“Wake up, silver. You get to be useful.” I don’t remember falling asleep, and a part of me almost wants to tell her I wouldn’t let myself fall asleep without being ordered, but before my lips move on their own I realize my eyes are closed. My body still feels sore. The sharp stinging pain from my back has all faded away. It’s unfortunate – the pain was a constant reminder of how much a canvas I am for Quillspawn.

I will have to learn a new way to be reminded of my constant helplessness. The two witches who were lapping the oil from my sex are gone. I really did try so hard to focus on the ink as they suckled it from my wet, helpless pussy. I tried so hard . . .

“Fuck! Suck-“

“No, no, none of that now silver. We’ll need you clean for the ceremony. After we’re done, you can spend hours chanting to my heart’s content. I’m sure Olivia and Lida will love to hear it.” Yanuka’s hand softly pats my cheek, and after her fingers snap, the shackles release my wrists. “But for now, you have a far more important duty to attend to. I’m not worried about your locks loosening if we delay your tightening by a short time . . . are you, silver?”

My head shakes on its own. That’s a good thing. I wouldn’t be helplessly obeying her if there was a way I could break free of her locks. It’s impossible. I am her slave.

Forever.

Besides, I’ve already tightened two of my locks. I swallow the ink in my mouth so she won’t have to clean that, but the ink running from between my legs isn’t as easily cleaned. “I didn’t think so. Come.” My knees almost give out as a loud cry bursts from my lips and my eyes roll back into my head. At least some of the oil is cleared away. “Endearing . . . but I meant follow.”

My cheeks burn. How can I be embarrassed so tightly locked? It must be my body pretending it still belongs to a free mind. I don’t feel embarrassed. I am disappointed in my inability to properly interpret orders, but I’m not embarrassed.

Yanuka steps in front of me, and I follow her. No mistake this time. I won’t make another mistake. The tattoo on my back doesn’t burn, but it’s still there. They own me, body and mind.

That’s the way it should be. Every step she takes, I take. I follow her footsteps as close as my stride will let me. I don’t want to step on the back of her feet or take too long, but I still do my best. It’s a small act, but it’s enough. It keeps me focused. It keeps me obedient. It keeps me her well well-locked and tightened tool.

She deserves nothing less than the best, so I have to strive to be the best. A mindless slave can’t think or feel new ways to improve, but it can learn. It can adapt. It can learn how to understand what its owner means instead of embarrassing itself like some broken toy.

Memories shine inside of the locks and I shiver at their presence. Her sister, Yanta, she was going to throw me away. Yanuka and her sister are so much alike even if Yanuka is smarter. I don’t want that . . .

Want . . . I . . . want . . .?

That will be purged soon. I only have to worry about that lingering thought for a little longer. Then Yanuka will help me lock it all away. I’ll be dripping with oil for hours and the tattoo on my back will burn hotter than any fire I’ve ever felt or imagined. Feeling loose feels like being naked, only inside. It’s humiliating. I’m glad no one can tell with a glance how loose my locks feel with a glance.

Maybe . . . Maybe Yanuka is testing me. Maybe if I can lock myself up without saying those words, just thinking them really hard, she’ll be proud of me. I try, but nothing happens.

“Are you coming, silver? Maybe I should tighten you just a little, after all . . .” Yanuka reaches her long slender fingers into her firey hair, pulling out the pen. Seeing it makes me shudder and whimper and groan. I should try to do . . . something. I’m not sure. Things are so tight, but not tight enough. “This should help with that unpleasant activity behind your eyes.”

Her hand darts forward, and the pen melts into Stop. She slowly twists the pen and I cry out as loud as I can as all of my locks slowly bleed oil over my body. My eyes are pulled hard back into my head as my thighs clench, my nipples harden, my scalp and back slicks . . .

I’m perfect again, locked up tight as an oil drum. This is how I should always be. Maybe eventually the locks will be so tight they won’t loosen.

“Didn’t think we’d be having this problem so soon. You are a very troublesome little LaSilvas, silver. One would almost think that I hadn’t been thorough. Maybe I’ll give you another lock to be on the safe side. For now, we’re late.” Yanuka turns on the balls of her feet and continues to lead the way. I didn’t mean to make her late. A good toy doesn’t make its owner late.

