Chapter 2: Mouthful of Shame
The Chamber of Infinite Echoes did not know silence. It was impossible. The faintest shift of Ainz’s cloak against his bones hissed and multiplied, becoming the rustle of a thousand spectral robes. Albedo’s shaky exhale upon entering bloomed into a chorus of weary sighs that seemed to come from every shadowed corner.
Black marble, veined with silver like frozen lightning, coiled upward into impossible heights. The walls were not walls, but silvered mirrors, each reflecting the others in a dizzying, endless recursion. They saw themselves a thousand times: the towering, impassive silhouette of the Overlord, and before him, the succubus, still walking with a slight, tender hitch from the thorough use her lord had made of her on the throne of bone and flesh.
“Kneel,” Ainz said. The word rolled through the chamber, not as a single command, but as a wave—kneelkneelkneel—washing over the cool floor and echoing back from the distant, mirrored ceiling.
Albedo sank to her knees without hesitation, the hard marble a familiar, welcome discomfort. Her knees ached. The deep, bruised feeling between her legs was a precious medal. Her asshole, stretched and used, throbbed with a raw, persistent heat. She looked up at him, her golden eyes wide with unwavering devotion.
Ainz held up his right hand. The phalanges were still slick, glistening under the chamber’s ghostly light with a mixture of her own arousal and the distinctive, musky evidence of her last violation. The sharp, acrid scent of it reached her nostrils, and her cunt gave a helpless, aching throb.
He pushed his fingers against her lips. “Open.”
She obeyed, parting her lips, her tongue resting passively on the floor of her mouth. He slid two bony digits inside, the taste flooding her senses immediately—salt, sweat, the intimate, shameful tang of her own ass. It was the taste of his possession. She moaned, a low, guttural sound that the mirrors caught and spun into a web of wanton noise.
“Lick them clean, you filthy bitch,” he growled, his voice a low rasp that the chamber amplified into a surround-sound of disdain.
Albedo’s eyes fluttered shut. She moved her tongue with fervent, worshipful precision. She swirled the tip around the joint of his index finger, lapping at the delicate crevices where the bone met. She sucked gently, pulling the taste deeper into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing. Her tongue slid between the fingers, cleaning every millimeter, worshipping every stain. She was diligent, desperate to prove her worth.
When she had sucked them nearly clean, a soft, contented whimper escaping her, Ainz dragged his fingers out with a wet pop. The sound echoed, poppoppop, through the atrium.
“Do you like the taste of your own stretched hole?” he asked, the question cruel and clinical.
“Yes, my Lord,” she breathed, her voice multiplied into a whispered confession from a hundred phantom Albedos. “It is the taste of your will.”
In one swift, brutal motion, he turned his hand and shoved the fingers back into her. Not into her cunt, but into the aching, tender pucker above it.
Albedo screamed. The mirrors screamed back. It was a symphony of agony and ecstasy, reflected to infinity. The intrusion was sharper now, more painful, the muscle sore and sensitive from its recent ordeal. The taste of her mouth was still on his bones, and now they were inside her again, a closed, degrading loop of his dominion.
He fucked her ass with his fingers in a short, punishing rhythm. Slap, slap, slap. The sound of his bony hand impacting her flesh was a sharp, wet report that multiplied endlessly, a cacophony of spanking. Her cries layered over it, a desperate choir.
He pulled them out again, dripping. “Open.”
Tears streamed down her face, caught and reflected in a thousand silver panes. She opened her mouth, her tongue already outstretched, eager for the return. He fed them to her, and she suckled greedily, the flavor now a complex blend of her saliva and her deepest, most private essence.
Again. And again.
He established a cycle of brutal, poetic degradation. His fingers would plunge into the tight, burning clutch of her ass, stretching her, hurting her, carving a space for himself within her. Then, slick and stained, they would be presented to her mouth, and she would clean them with a whore’s fervent gratitude, moaning at the foul, perfect taste. Her mouth and her ass became one continuous channel for his experimentation, one raw, used aperture.
“You are nothing but a set of holes for my use,” Ainz stated, watching her face contort as he twisted his fingers inside her rectum. The words bounced, holesholesholes, useuseuse.
“Yes! Nothing!” she sobbed around his fingers in her mouth, the affirmation distorted. Her body was shaking, a leaf in a storm of sensation. Her nipples were hard, pebbled points against the cool air. Her cunt was a waterfall, a slick, shameless mess that dripped onto the black marble, each drop’s impact a tiny, echoing plink.
He pushed a third finger in alongside the other two, re-stretching her to a painful width. Her scream was so loud it momentarily drowned out the echoes. Her eyes rolled back, showing only white. A violent orgasm ripped through her, her body seizing, her channel clamping down viscously on the invading bones. Ainz watched, the pinpoints of red light in his sockets flaring slightly. The feedback through his digits was pure, chaotic biological data—muscle spasms, fluid release, synaptic overload. It was magnificent. It meant nothing.
He pulled his fingers free for the last time. They were pristine now, every trace of her cleaned by her own mouth. Albedo slumped forward, her forehead resting against his leg bone, her body quaking with aftershocks. Her breaths came in ragged, echoed gulps.
Ainz looked down at the crown of her head, at the perfect, obsidian curve of her horns. The chamber showed him infinite versions of this scene: the master and the spent slave. The conqueror and the conquered.
He reached down and gathered a thick strand of her saliva, mixed with her own juices, that hung from his finger. With a slow, deliberate motion, he smeared it across her cheek, marking her with the evidence of her debasement.
“Good,” he said, the word final and absolute in the endless echo.
Inside, the hollow place where feeling should have been yawned wider. She was perfection. Her devotion was absolute, her body a playground of exquisite reactions. And as the thousand mirrored Albedos wept with gratitude at his feet, Ainz Ooal Gown felt only the vast, silent weight of the experiment’s success, and the colder, quieter question of what, exactly, he was supposed to feel next.