Chapter 4: The Dog's Training Begins
The chill of the armory floor had seeped into her bones. Jamal’s taste, bitter and salty, still coated the back of her throat. He’d finished with a grunt, spurting onto her face, and then simply walked away, leaving her kneeling in the gloom. The order, when it came, was a whisper from a shadow—a messenger imp clutching a slip of black parchment. The Crimson Sanctuary. Now. Crawl.
Albedo knew the place. Everyone in Nazarick did. It was Shalltear’s innermost chamber, a vault of velvet and vice. The journey was a pilgrimage through humiliation. She moved on hands and knees, the polished obsidian of the upper floors giving way to the rougher, blood-warmed stone of the lower corridors. Her knees were raw by the time the towering double doors, carved with scenes of exquisite torment, loomed before her. They swung inward soundlessly.
The air was thick and perfumed, a cloying blend of rare incense, aged wine, and something metallic beneath it all. Crimson velvet draped every wall, swallowing sound. The light came from floating lanterns, their glow a sickly orange that deepened the shadows in the room’s corners. In the center, upon a dais, Shalltear lounged on a chaise of dark mahogany, sipping from a crystal goblet. She was dressed, but barely—a sheer black chemise that revealed the pale silhouette of her body.
“There’s my pet,” Shalltear said, her voice echoing softly in the vast space. “You made good time. I was getting bored.”
Albedo stopped at the foot of the dais, lowering her head. Her naked body, a map of recent abuses, trembled slightly.
Shalltear set her goblet down with a precise click. “A dog learns commands. A tool learns function. We’re moving beyond simple commands.” She reached beside the chaise and produced a collar, not the simple leather one, but a wider band of polished black leather studded with cold iron rivets. A heavy iron ring hung from the front. “This is a statement. Come.”
Albedo crawled up the two shallow steps. Shalltear didn’t move to fasten it. She held it out. “Put it on yourself.”
The command was a new layer. An active participation in her own branding. Albedo’s hands, usually so steady for spellcasting or writing directives, shook as she took the collar. The leather was cool, unyielding. She brought it to her throat, fumbling with the clasp behind her neck. The snap of the buckle locking was deafening in the quiet room. The weight was substantial, a constant, choking pressure on her trachea.
“Good,” Shalltear purred. She leaned forward, her fingers tracing the iron ring. “Now, the lesson. Your clothes were a lie. Your posture was a lie. Your authority is the greatest lie of all. We burn the lies.”
She snapped her fingers. A section of the velvet wall shimmered, revealing a magnificent fireplace where blue flames danced. Hanging beside it was Albedo’s Overseer uniform—the elegant, severe black dress, the gloves, the underthings. They were pristine, untouched.
“Bring them to me,” Shalltear said.
Albedo crawled to the fireplace, the heat from the unnatural flames washing over her skin. She pulled the uniform from its hook. The fabric was fine, a symbol of her station. She clutched it to her chest for a fleeting second, a ghost of a feeling—pride, identity—trying to surface. Then she smothered it. She turned and crawled back to the dais, offering the bundle to Shalltear.
Shalltear didn’t take it. “Into the fire. All of it.”
Albedo stared. This was the final, tangible thread. To destroy it herself was to annihilate the last vestige of the woman she presented to the world. Her arms felt leaden. She looked from the clothes to Shalltear’s impassive face, to the cruel blue fire.
“Now,” Shalltear said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Or I call Jamal back and have him break your fingers one by one before he makes you do it anyway.”
The threat was real. The pain would be real. And in the end, the outcome would be the same. The choice was an illusion. Albedo turned and, with a stiff, mechanical motion, threw the entire uniform into the fireplace.
The blue flames erupted, not with a roar, but with a hungry hiss. The fine cloth blackened and curled in seconds, consumed not into ash, but into wisps of dark smoke that vanished up the chimney. It was over in a moment. The symbol was gone.
“Empty,” Shalltear declared. She stood, circling Albedo. “Now you match your insides. A naked, collared bitch. But even a bitch has uses. Get up. On your feet.”
Albedo stood, unsteady. The collar felt heavier than ever.
“You will walk beside me. Not ahead. Not behind. Beside. And you will not look anyone in the eye.” Shalltear produced a leash from the folds of her chemise, a chain of delicate-looking silver links. She clipped it to the iron ring. “This is for them. For show. I don’t need it to control you.”
