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Scaramouche was a cruel man, and an even worse master. It was like he'd keel over dead if he didn't put you through hell every day. Degradation and humiliation brought him no small amount of joy, and you were miserable for it.
You had been captured by the Fatui years ago, and your initial fate was execution. However, Scaramouche took one look at you and offered to take you instead. You had been grateful at the time. He still expected gratitude from you, even now.
But nowadays? You wished he had kept his mouth shut.
Scaramouche made it very clear what he wanted from you, right from the start. At first, you had tried to convince yourself that it was better than death, that he'd grow bored of your body eventually and assign you some other purpose. But he didn't. He never grew bored of you, and to this day, almost three years after your initial capture, he still found new and inventive ways to torment you.
Your body was not your own. It belonged to him, now. But you'd never let him take your mind.
Maybe that's why he kept you around. He was trying to break you.
There were moments, of course, where you cracked under the pressure, doing what he wanted if it meant that everything would end or that you got some release. But you always bounced back. You never stayed down for long.
He called it entertaining. A challenge.
You called it survival.
For a time, you were always nervous that Scaramouche would drug you. Put something in your food or drink to make you pliant, or force you to take an aphrodisiac so you couldn't resist him. But as time went on and he forced himself on you again and again, you realized that that simply wasn't his style.
Scaramouche liked to watch the light die in your eyes, yes, but he liked smothering that spark himself rather than putting you under the influence of something. The most he had done substance-wise was give you a light dose of an aphrodisiac to increase your sensitivity, and even that was disappointing to him. He liked working for the result he wanted, so he could hold the victory over your head. It was heaven for him and hell for you.
You wished you could say that you stood strong against his ministrations. You wished you could claim that you didn't go down easy. But that was only true in the beginning, when he first forced himself on you and broke you down until you were a sobbing mess, begging for him to touch you. Nowadays, you had developed a Pavlovian response of sorts to him and his treatment of you. You surrendered easily and were even more of a slave to pleasure than you were before.
And if you were a slave to pleasure, than you were certainly a slave to pain, too, considering that when it came to Scaramouche, pleasure and pain went hand in hand. It wasn't always physical pain—he preferred verbal assault and emotional manipulation. You couldn't help your responses to it, either. Not after nearly three years of this hell.
He was content with your submission, of course, but he knew it wasn't genuine. He knew that while you were physically his, your mind remained your own. He preferred it that way—liked it, actually—but he did take pleasure in breaking you down mentally, no matter if it was temporary or not. To Scaramouche, you were both a toy and a conquest.
Nothing but a toy and a conquest. Nothing at all.
***
Scaramouche rarely removed his clothes around you. The few times he had, you noted his slim build and numerous scars. They didn't look like normal scars. They didn't look organic at all, actually. But it wasn't your place to question his body—no, it was the other way around. Either way, he was still clothed while you were bare before him every time.
You suspected that even though he mocked you for staining his clothes, he actually enjoyed it. Enjoyed having that physical proof that he won another battle against you. You weren't as pleased, of course, but what could you do about it? Nothing, that's what.
"You're thinking too much." Scaramouche's voice broke through your thoughts. "How am I supposed to have any fun here when you're off in another world?"
Gods, you wished you were off in another world. But you weren't. You were here, stuck in the moment with the man who saved you from death at the cost of your freedom and dignity.
"Apologies, Master," you murmured, tensing for a blow, or maybe an electric shock.
"None of that," Scaramouche, noticing your fear, clicked his tongue in disapproval as he took a seat in the chair opposite the bed in your cell (though it looked, for all intents and purposes, like a simple bedroom). "Now, come here."
You nervously approached, painfully aware of how his eyes raked over your body. He patted his thigh. "Sit," he commanded, and you obeyed without a word. He frowned. "No, not like that," he interrupted. "Move one leg over—there you go, now you're getting it."
You were straddling his thigh, senses zeroed in on how your bare cunt was pressed against him. He seemed like he knew it, too, based on the way his eyes were gleaming.
You stayed still where you sat, unsure of what to do. There was no order, no stimulation. Nothing to give you an indication as to how to act.
And then you felt something be fastened around your neck, hearing something be clipped to it shortly after. A hesitant hand to your throat revealed what you had already suspected—
"A collar," Scaramouche purred with a smirk. "For my obedient little bitch."
Your face probably should have been on fire, if the heat in it was any indication. Still, you swallowed your pride and murmured a modest, "Thank you, Master."
This was his play? Take the obedience he had fucked and beaten into you and convince you it was wrong? That is was inhuman? You'd have dwelled on the rage further, perhaps even succumbed to it, if Scaramouche's thumb hadn't pressed against your clit at that very moment, gently rubbing circles into it. You gasped softly, quickly melting into the touch—gentleness was hard to come by, after all, and at this point you knew that said gentleness always came with a catch but were just too tired to care.
