There are certain pains in this world that transcend species, culture, and collective stupidity. Fires burn, hearts break, hangovers punish—but nothing, and I mean nothing, unites the living like a blow to the balls.
It's the closest thing we have to a universal religion: the sudden gasp, the existential freeze, the internal monologue of, "Ah. So this is how the gods prune the weak."
Quentin made a sound no mortal man should ever make, a whimper so exquisite, so tragically delicate, it felt destined to echo across mountaintops and summon sympathetic wolves to howl on his behalf.
His legs folded like poorly constructed furniture before he crumpled completely, hands darting instinctively to the epicenter of his suffering, clutching what remained of his pride like a sailor clinging to driftwood amid a hurricane.
From my hidden perch behind Sir Stiffbottom—yes, that's the statue's official title now, fight me—I witnessed his symphony of suffering unfold with the rapt attention of a scholar documenting an endangered species.
Color drained from his face only to rush back in a violent blush that painted him scarlet from collar to hairline, and his eyes—wide, glassy, drowning in disbelief—fixed on Elvina with the stunned devotion of a martyr discovering the wheel was just a warm-up.
My jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack. For a second I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel the ghost of that impact reverberating through my body like I'd taken the blow myself.
Gods, I almost pitied the bastard.
Almost.
Elvina, glorious, terrible creature that she was, felt no such thing. She merely tilted her head and watched him crumple with the serene satisfaction of an artist admiring a fresco painted with nothing but cruelty, precision, and the delicious collapse of another man's ego.
She let the silence stretch until it was practically doing yoga, until Quentin's breath came in shallow, frantic sips that fogged the air between them.
Then, slow as sin, she eased the delicate strap of her shoe from her heel and let the black leather slip free into her waiting palm.
The inside of it still held the heat of her, the faint damp of an evening spent dancing on everyone else's nerves, and when she raised it to hover beneath Quentin's flushed features, the scent that drifted out was sweat, skin, and the kind of territorial musk that made me briefly wonder if shoes could file property claims.
Quentin's shoulders rose and fell in one ragged heave—pride, pain, and something far more humiliating warring behind his eyes. His hands, still cupped protectively between his thighs, twitched as though they might reach for her and thought better of it at the last second.
A lone bead of sweat meandered down his temple, skimming the angle of his jaw before falling onto the marble with the softest, most pitiful tap.
"Sniff," she ordered, soft as silk.
"This is insanity," Quentin whispered."If anyone were to see—"
"But no one's here to see, are they?" she purred, leaning forward until her breath ghosted his ear. "Now quit whining and sniff..."
He stared at the shoe the way a starving man stares at bread he knows is poisoned, lips parted, chest seizing on every breath, and then, slowly, inevitably, he leaned forward until his aristocratic nose disappeared into the warm hollow that had so recently cradled her foot.
The first inhale was cautious, almost reverent, a testing sip of forbidden wine. The second was deeper, greedier, nostrils flaring wide as he chased the taste of her across the insole like a hound on a fading trail.
"Good mutt," Elvina cooed, voice dripping with menace.
I slapped both hands over my mouth to stifle the hysterical sound clawing its way up my throat—a laugh? a scream? a religious epiphany? Hard to say.
Because no. It couldn't be real.
Every instinct screamed that this was impossible—that no universe, no timeline, no cruel twist of fate could allow Elvina to reduce a Velvet-ranked slave to such abject surrender.
Velvets were supposed to be beyond reproach, their power so absolute it made lesser beings tremble from proximity alone.
Quentin's eyes fluttered shut, lashes dark against the fevered flush of his cheeks. The low, helpless sound that rumbled out of him was so utterly pathetic it made my knees wobble in second-hand shame.
Elvina watched him with half-lidded amusement, lips curved in a smile sharp enough to draw blood, and when he breathed her in a third time, shameless now, dragging the scent into his lungs like it was the only oxygen left in the world, she laughed, high and obnoxious, the sort of laugh that convinces your eardrums they filed a formal complaint the moment you were born.
From my hiding spot, I had to physically grip the statue to keep from screaming into the floor. Because of course she laughed like that. Of course she did. Why wouldn't she? Some people are born with dimples; Elvina was born with a built-in soundtrack for psychological warfare.
Then she flipped.
"That's it, gorge yourself on my sweat like the pathetic dog you are. Gods, you make me sick," she spat, voice thick with loathing.
She let him marinate in the glory of her presence for a beat, then flicked the shoe away with a careless twist of her wrist.
It sailed through the air before landing somewhere behind her with a muted thud that tore a thin, broken whine from Quentin's throat.
"See? Not so difficult, was it? Now, let's try something else."
Before he could scramble after it, before the loss could fully register, Elvina's stockinged foot rose in a slow, murderous arc and settled across his face with the unhurried certainty of a pendulum striking its mark, each movement measured, elegant, and devastatingly final, as if the world itself had paused to witness the apex of her control.
The black silk was impossibly sheer, clinging like a whisper to the delicate pink of her skin. I could see it all, the perfect arch pressing over the bridge of his nose, the elegant spread of her toes sealing his mouth as thoroughly as any gag.
