Thief of Desire

Ihrone didn’t know how long she’d been in the cupboard. Time came unspooled in the dark, her breath and erratic heartbeat the only measure she had of it passing. She’d managed to work herself upright since Otienne had discarded her here, bound and gagged and still tearfully trying to apologise for whatever it was she’d done. Her jaw ached around the knot of cloth crammed too deeply into her mouth to spit out, and the only scrap of fortune was that at least she hadn’t choked on it.

She shifted against the wall, trying in vain to ease the dull, throbbing ache in her shoulders. The knots binding her wrists were bound to the ones at her ankles with a third length of rope; long enough to let her kneel, short enough that she couldn’t straighten her arms. When—if—her princess decided to untie her, she was certain she’d not be able to stand. Which was almost certainly what Otienne wanted—to have her unbound and still unable to escape, as at her mercy as if she were in chains.

Tears came to her eyes again and she cursed them. A core of blame sat heavy in stomach as she sobbed into the gag, and she cursed that too. She’d done nothing. Otienne needed no reason to torment her. She did it simply because she could.

Footsteps in the corridor. Ihrone’s stomach dropped even as her heart leapt, and then both twisted into knots as the door slid open, revealing the form of her liberator.

Osinyra’s moonglow filled the cupboard, banishing every shadow. Her feathered wings blocked the entire doorway, which she had to stoop to get through, for with her height and her horns she far surpassed its size. Her pitch black eyes with their full-moon irises gleamed, her lush, darkly painted lips curved in a smile, her pale skin a stark contrast to Ihrone’s own, a reminder of how unnatural, how inhuman, she was. As if it were possible to forget.

Ihrone let out a groan of despair as the Moon King’s daughter crouched before her.

“Well, now,” Osinyra said, her voice a low purr Ihrone could never get out of her head. “What precious bloom is this I find concealed so shamefully?”

Four days the moon was dark, allowing her to descend from the Moon King’s palace, and tonight she had come to find Ihrone. Again. Otienne would be furious, as she always was when Osinyra did not place her first and foremost in her attentions—as she always was when Osinyra expressed any interest in Ihrone at all.

Osinyra took hold of her chin, lifting her head. She tried to turn away, but Osinyra was so very, very strong, and her claws were so very, very sharp.

“All wrapped up for me. Such a thoughtful gift.” Her gaze was intense, and Ihrone knew she was admiring the mismatch of her eyes; one silver as the moon, one brown as the earth. Moon-touched, such difference had her titled, a blessing of beauty and intelligence, and she would rather have been cursed with ugliness and a dull mind if it would have kept her from Osinyra’s interest.

Osinyra gently tucked a wayward strand of hair behind Ihrone’s ear, then traced a claw through the tear tracks on her cheeks, following their path along her jaw and down her neck. She caressed the embroidery on the high collar of Ihrone’s dress, examining the pattern of Jhesk sea birds that flew from her neck to her sternum, picked out in white over a delicate gradient of blue linen. Ihrone expected to have her dress torn away soon—Osinyra had no conception of the cost of such things; of the expense and explanation incurred by need of repair or replacement. She, like Otienne, cared only about what she could take. But Osinyra didn’t rend her garments or even undo any of the fastenings. One hand cupped her small breast, squeezing.

“Left alone to wither in the dark. How disgraceful,” Osinyra murmured, leaning close. Her black tongue darted out to lick the tears from Ihrone’s cheek. She flinched away, but there was nowhere to go; all she could do was cower against the wall, which only made Osinyra laugh.

“No running, my sweet Scholar. There’s never any running. You seem weary, though. Would you like to lay down?”

A clawed hand wrapped around her throat, and Ihrone let out a muffled shriek as Osinyra tossed her to the floor like a rag doll. Her back jarred at the harsh landing, a wave of disorientation scrambling her senses as her head bounced off of the hard wooden boards. Her arms, pinned beneath the weight of her body, screamed for mercy, but though she squirmed and thrashed like a wild thing, it took just one of Osinyra’s delicate hands to hold her down.

