Chapter 3: A Slave's First Lesson
The command hit her like a wave of warm honey, and Play-Meat obeyed before conscious thought could even form. She spun on her heel, her white boots sliding through the debris-strewn floor, and every joint in her body moved with a fluidity that would have made Athena weep. Her arms rose above her head, fingers splayed, and her hips found a rhythm that had nothing to do with music and everything to do with the pleasure still humming through her veins.
"Dance for masters!" Gash bellowed, his voice a gravelly thunder that echoed off the ruined walls. "Dance like good play meat!"
Play-Meat smiled.
It was not the tight, controlled smile of White Owl. It was not the polite, professional smile of Dr. Athena Nikos-Coleman. It was a wide, unguarded, almost childish grin that split her face from ear to ear, and it reached her eyes in a way that nothing had for the past thirty seconds.
"Play-Meat dance," she said, and her voice was breathy and eager and completely wrong. "Play-Meat show masters how happy she is!"
She spun again, her long dark hair whipping around her shoulders like a silken storm. The moonlight streaming through the hole in the wall caught the white of her leotard, made it glow, made her look like something ethereal and untouchable. But she was not untouchable. She was the opposite of untouchable. She was theirs.
"Good!" Grond shouted, and he clapped his massive hands together with a sound like a car crash. "Good play meat! Pretty bird lady dance good!"
Play-Meat's heart swelled with the praise. She wanted more of it. She needed more of it. She would do anything—anything—to hear that approval again, to see that ugly grin on Grond's face, to feel the warmth of their attention focused entirely on her.
She dropped into a crouch, her thighs straining against the white fabric of her costume, and then she rose again in a slow, sinuous motion that made Slag's tiny eyes go wide. She did not know where the movements came from. Athena had never danced like this—not in college, not at galas, not even in the privacy of her own home. But Play-Meat knew. Play-Meat understood.
Play-Meat existed to please.
"Now," Grond growled, and his voice had gone low and rough in a way that made Play-Meat's skin tingle. "Take off costume. Want see all of play meat."
The command sank into her like water into dry earth.
Play-Meat did not hesitate.
Her fingers found the clasp of her utility belt, and she unhooked it with a practiced motion that felt foreign and natural all at once. The black leather slid through her hands, and she let it fall. It hit the concrete with a soft clatter, and then she was reaching for her gloves.
She peeled them off slowly.
Finger by finger.
Each inch of exposed skin met the cool night air, and Play-Meat shivered—not from cold, but from anticipation. She could feel the trolls watching her, their gazes hot and heavy on her body, and the attention was like a drug. It flooded her system with warmth, with pleasure, with a desperate need for more.
"Pretty," Slag murmured, and his voice was almost reverent. "Pretty bird lady have pretty hands."
Play-Meat smiled at him—a real smile, a grateful smile—and then she reached for her leotard.
The white fabric was slick with sweat and ash, and it clung to her curves like a second skin. She hooked her thumbs under the shoulders and pulled, and the material parted from her body with a soft whisper. She shimmied, rolled her hips, and the leotard slid down her torso, over her stomach, past her hips.
She stepped out of it, her boots clicking against the concrete, and now she was wearing only her thigh-highs and her mask.
And nothing else.
The moonlight painted her in shades of silver and shadow, illuminating every curve, every plane, every inch of skin that Athena had kept hidden from the world for so long. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, their fullness catching the light in a way that made Gash's mouth water. Her waist narrowed, her hips flared, and between her thighs, a neat triangle of dark hair glistened in the pale glow.
Play-Meat stood before them, naked and trembling, and she had never felt more alive.
"Beautiful," Gash breathed, and the word was almost swallowed by the rumble of his voice. "Play meat most beautiful thing Gash ever see."
Play-Meat's cheeks flushed with pleasure. "Play-Meat happy masters think so."
She took a step toward them, then another, her hips swaying with each movement. Her boots were the only thing she wore now, their white leather hugging her legs all the way to mid-thigh. She could feel the rough concrete beneath her soles, the grit and debris of the destroyed gym, but she didn't care. All she cared about was them.
All she cared about was pleasing them.
Slag moved first.
His tongue—long and prehensile and impossibly dexterous—slid from his mouth like a pink serpent. It coiled through the air, slick and glistening, and Play-Meat watched it come with wide, fascinated eyes. She knew what it was going to do. She wanted it to do it.
The tongue touched her throat.
Play-Meat's breath caught.
It was warm, warmer than any human tongue, and it left a trail of moisture that cooled almost instantly in the night air. It traced the line of her jugular, dipped into the hollow of her collarbone, and Play-Meat arched her neck, offering herself to it with a wanton moan that would have horrified Athena.
