Chapter 2: The Collar
Selene arrived not with a greeting, but with a small, lead-lined box that hummed with a malicious energy. "Found this in the ruins of Val’athor," she said, placing it on the chaise. "Thought of you immediately."
Lilah lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on black velvet, was a collar of woven silver strands, vibrating with a faint, insistent buzz. "What’s it do?"
"It reads desire," Selene explained, her smoky eyes sliding to where Roy stood, silently defiant by the bed. "Clamps onto the nervous system. You can set a threshold."
Morrigan, already pouring wine, grinned. "A threshold?"
"Ninety-eight percent," Lilah breathed, understanding instantly, her fingers tracing the cool metal. "And then a snap of my fingers resets it to zero."
She didn't ask; she just summoned Roy with a curl of her finger. He approached, the air around him simmering with contained heat. The collar snapped shut around his throat with a sound like a falling lock. A jolt went through him, his back arching slightly as the device synced with his pulse, his need.
"Now," Lilah said, nodding to Morrigan.
Morrigan’s spell was a whisper of green light from her fingertips, settling over Roy’s skin like a second, prickling layer of air. He stiffened, every muscle coiling. "Ticklish, darling?" she asked, and before he could answer, she dragged a single nail down his side.
He convulsed, a choked gasp escaping him. It wasn't just touch; it was lightning in his nerves, unbearable.
Lilah watched, enthralled, as Morrigan and Selene descended. Feathers, fingers, the ends of their hair—every contact was amplified into torturous sensation. Roy thrashed, laughter and raw screams tangled in his throat, his dignity stripped away with each merciless stroke.
The collar’s hum grew louder, climbing in pitch with his arousal. A faint digital readout glowed on its front: 70... 85... 92...
His eyes, wide and wild, locked onto Lilah’s. He was shuddering, sweat-slick, balanced on a knife's edge.
Ninety-seven.
She let him hang there, his whole world narrowing to the frantic buzz at his throat and the women’s laughing faces. Ninety-eight.
Snap.
The sound of her fingers was a gunshot in the room. The collar flared white-hot for a nanosecond. Roy screamed, a raw, ragged sound of total systemic collapse as pleasure was ripped away and replaced with searing, empty agony. He crumpled to the floor, twitching.
Lilah sipped her wine. "Again."
They let him breathe, just for a moment. The only sounds were his ragged gasps against the polished floorboards and the soft clink of Morrigan refilling her glass. “He looks so pretty like that,” she mused. “All that potential, just pooling.”
Selene crouched, her shadow falling over him. “The readout’s already climbing again. It’s feeding on the frustration.” She traced the line of his jaw with a cold fingertip. “Efficient little thing.”
“Up,” Lilah commanded, her voice devoid of warmth.
Roy pushed himself onto his knees, every movement strained. The collar’s low hum had already returned, a persistent itch beneath his skin. His eyes, dark with a hellish glow, held a new kind of calculation.
“You’re learning the rhythm, aren’t you?” Lilah observed, stepping closer. The scent of her, jasmine and warm skin, washed over him. “Thinking you can outlast it.”
“I am a Prince of the Seventh—” he began, his voice gravel.
“You’re my entertainment,” she finished, pressing her bare foot against his chest. She pushed, not hard, but with absolute authority. He fell back onto the chaise, the velvet cool against his feverish skin. “Morrigan, the oil. The warm one.”
Morrigan produced a small vial, its contents shimmering like liquid topaz. She poured a stream onto his abdomen. Roy flinched as it spread, heat blooming across his stomach. “Just a little massage,” Morrigan cooed, her hands beginning to work in slow, firm circles. “To get the blood flowing.”
It was a different kind of torture. The touch was expert, almost therapeutic, but everywhere her hands moved, the ticklish enchantment flickered like static. His muscles jumped and quivered under the conflicting sensations—soothing warmth and electric sensitivity.
Selene joined, her nails scraping lightly through the oil along his inner thighs. The collar’s digital glow reflected in the gilded mirrors. 40… 65… The numbers climbed with terrifying speed.
“See how eager he is?” Selene laughed. “It’s almost pathetic.”
Roy bit down on a groan, his head thrown back, tendons standing out in his neck. He focused on the ceiling, on a crack in the plaster, on anything but the four hands on his body and the inevitable surge.
