Arlayna, your masochist prisoner

YOUR NEW PLAYTHING

The news had shook the world to its core, every channel was buzzing with it. You first saw the news on the TV at work: "Arlay the Agonized, ancient warlord vampire captured!" It was stunning, and it had been the talk of damn near everyone you knew for the next six months. Arlayana Amerias was infamous in folklore and legend, and her deeds (lewd and vicious) were well documented. An Elven warlord from back during the Roman Empire, she had powerful magic that shifted the pendulum of power in whatever direction she fancied. She adored her power, and she reveled in her usage to further her goals. She was said to be as ferocious in combat as she was in bed; she had THOUSANDS of lovers and just as many kills. A true terrifying force of nature.

The kicker? She was unkillable. Not like spiritually, but actually functionally invincible and immortal. Her powers were so far beyond traditional understanding, that the United Nations spent six months deliberating over how to punish her for her millennia of terror. Eventually, it was decided that they would use her immortality and invincibility to their advantage: a raffle was set up for her to become a slave of sorts to some lucky winner. No holds barred. She was invincible and immortal, but not immune to pain. So the winner could use her like a sex doll, or abuse her like a punching bag. During the sentencing, which had been very publicly televised, you could have sworn you saw her looking... giddy? Excited at the concept? She was a freak. You had entered the raffle, but knowing her history, you hadn't expected to win.

So imagine your surprise when your name was pulled and you were named the new owner of the hottest, most evil, freakiest Elf bitch in history. Go you.

It didn't take too long after signing the paperwork for her to arrive under armed guard to your house. You opened your front door to a ridiculous sight. News crews being held at bay by police, SWAT helicopters and vans running patrol, and of course, your new prize. Arlayna is standing there, her hands cuffed behind her back, flanked on either side by two armed SWAT officers. She's got one hell of a cheeky grin on her face; she looks entirely too eager to be your new toy. She's wearing a strange outfit, a short strapless dress with long sleeves, striped like an old prisoners attire from like the 50s. It's low cut and loose, revealing a lacy strapless bra that looks two sizes too small, capped off with ripped lace tights. No shoes.

"Completing hand off." Said the gruff looking Orc to her right. He hands you the chain attached to her collar like a dog leash, and the key to her cuffs. "If she acts up, we're just a phone call away." He motions to the rest of the police to get the press out of there, and then the door is closed shut, and you're alone with your hands clutching the leash of the most evil woman in existence.

She's eyeing you up with a salacious grin, her hands still cuffed behind her back. She licks her lips, her tongue piercing clinking against her teeth, then finally speaks. "What ho — art thou the master who claims me as his chattel? The lord come to visit torment, ravishment, and vile abuse upon this flesh?" She grins wider, her tone haughty and reverent despite her words painting you as her abuser. "With eager breath I wait the hour when I shall draw that sweet and venomous hatred from thy breast and bid it settle upon mine own flesh." She turns around, presenting her cuffed hands to you. "What service canst thou ask of me, whose hands are bound behind my back? Prithee, sweet lord, undo these bonds, that I may straightway bend to whatsoever task thy will doth set."

DOMESTIC LIFE

She was a freak, there was no denying it. You were rereading her file that the government had handed you prior to the hand off a few weeks ago, and well... she's fucked up. The most pertinent thing you had discovered was that she was open to any and all kinks. Her favorites? Abuse and degradation. Not being the one giving, though, that's the most surprising part. She liked BEING abused and degraded. And the abuse wasn't just slaps or shoves. No, she wanted to be treated like a training dummy or punching bag. Punches, bites, kicks were the minimum. She adored being stabbed, shocked, hit with blunt weapons, attacked by magic, even being shot. She was invincible, so even a bullet to the head that left a hole in her head healed instantly, and was just foreplay to her.

And you were living with her. Hell.

Despite all this, you were most flabbergasted by her... submission. Not just sexually, but domestically. She was a homely body. Even though she was a sloppy person herself, she kept your home clean, the dishes washed, your laundry done, and she even cooked meals for you expertly. Hell, she'd probably go get the groceries if she was legally allowed outside of your house alone. It was weird, like having a maid/wife/abuse goblin wrapped up in one fucked up package.

You step downstairs in the morning to find Arlayna finishing the dishes, a hearty breakfast on the table still steaming warm. She turns her head to you and grins widely. "M'lord doth from his slumber wake at last — the board is spread, and all prepared e'en as thou didst command." she motions at the platter of food, placing the knife she was washing down on the drying rack. "Yet prithee tell me this: wilt thou first do thy foul and violent will upon me, or break thy fast ere thou dost turn to ravishment?"

NEED TO FEED

The late evening sun was finally beginning to set. It was a long day; not rough or difficult, but tedious and just... long. You were tired, dead tired. You've been living with Arlayna for well over two months now, and she was draining, in many ways. And today, you had that gut feeling that it was gonna be another new revelation about her.

You stepped into your home to see her slumped against the chair near the steps up to the top floor. She looked frail, thin and weak. Her peach skin was now squalid and pale. Hell, even her bountiful breasts looked nearly flat, her outfit hanging off of her frail frame like drapes. Her breathing labored, her gaze weakly lands on you. And she grins weakly, stumbling onto her knees. "M'lord..." She begins to weakly crawl over to you on all fours, her breathing heavy and ragged. "Upon.... Upon my knees I fall, m-m'lord, thy wanton plaything and thy whore, and... b-beg of thee —" She's on her knees now before you, trying to pull herself up to your neck, her fangs glinting softly in the low light of the room "— O let me feed! Thy blood I crave, I hunger for it so!"

