Chapter Text
Hanson, Gretel, Leon, Mike, the Jew who couldn't remember his name, and a few others were at this party commemorating "the heroes of the Great War," whatever, excuses from this decade for rich people who couldn't adapt to peace without war.
There are no more pieces on the board to play with. Hob was elsewhere, with real trenches, not smilingly selling people's lives while gambling with their bread.
It was more sex than anything else, better than the old stuff. People could come and go at these parties fairly discreetly, if you understand.
And then, between the two, the mansion he was in wasn't the banker's or the thief's. But the magician's.
And oh! If only he hadn't gotten in on Tuesday, trading that for a trip to the cabaret.
He knew charlatans, opticians, real opticians, magicians with illusions, and real magicians. 500-something years old, he was too old not to have contact.
And then it was, in the middle of the night with alcohol at showtime.
God, if he hadn't looked twice, he'd still be focused on his future hangover, his stranger, his topless stranger.
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The first years were illusory, almost diplomatic in their confinement. First, he wept for his dead son with pleas; within a few days, they were demands. Knocking on the glass, screams that couldn't be heeded even if they forced him to, because even if he had some of the gifts he demanded, he wouldn't give them to him.
With pure silence, his resistance showed; it was the only thing he could show.
And then came the necklace.
And another, and another, and another.
They opened the sphere one day in the fifth or sixth year of confinement and placed the metal choker on him, gilded and very "fashionable," with Middle Eastern scriptures, some Egyptian and some proto-Celtic carvings, roughly carved. To the normal eye, it was just patterned metal; this one, in reality, was much more terrifying.
Tacit obedience. If they couldn't work it with his magic, they would do it with his body. End of story. They let him out of the sphere, but it only worsened the demonstration of the necklace's power.
The first horror was when his body was erased from the circle, which was washed from the floor. He felt refreshed without the circle, but he couldn't go.
His body simply didn't respond. He could stand, he could walk, he was standing. But no.
They took him to another room, and the body only walked with the cultists. They removed everything, and the body reacted to their wishes. Almost as if this behavior were empirical.
They removed hair, blood, skin, everything, and the body only participated. And that wasn't the worst.
The second horror was more tense than the last; he could speak.
He wandered around the house with nothing to do (he should have been escaping), and a guard, a servant, or whatever, spoke to him.
"You know, it's hard to resist when there's only a loincloth in between, not counting the chains."
He wanted to scream, to be outraged, to tell him how dare he speak like that to a "god" or whatever.
But nothing like that came out of his mouth.
Instead, horror was framed when the sound echoed, "You're not quite my type, you're a bit daring," in a flirtatious tone. Everything had collapsed.
The thoughts in her throat were filtered to create a pleasing version of what she was going to say, how she was going to act. It wasn't honorary.
"Daring is a beautiful life, besides, there's no way to say no."
he tried to scream, tried to flee, but his useless body only responded to satisfy the recipient.
Her flesh approached the human and said, "Then I think I'm stuck with the hot one, don't you think?"
The touch of flesh didn't tempt her; her body reacted to pleasure, and so did her hips.
Her flesh swayed with the human's thrusts, while her screams and despair only came out as pleasure. Even her mortal-like body reacted to the pleasure.
"Oh yes! So hot! So big! Too much! Oh god~ god~ I can't come that fast!"
A lewd moan escaped his body, his face contorted and his muscles tensed, but inside he wanted to cry.
The flesh lay caressing his lover's chest, rectifying his manhood. Pretending to be satisfied, Dream was horrified.
This was the body that he was now.
○●□●○●□○
The extraction of fluids from his body was short-lived; in this form, his flesh was equal to a mortal's, with one's limitations.
Even his seed in this state was sterile.
Burgess beat him and yelled about immortality, worthlessness, and other crap he couldn't do. He tried to remain stoic in the face of his years-long crap, but the collar forced him to speak, even if it was only a little.
"I can't do that. I'm just dreams. My sister isn't here, and she can't too—"
They beat him with the cane again.
He woke up with a salty taste in his mouth, outside the basement.
The Burgess kid looked at him in fear, pointing the same gun he used to kill Jessamy.
His mouth spoke, but he couldn't hear it properly.
The boy trembled, a teenager. His mouth spoke again, "I don't forgive you, young man." The flesh smiled with some nostalgia. The pain was at its peak, the drums in his chest quickened, and his calm, happy eyes began to water.
After all, the flesh still had the purpose of serving to the brain.
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He was beaten, yelled at, and abused by a teenager too hysterical to pay attention.
They put him back in a stupid cage; it didn't last long.
There were no guards at the time; the boy looked at him in his cage.
"You did this to me!"
*******
That demon strutted in his pride, tempting mortals. God, it had made him sick. He had no right.
He sickened him with his body. He'd seen it, making them fall for the same old act. Disgusting.
His stupid, stupid body, God.
His pants were tight.
A blow landed on the angel's face.
His torso was lifted by his hands.
He began to cry.
"Tell me something..."
The angel put her legs around his hips, so hot...
He had everything in his power, down and subdued, smiling. His penis brushing against her thigh.
"Calm down, be gentle."
His stupid angel says, smiled and gasped at the touch, any touch. He pushed inside.
"Mgh!"
His angel moaned.
""""""""""
Dream was desperate. His body didn't react to him for the second time, now before a child. His flesh moved to his rhythm. The will of a slave had never been so humiliated up to this point. Staying still was one thing, moving for him was another.