She led Albedo out of the Crimson Sanctuary. The walk through the halls of Nazarick was a silent, surreal nightmare. Albedo, naked but for the brutal collar, walked a half-step behind Shalltear, her eyes fixed on the floor. The chain leash hung slack between them, a gleaming symbol of ownership.
They passed a homunculus maid. A soft, sharp gasp. The clatter of a dropped tray. They passed a pair of armored guards. A stifled, hungry murmur. The stares were physical things, scraping against her skin. She felt each one—the shock, the disgust, the lurid fascination. Her mind, as Shalltear intended, began to wall off. It focused on the simple mechanics: left foot, right foot, breathe, do not look up.
Their destination was the Central Chamber, a vast, circular room often used for informal gatherings. The great throne of Ainz dominated one end, empty and imposing. As they entered, two figures were already there, conversing in low tones near a holographic map of the surrounding plains.
Demiurge adjusted his spectacles, the green lenses flashing as he turned. His tail gave a single, thoughtful twitch. Beside him, Cocytus stood immobile, his four arms clasped behind his back, the icy aura around him making the air in his immediate vicinity shimmer.
“Shalltear,” Demiurge said, his voice smooth and polite. “And… the Overseer. This is an unexpected tableau.”
Shalltear gave the leash a little jingle. “Isn’t it? We’ve been undergoing a… restructuring of priorities. Albedo has embraced a new, more utilitarian role.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “With Lord Ainz’s true desires in mind, of course. It’s all for him.”
Cocytus’s mandibles clicked. “This. A. Strategic. Deployment?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Shalltear stepped forward, pulling Albedo along until she stood before the two Guardians. She placed a hand on Albedo’s head, patting it like one would a prized hound. “She’s been thoroughly trained. Her mind is clear of troublesome things like pride or hesitation. She exists for function.” Shalltear looked at Demiurge, then Cocytus, a sweet, wicked smile on her lips. “So. Use her. Whenever you want. Consider it a resource allocation. A living tool for stress relief. She won’t refuse. She can’t.”
Albedo kept her eyes down. She saw Demiurge’s polished shoes and the faint frost crystallizing on the floor around Cocytus’s feet. Her heart was a dull, dead thing in her chest.
Demiurge was silent for a long moment. Then he chuckled, a dry, intellectual sound. “An intriguing proposition. A test of both psychological conditioning and physical utility. The efficiency of replacing complex emotional negotiation with simple availability…” He stepped closer. “Open your mouth.”
Albedo obeyed, her jaw falling slack. Demiurge examined her, not with lust, but with a clinical, dissecting curiosity. He pinched her chin, turning her head side to side. “Fascinating. The physiological signs of repeated trauma are present, yet the autonomic nervous system shows remarkable suppression. A testament to Shalltear’s methods, I assume.”
“She’s a quick learner,” Shalltear said, sipping from a wine glass that had appeared in her hand.
Demiurge released her chin. His hands went to his own trousers, unbuckling the belt with efficient, unemotional motions. “We shall test the baseline functionality then. The oral receptacle.”
He freed his cock. It was semi-erect, lengthening quickly in the cool air. It was… ordinary. Human. The sheer normalcy of it, in the midst of all this grotesque pageantry, was somehow the most violating detail. He didn’t guide it. He simply held it, looking at Albedo expectantly.
The training held. Her mind was a void. Her body knew the function. She dropped to her knees before him, her mouth opening wider. She leaned forward and took him in, her lips sealing around the shaft. The taste was clean, soapy, devoid of the musk she’d grown accustomed to with Jamal. She began to move her head, establishing a rhythm, her tongue flattening against the underside.
“Adequate suction,” Demiurge noted aloud, as if dictating notes. “Minimal gag reflex. The psychological conditioning appears to override physical discomfort.”
As she worked, she heard the heavy, clicking steps of Cocytus moving behind her. The icy aura washed over her bare back and ass, raising goosebumps. A cold, chitinous hand gripped her hip, the touch so freezing it burned. She flinched, but her mouth never stopped its steady, hollowing motions on Demiurge.
“The. Vaginal. Entry. Clear,” Cocytus’s voice rasped, logical and calm.
Something blunt and impossibly cold, like polished, frozen stone, nudged against her drool-slicked opening. Cocytus’s cock was not human. It was a smooth, tapered shaft of living ice, ridged with subtle, brutal patterns. He pushed forward.
The sensation was agony. A piercing, numbing cold that felt like being split open with a glacier. She screamed around Demiurge’s cock, the sound a muffled, vibrating wail. Her body seized, trying to reject the invasive freeze. Cocytus held her hips firmly, pushing deeper with relentless, mechanical force.
