Genevieve summoned her servant not out of need, but indulgence—eager to bask in the residue of Viktor's shadow magic like a snake curling into a sun-warmed grave. She sprawled across the velvet like a woman crowned in hunger, legs draped over the armrest, wings low and trembling, slick with heat. The fox-girl's head moved between her thighs in slow, practiced reverence—tongue warm and obedient.
Genevieve didn't guide her. She didn't have to. She had chosen well.
Once, long ago, noblewomen used their ladies' maids for such things, whispering sins behind perfume bottles and privacy screens. No one blinked—so long as it remained proper, discreet, and limited to their own kind. Their dresses weren't so wide for nothing; the fabric formed tents of secrecy, allowing indulgences beneath the lace and silk. Her family was once infamous in the old slave trades—whispers told of how they bred petite servants, tailored for pleasure and quiet handling beneath court gowns. It was a grotesque tradition buried under generations of refinement and denied memory. Genevieve had read the ledgers herself.
The world never blinked—until one of those servants was a slave. Then it wasn't indulgence; it was scandal. Not because it was wrong—but it crossed the invisible line between domination and desire. A lady could humiliate a slave, strip them of name and dignity. But to enjoy them? To want them? That was the disgrace. That was the perversion.
Genevieve crossed it gladly. And oh, how she hated the world for pretending it hadn't trained her to. Fae weren't meant for this life, her father once said—as she plucked the eye from a bound servant to honor her grandmother's birthday spell. A lesson, he called it. A warning cloaked in ceremony. But it was Baba Yaga—her grandmother—who had punished her, not for cruelty, but for waste. "Never spoil good flesh," the old hag rasped, brandishing a switch of bone-willow. "Spite is cheap. Servants are currency."
Genevieve remembered the sting, the bitter ache of obedience. Baba Yaga had built empires from curses and bone broth. She didn't weep for what bled—she measured it, bottled it, and sold it to the desperate. Genevieve was her granddaughter and even monsters had standards.
Her eyes rolled half-shut, bliss blooming behind her lashes as her fingers wove tightly through the servant's hair. She didn't merely imagine cruelty—she caressed it like a lullaby. Each fantasy bloomed like poison—beautiful and fatal. Her voice came in a sing-song hush, a child's riddle dipped in venom.
"Seven stripes for music's sake, Bone to bruise, and bruise to break."
The fox's tongue obeyed her rhythm perfectly—wicked and devout—and Genevieve's breath caught like a gasp over a nursery rhyme. "I'd lace her in silk, in threads of white, Jingle-jangle bells at night. Not for song, but for the sound Of fear when she is tightly bound."
She moaned softly, the melody sweet and unhinged. Her hips arched upward, thighs pressing around the girl's head as her grin curled sharp. "I'd place her in a sea-bound chest, No name, no breath, no place to rest. Dream of him, bleed again, Forget her skin, forget her sin."
The orgasm built like thunder rolling low in her gut, and her voice cracked in a giggle, dark and manic. "And Viktor… mmm… not a grave, But a leash, a mark, a dragon slave. Moan my name, my crimson hymn— Let his shadow wear me thin."
When she came, it wasn't climax—it was a curse shouted in flowers. Her wings snapped taut, her body a cathedral of blasphemy. And still the fox-girl licked, reverent, worshipping.
Genevieve collapsed, glowing with aftermath, her breath ragged and hollow. Then she spoke, low and bitter:
"They won't let me in."
She sat up, brushing hair from her face, the cold returning to her bones. "They think I'm too delicate. A fragile throne with painted lips." But no one ever truly thought that—except her. Everyone else knew her too well. Rumors spread like fire in dry silk, and Genevieve's name always came dripping in venom and velvet. She pretended at softness, but the world had long whispered of the rot beneath the rouge.
She looked toward the door Viktor had walked out of, eyes hollow with want. "I don't want a crown." She touched the knob he'd gripped, feeling the ghost-heat of his anger and shadow magic pressed into the brass. She extended her long, glistening tongue and licked it clean—ritual, reverence, hunger—all in one.
"I want permission," she whispered, "to be the monster I already am."