"You've been so well-behaved the past few weeks," Scaramouche said casually, even as you neared your first (of many, you were sure) climax of the night (day? What time was it? You could never tell, not where you were being held).
"So I figured that today we'd take it easier," he continued. "How about that?"
The other shoe had to drop at some point. There was no way he was doing this without any strings attached. But you responded through soft moans and gasps, "Yes, Master, thank you, Master—please, so close...!"
He suddenly removed his thumb from your clit, cutting off your orgasm. You whined, grinding down against his thigh in search of more friction.
"Just like that," Scaramouche said with a sly grin. "You wanna come so badly? Do it yourself—get yourself off on my thigh like the slut you are."
Your face burned, but you obeyed, riding his thigh like your life depended on it. When you finally came, it was with a pathetic moan, your master's laughter filling the room.
"You see what I mean?" he asked derisively. "You think you're a human, that you've got some semblance of dignity, but here you are, humping my leg and whining like a dog. When I call you a bitch, I mean it literally. That's what the collar and leash are for."
"Understood, Master." You struggled to keep your tears at bay. You would not, under any circumstances, let him have the pleasure of seeing you cry.
"Aw, is my little slut gonna cry?" Scaramouche mocked you. "Go ahead, show me those tears. I wanna see you crack."
Disobeying him would make things worse. You had no choice but to let go of yet another scrap of dignity. You burst into tears, uncaring of how the leash was tugged so your master could lick the leftover salt off of your face.
"Delicious," he murmured. "Every part of this is delicious." You just kept crying, years of anguish coming to the surface and manifesting as burning-hot tears.
"Keep crying for me," Scaramouche smiled. "There we go, good girl. Show me your heart."
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
"You know I love finding your weaknesses," he added. You shuddered through your tears. Yet another victory for him.
So of course he decided to make things worse.
"Do you remember what you were doing earlier?" he asked, voice deceptively gentle. "Riding my thigh like a depraved little whore?"
"Yes, M-M-Master," you choked out through tears. No. No, he wouldn't.
Right?
Wrong.
"Do it again," he whispered, gentleness melting away into sharp malice. "Keep crying, and do it again. Make yourself come again. I wanna see that pretty face you make when you do while you're crying."
No doubt playing right into his hands, you cried even harder as you began rolling your hips, this time struggling to work yourself up. You doubted you could do this on your own, but you weren't allowed to ask Scaramouche for help unless he offered it. He liked to see you struggle. Big surprise there.
You were definitely aroused and slightly worked up, not to mention your sensitivity from your earlier orgasm, but it wasn't enough to really get you going. You tried nonetheless, even increasing the speed and pressure of your movements, but it wasn't working.
"Aw, are you having trouble coming again?" Scaramouche asked with faux concern. "Does my bitch need help?"
"Yes, p-please, Master, help m-me," you whimpered through desperate sobs.
"Needy little slut," he laughed as he massaged your clit while you ground against him. The new pleasure combined with your movements and leftover sensitivity pushed you over the edge a second time, and you cried even as waves of pleasure washed over you.
"Beautiful," Scaramouche murmured. "Now, stop crying. I'm not done with you."
It took you a few minutes, but you managed to calm yourself. You could cry again later, when he wasn't watching you. He looked satisfied, at least.
A sudden shove made you yelp as you fell backwards, hitting the floor hard. You looked up at your master, anxiety swelling within you. Had you done something wrong? Was this a punishment?
"You've gotten yourself off twice, now," Scaramouche said, unbuckling his belt. "Now it's my turn. I'll do it myself first, and then I'm going to fuck your face. And you're not going to complain."
"Yes, Master," you murmured, averting your eyes.
"Look at me!" he snapped. "Don't hide from me. Understood?"
"Of course, Master, I apologize," you said quickly, meeting his eyes. You watched as he pleasured himself, meeting his eyes at one point. He looked quite content with seeing you look up at him from the floor.
He suddenly wrenched your jaw open, shoving his cock inside it and coming down your throat. You swallowed as much of it as you could, minding your teeth. There would be hell to pay if you accidentally bit him.
He let his cock rest in your mouth for a bit, casually stroking your hair. You kept looking up at him, and he met your eyes once again.
"One of these days I should take you to my office with me," Scaramouche mused. "Make you cockwarm me while I do paperwork. How would you like that?" You couldn't respond where you were, so he came to his own conclusions. "You would enjoy that, wouldn't you? That sounds like something you'd want. But for now, I'll keep to my word and fuck your face."