“Interesting,” Demiurge said, looking down at her tears. “The pain response is acute, but the servicing function continues uninterrupted. Observe the autonomic conflict—the tears, the shaking, versus the consistent oral rhythm. The conditioning runs remarkably deep.”
He began to fuck her mouth in earnest, his hips pumping, his cock hitting the back of her throat with each thrust. She choked, drool spilling down her chin. Behind her, Cocytus seated himself fully, his frozen length buried to the hilt inside her. The cold was a devastating presence, a throbbing void of sensation that stole the warmth from her very core. He began to move, a slow, grinding piston of ice, each withdrawal feeling like it was tearing her lining out, each thrust a fresh invasion of numbness.
She was a conduit. A warm, wet mouth for Demiurge. A tight, clutching sheath for Cocytus’s frozen cock. Her mind shattered into fragments of sensation: the ache in her jaw, the burning cold in her cunt, the taste of pre-cum, the sound of slapping flesh and clinking chitin. Her own pleasure was irrelevant, a distant ghost. This was pure utility. Being used.
“She’s. Lubricating. Adequately. Despite. The. Temperature. Differential,” Cocytus observed, his thrusts gaining a slight, measured pace.
“A succubus’s base physiology ensuring function even under extreme duress,” Demiurge agreed, his breath coming faster. His thrusts grew harder, more erratic. “A perfectly designed tool. Lord Ainz’s foresight is, as ever, sublime.”
Demiurge came first. With a sharp, satisfied groan, he slammed his cock deep into her throat and held it there. Hot, bitter spurts flooded the back of her mouth. She swallowed reflexively, again and again, until he pulled out, glistening and spent.
The moment her mouth was free, a raw, broken sob escaped her. It was cut short as Cocytus’s icy pace suddenly intensified. The frozen ridges of his cock grated against her oversensitive inner walls. The cold had become a paradoxical burn.
“I. Will. Conclude.” Cocytus stated. His grip on her hips tightened, and he drove into her one final, deep time. There was no hot release. Instead, a wave of concentrated, supernatural cold erupted inside her, a flash-freeze that locked her muscles and stole her breath. It was an orgasm of absence, of paralyzing chill spreading from her core outward. She convulsed silently, her cunt clamped in a vise of ice around him.
He pulled out. A gust of steam-like vapor hissed from her used opening, the warmth of her body meeting the cold air. She collapsed forward onto the floor, a pool of drool, sweat, and melting frost beneath her. She was shivering uncontrollably, her body a wreck of conflicting sensations—the fading cold deep inside, the soreness of her throat, the weight of the collar.
Shalltear clapped her hands together lightly. “Excellent! Flawless performance. No fuss, no tedious emotional baggage. Just efficient usage.” She walked over and looked down at Albedo’s trembling form. “See? This is your purpose now. This is how you serve him. By being nothing but a convenient hole for his loyal servants.”
Demiurge was re-fastening his trousers, his expression one of mild, academic satisfaction. “A uniquely efficient system. I shall certainly… utilize the resource again when strategic pressures mount. Thank you, Shalltear, for the demonstration.”
Cocytus gave a slow nod, his icy aura re-stabilizing. “It. Was. Logistically. Sound.”
The two Guardians turned and left, their conversation drifting back to crop yields and patrol routes as if nothing of note had occurred.
Shalltear crouched beside Albedo, her fingers threading through her sweat-damp hair. “You did so well,” she whispered, her voice suddenly tender, vicious. “You made me proud. You made him proud, I’m sure of it.” She unclipped the leash. “Stay here. Clean yourself up. I have a meeting with a few of the Pleiades. I think I’ll tell them they can borrow you if they’re feeling… strained.”
She left, her footsteps fading into the velvet silence.
Albedo lay on the cold floor in the shadow of the empty throne. Her body hummed with violation. The cold from Cocytus still lingered, a ghostly ache in her womb. She pushed herself up, moving to all fours. Her arms shook. In the polished stone floor, she saw a reflection: a hollow-eyed creature, collar gleaming, mouth bruised, legs splayed in a puddle of her own degradation.
A small, distant part of her mind, the part that once designed troop deployments and diplomatic stratagems, observed the scene with chilling clarity. This is sustainable. This is scalable. This is what he wants.
She lowered her head and began, very slowly, to lick the floor clean.
