Chapter 12: Vexia's Apology and Her Price
The walk back to the dormitory was a silent, surreal procession. Vexia’s small, confident strides set the pace, the leather leash hanging slack between them. She didn’t tug, didn’t look back.The simple fact of its connection was authority enough. Cedric followed, his eyes on the sway of her tail, the way the tip curled and uncurled with a mind of its own. Students parted for them, their conversations hushing then resuming in whispered surges behind their backs. He heard the words—leashed, pet, familiar’s bitch—but they washed over him, muted by the profound detachment the collar seemed to radiate. His will was a quiet, contained thing, a pebble at the bottom of a deep well.
His room, when they entered, was as he’d left it that morning but somehow transformed. His own meager belongings—neatly stacked books, a spare set of robes folded on a plain wooden chair—looked like artifacts from a past life. Dominating the space now was Vexia’s presence: a velvet chaise lounge, deep burgundy and clearly conjured or stolen, sat where his desk had been. Silken cushions were strewn about, and the air was thick with the cloying sweetness of narcotic incense mixed with the sharper scent of ozone. His modest bed was untouched, a stark island of his former self.Vexia unclipped the leash. The sound was softer this time, a private click. She coiled the leather neatly and placed it on a small ebony table beside the chaise.Then she turned, her amber eyes appraising him. “How was your day, Cedric?” she asked, her tone conversational, as if inquiring about the weather.He stood, his bag still hanging from his shoulder.“The collar… it worked. I couldn’t channel anything in Transmutation. Professor Lighttouch noticed.”
“Ah.” Vexia hopped onto the chaise, curling her legs beneath her. Her knee-high boots gleamed in the candlelight.“And Miss Hinkley?”
“She was there. She… made a ring for me. Out of lead.” He lifted his hand, the dull grey band a heavy proclamation.Vexia smiled, a flash of sharp canines.“Good. She’s establishing her claim publicly. It saves us trouble.” She patted the space on the floor in front of her. “Sit.”
He lowered himself to the worn oak floor, the boards hard and cool against his legs.He dropped his bag beside him.
“I apologize for not being there at the lecture’s end,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. She leaned forward, her tail snaking out to wrap loosely around his wrist.Its grip was warm and surprisingly strong. “I was acquiring the final components. The collar is a dam. It will keep you from leaking all that precious mana before I've had a chance to claim it for myself.” Her eyes glittered. “I'm a greedy, selfish woman. It keeps your potential—our potential—safe and contained, ready to be shaped. I’m no longer interested in building your willpower, boy. I’ve decided that you will serve me better as a reservoir.”
Cedric’s breath hitched. “A reservoir?”
“Your mana pool is alrrady big. But it's a puddle compared to your potential. The best way to grow a larger pool is to drain and refill it repeatedly. The ritual I'm going to perfom will help make your skin more permeable to ambient mana. That would make your leak worse, but the collar will help with that. But it also means your mana will fill faster, passively. That in combination with my... appetites," she pats her lower belly meaningfully, "will deepen your well, naturally, over time.” She pointed a crimson finger toward the center of the room. A circle had been etched into the floorboards with something that smelled of acid and crushed bone. Unlit black candles sat at precise intervals around its edge. “Strip to the waist and kneel in the center.” Vexia instructed, her voice losing its casual cadence.
Cedric’s fingers trembled slightly as he obeyed. He shrugged off his robes, letting them pool around his knees. The cool air raised goosebumps on his lanky arms and pale chest. He knelt on the hard wood within the circle, the etched lines grazing his kneecaps. Vexia uncoiled herself from the chaise and padded over, a small onyx vial clutched in her hand. She uncorked it, and a scent of anise and roses, sharp and unnaturally sweet, filled the space between them.
“More of Miss Hinkley’s contributions.” Vexia said, holding the vial up to the candlelight. The liquid inside shimmered with a faint, silver luminescence. “This ritual will make the ink not just permanent, but resonant. It will sing to anyone who knows how to look.” She dipped a slender, bone stylus into the vial. “Now, be still. This will be cold.”