She needed to fix me, that’s all. Sometimes a toy breaks. It’s not a bad toy as long as it’s meant to come apart. You just push the arm back into the socket and it pops into place as if it had never fallen apart. It’s not like she needed to cover the joint with glue. I wasn’t that badly broken.

Large double doors open in front of us, and the inside is red. It’s so bright, torches on the walls burning with so many red flames, and beautiful women wearing red that looks soft to the touch, there’s too much for a simple little toy to take in. Only a powerful woman like Yanuka could look like she belonged here. She glows and pulses with belonging. She was the one this shrine, temple, whatever, was built for whether the builders it knew it or not.

“Sorry for the delay, sisters . . . our centerpiece has arrived. Daughter, if you could be a dear and wipe her down? She needed tightening.” Yanuka moves out of my view as Quillspawn fills it.

Quillspawn sighs, holding out her hand. With a flick of her wrist a towel flows from her open hand, and she tosses it at me. The tattoo on my back burns and with a sharp cry I grab the towel. “Clean yourself off, ancilla. As much as all of us do love seeing you like this, and trust me we do, some magic requires one not be literally dripping with obedience.”

Knowing she desires only my obedience and not a response, I towel off as quickly as I can before holding out the dripping black cloth. She waves her hand in front of the towel and it dissolves into the air. Where it was touching my hand tingles, and it’s not unpleasant.

Maybe she could do that with my mind . . .

“Now little ancilla . . . onto the dais.” Quillspawn motions forward, and I walk. Bright light normally doesn’t make it hard for me to see so this light must be different. The red flames on the walls make me sway dizzily as I walk. If I looked too intently at one I’m sure I would fall over. It would be a deliciously helpless experience, but sometimes a toy has to be a little more than helpless for its owners.

My job is to stand on the dais.

Around the dais the red clothed women watch me. In front of me Yanuka stands grinning brilliantly. “Now my sisters, the inner circle of the Nesatealia . . . let us commence the next step in the ritual. Our founder grows restless.”

At once the sound of faint, meaningless words surrounds me. I only recognize two of the voices, but the rest all sound similar. They’re the same words, all of them, but at the same time not a sound is the same. It makes my locks itch to hear and my pussy clenches hard. My knees feel weak as their voices slowly grow louder and the red light filling the room grows brighter. It’s hard to see past the light, it’s hard to think past the light, it’s hard to do anything at all with that red everywhere.

Yanuka’s eyes hood, and I can feel them locking with mine. Like there are hooks in her gaze trapping me, I stare, and my mouth falls open. Her words sound louder than all of the others. Her words echo inside of my skull and slam into my oiled up mind again and again and again, making me so small and pitiful and weak.

Or is it the oil making me small, making me . . .

Their words keep echoing around me, filling the room’s high ceilings and my hollow head. Not hollow, wet head, there’s so much oil in there keeping me tight. Their voices sound like the oil. Their voices are a part of the oil, or an addition to it. There are no words that I can remember to describe.

Meaning licks at the back of my perception, teasing me with hints but not giving me a whole word. Syllables surround me and pull me to my knees. My legs spread apart and my back arches as the words direct me. It’s the strangest sensation, as if their words are filling me and attaching to me like puppet strings. It’s impossible not to feel my pussy clench as their words grow louder.

The Dance . . . Some of their words, some of the sounds, it means the dance. I don’t know how I know. It’s not the same thing that I . . . that who I once was received from Nightshade. It’s different, it’s more primal, it’s more mystical, it’s less . . . more . . .

Strings pull my inner monologue taut and I scream.

Between my legs a thin pillar of fire sprouts from the dais and forms into a red metal bar. It glistens and pulses with the same power, the same light, as the flames hanging on the walls. Something about it quiets the voices around me. They must still be chanting, but I can’t hear it. I can’t see them. All I can see is the bar. All there is, is the bar. My existence is just to complement the bar’s.

I rise and grind my body against it. The metal burns against me like flesh only does against flesh, and I grind my hips into it harder. A compulsion grabs me and I slide my body down along its length before rising anew. My bare skin drips with sweat, and my sex makes the pole shine silver.

Feeling the metal against the inner curves of my breasts is almost as good as feeling it press against my slit. It’s like fire, a fire made of lust burning so deep inside of me and tearing away everything but this need.

