The doors closed behind her with no sound.
Silence reigned.
But it was not emptiness.
It was anticipation so thick, so pure, her breath caught before she took the first step.
The chamber was vast.
The ceiling rose into shadows too high to see.
The walls shimmered like obsidian veined with gold, pulsing faintly as though the room itself had a heartbeat.
At the center—the bed.
It was not a bed.
It was an altar.
A massive slab of smooth, black stone dressed in silk. Chains hung from each corner—ornamental, but not idle. Velvet ropes coiled like waiting serpents.
Petals. Candles. Smoke.
And at the edge of it, standing—
Him.
The Master.
Clad in robes of living darkness.
The silver mask catching every flicker of firelight, cold and unreadable, and yet... more expressive than any face she'd ever seen.
He said nothing.
He only extended a hand.
Myrrha—no longer Martha—walked.
Naked.
Collared.
Trained.
Ready.
Her feet made no sound across the velvet floor.
When she reached Him, she lowered her gaze and dropped to her knees—perfectly.
Back straight.
Breath slow.
"Speak," He said. His voice deep. Smooth. Like thunder whispered through velvet. "What are you?"
She answered without hesitation:
"I am Yours. Your vessel. Your breath. Your pleasure."
He circled her.
And as He passed behind, His hand glided down her back—barely touching—and she shivered like lightning had kissed her spine.
He leaned down, breath hot behind the mask:
"Tonight, I take what I have shaped." "You will come when I say." "You will beg when I allow." "You will scream when I command."
She moaned—softly, involuntarily.
He led her to the altar.
She climbed onto it with grace, lying on her back, arms at her side.
Exposed.
Opened.
Offered.
He stood at her feet.
Lifted one leg.
Kissed the inside of her thigh—through the mask.
She gasped.
The sensation was like fire stitched into silk.
Then the other leg.
His hands slid up her calves, past her knees, spreading her wide—so wide she felt the air enter her like a second presence.
He climbed over her.
Not rushing.
Not speaking.
Only commanding space.
Then—
A hand at her throat.
Not choking.
Just reminding.
"You breathe because I allow it."
He removed his robes.
And though her eyes were trained not to wander—she looked.
His body—
Powerful. Sculpted. Veined with shadow.
His cock—
Long. Thick. Dark-veined. Already hard.
She swallowed.
He took his place between her legs.
But did not enter.
Not yet.
He tasted her first.
Through the mask—
He tasted.
His mouth pressed to her clit.
Tongue lashing her clit in slow, methodical circles.
She screamed—
But no sound escaped.
Because His hand was still on her throat.
He devoured her like a sacred fruit.
Each lick a doctrine.
Each suck a prophecy.
She shook.
Tears filled her eyes.
"Master... please—"
A slap to the thigh.
"You beg only when I command."
He rose.
And without another word—
He entered her.
Fully.
Deeply.
Devastatingly.
Her body arched off the altar.
The scream that followed echoed against the obsidian walls.
He thrust.
Slow.
Then hard.
Then relentless.
His hips moved like a storm.
She was soaked. Spread. Unraveled.
He flipped her—face down.
Fucked her from behind, hand in her hair, pulling her head back so her moans fed the dark.
"Who do you serve?" "Y-You, Master—"
Slap to the ass.
"Who owns your pain?" "You—only You—""Who owns your pleasure?" "You!"
He fucked her harder.
The altar shook.
She came.
Again.
And again.
But He never slowed.
Never softened.
He used her.
Took what He had shaped.
Until she collapsed, drooling, crying, whispering His name like a holy chant.
When He finally came—
He growled low into her ear.
"You are mine."
And filled her with a heat that pulsed like command.
She woke hours later.
Still on the altar.
Naked.
Marked.
A soft cloth draped over her.
And beside her—
A single silver rose.
Myrrha had been claimed.
Not as lover.
Not as slave.
But as Master's Will made flesh.
***The Days of Endless Offering
Morning.
She is woken by the White Maid—not with words, but with a hand between her thighs.
No greetings.
Only strokes.
Sometimes soft.
Sometimes cruel.
If Myrrha cries out too soon—she is denied release.
If she keeps still and silent—she is granted one.
A single orgasm to begin the day.
The White Maid whispers into her neck:
"Wake with devotion... ache all day."
She is then bathed by the Gold Maid.
Her hair washed in rosewater.
Her lips painted red.
Her body perfumed and dressed in translucent silk or sheer chain.
Always barefoot.
Always beautiful.
Not for vanity.
But because His eyes deserve no flaw.
Midday.
