Time passed.
How much, Soreya didn't know. Hours, maybe. Or days. The collar distorted things—it was like being submerged in warm water that never let her surface. She remained in the frame, locked and bowed, arms numb, throat dry, pussy leaking a trail of Allen's cum down the inside of her thighs that had cooled, then warmed again with each fresh humiliation.
They didn't stop using her. Not in the traditional sense, no. Allen had said she was to remain untouched—by cock, by fingers—but that hadn't meant spared. Fina returned with brushes. Paint. Ink. Runes. Words.
She dipped the brush into black ink and began to write across Soreya's back, slow and measured.
"Crownless."
"Owned."
"Flesh to be filled."
