CHAPTER 178: THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE

The wet, choking sounds echoed off the marble walls—raw, rhythmic, obscene. Soreya’s throat spasmed around Allen’s cock, but her body held its position, as instructed. Kneeling. Chained. Collared. Naked. Her spine arched slightly from the strain, yet her eyes remained forward, glazed and unfocused, drowned in the effort to keep from collapsing. Every thrust filled her with fresh tears that rolled down her flushed cheeks, streaking across already dried remnants of the last ones.

Allen’s hand gripped the back of her head, guiding her pace with mechanical precision. Not fast. Not wild. Just deliberate. Measured. The same way he judged nobles, the same way he cracked lies open like bones—he fucked her mouth with purpose. This wasn’t indulgence. This was discipline.

Her nose pressed against the warmth of his body again as he buried himself deep. Her throat closed tight, fluttering around him. A strangled moan tried to escape, but it only buzzed around the girth gagging her. Her face was soaked now—tears, spit, drool. Her hair clung to her forehead in dark, tangled strands.

Allen finally pulled out.

A long string of spit clung from her lips to his tip, dangling indecently until it snapped and splattered onto the floor. Soreya coughed violently, her back convulsing, her chest rising and falling in desperate gasps. Her voice cracked when she tried to speak, so she didn’t. She just bowed her head lower, like a dog waiting for the next command.

He stared at her for a moment, his cock twitching, glistening with her shame. Then he reached down and grabbed her chin.

"I asked you nothing," he said flatly. "You don’t speak unless you’re ordered to."

She nodded quickly, lips quivering.

"Turn."

She did. Still on her knees, she rotated around until her back faced him, her chained arms twitching behind her. Her ass lifted instinctively—like a slave conditioned by routine. He stepped forward and nudged his cock between her cheeks. The way she flinched, the little shake in her thighs, told him everything. She knew what was coming.

"Relax."

Soreya’s breath caught. "Y-Yes, Master..."

He spat.

The sound cracked like a whip in the quiet chamber, and she whimpered when she felt it—hot, slimy spit trailing down her rear, sliding between her cheeks. It wasn’t enough. He didn’t plan to be gentle. She’d feel this tomorrow.

Allen crouched, spreading her with two fingers. Her hole twitched, tight and untouched for weeks. She’d been punished with denial, teased in front of others, displayed—but not taken.

Until now.

He pressed the head of his cock against her asshole, and her entire body went rigid.

"Breathe," he said calmly.

She obeyed.

Then he pushed.

Her scream was immediate, muffled into her own shoulder as her muscles strained and her arms fought uselessly against the manacles behind her. His cock forced its way inside inch by inch, stretching her open with slow cruelty. She sobbed into the stone floor, drool puddling beneath her lips.

Allen exhaled through his nose. Her heat, her tightness—everything about her screamed resistance, but her body was already his. He grabbed her hips and shoved forward, burying himself to the hilt with a heavy smack that sent a shiver up her spine.

"A-ahn—!"

"I said quiet."

She bit her lip, trembling violently beneath him.

He began to thrust.

Not hard—not yet. Just deep. Long, penetrating motions that carved out space where none had been before. Her knees slid slightly on the polished floor as the weight of him pushed her forward with every slow stroke.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the chamber. Clap. Clap. Clap. Wet. Sharp. Shameful.

He leaned forward, one hand sliding into her hair again.

"Do you know what they’ll say tomorrow?" he whispered into her ear. "They’ll say the queen who once gave orders from a throne now moans into the stone floor while her asshole is used like a hole in a wall."

Her face burned. Her legs gave a tiny shake.

"They’ll say you begged for it. That you loved it. And maybe..." he slammed into her harder, making her cry out again, "...maybe you do."

Her whimpers became choked sobs, but her body—traitorous and humiliated—pushed back ever so slightly with each thrust. Not out of desire. Out of survival. Her body knew there was no escape. No mercy.

Allen picked up the pace.

The sounds grew filthier. His balls slapped against her dripping cunt, which he ignored entirely. He hadn’t touched her there once. She wasn’t allowed pleasure. Not tonight.

Only punishment.

Smack. Slap. Glk. Squish.

The mixture of fluids—his spit, her tears, sweat—turned the act into a wet orchestra of disgrace. Every thrust forced a pathetic little squeak from her lips. Her face was pressed to the floor now, flattened, eyes vacant. Her body shook, her knees slipping, but she didn’t fall. She held position. Because Allen hadn’t told her she could stop.

Then she gasped—a sharp, broken sound.

He wasn’t finished, but he paused, letting his cock throb inside her.

"You came," he said coldly.

"I-I didn’t—"

"You came. I felt it."

"I swear—" Her voice cracked. "I didn’t mean to, Master, I didn’t—"

CRACK.

His hand landed across her ass so hard she yelped and almost collapsed.

"You don’t get to cum," he hissed.

She sobbed again. "I’m sorry..."

"You’ll be sorrier."

He pulled out. Her hole twitched violently, fluttering open and closed like it couldn’t understand why it had been left empty. She stayed where she was—arms still bound, ass lifted, dripping.

Allen walked around in front of her.

"Kiss it," he said.

She blinked up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused.

"My cock. Kiss it."

She crawled forward, still shaking, and pressed her lips to the base of his shaft. Then the head. Then the shaft again. She kissed it like it was sacred—soft, reverent, ashamed.

He grabbed her by the collar and pulled her upright, finally unlocking the manacles behind her. Her arms slumped to her sides. She didn’t try to cover herself. She didn’t have the energy, or the pride left.

He walked her by the leash to the corner of the chamber and pointed to a bare tile.

"Lie there. On your side. Do not sleep."

"Yes, Master."

"No touching yourself. No closing your legs."

"Yes, Master."

She curled up on the cold floor, legs slightly parted, hole still open and leaking, face swollen with tears and silence.

Allen looked down at her.

"Tomorrow," he said, adjusting his cloak, "you’ll serve tea to the tribunal. Naked. Leashed."

She didn’t speak.

She just nodded.

And in the dark, silent chamber, Allen left her behind—used, emptied, and marked by the silence he carried like a blade.

Tomorrow would be worse.

And she knew it.