The first touch of the stylus to his sternum was a shock, like ice. He flinched, but her other hand came to rest on top of his head, holding him in place. “Steady,” she murmured, not unkindly. She began to draw, her movements swift and assured. The ink flowed in complex, interconnected lines—a central sigil that felt like a lock, with trailing glyphs that spread across his pectorals and snaked over his shoulders. The sensation was not pain, but a deep, penetrating cold that seeped into his bones. He watched her face, a mask of absolute concentration, her amber eyes reflecting the dancing candle flames.
She worked for several minutes in silence, the only sound the scratch of bone on skin and his own shaky breaths. Finally, she paused, examining her work. She dipped the stylus again, this time loading it with more of the shimmering ink. “This is the brand.” she stated, her tone factual. “The sigil is the spellwork. This is my house crest. It makes you as house property.” She leaned in close, her breath warm on his chilled skin. With deliberate, firm pressure, she drew a single, elegant character over his heart, just below the central sigil. It was a twisting, possessive mark that he instinctively knew read as hers. "Any mage he reads this knows you are valuable property."
When she finished, she sat back on her heels. “Look!” she commanded, gesturing to the large, dusty mirror leaning against the far wall. Cedric rose, his legs stiff, and walked to the mirror. The figure staring back was a stranger. The intricate silver tracery blazed against his pale skin, a masterpiece of arcane tattooing. At its heart, the brand—a symbol of pure ownership—glowed with a soft, inner light. It was beautiful and horrifying. It was truth made visible. He stared, his wide hazel eyes tracing the lines that now claimed him.
“It’s activated by my will and sealed by your consent.” Vexia said from behind him, her reflection appearing beside his in the glass.She was tiny, powerful, irrevocable. “Once we complete the ritual, the ink will sink in past the skin, past the muscle, right to the soul. It will be permanent. There is no magical removal. Everyone will see it, and everyone will know.” She placed a small, warm hand on the small of his back. “Do you consent, Cedric? Knowing it will mark you forever as mine?”
He looked from his branded chest to her reflected face. The collar was a welcomed, oppressive weight. This was honesty. This was the end of pretending he had any say. A profound, weary calm settled over him. The conflict was gone. He was already hers. The ink was just a receipt. “Yes.” he said, his voice quiet but clear in the still room.“I consent. I already belong to you, Mistress.”
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Vexia’s face, her extra canines glinting. “Good boy.” She took his hand and led him back to the circle. “Now, the ritual’s climax. The transfer.” She directed him to lie on his back within the etched lines, his head pointing north. The cold floor bit into his bare skin. Vexia stepped over him, one knee planted on either side of his hips. She looked down at him, her crimson form haloed by the candlelight, her gaze hungry and possessive.
With a graceful motion, she hitched up the skirts of her tight dress, revealing she wore nothing beneath. Her small, neatly trimmed mound was level with his eyes. She settled her weight onto him, not yet taking him inside, but grinding her wet slit against the length of his hardening cock. The heat of her was a shock after the ink’s chill. “This is where I take what’s mine.” she purred, rocking against him. “Your mana, your potential, your future. You’re going to give me everything.”
She reached down between them, her small hand wrapping around his shaft. She guided him to her entrance, slick and hot. With a sharp, deliberate roll of her hips, she sank down onto him, consuming him completely in one swift, punishing motion. Cedric gasped meekly. She was tight, a velvet cage imprisoning his entire length.
“Fuck, yes!” Vexia moaned, her head tipping back. She began to ride him with a ruthless, grinding rhythm. Her inner muscles clenched around him in a rolling, milking motion that felt like a direct suction on his core. Each time she dropped her weight onto him, he felt a jolt of both pleasure and a teasing pull of something hungry. Something vital was being from the very core of his being, up through his cock, and into the crushing, wet heat of her cunt. He felt like it was possible to try and resist, but he didn’t dare even try. He was her's to drain.
“Can you feel it, boy?” she panted, her pace increasing. Her small, sharp nails dug into his chest, right over the fresh, glowing brand. A new sensation bloomed there—a searing heat that synchronized with her thrusts. “Your mana… it’s flowing into me. Fuck, it’s so sweet. So strong.” She leaned forward, her full breasts swinging in his face, and captured his mouth in a fierce, biting kiss. Her tongue was invasive, claiming, as she fucked him harder, her little body a piston of relentless energy.