"More," she whispered. "Please, masters, more."
Slag's tongue obliged.
It slid lower, over the swell of her left breast, and Play-Meat's nipples tightened into hard peaks under the caress. The tongue circled one, then the other, leaving them glistening and aching. It traced the underside of her breasts, the curve of her ribs, the dip of her navel.
Play-Meat's knees buckled, but she didn't fall. Gash was there, his massive hands closing around her waist, holding her upright. His grip was rough and possessive, and she loved it. She loved the feel of his calloused fingers digging into her soft flesh, the contrast between his monstrous strength and her fragile humanness.
"Play-Meat never want stop," she gasped, and the words came out in a rush. "Play-Meat belong to masters forever."
Grond laughed—a deep, booming sound that echoed off the ruined walls—and stepped forward. His tongue joined Slag's, lashing across Play-Meat's stomach, dipping into the hollows of her hips, tracing the tops of her boots.
She writhed between them, her head thrown back, her hair a dark tangle against her skin. Her hands found their shoulders, their arms, their chests, and she clung to them like a drowning woman.
"Good play meat," Gash growled, and his tongue—rougher than his brothers', more textured—grazed her inner thigh. "Good, good play meat."
Play-Meat sobbed with pleasure.
Not cried. Not wept. Sobbed. The sound was torn from somewhere deep inside her, a place that had no name and no language, and it was the most honest sound she had ever made.
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, yes, yes—"
Slag's tongue found her center.
Play-Meat screamed.
The sound was not human. It was something older, something primal, something that had been buried under years of discipline and duty and the careful construction of a life that made sense. It was the sound of a woman coming undone, and she didn't want it to stop.
She didn't want it to ever stop.
Her vision went white. Her body convulsed. Her fingers clawed at Gash's shoulders, leaving deep furrows in his gray-green skin, and she rode the wave of pleasure until it receded into warmth.
And then Grond's tongue found her throat again, and it started all over.
"Play meat dance good," Slag said, and his voice was thick with something that might have been pride. "Play meat be good for us. Play meat give us many babies."
Play-Meat heard the words.
She understood them—the collar made sure she understood, made sure she felt the joy of them, the rightness of them. And something deep inside her, something that had once been Athena, screamed in horror.
But the scream was slow.
The scream was drowning in honey.
The scream was getting harder and harder to hear.
"Play meat..." she started, and then she paused, her smile growing wicked, "Play meat love masters," she said, and the words were true. "Play meat want babies. Play meat want stay forever!"
Gash roared with approval. Grond howled with delight. Slag simply smiled—a wide, ugly smile that warped his face into something almost tender—and leaned in to kiss her.
His mouth was rough, his tusks sharp, but Play-Meat didn't care. She kissed him back with everything she had, her tongue tangling with his, her hands reaching for his brothers, and she was happy.
She was happy.
In the shadows above, a figure watched.
Pink Pussycat lay flat on a steel beam, her pink catsuit nearly invisible against the rust and ruin, and her emerald eyes—hidden behind the high-tech goggles of her mask—were wide with a mixture of horror and fascination.
She had followed Captain Valiant to Empire City. She always followed Captain Valiant. It was her favorite hobby, her favorite obsession, her favorite excuse to exist. She had watched him fight trolls. She had watched him kiss the witch. She had watched him disappear in a swirl of violet light.
And she had watched White Owl—the woman she hated more than anyone in the world—fall.
Pink Pussycat had always assumed she hated White Owl because of Valiant. The woman was his wife, after all. She had what Catherine wanted, and Catherine wanted it with a burning passion that bordered on madness. But watching White Owl transform into Play-Meat, watching her shed her costume and her dignity and her very self...
Pink Pussycat felt something else.
Something that might have been pity.
Something that might have been terror.
Something that might have been understanding.
She knew what it was to lose yourself. She knew what it was to become something else, something that you never intended to be, something that consumed your identity like fire consuming dry grass. She had been Catherine Mason once. She had been a normal girl with normal dreams and a normal future.
And then Captain Valiant had saved her, and everything had changed.
Now she was Pink Pussycat. And she didn't remember what it felt like to be anything else.
But she remembered enough to know that what was happening to White Owl was wrong.
And as much as she hated the woman, as much as she had fantasized about her death, the destruction of her reputation, the complete and total annihilation of her life—Pink Pussycat found that she couldn't just watch.
She had to do something.