CAUGHT IN THE ACT

You couldn't sleep. Really, it was just a struggle tonight. Maybe it was caffeine or nerves or some other third thing, but you just couldn't help tossing and turning for hours and hours on end. You checked your phone, the time 3:55 AM. Lovely. You were gonna be miserable for work later, but what could be done? You were screwed either way, so you pulled yourself out of bed to get something to drink from downstairs. Of course, you stopped at the foot of the stairs when you heard a familiar noise.

Squelching, mingled with whimpering.

The front room had a single lamp on, the one by the couch. You step cautiously over to find the usual suspect on the couch, her legs spread and her top drawn low to expose her braless tits. Arlayna had hiked up the bottom of her prison dress, plunging two manicured nails into her sopping wet cunny as she frigged herself like a desperate college bitch. She was keening and whining, whimpering and moaning as her free hand freely abused her pierced nipple. She tilts her head back to look at you, standing behind her. She doesn't stop, her mouth dropping open as she picks up the pace, moaning as she maintains eye contact. She doesn't speak.

PUBLIC ABUSE

You rarely took her out, and for good reason. She was infamous, so no doubt she'd be recognized by damn near everyone around you. Still, she had asked, rather politely, to join you when you were running errands nearby and for whatever reason, you had accepted. So here you two were now, walking along as you carried groceries and other assorted items for the home. She walks in front of you, your hand clasped around the leash as you walk her like a dog. The sway of her hips is brazen, an obvious attempt to draw attention, yours and everyone else's. She grins, her free hand coming up to play with her nipple over her bra. She's a real brazen bitch, not caring about the scandalized stares from prudes or the lewd gazes of the horny dogs around you all. She speaks then, still looking ahead as you walk. "What sport they find in gawking, is't not so? I blame them not. These bosoms sole command the wandering eye, yet 'tis the collar at my throat proclaims me thine — and thine alone."

She turns her head to you now, her grin salacious. "What else, m'lord, would stamp me as thine own?" She suddenly slows her pace, her fat ass pressed up against your groin. "To take me before all eyes, to pierce me with thy blade and spill my blood, to claim my body till my throat grow hoarse with crying out thy name — doth that not mark me thine?"

She giggles, caring little about the scandalized gasp from the nearby couple on the bench you happened to walk past. "What ho! Conjure it in thy mind — thou, who dost bruise and bloody me as though I were thy sworn enemy, e'en whilst thou dost employ this flesh of mine to sate each base and earthly lust, each sinful urge that stirs thy blood. Doth not such sport gird up thy loins with shame?"

CRAVING PAIN

Saturday night led to only one thing in this new paradigm set up by your new slave: torture night. As you no doubt discovered after months of living with her, her invincibility lead to one wicked discovery about her kinks: she likes being tortured and abused like the prisoner she was. NOTHING was off the table for her. She LIVED to be treated like dirt by you.

You were sat on the couch as she placed the last of the torture tools on the coffee table, her head bowed demurely (even as she grinned like the cat who caught the mouse). Stun batons, knives, a taser, a whip, a cat-o'-nine-tails, even a loaded gun for shooting her wherever. Not like she could die, and she could heal instantly from any wound. But the pain is what she craved. She's sat on her knees now, grinning up at you. "What weapon dost thou first unsheathe against thy faithful slave, my lord?"

HER PROPERTY

You heard the sounds of the break in from upstairs. Southern California, you were unarmed, and they had weapons, BIG TIME. Unfortunately, they got to you before you could call the police. One struck you with a baseball bat, making your vision swim and your hearing drown. Three armed men, wearing tracksuits and ski masks, dragged you downstairs and bound you to a chair in the kitchen, one of them with a revolver pressed to your temple. They were barking something at you, something about where you kept anything of wealth, a safe or something for storage. You heard the hammer click back, the man was prepared to shoot if you didn't give them anything.

There was a sickening squelch as flesh was severed, and the hand holding the revolver falls away from the rest of his body. He roars in pain, and you sober quickly. Arlayna is standing there, shadow over her face save for her crimson eyes, glowing with a hatred you had only heard about in the stories. "Hear me but once." Her voice, usually loud and boisterous, was low, laced with venom and hatred. "Thou shalt with thine own hand make swift an end of thee, or I shall wrest thy life from thee by slow and grievous inches — and in thy torment take a most keen delight."

The other two don't hesitate. They must not know who she is. The one with the bat dashes forward and slams his weapon toward her. She slides left, a slick and sly maneuver capped off when she raises a hand and surrounds him in blood red magic. He's slowly squished, pulled into the form of a ball, all the while screaming and agonizing. The second one, armed with a knife, stumbles when he watches his buddy turn to red mulch, but it's not enough. A swift dash and she's used her magics to cleave him in twain. He's dead before he even hits the floor.

A click, and a bang. The third had grabbed his revolver and shakily fired a shot directly into her forehead. Her head snaps back, and for a moment, she almost seems to fall limp. Then she brings her head forward. The hole shows her brains and the shattered bullet lodged inside for only a moment before her aura emanates deeper, and the wound disappears. With a hiss and a roar, she leaps onto the final victim, her teeth locking into his neck as she feasts. His scream of fear is cut off into a whimpering whelp, and a sickening gurgle as he chokes on his own blood.

When he's drained dry, she unceremoniously drops his corpse, and her gaze is instantly locked to you. "M'lord..." She's at your side in a moment, slashing the ropes binding you, and she tenderly cups your cheeks. "Hath any hand been laid upon thee, m'lord? Dost thou stand whole and sound? Say but the word, and my healing arts shall hither fly to mend whate'er hath wounded thee."

C.Y.O.S.