"Wake up."
His eyes open. Forgotten dreams billow out of his consciousness like smoke from an extinguished flame, lost to the sensation of the cold floor beneath his naked body. The refuge of sleep is a fleeting one. His work has begun again.
He rises to his hands and knees, hands gripping the stone beneath for a moment's pause. His fingers had once been callused with labor, salt-dried and sun-kissed. But the sun was nothing but a distant memory now, his skin grown pale and soft in the darkest bowels of the Underdark. With certain dread, he turns toward the voice that had commanded him. Long hair hanging around his downcast face, he crawls toward her bed.
There is a pair of soft slippers sitting beside a draping of rich velvet blankets and crisp sheets. He kisses each one, and only then does he rise to his feet.
She is sprawled upon the wide mattress like a proud spider, having kicked her coverings down to expose herself to his looming gaze. Her smooth white hair is spread over her lush and numerous pillows, her indigo skin soaking in the darkness around her. She is more than a drow; she is a yath'tallar, a high priestess of Lolth, esteemed and envied among her people, and she is naked and vulnerable before him. Her perfect curves press delicate lines into the sheets beneath her. Her dark nipples poke into the cold air like needy little flower buds, one teased between two elegant fingers. Her other hand caresses her navel like a suggestion, drawing his eyes down to her open legs and the little white hairs that frame her exposed, glistening labia.
The bedless sleep, the crawling procession, the delicate kisses where her feet once were: she had inscribed this morning ritual into his very being with a few mere words long ago. He follows it automatically every day, without fail, unless she tells him otherwise.
But that is only the beginning of his endless burden -- his Geas. He will obey her every command, satisfy her every need, and remember each one in specific detail for the rest of his life. He is her slave, but he is also more than that. He is owned by her in all ways, and there is nothing he can do about it.
He is allowed this momentary admiration of her, and he fills it with hatred and resentment and spite. These little emotions are all he has left of himself, and he cherishes them with a bitter glare. But his indulgence is a second too long. Her bright crimson eyes flutter open like a warning. He does not meet her gaze (he is physically unable to, per her instructions) but he feels it. Quickly, wordlessly, he crawls onto the bed and descends between her thighs.
To pleasure her is an act of reverence. He must forget the world that exists outside her body, because she had told him to, and pay close attention to her every twitch and sound. Every touch of his fingers, every bend of his lips, every flick of his tongue, every breath and blink and balance, are each a service to the deity that is her cunt. He knows it intuitively, perhaps better than he knows himself. His contempt has evaporated, of course. In these precious minutes, it has been replaced with the utter devotion that only her words can conjure.