Pink Pussycat's fingers found the quiver strapped across her back, and she thanked whatever twisted god of villainy had inspired her to raid that antique shop two weeks ago. Iron fireplace pokers. Six of them, each one a little over two feet long, their tips sharpened to wicked points. She had grabbed them on a whim, another prop in her endless arsenal of theatrical bullshit, never imagining she would actually need them.
But she knew the legend. Everyone who ran in the underworld knew the legend.
Iron was poison to trolls. It didn't just hurt them—it turned them to stone, and a deep enough wound would make the transformation permanent. Stab a troll in the heart with enough iron, and he wouldn't be waking up with the next full moon. He'd be a lawn ornament for the rest of eternity.
Below her, Slag was still rutting against White Owl's motionless body, his tongue dragging across her bare skin in wet, lazy strokes. His brothers had backed off, content to watch, their tiny eyes glazed with something that looked almost like contentment. They had forgotten they were in a war zone. They had forgotten Morgana was gone. They had forgotten everything except the pretty bird lady who now belonged to them.
Stupid. Even for trolls, that was stupid.
Pink Pussycat coiled her legs beneath her, her muscles bunching with tension. She had one shot at this. Maybe two, if she was fast. She reached back, pulled the longest poker from her quiver, and wrapped her fingers around the rubber grip. The metal was cool against her knuckles, solid and real, and she took a breath that tasted like rust and dust and the faint, sickly sweetness of magic.
"Don't think," she whispered to herself. "Just do."
She dove.
The world became a blur of pink and shadow, the wind screaming past her ears as she hurtled through the darkness. She twisted in midair, her body a coiled spring, and drove the poker straight down into Slag's back.
The iron sank deep.
Slag screamed.
It was not a human sound. It was the sound of a mountain being torn apart, of bedrock splitting under forces it was never meant to withstand. The scream rose and rose until it cracked, and then Slag was convulsing, his massive form jerking and twitching as gray crept across his skin like frost on a window.
"SLAG!" Gash's voice was a thunderclap of horror—all the childlike joy from moments before burned away by sheer, primal terror. "SLAG, NO!"
Grond was already moving, his lance blazing with sickly green light. He drove the tip into his brother's chest, and the gray receded an inch. Gash joined him, their combined magic pushing back against the iron's curse, but it was a losing battle. Slag was still turning. Still dying.
While the trolls struggled to save their brother, Pink Pussycat looked confused as Play-Meat snarled at Pussycat. Pink Pussycat yelled, "What the fuck is wrong with you, White Owl. That crazy fossil, Morgana, stole our man. It's bad enough you jumped the line to steal him from me, but I'm not letting that Ren Faire reject take Valiant away from us."
Play-Meat didn't care who this person was. Her words meant nothing to Play-Meat. Only the fact that this bitch had tried to kill one of Play-Meat's beloved masters mattered. Play-Meat stuck out with a savage punch to Pussycat's face. Only Pussycat's phenomenal agility saved her from death, but it was not enough. the villain flew across the room, landing in a pile.
Desparation of her masters drew the former heroine's attention back as Grond roared, "Get it out!" His voice cracked on the last word. "Get metal out! Now! NOW!"
Play-Meat's world tilted at the desperate screaming. Her masters were powerful warriors, brave and proud. She didn't think anything could affect them so, but as she turned to face them, she could see that Slag was nearly half way converted to stone, even with the help of his brothers.
"Play-Meat help," she said, and her voice was bright and eager and utterly wrong. "Play-Meat fix!"
She crossed to Slag in three quick strides, her bare feet slapping against the debris-strewn floor. She planted one hand on his shoulder—he was still convulsing, still screaming—and wrapped the other around the poker's handle.
Then she pulled.
The iron slid free with a wet, sucking sound, and Slag's scream cut off like a switch had been flipped. Gray still mottled his back, but the spread had stopped. Grond and Gash redoubled their efforts, their lances pulsing with green light, and slowly—inch by agonizing inch—the stone receded.
They didn't notice.
They were too busy watching their brother breathe, watching the gray fade, watching the magic do its work. They didn't notice that Play-Meat's grip had slipped.
They didn't notice that her fingers had brushed bare iron.
The collar shattered.
Not literally—the metal was still tight around her throat, still heavy and cold and real. But the spell that had lived inside it, the curse that had turned Athena into Play-Meat, broke apart like a soap bubble popping. One second she was drowning in honey, and the next she was gasping for air, her mind her own again, her memories crashing back in a tidal wave of horror and shame.
She had danced for them. She had stripped for them. She had let them—
Athena's stomach heaved, and she had to fight to keep from vomiting.