“Worry not,” she said. “I am most grateful for my gift, and my manners are as fine as any mortal princess. I shall display such gratitude accordingly.”

Her tearful cries of protest went soundly ignored as Osinyra tugged up her dress, and she shivered at the touch of a moonlight-cold hand on her thigh, whimpering at the scratch of claws over her skin. Osinyra’s restraining hand shifted over her breast, groping greedily and, to Ihrone’s blushing shame, her nipple hardened at the force of the touch. Osinyra toyed with it through her dress—despite being blunted by fabric, the teasing and tugging nonetheless provoked a humiliating pulse of pleasure between her legs.

“Oh, my Scholar. Have you been thinking of me as you languished here?” Osinyra showed her sharp teeth in a smile as she teased at Ihrone’s entrance. One finger, miraculously clawless now, slipped far too easily inside. “Have you been wishing for my touch since last we parted?”

Ihrone shook her head furiously, then bit down on the gag as a second finger joined the first. Her arms were numb, her legs bent at a painfully awkward angle, yet heat still coursed through her at Osinyra’s ministrations. It entangled itself with the rippling panic of being unable to move, making her chest tight, her stomach tense. It wasn’t fair, she thought, as she tried to wriggle free of Osinyra’s grasp. It wasn’t fair, she didn’t want any of this, had never asked for any of it. Otienne was the one who desired the Moon King’s daughter, not her. Why should it be that a divine princess found her so irresistible?

Osinyra’s claws dug into her breast. “Cease your struggling. I’ll think you a poor gift if you can’t lie still, and I’ll have to rescind my gratitude.”

She didn’t want to be a good gift; she didn’t want to be any gift. Ihrone tried again to wrestle free, but it did no good. Osinyra held her down and worked her fingers faster, three of them now, and they were slick, Ihrone could hear it; slick and wet and fucking her exactly as hard as she hated. She couldn’t keep from moaning when Osinyra painted that slick up over her clit, her hips bucking into the touch despite herself.

“Ah, how harmoniously you sing for me, my moon-touched treasure,” Osinyra crooned. Her fingers returned to Ihrone’s cunt, driving into her, curving up to hit that most exact of places that overpowered every discomfort with unbearable pleasure. “I do so love to watch you reach such exquisite heights, but alas; you could not fulfil my simple request.”

Ihrone sank her teeth into the gag as orgasm began to crest within her—then stopped abruptly in a sharp flash of pain. She howled, sucking in great, useless breaths through her nose. Her clit felt severed; had Osinyra cut her? What mutilation had her defiance brought upon her? She thrashed in place, awash with hurt and confusion and broken desire as Osinyra withdrew her fingers. She wiped them off on the gag, then settled Ihrone’s skirts back into place. Something glowed in her other hand, some shining, pulsing thing, like a captive star.

“I shall return what I have stolen when next we meet,” she said. “Until then, you shall have but a shadow of delight, in consequence of my disappointment.”

Her orgasm. Osinyra had stolen her orgasm, made it a tangible thing and taken it away. It was a wicked act, a horrific violation—it was a feat of such great magic Ihrone could not suppress her awe. Osinyra kissed her cheek.

“There are some few hours yet before dawn. I had best pay a visit to our beloved princess before the day steals me away.” She stood, immaculate, immortal, her long dark hair stirring in some unfelt breeze, and tucked Ihrone’s orgasm into the bell of her sleeve. “Miss me all the hours we are parted, my sweet Scholar.”

The cupboard door closed behind her, leaving Ihrone once more in the dark. She lay limp, aching with terrible need, the smell of her own traitorous desire thick upon the gag. She squeezed her sticky thighs together, but all that came of it was a dim idea of satisfaction, far off as sunrise.

It wasn’t fair. She’d never asked for any of this. Ihrone rolled to her side, curling up as best she could, and wept until finally blessed exhaustion came to drag her into a deep and dreamless sleep.