80… 90…
His breathing hitched. He could feel the precipice, a yawning, glorious release just a heartbeat away. A savage hope sparked in him. Maybe this time. Maybe the mechanism would lag.
95.
Lilah hadn’t moved. She watched, one hand idly toying with the neckline of her silk robe. Her expression was one of detached, academic curiosity.
97.
“Lilah,” Roy growled, the word a promise and a plea fused together.
Her smile was a slow, cruel curve. She raised her hand, fingers poised.
The world condensed to that single point. Roy’s entire being strained, hurtling forward. For a fraction of a second, he was there. He felt the wave begin to crest, unstoppable and deep.
COLLAR ACTIVATES.
Her fingers snapped.
The sound coincided with a brutal, internal reversal. The ascending wave didn’t just dissipate; it inverted. Pleasure turned inside out, becoming a nauseating void that sucked the air from his lungs. His back arched off the chaise in a silent, seismic spasm, a puppet jerked by a malicious string.
The glow of the collar faded back to its idle hum. Roy went limp, his body drained and shaking. A single, traitorous tear tracked through the oil on his temple.
“Good,” Lilah said, her tone light, conversational. She turned to Selene. “The battery on this thing is impressive. We could go all night.”
Morrigan wiped her hands on a towel. “He’s leaking onto your velvet, Lilah.”
“It’ll clean.” Lilah finally approached the chaise, looking down at the ruin of the demon prince. She leaned close, her blonde hair a curtain around them. “You held onto that one for a moment, didn’t you?” she whispered, almost kindly. “Felt like you’d won.”
She placed a soft, mocking kiss on his forehead.
“Let’s see if you can do it again.”
“Let’s see if you can do it again.”
The door to the boudoir whispered open before Lilah had even finished speaking. Morrigan stepped through, the crimson silk of her robe catching the candlelight like a fresh wound. She took in the scene—Roy broken on the chaise, Selene by the window, Lilah standing triumphant—and her smile was a slow, knowing thing. “Started the party without me? I’m wounded.”
She nudged Roy’s leg with her foot as she passed, not bothering to look down. “He’s a mess, Lilah. Glorious, but a mess.” She picked up the vial of warming oil, weighing it in her palm. “The tickling spell was a nice touch. Classic.”
“It gets a reaction,” Selene said, shrugging.
“Oh, I can see that.” Morrigan finally looked at Roy. His eyes were open, fixed on the canopy above, breathing still ragged. She poured a slick pool of oil onto her own palm, rubbing her hands together. “But it’s a bit scattergun, don’t you think? All those nerves firing at once. It’s noise.”
Lilah tilted her head, intrigued. “You have a better idea?”
“I always have a better idea.” Morrigan’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial purr. “The collar measures systemic arousal, right? The whole body’s pitch. What if we isolate it? Amplify one sensation, one single point of focus, until it’s the only thing his world contains.”
Roy’s head turned slightly on the velvet. A faint, wary tension returned to his shoulders.
“Show me,” Lilah said, settling onto the edge of the bed.
Morrigan didn’t touch him immediately. She circled the chaise, her gaze analytical. “The spell Selene cast is a blanket effect. I can refine it.” She stopped by his head, her fingers weaving a quick, intricate pattern in the air. A mote of concentrated emerald light, no larger than a pearl, coalesced at her fingertip.
She leaned close, her breath ghosting over his ear. “Where does the frustration live, prince? Where does it ache the most?”
With a precise tap, she pressed the green light against the base of his throat, just above the collar’s silver band.
The effect was instantaneous and brutal. Roy’s whole body seized, a choked cry tearing from him. The general, skittering sensitivity collapsed, funneling down into a single, devastating current. It wasn’t tickling anymore. It was a raw, screaming need concentrated in his already-throbbing erection, a feedback loop of sensation that the collar read as a sheer vertical climb.
The digital readout didn’t climb. It leapt. 50. 75.
“There,” Morrigan whispered, watching the numbers blaze. “No distractions. Just the pure, undiluted want. It’s cleaner, isn’t it?”
Roy could only grind his teeth, his hips giving an involuntary, helpless jerk against nothing. The air felt like glass against that hyper-sensitized skin. Every rapid heartbeat was a thunderclap of demand.
90.
Lilah watched, her lips parted. This was different. This wasn’t playful torment. This was surgical. “Morrigan.”