The pleasure was coiling, unbearable, a tsunami building from his balls and the branded cavity of his chest. But it was intertwined with a terrifying emptiness, a draining sensation that left him lightheaded and weak even as his hips bucked upwards to meet her.He was coming undone, not in ecstasy, but in eradication. “Vexia… I… I can’t…”
“You can,” she snarled against his lips. “You will.You’re going to come for me. You’re going to shoot that load and every last drop of power you have right up into my greedy little pussy.” Her tail snaked around his thigh, squeezing like a vice. Her rhythm became frenzied, slamming down onto him with wet, slapping sounds.The brand on his chest burned white-hot.
The dual sensations—the brutal, overwhelming pleasure and the soul-deep theft—shattered his control. A broken cry ripped from his throat as he convulsed beneath her. His cock pulsed violently inside her, spurt after spurt of cum and something brighter, something like liquid light, surrendering itself to her. As he came, he saw the silvery glyphs on his skin flare with a blinding incandescence, searing themselves indelibly into his flesh, into his spirit.
Vexia threw her head back and screamed, a sound of pure, triumphant gluttony. Her body clamped down on his, sucking him impossibly deeper, swallowing every twitch, every drop. He felt her own climax ripple through her, a secondary, consuming pulse that pulled the last dregs of his strength out. She collapsed forward onto his chest, panting, the brand sizzling against her cheek.They lay there, still joined, in the silent circle.The candles had burned low. Cedric felt hollowed out, weightless, and utterly spent. The mana that usually buzzed beneath his skin was a faint, distant echo. Vexia lifted her head, her eyes glowing with a newfound, fierce vitality. She licked her lips, a slow, contented smile spreading across her face.
“Mine,” she whispered, tapping the now-permanent, faintly shimmering brand on his chest.It was no longer ink.It was part of him. “Now everyone will see.”
“Now everyone will see,” Vexia whispered, her fingertip tracing the permanent claim she had etched over his heart. Cedric woke to a thin, grey dawn filtering through the high window of his dormitory. His body ached with a deep, cellular fatigue, the brand on his chest a faint, warm echo against the sheets. He turned his head.Vexia was already there, perched on the edge of the velvet chaise, watching him. She was fully dressed in a riding outfit of sorts—a tailored, dark green jacket and breeches that clung to her small, powerful curves. Her eyes held the patient, focused glint of a trainer.
Spread on the floor between them was an assortment of leather and polished metal. Cedric pushed himself up on his elbows, the blanket pooling at his waist. His gaze traveled over the items: a thick, padded saddle with multiple straps and rings; a bridle with long, gleaming cheekpieces and a solid steel bit; a pair of leather cuffs connected by a short chain. The purpose of the objects was obscure, yet their intent felt immediate and invasive.A cold knot tightened in his stomach.
“No classes today,” Vexia stated, her voice cutting the morning stillness.“A perfect day for fieldwork. Sit up.” He obeyed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.The cold floorboards shocked his bare feet. She gestured to the gear.“You’ll be wearing this. We’re going into town.” Cedric stared, his mind struggling to parse the mechanics of the saddle, the brutality of the bit.“Arms behind your back,” she commanded, standing and picking up the leather cuffs.
“What… what is all this?” The question was a faint breath.
“Transportation,” she said, as if explaining a simple fact.“In my home, pony girls are preferred for short journeys. Faster than walking, more discreet than carriages, and they strengthen the bond between master and… asset.” She held up the cuffs, the chain dangling.“You’re my asset. Therefore, you’ll be my pony boy.Arms. Now.”
Shock held him rigid for a three-count.The branding had been one thing—a private, magical violation. This was something else, a garish, physical performance.He saw the logic, cold and inevitable. His magic was leashed.His body was the next logical resource.A deep, shameful flush crawled up his neck. He didn’t argue. He shifted on the bed’s edge and brought his arms behind his back, his wrists pressed together.“Good,” Vexia purred. She approached, her small hands efficient and strong. The leather cuffs were cool as she buckled them snugly around his wrists.The chain between them was perhaps six inches, allowing no meaningful separation. The restraint was both simple and profoundly helpless.She then picked up the saddle. It was heavier than it looked, the leather oiled and dark.“Stand.”