She is summoned to kneel at His feet during Council.
The Master speaks with no one else.
But she is there.
Below Him.
Breathing His air.
Listening to His words.
Sometimes He lets her suck while He speaks—keeping it hard, but never cumming.
Sometimes He places His foot on her back and says nothing for hours.
But Myrrha doesn't move.
Because stillness is service.
Afternoons.
She is fed.
Not by hand.
But from His mouth.
He chews the fruit.
Then calls her forth.
And she crawls.
Kneels.
Opens her mouth.
And receives His offering from His lips to hers.
He strokes her chin.
"This is grace."
She moans quietly.
Because to be fed by Him is to be filled with more than food.
It is to be filled with meaning.
Evenings.
She is fucked.
Every day.
Not with routine.
But design.
Sometimes over the edge of the black-stone table.
Sometimes bound to the ceiling by velvet ropes.
Sometimes before the five Maids—each watching, nodding, whispering correction, encouragement.
He uses her like canvas.
Cock sliding into her mouth, her cunt, her ass—wherever He wills.
He whispers commands between thrusts.
"Tell me who you are." "Beg to be used." "Thank me for fucking your throat."
And she obeys—
Moaning.
Gagging.
Grateful.
She screams His name until her voice is raw.
And still He does not stop.
Because her orgasm is not the end.
It is His rhythm given sound.
He paints her body in cum and devotion.
And when He is done—
She bows low.
And thanks Him.
Nights.
She sleeps curled against His thigh.
Sometimes gagged.
Sometimes cuffed.
Sometimes naked on the floor while He watches from the bed.
But always peaceful.
Because there is no fear now.
Only order.
She no longer dreams.
Because this is the dream.
This is the afterlife she never knew she was waiting for.
***And Now... The End Approaches
The Castle is quiet tonight.
But there are whispers.
Something stirs in the air beyond its walls.
A foreign scent.
A tremble beneath the stone.
The Five Maids gather.
The Master sits in silence.
And Myrrha—
Kneels at His side.
Ready.
Because she is no longer just a woman.
She is no longer Martha.
She is not even Myrrha.
She is...
The Vessel of His Will.
***When the World Comes Knocking
The Castle shuddered.
Not visibly.
Not violently.
But beneath the marble, beneath the silk, beneath the unshakable rhythm of pleasure and praise—something shifted.
A wind howled where no windows stood.
Candles trembled, flames flickering blue.
The Five Maids stood in the atrium, forming a silent circle.
Eyes closed.
Palms open.
The Obsidian Maid's voice came first:
"Something approaches."
The Red Maid's lips curled.
"A challenge."
The White Maid whispered—
"A thief."
The Master sat in His throne.
Still.
Watching.
Myrrha knelt beside Him, eyes lowered, posture perfect, lips parted in breathless silence.
He reached out—not to touch.
But to command.
"Rise."
She obeyed.
"Be still."
She froze.
"Something comes... to take what is Mine."
The Castle doors groaned.
Not open.
Not shut.
As if something pressed from the other side.
And then—light.
Blinding, righteous, golden light.
A voice, booming and melodic, echoed through the marble chambers:
"Martha. Return."
Her name.
Her true name.
Spoken with power.
A spell trying to undo her.
She shook.
Visibly.
Her knees buckled.
Her breath grew ragged.
The Maids turned to her.
The Violet Maid stepped forward.
"Resist."
The Gold Maid whispered in her ear:
"You are not who they remember. You are what you were meant to become."
But the light grew stronger.
And within it—a figure.
Her sister.
Not illusion.
Not memory.
But real.
Somehow.
Eyes full of tears. Arms outstretched.
"Please, Martha—come home. This isn't you. This isn't love."
Myrrha trembled.
Not with fear.
But remorse.
Something cracked in her heart.
Something buried.
She took one step forward.
The Maids gasped in unison.
Then—
A single sound.
From the throne.
A whisper.
But it crushed the air.
"Kneel."
And like lightning through bone—
Myrrha dropped.
Hard.
Beautiful.
Willing.
She pressed her forehead to the floor.
"I am Yours." "I will never return." "Let the world burn before I leave Your side."
The golden light screamed.
Cracked.
And shattered.
Her sister's image was ripped into smoke.
The light snuffed out.
And the Castle stilled once more.
The Master stood.
For the first time since claiming her—
He approached.
Lifted her chin.
And with His hand upon her head—
"You have passed." "You are not Myrrha." "You are... Mine."
The Maids bowed.
The candles steadied.
The storm had ended.
And in its place:
Only devotion remained.