95.
“I know,” Morrigan said, her eyes fixed on Roy’s face, studying the agony of anticipation there. She didn’t look away.
97.
Roy’s hands, still silver-cuffed, clenched into fists so tight the metal bit into his wrists. A low, continuous growl vibrated in his chest, the sound of a chain straining. His eyes found Lilah’s, and the hellfire in them was stripped of all pretence, burning with pure, unadulterated need.
Morrigan’s hand rested lightly on Lilah’s wrist. “Wait for it,” she murmured.
The number flickered. 98.
For three endless seconds, no one moved. The only sound was Roy’s shattered breathing and the violent hum of the collar, a promise pressed directly against his spine. He was trembling, every molecule of his being fused to that single point of agonizing almost.
Lilah slowly raised her free hand, fingers poised.
Roy’s growl broke into a raw, open-mouthed pant. A plea was forming in the ruin of his expression.
Snap.
The collapse was absolute. This time, he didn’t scream. The sound he made was a wet, hollow gasp, as if his soul had been punched out of him. His body went utterly slack, boneless, eyes staring unseeing at the dancing shadows on the ceiling. The void left behind wasn’t searing; it was cold, deep, and absolute.
Morrigan finally exhaled, breaking the silence. “See? Clean.”
She traced a finger through the oil on his chest, drawing a meaningless pattern. “The crash is more complete. The reset’s more total.” She looked at Lilah, a spark of genuine intellectual excitement in her gaze. “It hollows him out better.”
Lilah stared down at the demon prince. He was breathing, but that was all. The cunning, the resistance, the simmering amusement—all of it was scoured away, leaving something blank and used. A strange, quiet triumph settled in her stomach, colder than the wine.
She reached out and ran her thumb over his bottom lip. He didn’t react.
“Get the salve,” Lilah said, her voice soft. “The black one, from the ivory jar. We’ll let him recover for ten minutes.”
Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Mercy?”
“Investment,” Lilah corrected, still looking at Roy’s empty face. “A vessel can’t hold anything if it’s cracked. We’ll let the walls strengthen.” A slow, new smile touched her lips. “Then we fill him right back up.”
She leaned down, her voice a whisper only he could hear. “You’re going to thank me for that break, before we’re through.”
“You’re going to thank me for that break, before we’re through.”
The words still hung in the jasmine-scented air when Selene moved. She had been a quiet observer by the window, but now she crossed the room with a purposeful stride, the hem of her dark dress whispering against the floor. She stopped beside Lilah, looking down at Roy’s vacant expression with an appraising tilt of her head.
“He’s plateaued,” Selene stated, her voice clinical. “The shock is pure, but the nervous system can only blank out so many times before it just… goes numb.” She tapped a fingernail against the silver collar. “The artifact needs nuance.”
Lilah glanced at her, intrigued. “You have a manual I didn’t get?”
“Something like that.” Selene’s smile was a thin curve. “It has sensitivity settings. You’ve been using a hammer.” Her fingers traced the nearly invisible seams in the metal, and a subtle, violet light pulsed within its weave. “Let me show you the scalpel.”
Roy’s eyes, which had been fixed on the ceiling, flickered toward the new light. A faint, dreadful awareness returned to them.
Selene didn’t ask for permission. She placed her palm flat against Roy’s chest, over his still-rapid heart. “The threshold stays at ninety-eight. But we dial down the physical sensitivity. Just a little.”
“Why would we do that?” Morrigan asked, frowning as she recorked the salve jar.
“Because then,” Selene said, her gaze locking with Roy’s, “the climb is mental. It’s not about his skin. It’s about anticipation. It’s about watching us and knowing exactly what he can’t have.” She leaned closer to him. “It’s about making him do the work to get there, consciously, every single second.”
She twisted a section of the collar. The aggressive hum softened to a barely-audible purr. The overwhelming feedback from Morrigan’s spell dissolved, leaving behind only the ordinary, maddening sensitivity of a body pushed to its absolute limit and denied.
Roy drew a deeper, shuddering breath. The blankness receded, replaced by a sharp, clarifying misery. He was horrifyingly present again.
“See?” Selene said, straightening up. “Now he’s with us.”
Lilah watched the understanding—and the fresh horror—dawn in Roy’s eyes. She smiled. “I like it.”