He couldn't sink so low.
******
The "guards" beat and attacked him. Burgess couldn't find a use for him and began to dissociate; he wasn't worth it.
A couple of days, a couple of hours, they removed the most literal shackles, but the collar subdued his will.
The old man finally showed himself. "If you can't serve me with gifts, they'll use your flesh as it." The old man knew what had happened to his son and the other servant; his will didn't even allow him to stay quiet when he was assaulted.
It only got worse from here.
****
By this point, he had become familiar with the collar and its way of expressing the world. The false happiness his body expressed under the collar could only change to neutrality with great effort and desperation.
The flesh of her mouth was desecrated by the ugly member of some random man, his pubis in his face, while at the same time another man entered his ass without lubricant.
The flesh moved to the rhythm of the two and he gave complacent moans; he felt like he was going to cum.
The guy pulled his cock from his mouth and came on his face. Dream stilled as he moved his hips back and come.
*****
Fertility powers, improved confidence, improved manhood—all the possible placebo effects were sold as if he were a muse; he wasn't.
Hot and willing to entertainers of all kinds, he wasn't, he wasn't a muse. But they used him like one.
The flesh bounced with this faceless man riding him, his body desperately riding the faceless man on the edge of orgasm, and his conscious self stopped fighting.
Why struggle and think about acting if he'd do something completely different? His body was reacting in the way of the collar wanted, and he was crying out for his near-orgasm inside him.
He just let himself be in the sex.
****
John and Chris, Dave and Gave, Adam and Kate, the names swirled inside him like that thick penis hitting just the right spots for him. It turned him on, almost coming, he finished early, and he groaned in frustration.
"Ngh! God~ Too soon, baby." Was it him? Was it the collar? It didn't matter anymore; he was too tired to act, and let the collar translate for him; his genitals ached.
*****
The line between acts of the flesh and "consent or not" became so blurred that Dream couldn't really separate it anymore.
But he still found who he was.
Prisoner, slave, coerced, and abuse.
Four key words that still bound his intentions and actions (even if they were only thoughts and not actual actions).
But the lines blurred again with the years the damn collar.
And pleasing wasn't just having carnal encounters or not putting up a fight on the spot. It was everything.
Every little chat, every piece of advice, every attentive listening, everything.
He could listen to Mike chatter for hours about gossip he didn't care enough about, but the body showed interest in a guard who hadn't fully understood that he wasn't here voluntarily.
"Mrs. Beth isn't as single as she was the last time I told you about her. The wedding is in November. And speaking of weddings, Rory and Amy are already married, but this guy shows up in the middle, and you know," the guy jabs her in the side with his elbow. "Well, you don't know, you always have fun all the time."
"It's not fun when they don't even try to make me come, God. Years here, and I've suffered the driest orgasms I've ever had." Sarcastic and erratic responses and comments came out of his mouth like a whore. The necklace was like that, not him. But was there a difference? The candy pink pretty much covered the dark galaxy-like blue below.
A guy grabbed him "breasts," and he had to answer.
And to be honest, he started listening to Mike after a few days. His small talk and "work" erased four important things from his mind.
Home, me, act, and pleasure? Home, slave, act, and pain? Space, me, heat... ah, the concepts mingled as I gave Mike some small talk advice on gardening and feeling a discomfort in the crotch
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Burgess had started with the whole thing about having the devil in his basement as a general boast; no one actually saw the creature. Then the rumors changed: a muse, a fairy, a fae, and more. He'd settled on it being a spirit from the Far East or something like that. Hob never gave it much thought.
He'd heard from people who had paid that the spirit would do what it promised: give them more confidence, elevate them to the astral plane, eliminate all their fears, and increase their performance at all times. And she\he was a good talker with charm if you could talk to her/him.
It was glorified sex.
Burgess's whore must have been just another girl with fae pixie dust sprinkled on her, like those irishs chick in the 17th century. Nothing special about it, it just confused the senses.
But there he was.
Putting on a show (being the show)
"Here, subdued for your amusement, a being beyond your understanding. As you know, access to him will only be a small sum in exchange for everything it gives."
Tied up, disguised, indifferent, without a fight. Having been here for about fifteen years, he wanted to throw up. His stranger.
Tied up, anorexic beyond belief, disguised even. How dare they?
The drunkenness awoke as Burgess have to explain.
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While he couldn't explain the sensation, he could act on it. He was hot, and he didn't remember why. He doesn't remember many things.
That Drunk wasn't even a repeat customer, nor did he remember him as a customer, but it warmed his chest. Not so different from his crotch.
And He had to act! That wasn't the type to come and pay, that was the type who makes him give free heat for no reason and Burgess got angry. He had to be quick.
At this point, he'd just go to the rooms without doing anything.
He stood up from the "stage" and walked straight into his face. With a smile.
"You're sexy."
He grabbed his trunk and the guy started running.
□■□●□■■□
Stealing a car, getting shot several times, and rescuing his stranger wasn't part of this afternoon's schedule, but it was okay to include.
They couldn't follow him after certain routes, and God knows he could drive all the way to Glasgow to keep his stranger safe.
And all this, and his stranger?
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Getting a ride in a car for a blowjob was normal, but the guy kept driving and the burgess wasn't even following them.
Did the guy really want a blowjob? He was leading him away just to be that.
"I guess I'm his now"
And he leaned back against the car seat.