Trying to feel more, I slide my tongue up along the bar and suck as I roll my hips against it. The heat courses into my breasts and I can feel it flicking over my nipples like tongues. My fists tighten around the metal as I try to grind harder and faster, but my body is already moving as desperately as it can. It needs this. I need this. The pole, the fire inside of it, the fire that’s creating it, it’s sinful perfection and it’s burning away everything inside of me that isn’t.

All I can see is red, but I don’t care. I don’t need to see. I just need to cum grinding against the pole, losing myself on display. The thought is a wrong one, but a perfect one. I’m just a toy on display, a pretty silver body, eyes glowing red as the pole fucks me further away from myself.

My toes curl and I scream as my hips buck. My first release makes it so much easier to slide against the pole. It’s so much slicker now, and the flame feels hungrier. It feels like it’s alive, and my orgasm was like blood to a shark. The more I grind, the more it’s sated and the more it craves. The more I’m sated, but never sated enough. Never sated, always aching, aching for the source of the bar, of the flame, of the lust that makes my nipples feel like they’re being twisted in opposite directions and twisting my focus with them.

I scream again, louder, as a pulse of the flame thrusts inside of my cleft. I try to clench around it, to grind against it, but it’s just raw energy. Nothing’s really there, nothing solid, nothing firm. It happens again and I fall to my knees as my second release makes my vision turn white.

My eyes close on their own, and when they open the pole isn’t red anymore, but I feel red inside of me. I can feel the red fondling my breasts and squeezing my ass. I can feel the red like fingers and tongues and lips between my legs. My body moves on its own and I arch back against the bar, spreading my legs before my fingers make my slit open. The red pulses and flows inside of me there, swirling and building on itself as it sucks something out of me. I can’t describe it, I couldn’t describe it, but it feels better than everything else ever has in one moment.

With the red filling me, making me jut out my chest, making my fingers roll my nipples for its own pleasure, I know everything I’ve ever known and more. When Mind Bore had me drinking from that tube, it was nothing like this. That was love, that was happy, that was contentment. This is lust, arousal, and endless need. It’s fulfillment that screams for more as soon as I obey. It’s never ending.

Circles, loops, my fingers thrust to push the red deeper, but it stays teasing and searing only at the entrance. I want it to possess me, to take me, to own me, but it only makes me crave. It only lets me know what I could have and who I could be, but it won’t let me. It won’t, or it can’t, or it – that’s not its purpose.

Just another tool, another tool like I am, the red can’t do anything more than make me need and I love it for making me realize how little I matter unless I’m being used. It helps me think without thinking, teaches me how to think without free will, to remember without having a memory, to move without being moved, all while burning away what used to do these things before. Replacing it with hunger. Replacing it with craving. My pussy is more hungry than my mouth has ever been. I’ll never be full, no matter how many fingers thrust past my slit.

Too much, it’s too much but not enough, and I slide down the bar with a slick squish when my ass hits the dais. The stone under my ass is warm and hot, impossibly smooth, and grinding down into it feels so good. My body pulls me down and I grind my breasts, my hips, my everything into the perfect red floor.

Finally the red thrusts into me, and like a vortex opens between my legs I feel all of my energy being sucked out of me. All of my lust, all of my need, all that it’s turned me into, is pulled past my dripping lips. Alone without my need, without my driving force, without anything, I fall flat against the stone and softly mewl.

Drool slides from my lips as I stare at the floor. Seconds, hours, or years pass as I stare at the floor without really seeing anything. Without the red, I’m empty and hollow. Without the red . . .

The chanting stops all at once. Silence. I mewl weakly to see if I’ve gone deaf. I haven’t. There’s just nothing to hear. Nothing to hear, nothing to do, just feel the drool as it puddles under me from both sets of lips.

“You did a very good job, silver . . . You did a very, very good job . . .” The voice is cold and unfeeling, but the fingers that slide through my hair are warm. They feel dry. It might be because my scalp is dripping with sweat. All of my body is slick with sweat, cum, drool, or some combination. It feels like nothing, because there’s nothing to really feel it with. “Now, we’re going to have to fill you back up. It will take some time, but the ritual is quite . . . draining, wouldn’t you say?”

I try to say yes, but all I do is mewl as more drool slides past my lips. It would feel nice if I could understand nice.

The fingers pull away. “Glad you agree. Now, you won’t be very much help for this . . . So there’s no point in you being awake for it. Sleep.”

My eyes close, and I do.