestine dealings. The brazier flares and billows sweet-scented smoke and Cazador finds himself pulled up by the collar and being pushed against the rocky wall before his mind can catch up. Vellioth’s fangs scrape against the mark on his neck first and then his tongue laps up the tiny bead of blood he has drawn.
“Just as I thought,” he hisses, licking his lips. “You liked watching them, didn’t you?” He is strong, much stronger than he ever used to be, and only needs one hand to pin Cazador while the other roams between his legs and finds him still hard, more the effect of the smoke, which he realises dimly by now, must be drugged. “Were you disappointed he didn’t get to use you, or did you imagine yourself in his place?”
Cazador dares to make eye contact with Vellioth, to plead the only way he is able, but that look is there, the crazed, maniacal glint he began to see after Vellioth drank from Donnela and became the creature he is now. There will be no mercy, not tonight, and he was a fool to believe otherwise.
“Whore,” Vellioth snarls, his breath tinged with iron. “Look at you, wet and wanting. Even with all my efforts to confine you, to remind you who you belong to, your body still aches to be used. Don’t think I have forgotten how you can flirt and tease.”
“Do not leave the faerie out of the entertainment, Velli.” called one of the drow, to much applause, and Vellioth’s demeanour changes abruptly: he smiles and bows as if he were graciously agreeing to an encore. Then his expression hardens once more and he raises his hand, which glows with a brief light as he summons two of his servants. They arrive and bow blankly to him, without even glancing at the scene of debauchery inside the room.
“Bring the post.” he orders. They nod. Cazador wonders, but the drow must know what he means because they applaud and stamp and laugh and laugh again. A phrase in the Drow language ripples around the room: Suldaim. Cazador translates it, through the fog in his brain, as “the post of shame”. It makes sense, when he sees what the servants bring in.
The post is heavy and even the two thick-set humans move it with an effort. They leave, grunting and wiping sweat from their brows, but blank-faced and questioning nothing. The thing is made of stone and about five feet high, with several thick metal rings set into the stone at the rear, ostensibly to restrain its victim. Its broad base has the same word carved into it in the angular drow script: shame. Above the script, fixed into the stone at the very base of the post, is another piece of metal, a slim, highly-polished protrusion with a blunt ball-shaped end that curves up and back towards the post at a very particular angle.
Cazador knows it for what it is now: it is one of the many male humiliation devices popular for drow audiences in Menzoberranzan. Then Vellioth is bending Cazador’s arms up and together behind the post, binding them quickly and expertly with another long length of silk and all Cazador can think about is where he learned to be so good at this, so efficient. He expects the answer lies in the dark corners of the room where the red eyes of the two men who wear the skull and spider insignia on their clothes glow like blood pools in the gloom, but it is not either of these that step forward when Vellioth beckons. They stay in the dark, watchful, as the man with the scarred face approaches Vellioth and bows his head.
“You have them?” Vellioth says.
“Siyo, ussta Alur,” the man says. He does not turn his back on Vellioth, and keeps his eyes low in respect as he retrieves a wooden box from under his seat and holds it out. It is only as Vellioth grins and lifts the lid that Cazador can see the man’s crimson scarification clearly in the light of the brazier’s leaping flames: they are a spider’s marks; this man is an arachnomancer.
Vellioth is behind him then, movements so fluid and fleeting that Cazador’s mind, too slow now to keep up, does not register at first his master’s fingers in his hair, caressing the sensitive tips of his ears under their sparkling ornaments.
“Pretty thing,” he breathes, whisper-soft as he touches the straps of the muzzle. “Would you like this off, now?”
Cazador nods without thinking, and it is only when Vellioth draws the metal away and the warm smoky air fills his mouth that he sees what is inside the box.
“That’s better,” Vellioth says, a beatific smile lighting his face. “You look so lovely with it on, but I would not miss your sweet screams for the world.”
-
The arachnomancer holds the box open.
“Shall I do it for you, Alur?” he asks. “or does it please you to act…personally?”
“Oh, I shall very much enjoy educating a faerie on the wonders of our underground home,” Vellioth says calmly, as a ripple of terrible approval runs around the room.