He pulled out of your mouth before suddenly slamming back in, uncaring of how you gagged and whimpered from the force of his thrusts. You did your best to adjust, which seemed to be satisfactory for him.
"Fuck," he hissed as he came down your throat. He moaned quietly as you swallowed around his cock, balling his fists in your hair. You whimpered again from the pain, but he paid you no heed as he pulled out, tucking his cock back into his clothes and rebuckling his belt. You remained on the floor, catching your breath.
"Get on the bed," Scaramouche commanded breathlessly. "On your hands and knees. Dogs don't walk on two feet." You obeyed with burning cheeks, crawling across the room and onto the bed. He followed behind you, holding on to the leash. You pushed your humiliation to the side and sat on your heels as you awaited further orders. How did he want you to sit? Did he want you to lay down? What did he want?
"On your hands and knees again," he said. You lowered yourself back down.
"Good girl," he said as he got on the bed as well, kneeling behind you and patting your hip. You passively let him use his hands to guide you into the position he wanted, which was quite the degrading one. He had your chest pressed against the sheets, your sensitive breasts rubbing against them in a way that had you squirming a bit. Your hips were as high up as they could go without you rising up from your knees, putting your cunt and your ass on full display for him.
Your face was probably going to be red for the rest of your life, if the way it burned was any indication. Not to mention you couldn't see what he was doing, opting instead to screw your eyes shut.
"Eyes open," Scaramouche snapped. "Stop being a coward and look in front of you." You obeyed and gasped when you realized what you were looking at.
A mirror.
A really big mirror. You could see everything. Your body, your master behind you, and the bag next to him on the bed—
Wait.
The bag next to him on the bed.
You froze, knowing exactly what was inside of it.
"Getting nervous down there?" Scaramouche smirked. "Don't worry—none of these bite." You were silent in response, anxiously eyeing your reflection, watching for whatever he was going to pull out of it.
And then he grabbed the damn bag and moved it somewhere where you couldn't see it.
What an ass.
"Remember, dogs don't complain," Scaramouche singsonged as he brandished some red rope, ensuring you could see it in the mirror. You fought off the urge to shut your eyes as he pressed something cool and familiar against your still-dripping pussy, using the rope to keep it in place.
"Pick a number between one and ten," Scaramouche said. You knew he actually meant a number between five and ten, so you answered accordingly.
"Seven, Master," you replied, cursing yourself as your voice trembled. At least you didn't stutter this time.
"Good choice," Scaramouche commented, and the object tied against your cunt began to vibrate at the seventh setting. You knew that, in actuality, there were twenty levels of intensity on the vibrator, but seven was already intense, and you yelped at the shock of it.
"That's it, hold still," Scaramouche murmured, but you could barely hear him over the roaring of your blood in your ears. You moaned and whined and cried out, unable to keep silent in the face of such intense pleasure.
"Come for me whenever you want," your master said, and you whined softly, feeling another orgasm coming. You fell over the edge, struggling to catch your breath as Scaramouche increased the intensity of the vibrator.
He moved from where he knelt behind you to your side, running a hand down your back and watching your reflection as you squirmed and moaned. You eyed his reflection in turn, seeing the smile on his face as he absentmindedly fiddled with his end of the leash using his free hand. With the other, he continued petting you, and you realized through the pleasure-induced haze in your mind that he was petting you like a dog. You were too far gone to care, though, and you practically screamed as you came again.
"Good girl," Scaramouche said, voice surprisingly soothing. "There's my obedient little bitch, hiding under all that denial. I knew you were in there somewhere."
You couldn't respond, especially not as the vibrations were turned up again and any and all coherent thoughts left your mind. The room was soon filled with your sounds of pleasure as you came again, and again, and again.
Eventually, everything got to be too much for you. You passed out, the vibrator still going at its highest setting as your master laughed.
***
You awoke slumped over something warm and firm. Upon opening your eyes, you realized it was Scaramouche, who was lazily rolling his hips into your cunt. You shifted in place, and without stopping, your master spoke.
"Awake already? It's only been an hour." He bucked his hips, drawing a startled moan out of you, your voice hoarse. "Looks like all that got to be a bit too much, huh? Looks like dogs like you can only take so much."
"Master... I'm—" you tried to apologize, but Scaramouche cut you off.
"Ah, ah, ah," he chastised. "I've come to a decision. I quite liked what you were doing an hour ago, you see, so I've decided that you're no longer allowed to say any words. Only those pretty little noises like the ones you made earlier."
You almost spoke an agreement, but you quite liked the gentle treatment you were receiving now, so you just moaned softly as his cock brushed against a spot in you that had you melting on top of him.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Remember, dogs don't complain."