She has dressed in a long satin gown that compliments her eyes and a delicate webbed shawl that cups her cleavage. He looks at her reflection as she does the same, searching for imperfections. Inevitably, there are none. Satisfied, she blows him a kiss as she leaves, and the door closes behind her like a terrible omen. It is not locked, but he won't leave without her express permission.
Still nude, he drops to the floor and begins his workout. One hundred push ups pulse in his arms in perfect form, capable of defending her from attackers or perhaps even crushing her in his grasp, but that is not what is on his mind. He would never do anything to hurt her or escape her; thoughts like that have been erased from his psyche for good. Instead, because she told him to, he thinks of how easy it is to fall to his knees before her, how difficult it is to be anything but gentle with her impeccable body, how weak he is in mind and soul to the power that she holds in the Geas. His arms might be healthy, but his control of them is fragile. His legs might be sturdy, but he would break them if she told him to. His core might be tight and defined, but it sinks and shivers when he subjects himself to her.
One hundred crunches, one hundred lunges, and one hundred prostrating bows at the foot of her bed later, he has worked up a naked sweat. Breath short, he shuffles toward the bathroom. The water she had used is now cold, of course, and it stinks with yesterday's desires, like the salted lagoons where he had first been defeated.
He takes a deep breath in self-loathing preparation, then submerges himself in it. He washes himself quickly, dries himself as the bath drains, then kneels on the slick porcelain to osculate his mouth with that of the cold metal pipe at the bath's base. There he can smell the soap, taste the accumulation of two people's filth, feel the texture of the grime. His ass is up and his tongue is out as he performs for no one. It is a fresh new debasement that she will not even witness, and the intimate privacy of this indignity makes it that much more humiliating.
Eventually, he rises to his feet. He wipes his mouth, goes to the little box beneath her wardrobe, and removes his required clothes. He wraps himself in the corset, shrugs on the harness, tugs on the tights, and straps the cuffs over his wrists. He ties back his wet hair, then tests the flexibility of the outfit. It is restrictive and stifling.
Her suite includes another stone door on the other side of the bed, which he stares at for as long as he dares to. A sigh escapes him, part exasperation but also part anticipation. He hates what he is about to do, but he also loves it. And he can't remember whether she told him to.
The door opens to reveal a massive altar table. It is framed by two braziers and long enough for him to lay on, if it were not adorned by various bowls and knives and talismans. But these are not the features that catch his gaze. Instead, he looks up at the giant statue of a spider, easily five feet high, its long legs spread over a carving of an even larger web that stretches over the floor and ceiling. His bare feet press into the grooves as he tidies the altar from its last use. He dusts; he straightens; he tends.
When that is done, he kneels at the center of the room and faces the great arachnid, indulging in the ability to meet its eight stone eyes. He inhales, and exhales. Then he pulls his tights down to his thighs and holds his cock in his hand.