The stone tasted of salt, of cold, of the lingering frost from Cocytus’s release. Her tongue, rough and thorough, swiped through the damp patch, collecting the mingled fluids. Each lap was a prayer of utility. When the spot was clean, she sat back on her haunches, panting lightly. The deep, internal chill from the ice vampire’s cock was finally fading, replaced by a pervasive, hollow ache. She stared at the empty throne. Her mind was quiet, a well-ordered kennel.
Footsteps echoed, light and multiple. She didn’t turn.
“Well, well. The rumors are true.” The voice was crisp, professional. Yuri Alpha.
Albedo turned her head. The head of the Pleiades stood with her squad: Lupusregina’s wolfish grin, Narberal’s disdainful sneer, CZ2128’s blank observation. Yuri adjusted her glasses, her gaze analytical.
“Shalltear informed us of your… revised availability,” Yuri continued. “We have just concluded a twelve-hour perimeter sweep. Stress levels are elevated. You are designated for relief.”
Lupusregina bounded forward, crouching to eye level. Her finger hooked under the iron-ringed collar. “Who’s a good little stress-relief tool? You are! Yes, you are!”
“Do not personify the equipment, Lupusregina,” Narberal sighed, crossing her arms. “It is undignified.”
“But look at her! She’s so eager!” Lupusregina’s thumb rubbed roughly over Albedo’s nipple, pinching it until Albedo’s breath hitched. “See? Responsive and everything.”
Yuri nodded. “The Central Baths. Now. Equipment follows.”
The walk was a blur of servitude. They didn’t make her crawl. They made her walk behind them, a naked, collared shadow. The few lower-tier maids they passed averted their eyes, but the Pleiades walked with a new, possessive authority. The baths were vast, misty, tiled in green marble. Steam rose from sunken pools.
“Clean her first,” Yuri instructed, disrobing with efficient motions. “Standard decontamination.”
Lupusregina gleefully turned a valve. A jet of near-scalding water shot from a wall nozzle, hitting Albedo in the chest and knocking her back a step. “Wash off all those icky boys, yeah?” she laughed, using a stiff-bristled brush to scrub roughly at Albedo’s skin. The brush scraped over her bruises, over the bite marks, over the sensitive flesh between her legs. It was not cleansing. It was abrasion. Albedo stood, swaying, taking it.
When the water was shut off, Yuri pointed to a low, tiled bench. “Assume the position. Present all primary and secondary access points.”
Albedo moved. She bent over the bench, her chest pressed to the cool tile, her ass raised. She reached back with both hands, spreading her cheeks, offering her anus. She used her other hand to part her labia, exposing her swollen, pink folds. The steam settled on her skin.
“Adequate,” Yuri said.
She heard the sound of a cap opening. Then a glob of cool, slick gel was dumped unceremoniously onto her exposed asshole. A finger, Yuri’s, precise and unyielding, pushed inside to apply it. It was a clinical, brutal preparation.
“I’ll take this hole,” Yuri stated. “Lupusregina, the vaginal. Narberal, the oral. CZ, you may observe and catalogue efficiency metrics.”
Lupusregina was already behind her, her hot, furry tail swishing with excitement. “Mine’s all warmed up already! Lucky me!” Albedo felt the broad, blunt head of Lupusregina’s cock—thick, canine, and ribbed—nudge against her pussy. The werewoman didn’t tease. She slammed forward in one brutal, sheathing thrust, stretching Albedo to a burning fullness. “Oh fuck, that’s the stuff!” Lupusregina groaned, her hands clamping on Albedo’s hips.
At the same moment, Yuri positioned her own, simpler, strapped-on cock at Albedo’s rear. She pushed in with steady, immense pressure. The stretch was agonizing, a deep, tearing fullness that made Albedo scream into the mist. Yuri bottomed out and began a relentless, piston-like rhythm, her thrusts perfectly measured and deep.
Narberal stepped in front of the bench, her expression one of mild distaste. She unbuttoned her trousers. “Open. Do not let your teeth make contact.”
Albedo opened her mouth, and Narberal fed her a length of cool, smooth flesh. It tasted of ozone and magic. Narberal held her head by the hair and fucked her face with short, sharp jabs, hitting the back of her throat with each one. “Disgusting,” Narberal muttered, but her hips kept moving.
Albedo was a nexus of use. Her world narrowed to the triple penetration: the savage, animalistic pounding in her cunt from Lupusregina, who was howling curses and praise; the deep, surgical drilling in her ass from Yuri, who breathed as steadily as if climbing stairs; the choking, rhythmic invasion of her throat by Narberal.