The slave's curses kept coming.
In between the sounds her body was making without permission.
In between the tears that were now continuous.
In between the visible, involuntary clenching of her thighs against their restraints as the compound in her ass began its work, the warmth spreading outward from the plug, the nerve endings there already beginning to read sensation differently—
The Mercenary Queen observed this.
Her grey eye tracked the slave's face with clinical attention. Reading the conflict in it. The rage and the arousal and the horror at the arousal and the rage at the horror.
'A rich man,' she thought, 'will pay very well for this.'
The rod came out with a slick, obscene sound.
She set it down.
Turned and walked toward the door—her gown dragging, her mask giving nothing, the dildo leaving a thin wet line across the table's surface.
At the door, she paused.
Didn't turn back.
"Your vocal cords will be preserved," she said. "They want to hear you."