Quentin's hands lifted an inch, hesitating midair as if willing themselves to obey some invisible command, before sinking back to his sides in a reluctant surrender.
His breath rose in shallow, desperate bursts, warm and humid against the black silk, each frantic puff drawing the fabric tighter, molding it to the curve of her foot as if it were a second skin, sealing him in her dominion.
Elvina flexed her ankle with lazy precision, grinding the ball of her foot against his parted lips until they opened wider, until his tongue slipped out, tentative at first, then bolder, tracing the faint salt of her skin through the stocking with the devotion of a pilgrim kissing sacred ground.
She watched him debase himself with the calm, almost clinical fascination of someone studying a curious specimen.
"Now bark for me," Elvina whispered suddenly.
My eyebrows threatened mutiny.
And then he barked. He actually barked. Two sharp, desperate little "arf arf!"s that ricocheted around the marble hall like stray bullets. His tongue lolled out on the second one, pink and wet, dragging along the arch of her foot as if he were tasting salvation itself.
Elvina threw her head back and laughed, high, delighted, more than a little unhinged. The sound curled through the room like incense, sweet with mischief and twice as sharp.
"Oh saints, look at you," she gasped between giggles, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of her eye. "Hard as steel just from my foot in your face. Do they train you boys to be this pathetic, or is it a natural talent?"
A desperate, eager "Woof!" burst from Quentin's lips, the sound muffled by her foot. His hips were twitching now, dry-humping the air like it owed him money.
A cruel smile graced Elvina's lips then. "That's it," she purred, grinding harder. "Drown in it. Inhale it until your eyes water, until your brain melts, until the only thing left in that pretty head of yours is the stink of my feet and the taste of your shame."
A low, shuddering moan pressed against her arch, rolling through the air like a tremor until it slithered straight down my spine and coiled there, hot and electric.
Gods above, the front of Quentin's trousers had pulled so taut the outline of him was obscene, the fabric stretched to its limit over a ridge that jerked with every helpless thrust of his hips.
Elvina's gaze drifted downward, lazy and merciless, and her lips curved in a smile that was equal parts delight and disdain.
She let her toes curl over the ridge of his nose until his eyes rolled back, until the only thing keeping him upright was the foot pinning his face and the last fraying thread of whatever dignity he'd walked in here with.
And then that thread snapped.
"Go on, then. Make your mess," Elvina said, voice dripping with amusement.
His body seized, hips bucking once, twice, a third time into nothing, each jerk accompanied by a wet, obscene spurt that echoed in the hush.
My eyes widened as I saw it, the wool at his groin darkening with a sudden, spreading stain.
A fat pearl of cum oozed at the tip, forcing its way through the weave in a slow, glistening trail before dripping to the marble with a wet plop. The scent hit a second later—sharp, salty, unmistakable—fresh-spunk thick enough to taste on the back of my tongue.
I nearly choked myself trying not to cackle.
Another followed, then another, until the evidence of his ruin pooled beneath him, shimmering like liquid sin.
Quentin's moan cracked in the middle, turned into something that was half-sob, half-prayer, and yet his tongue kept licking, slow and reverent, as though gratitude might somehow erase the mess he'd just made of himself.
Elvina withdrew her foot with the same leisurely elegance she might use to step over a puddle. She regarded the trembling wreck at her feet with mild revulsion.
"Fucking disgusting," she murmured, almost fondly, like she was scolding a puppy that had piddled on the carpet.
She slipped her shoe back on without looking, the heel settling into place with a soft, decisive click that somehow landed in the air like a judge's gavel, then bent and retrieved her prized possession from beneath the table, a scrap of pale silk that fluttered once, twice, like a dying moth before she caught it on one finger.
She twirled Mia's stolen panties once, letting the lace catch the firelight, then let her gaze linger on Quentin's crumpled form.
"I trust that settles your ridiculous notion of debt," she said, voice light enough to dance on the surface of a grave.
Without waiting for the answer he was in no state to give, she turned and glided toward the doors, hips swaying with the unhurried confidence of someone who had just demonstrated—conclusively—that the world bent for her and her alone.
She passed so close to my hiding place that the hem of her skirt whispered against the statue's pedestal, and the scent of jasmine, warm skin, and effortless cruelty rolled over me in a wave so heady I nearly lost my balance.
Her humming was soft, sweet, the tune of someone strolling away from a battlefield she'd already reduced to ashes. Her fingers curled around the brass handles and the doors sighed open on silent hinges. Elvina stepped into the corridor beyond…
And then she froze.
Not a stumble, not a pause, but a full-body halt, as if the air itself had thickened and slammed into her chest. The hallway beyond shimmered with a tension that made the lanterns flicker nervously. All the warmth drained from the space like sunlight fleeing a storm cloud.
And there she was.
Framed perfectly in the widening doorway, a silhouette carved from midnight velvet and sharpened steel, her presence radiating a command so absolute it pressed down on the air itself.
It was Iskanda.