“So,” Selene said, brushing her hands together as if dusting off crumbs. She turned to Lilah, her manner now casually collaborative. “What’s the game? Do we just stand here and look pretty? That seems lazy.”
Morrigan laughed, settling onto the chaise lounge beside Roy’s feet. “I vote for lazy. My feet hurt.”
“No one voted,” Lilah said, but her tone was playful. She let her silk robe slip off one shoulder, the material catching on the curve of her breast. She didn’t look at Roy; she watched Selene. “You broke your toy, you help fix it. The salve, please.”
Selene handed her the ivory jar. Her movements were efficient, familiar. This was no longer a visitor offering a novelty; this was a partner in the workshop.
Lilah dipped her fingers into the cool, black salve. It smelled of menthol and dark herbs. “This will help with the systemic shock,” she said, as if lecturing. “Capillary repair. Neural soothing.”
She began applying it to his chest, her touch businesslike, spreading the ointment in broad, smooth strokes. Roy flinched at the initial contact, then stilled, the cooling sensation a bizarre kindness after the fire. His eyes followed her hands.
Selene watched for a moment, then perched on the arm of the chaise near his head. She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair, a surprisingly gentle gesture. He stiffened completely.
“Shhh,” she murmured, her voice low. “This isn’t for you. It’s maintenance.” Her fingers scratched lightly at his scalp. “We’re just tuning the instrument.”
The contradiction was exquisite. Lilah’s clinical, soothing massage. Selene’s intimate, detached petting. Morrigan, still lounging, idly ran a bare foot along his outer thigh. The collar’s purr remained soft, but the digital readout, which had fallen to a single-digit glow, began a slow, insidious crawl upward.
10… 15…
It was the waiting that did it now. The knowledge. Lilah’s robe was still open. Morrigan’s foot was warm. Selene’s fingers were in his hair. Every detail was a landmark on a path he was being forced to walk, step by agonizing step.
“He’s thinking,” Selene observed softly, her nails tracing the shell of his ear. “Aren’t you? You’re replaying all of it. The ice. The snapping sound. The exact feel of the void.”
Roy closed his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
“Don’t hide,” Lilah chided, her salve-slick thumb brushing over his nipple. He gasped. “We need to see the progress.”
40… 50…
The climb was slower, more deliberate. It felt earned, and therefore more cruel. Each point gained was a conscious surrender, a choice made against his own will.
“Much better,” Selene said, approving. She shifted her hand from his hair to his throat, her thumb resting on his pulse point, feeling the rabbit-quick beat. “This is the game. Not how hard he bucks, but how still he lies while it happens.”
65… 70…
Morrigan stretched, arching her back with a sigh. The movement made her robe gape, revealing a flash of pale, freckled skin and the soft curve of her breast. Roy’s eyes snapped to it, and the readout flickered to 75.
“Oops,” Morrigan said, not bothering to close the robe.
Lilah finished with the salve and wiped her hands on a towel. She then stood at his side, looking down at him. She slowly, slowly, untied the belt of her robe. She let it hang open, not shedding it, just presenting the long, blonde-crowned line of her body. The candlelight loved her curves, painting them in gold and deep shadow.
80… 85…
“There it is,” Selene whispered, her breath near his ear. Her hand was still on his throat, a possessive claim. “The real work. You have to look. You want to look. It’s worse when you want it.”
Roy was trembling again, but it was a fine, continuous vibration, like a wire under immense tension. His breathing was shallow. His gaze was nailed to Lilah.
90… 92…
Lilah placed one knee on the chaise beside his hip, leaning over him. The scent of her, the heat, the overwhelming nearness of her was a country he was banished from. Her hair brushed his chest.
95.
Selene’s grip on his throat tightened, just a little. Not a threat. A reminder. A anchor.
97.
The number glowed, a heart of crimson light. The room was silent. Roy’s world had collapsed to the space between Lilah’s body and his own, to the feather-light touch of Selene’s hand, to the certain, impending fracture.
He didn’t make a sound. His whole being was a silent scream.
Lilah held his gaze, her own breath slightly quickened. This was the shared precipice.
Selene smiled, and it was the most frightening thing he’d seen all night. She didn’t look at Lilah. She looked only at him, and gave the smallest, most infinitesimal nod.
It was a command. A collaboration.
Snap.