Cazador strains weakly at his bindings, but he knows it is useless. Vellioth was right, he will do whatever he likes - whatever he has in mind, Cazador has no choice but to obey. Even so, when Vellioth places his hand in the box and takes out the first spider, he cannot help but begin to tremble and beg, hoping against hope for mercy that he knows will never come.
“No, no, no,” he chokes faintly. Vellioth ignores him. He holds his hand up. The arachnomancer hisses a command to the spider in its own language, and the creature begins to creep and crawl over Vellioth’s long fingers.
“My slave was, sadly, reluctant to learn of our culture,” he announces to his rapt audience. “His command of our exquisite drow poetry left a great deal to be desired. But I am nothing if not patient,” he continues, “If one lesson fails, then there is always another way to teach what is needed. One simply needs to apply a little creativity to the situation…bring the lessons to life, as it were…”
He smiles evilly and draws his fingers close to Cazador’s chest. The spider almost fills Vellioth’s palm, its legs covered in thick, prickly hairs, its bulbous body a deep, almost bloody, shade of purple.
“The violet shriekspider,” Vellioth says. “Superficially venomous, but a most agonising bite, particularly when roused by noise,”
He pauses and studies Cazador’s horrified expression, as if drinking it in. The spider puts out a leg, testing, and crawls off of Vellioth’s hand, onto Cazador’s shoulder and down his chest, briefly catching its thick leg on the ring in his nipple.
“Please,” Cazador whispers, eyes fixed upon the creature that was now exploring his body as if it were looking for something. Vellioth pays no attention. He places his hand into the box again.
“The sword spider,” He draws out not one but three spindly-legged silver creatures. “Native to the Upperdark, as all of you will know,” he gestures around the room with his free hand. “And accurately named - if startled, they use the razor sharp points of their legs to injure their enemies…”
Cazador’s chest pumps uselessly up and down, desperately attempting to remain calm as Vellioth thoughtfully places one spider on each of his arms, and one in his hair. It clings there horribly, its sharp legs waving inches from his cheek, and Cazador tries to freeze, to imagine he is not there, but all he can feel is the many legs upon his skin and the eyes of the drow, thrilled at this new and exciting display of entertainment.
“Please,” he whispers again, to no avail.
“The phase spider,” Vellioth pronounces, not even bothering to conceal a maniacal grin as he reaches for the box once again. This time he draws out a swarm of tiny spiders, all clinging onto each other. They leave his hand when he raises it to Cazador’s body, and swarm all over him, but even as he watches, skin crawling with fear and revulsion, the creatures seem to be disappearing and reappearing at will. The first spider crawls down his belly, towards his restrained cock, still seeming to sniff and search for something Cazador doesn’t want to think about. The phase spiders seem to be everywhere, on his arms, in his groin and on his face. The sword spider’s bladelike legs drag across his ear and then his eyelid but Vellioth is still not content: he draws his hand out of the box a final time, one huge, red and black creature waving its legs as if it was just as enthusiastic for the proceedings as the baying Drow.
Vellioth looks directly into Cazador’s eyes as he places the last, huge spider on Cazador’s chest.
“Beautiful,“ he breathes. “The Scarlet Queen. Native to the Lowerdark - a rare and exotic beauty, even in Menzoberranzan. “Her venom is said to create some rather…interesting effects, and yet…one ought to always remember,” he says blithely. “That the behaviour of spiders often depends on the behaviour of those they encounter.”
Cazador doesn’t care about the native environment of the spiders or the effects of their venom, at least, he doesn’t think he does, until he feels the fangs of the scarlet monstrosity latch on to his nipple and bite down hard at the same moment the first spider’s hairy legs snag on the ties of the pouch that, up until now, had been mercifully covering his most sensitive of places. He hears himself whimpering, pleading with Vellioth to make it stop, a babbling, never-ending chorus of “nononono” but as he feels the sudden spurt of venom, hot under his skin, he loses all grip on self-control and he screams.