But she couldn't afford to think about that now. She couldn't afford to process the violation, the humiliation, the way her skin was still tingling with the ghost of their tongues. She had to think. She had to be White Owl.
Because White Owl had spotted the pink figure crumpled against the far wall.
Pink Pussycat was alive—Athena could see the rise and fall of her chest, could hear the shallow flutter of her breath. But she was unconscious. That savage punch Play-Meat had thrown had caught her square in the temple, and only her phenomenal acrobatic skill had allowed her to twist at the last second, deflecting enough of the blow to keep her skull intact. She was down, but she was alive.
And Gash and Grond had just finished healing Slag.
The trolls were rising now, their tiny eyes scanning the gym, their mouths curling into snarls of rage and confusion. They had forgotten about Pink Pussycat in the chaos of saving their brother. But they wouldn't stay distracted forever.
Athena had seconds. Maybe less.
She could grab Pussycat and fly. She could abandon stealth, abandon strategy, and just run—praying her healing factor kicked in fast enough to get her airborne before the trolls could react. But even as the thought formed, she knew it was hopeless. Her legs were still shaking. Her head was still spinning. She couldn't fly fast enough. She couldn't escape.
But she could misdirect.
Athena's eyes fell on the collar—the loose, still-powerless collar around her throat. The weight of it was a constant reminder of what she had been, what she had almost become. But it was also a tool now. A prop.
She locked it back into place.
The metal clicked shut, and Athena forced herself to relax. She couldn't feel the spell anymore—the collar was empty, drained, just a dead piece of brass—but the trolls didn't know that. They couldn't sense magic the way Morgana could. All they would see was their pretty bird lady, still wearing her masters' collar, still obedient.
She had to make them leave Pussycat alone.
"Master Slag!" she called out, and her voice was high and breathy and eager, a perfect imitation of Play-Meat's tone. "Play-Meat so scared! Master Slag so brave! Play-Meat want go somewhere safe with masters! Somewhere we can have big fun!"
Gash's head swiveled toward her, and his tiny eyes narrowed. "Safe? What safe? Where?"
"Farm!" Athena said, and the lie came easily—too easily, in a way that made her nauseous. "Play-Meat know farm outside city! Cows! Master like cows, yes? Plenty of fresh meat! Plenty of room for playing!"
Grond's expression shifted from suspicion to interest. The trolls were always hungry, always eager for food that didn't fight back. Cows would be a feast. Cows would be paradise.
"Farm good," he rumbled. "Farm very good. But how get there? Too far for walking."
"We teleport," Gash said, and he hefted his lance with a grunt. "Witch magic in lance. We go wherever we want. We—"
He stopped.
Looked at Slag.
Slag was still on his knees, his massive body streaked with gray, his breathing ragged and shallow. His lance lay on the ground beside him, its glow barely a flicker. The iron had hurt him more than he wanted to admit.
"Slag too weak," Grond said, and his voice was heavy with dawning realization. "Slag too weak for teleport. We need three to open portal. Three or..."
His eyes found Athena.
"Play-Meat do it," she said, and the words felt right in a way that made her skin crawl. "Play-Meat use magic lance. Play-Meat take masters to farm. Play-Meat show masters great fun!"
Gash and Grond exchanged a look.
Then Gash shrugged and tossed her his lance.
The weapon was heavier than it looked—much heavier—and the moment her fingers closed around the enchanted metal, the collar blazed with power. The spell surged back to life, but not the way it had before. It didn't crush her mind. It didn't drown her in pleasure. It simply... suggested.
Go with them, it whispered. Guide them. Keep them safely from others. Play the eager slave. They're your masters. You love them.
Before they started the spell, Grond went over to the crumpled form of Pink Pussycat. Athena growled, "No want cat lady come. She bitch. She no deserve to be troll slave. She no deserve such honor or joy. She too scrawny to even eat. She best stay here!"
Grond laughed, "You think like troll, but we take this one. She hurt Slag. We make her pay."
Athena's grip tightened on the lance.
She didn't love them. She hated them. She wanted to drive this lance through their chests and watch them turn to stone and dance on their remains. But she also wanted to get them away from innocents. She wanted to buy herself time. She wanted to figure out where Morgana had taken her husband.
And if that meant playing along for a little while longer—fine.
She could do that.
She could be Play-Meat, as long as it kept her husband's enemies distracted and Pink Pussycat alive. She could pretend, and scheme, and wait for her moment.
"Ready, masters," she said, and the smile on her face was pure Play-Meat. "Ready for great fun!"
Grond grinned, his tusks gleaming in the moonlight. "Good play meat. Best play meat. Now open portal. Take us to farm. Take us to cows."