The dungeon was alive with whispers. Cold air seeped through jagged cracks in the walls, carrying the scent of damp stone, rotting moss, and iron-rich blood. The torches mounted high above sputtered with unnatural green flames, painting the hall in ghostly shades. On either side of the cavern, tall stakes stood crowned with skulls—dozens of them—bleached and cracked, silent testimonies of all those who had come before.
And now it was his turn.
The young man knelt in the center of the chamber, stripped bare. His armor lay discarded to the side, dented and splattered with monster ichor from the battles he had already fought. His sword, once shining, now rusted with dried blood, was little more than decoration. Naked and trembling, his body glistened with sweat. He tried to keep his eyes steady, but his gaze kept darting toward the throne carved from bone where she sat.
The elf mistress.
Her beauty was cruel, carved like a blade. Hair the color of moonlight tumbled down her back, a stark contrast against the black leather straps coiling around her pale body. Her emerald eyes gleamed, unreadable yet brimming with malice. She sat with one leg hooked over the arm of her throne, the other spread wide, her posture both regal and obscene.
"You said," she began, her voice cutting the silence like silk pulled taut, "that you could make me scream your name."
Her tone was mocking, cold, and strangely alluring.
The man swallowed hard. His lips trembled as he tried to form words. "Yes, mistress… I—I'll do everything. Anything. Please, I won't trespass again. Let me prove myself. Just… spare me."
A sharp chill crawled down his spine as her smile widened.
"You won't trespass?" she repeated softly, tilting her head. Then she leaned forward, her hand descending to her inner thigh. "You're already trespassing, mortal. You're in my dungeon. On my floor. In my presence. The only way you leave with your life is if you make me lose control."
She spread her legs slowly, deliberately, the gesture laced with cruelty. Her fingers parted herself as though unveiling a sacred relic. Her voice turned cold and commanding.
"Lick. Suck. Devour me until I scream your name. And when I grow tired of your mouth, you will bury yourself inside me until I shatter. Fail, and…" she pointed at the nearest pike, crowned with a skull still dripping fresh blood, "you'll decorate my hall like the others."
The man's breath hitched. Fear and desire warred in his chest. He had heard the stories—men who came seeking treasure, only to fall to the carnal trials of the dungeon's mistresses. Some returned, broken but alive. Most… never did.
Yet he had no choice.
Crawling forward on trembling knees, he pressed his face between her thighs. Her scent hit him instantly—heady, intoxicating, cruelly sweet. His tongue darted out, hesitant at first, then desperate as he realized hesitation would kill him faster than failure. He licked as though tasting salvation, dragging his tongue over her folds, pressing deeper, searching for every drop of essence she demanded.
The elf mistress sighed faintly, leaning back. "Better than the last one," she murmured. "But you'll need to do more than lap at me like a starving pup."
Her thighs tightened around his head like iron bands, pulling him closer, forcing his tongue to plunge deeper. He obeyed, licking, sucking, tasting until his jaw ached. Minutes bled into an hour, and still she demanded more.
Her body moved with cruel grace. When she grew tired of his mouth, she pulled him up by his hair and forced him onto his back. With a predatory smile, she straddled him, lowering herself onto his body.
"Now," she whispered, her voice dripping with venomous delight, "prove the rest."
The man obeyed. Desperation drove him. He thrust into her with every ounce of strength, each motion echoing in the chamber with wet, slapping sounds. He grunted, cursed, begged, sweat pouring down his temples as he shifted her into position after position. He tried everything—lifting her legs high, bending her over the throne, driving from behind with animalistic fury. His body screamed for rest, but he pushed harder, the sound of his movements filling the dungeon like the rhythm of drums.
"Pound harder," she whispered mockingly. "Make me scream, mortal. Isn't that what you promised?"
Her laughter sent daggers through his pride.
He lasted far longer than most men would. Once, twice, five times—his body emptied into her, yet still he was commanded to continue. His strength faltered, his vision blurred, but terror gave him momentum. Every thrust was not pleasure, but survival.
Still, she did not scream his name.
Her moans were faint, cruelly restrained, as though she denied him the satisfaction on purpose. Each time he thought he had pushed her close, she denied it with a cold smirk.
Exhaustion consumed him. His body gave one final desperate push, collapsing against her. His voice cracked as he wept openly, tears streaking his cheeks.
"Please… mistress… forgive me. I can't go on. I've given everything. Spare me, I beg you."
The elf's eyes softened for a fleeting second, almost pitying. Then the cold smile returned.
"Pathetic," she whispered.
Before he could react, her blade flashed.
Slash.
His world spun. The last thing he saw was the spray of his own blood arcing across the dungeon floor. His head rolled, eyes wide, watching his own body crumple to the ground. His final breath caught in his throat, a sob mixed with disbelief and despair.
The elf mistress rose gracefully, lifting his severed head by the hair. She carried it to the nearest pike and shoved it onto the spike with a wet crack.
"You lasted longer than the others," she said coldly, addressing no one and everyone at once. "But no one can ever satisfy me."
Her laughter, sharp and cruel, rang through the dungeon like a curse.
The green torches flickered, the skulls on their pikes grinned silently, and the dungeon swallowed his existence whole.