The cry reverberates around the cavern as Cazador feels liquid heat spread through his body, rushing everywhere in a moment as if he still had a beating heart to pump it into his furthest extremities. His vision dims, and for a moment, he sees only the crowd, like painted figures frozen in time and Vellioth, transfixed, his eyes lit up and entranced by his handiwork. Then, mercifully, the fog clears from his eyes and he feels his senses come back to him, yet instead of pain and horror, the heat of the spider’s bite has given way to a pulsing, throbbing feeling of contentment, and…arousal, even as the myriad creatures, stimulated by his screams, begin to nip and bite enthusiastically. He squirms and writhes against his bindings, and finds himself unable to suppress his rising wails and moans as the sensation builds impossibly high, making his head swim and his cock leak even more in its restraints.
He hears the laughter in the room, knows all eyes are upon him, yet he no longer cares as he feels his legs give way, sliding down the post only to find the curved metal protrusion at its base is perfectly positioned to prod at his entrance. By now, though, the prospect seems welcome, and he sinks down, almost gratefully, onto it, desperate now for the relief he knows he can get if only his body wasn’t suddenly strung so impossibly tight.
Vellioth was right, Cazador can see that now, because he would do anything for him at this moment, no amount of debasement would be too much if only his master would touch him, allow him to chase that sweet release. The spiders wriggle and taste him all over, blood thrums in his ears as he grinds himself down onto the base of the post, only now realising how aptly it is named.
There is a murmured command, and the nipping and clawing of the arachnids ceases. replaced by Vellioth’s cool hands on his cheeks, then his hips. The creatures scuttle away, called back by the drow arachnomancer.
“How are you feeling, my faerie?” Vellioth asks. His voice is still calm, but Cazador can still sense his excitement, thrumming just underneath the surface. Cazador groans, and even to his own ears he sounds pathetic, as he grinds himself up and back, the metal protrusion not filling him like Vellioth does, not even close, but angled precisely to press on the one sensitive spot that was slowly driving him closer and closer to the edge. He groans again, it is all he can manage, but still, this seems an acceptable answer, because Vellioth slides the rope from his wrists and then, in one slick movement, removes the restraints from his cock, freeing it as Cazador sobs and then gasps.
“Nothing but a faerie whore,” Vellioth murmurs. “What a show you make of yourself, my Cazador. If only your venerable bloodline could see what you’ve become, whatever would they say? So needy. So fragile. So easy to break.” He grasps Cazador’s wrists. “Would you like to touch yourself now?” he asks softly.
“Yes. Please.”
“Beg me. Beg before your betters.”
“Please. Master. Please.”
“You will learn your lessons properly next time, will you not?”
Cazador nods vehemently.
“Very well,” Vellioth says. “I will offer a you a choice. You can control yourself and prove that you are not as weak as we imagine, or you will lick up every drop from this floor, and you will feel the kiss of my whip as you do it.”
“I can’t -” Cazador mumbles. “I need to - I have to come.”
“How disappointing,” Vellioth says, gleefully and presses down on Cazador’s shoulders. Beyond reason, Cazador lets out a raw shriek as the metal ball slides in deep. He reaches for himself, tears of humiliation blurring his vision as the climax takes all that is left of him. He spills in what seems like endless long spurts onto the floor in front of him, then Vellioth’s hand is in his hair, pushing his face into the warm pools of his own spend, and Cazador obeys as he knows he must, as he knows he always will.
“Do not cry,” Vellioth says, as the whip cracks through the air and onto his exposed flesh. “You chose this. You did all of this to yourself.”
-
All else is just echoes and blurred voices as he curls, dazed and obedient, at Vellioth’s feet -
“Your creativity is sublime, Lord Vellioth.” says one.
“I look forward to our next meeting,” says another, and Vellioth tells them he cannot agree more.
When Cazador wakes, he is lying in their bed, clean now, and comfortable. The room swims into view, the last rays of the sun turn the blue velvet drapes purple at the edges. Vellioth is there too: he wears a simple white shirt and his hair is tied back neatly in a black velvet ribbon as he reads, but when he feels Cazador awake, which he always does, he looks up and smiles.
There is a little blood on his collar: he has eaten first, but the warm cup of blood he lifts lovingly to Cazador’s lips is welcome and delicious.
“Breakfast in bed, my beloved,” he says.
Cazador drinks, and Vellioth looks on, with a tender gaze. Then he takes the book he was reading, and waves his hand at several more piled up on the desk.
“Look, my Cazador. I have so many more things I wish to teach you.”
Cazador aches.
He nods enthusiastically.