He stood, feeling taller and more exposed than ever. She stepped behind him. He felt the padded bulk of the saddle settle against the middle of his back, just above his kidneys.Straps came around his torso, pulled tight beneath his arms and across his chest. She cinched them firmly, the pressure locking the saddle into place.His breath came shallower. Another, wider strap encircled his waist, buckling in front with a heavy, brass clasp. Finally, she crouched. A strap passed between his legs from the front of the saddle, joining another from the rear, pulling up tight and intimate against his groin. He gasped at the sudden, invasive pressure.
“The girth strap is crucial,” she said casually, giving it a final, firm tug that made his eyes water. “Stability. No rider wants her saddle to shift.” She stood and walked around to face him, holding the bridle. The bit was a solid steel bar, shaped to fit a human mouth. “Open.” He hesitated, his jaw clamping shut. Her amber eyes hardened. His collar zapped, eliciting a pained grunt. “Cedric. Open your mouth.” she repeated patiently.
A tremor ran through him. He parted his lips. The cold, bitter metal slid over his tongue. The cheekpieces came up over his temples, the straps locking behind his head. The bit forced his jaws apart, anchoring him in a slack-jawed, controlled gape. Drool pooled instantly under his tongue, threatening to spill. He made a choked, questioning sound.
“The bit is for guidance.” Vexia explained, her fingers adjusting the strap behind his ear. “I tug left, you go left. I tug right, you go right. A sharp pull back means halt. Simple language. You’ll learn it.” She attached long, soft leather reins to the bit rings, letting them drape over his shoulders. Then she stepped back, surveying her work. Her expression was one of critical appraisal, like a sculptor judging a block of marble. “You look the part. Tall frame, good for a trot. Long legs. We’ll start with a walk, see if you can manage a basic gait without tripping.”
She walked to the door and opened it, turning back. The leash from yesterday was in her hand. She clipped it to the O-ring of his collar. It hung down, a redundant tether.
She mounted his back, settling into the saddle. It forced him to lean forward but also supported his back. The effect placed all the weight comfortably on his hips. "This will do for practice. This saddle is designed for a girl with wider hips. It will not support your spine correctly, but for our brief outing, it will do."
“Come.” she said, giving the reins a light, testing flick. The movement jostled the bit in his mouth with a metallic click. He shuffled forward, his arms bound helplessly behind him, the saddle a monstrous weight on his back. The walk to the university gates was a blurred nightmare of sidelong glances and stifled laughter. He kept his eyes on the cobblestones. The world narrowed to the feel of the bit, the strain in his shoulders, the chafe of the strap between his legs.
Once beyond the academy walls, the town of Lachrim proper opened up—a bustling market town accustomed to the oddities of magical scholars, but not this. A vendor stacking apples froze, a crate halfway to his stand. A group of children pointed, their voices piping with bewildered excitement. Conversations along the street hushed, then erupted in fervent, disbelieving whispers. “Is that a student?” “By the gods, it’s an imp riding a man.” “Look at the bit in his mouth…”
Vexia seemed utterly oblivious, or more likely, utterly pleased. She kept a gentle, steady tension on the reins. “Head up, pony.” she said, her voice carrying. “You’re slouching. A proper pony has pride in its stride.” The command, coupled with the exposed brand on his chest, forced him to straighten. Tears of humiliation pricked at his eyes, mixing with the unavoidable saliva that now slicked his chin.
She guided him past the main square, down a narrower lane toward the artisan’s quarter. The clatter of the market faded, replaced by the rhythmic tap of a hammer on metal and the scent of sawdust and tannin.
Vexia halted him before a workshop with a sign depicting a stylized bridle. “Here we are, boy.” she said, her voice bright. She looped the reins around a wrought-iron hitching post shaped like a dragon’s tail. The metal was cold against his thigh. She gave the knot a firm tug, testing its hold. “Stay. Be good, while I'm gone.” She patted his flank, then stroked his head, her fingers running through his sweaty hair with a grotesque parody of affection. “Good pony. I need to commission the rest of your proper gear from a real artist. Don’t move a hoof.”
She disappeared into the dim interior, leaving him tethered. He stood, the saddle a leaden weight, the bit a metallic taste of shame. He focused on the grain of the wood in the doorframe, on a single crack in the cobblestone. Minutes bled by, measured in the drip of saliva from his lips onto his chest.
Then Vexia’s laugh spilled out, followed by a lower, smoother voice. They emerged together. The woman beside Vexia was tall, willowy, and elegant, with hair the color of aged ash and eyes of cool grey. She wore a practical leather apron over a fine linen shirt, her hands marked with thin scars and stains. She looked at Cedric not with shock, but with a professional, appraising detachment. “This is the specimen?” she asked Vexia, circling him slowly.
“The very same.” Vexia said, pride evident. “He’s still green, but the frame is promising. Needs a full kit: hoof-boots, proper leg bracers, maybe a ceremonial faceplate for formal events.”
“Mmm.” The tall woman, the leatherworker, stopped in front of him. She reached out, and Cedric flinched. Her hand didn’t pause. She gripped his chin, turning his head side to side, inspecting the fit of the bridle. Her fingers were strong, impersonal. “The bit is serviceable, but the leather is cheap. Chafes.” She spoke to Vexia as if discussing a saddle for a literal horse. “Open.” She tapped his jaw.
He obeyed, opening his mouth around the steel. She peered inside, then hooked a finger at the corner of his lips, pulling to see the metal’s contact. “No sores yet. Good. We’ll use a rubber-coated bar for training, save his mouth for the show bit.” She released his face and moved behind him. He felt her hands on the saddle, testing the tightness of the girth strap, tracing the line where it dug into his groin. “The dray saddle is inelegant. We’ll want something lighter for speed, something with more support for the rider’s comfort during longer rides. His back is straight, good posture. That’s half the battle.”
Her hands moved to his shoulders, his biceps, squeezing the muscle. “Adequate tone. But I imagine you're strength training him, yet. We'll need to facilitate that.” She then crouched behind him. A cold, measuring tape snaked around his thigh. He jumped at the touch. “Steady...” she murmured, not to him, but to the air. She noted figures in a small ledger. She measured the circumference of his calves, the length from his knee to his ankle. “For the hoof-boots,” she explained to Vexia. “Need precise measurements or he’ll stumble. Do you want them fitted with a cleat for traction, or a smoothed sole for indoor presentation?”
“Both. A pair of each.” Vexia decided. “Versatility is key.”
“Of course.” The woman stood and came around to his front. She didn’t meet his eyes. Her gaze was on his chest, on the brand. A faint, professional smile touched her lips. “The mark is well done. Permanent resonance. That simplifies things legally.” She placed a cold hand flat over the brand. A shiver racked Cedric’s frame. The brand itself felt like ice under her palm. “He is, without question, property. That makes my work easier. I don’t have to worry about inquisition authority audits. He'll be more difficult to sell with your house branding, but if you register him properly, you should be able to find a buyer.”
“I have no plans to sell.” Vexia said lightly. “But... he will certainly appreciate as an investment.”
“Quite.” The woman finally looked at Cedric’s face, but her eyes were seeing dimensions, not a person. “He’ll need a fitted hood for cold weather, one that accommodates the bridle. I’ll draft designs. The full ensemble will take two weeks.” She stepped back, finally addressing Vexia directly. “You’ll want to break him to harness before then. The feeling of traces pulling from a chest collar is different. It can take the time to adjust to.”
“I’ll see to it.” Vexia said. She unlooped the reins from the post. The leatherworker gave a final, approving nod.
“A fine start.” she said. “With the right tack, and rigorous training, he’ll be a credit to you.” She turned and went back into her shop, the conversation clearly concluded.
Vexia clicked her tongue, a soft tsk that vibrated down the reins. “Come on, boy. Time to head back.” She gave a gentle pull, and Cedric stumbled forward. The walk back through the lanes was a blur of heightened shame. Every stare felt like a needles on his skin. But beneath the hot humiliation, a colder truth settled. The brand on his chest was a frozen anchor. The woman’s hands, her clinical assessment, Vexia’s casual planning—none of it was for him. It was done around him. He was a possession being fitted for its purpose. The thought should have sparked rebellion, or despair. Instead, it brought a numb, chilling clarity. He was not a participant. He was a tool. The brand was cold on his chest, and the cold was the only thing that felt entirely real.