Except myself.
If I can just grab a gun from one of the guards…
I steel myself. It’s suicide, I know, but a tempting thought. Surely dying on my feet would be preferable to a lifetime on my knees…
But I’m a survivor, and I’m going to survive. That might mean being the whore of a disgusting, brutish, slimy creature for a decade or two – if that’s how long it takes me to finally find the chance to escape – but I can endure that.
I can endure anything.
One day, I know, Don Sloor will slip up. One day, he’ll leave a knife out where I can tuck it away, or he’ll get too drunk and pass out when I’m next to him.
One day, I’ll gut the bastard.
I’ll endure the horrors of being in a Toad’s aquarium, if it means that I survive to free myself and Danielle. If needs be, I’ll just shut off my mind – drift somewhere else, and let my body become a robot. I’ll just let that slimy, grotesque thing stick whatever a Bullfrog has instead of a dick inside of me. I’ll endure anything – and I’ll live.
Pater Paradooli nods in approval as Don Sloor leers at me.
“Oh, her! Excellent choice. She was always my favorite – and she’s quite untouched still, as long as those Aurelians didn’t have a go at her.”
My cheeks burn. They did, of course – I still vividly remember the heat of their scalding cum splattering my breasts – but I’m still a virgin.
Peter grins slyly, and commands one of his henchmen: “Bring her to him.”
I want to whimper and cry, but instead I keep my eyes low, pretending to be the docile slave I’ve been trained to be.
I’m brought to Don Sloor, and he slaps his wet thighs in glee at the sight of me. My skin crawls as I’m forced to climb up onto him, in a disgusting parody of how I’d been willingly sitting on Evander earlier than night.
Ugh… Don Sloor’s slimy hands graze my leg, leaving greenish smears, squirming closer and closer to that spot between my legs that I can’t ever imagine letting this horrific beast touch.
I shudder, and Don Sloor laughs.
“Oh, you’ll learn to enjoy it,” he gurgles. “It’ll be all you’ll get from now on, for the rest of your life.”
I squeeze shut my eyes.
Go somewhere else. Go somewhere else.
I try to imagine that I’m on a tropical beach, surrounded by the three Aurelians. They might be dead and gone, but in my mind they’ll always live on – and I’ll always be with them.
I imagine sipping a mimosa, like the ones that I was forced to serve at Peter’s banquets. The drinks that looked so delicious that I once even snuck a glass of one, despite fear of being punished.
It’s difficult, but as Don Sloor’s slimy, warty hand gropes me, I put myself somewhere else – logging out of my conscious world and dreaming up a new one to hide inside.
Yet, it’s useless…
I can’t do it. I can’t drift away entirely.
Why not? Because I am still so desperate to escape.
So, instead, I endure the disgusting feel of Don Sloor’s fetid flesh, and my eyes scan the room for a weapon – any weapon.
I might not be able to use it yet – not with so many of Peter’s men around – but I will need to prepare for the moment when Don Sloor finally lets his guard down. I might have just a single opportunity to end his life and win my freedom, but I’ll take it – or die trying.
One of Peter’s aides suddenly runs in, panic on his face.
“Sir! The Aurelians’ ship is inbound!”
Don Sloor jumps to his feet, tossing me off him like a kitten. I drop painfully to the ground, grazing my knees against the stone floor.
“What is the meaning of this?” Don Sloor’s voice is a panicked gargle.
Peter rushes to action. He starts barking out orders, and the calm dining hall suddenly becomes a beehive of activity.
Henchmen pull out their pistols, and slaves run this way and that, trying to get out of the way before the scene erupts into violence.
Hope flares up in me again. The Aurelians are alive!
I pick myself up slowly from the floor, barely daring to believe that rescue is on its way.
One of Peter’s henchmen presses a finger to his ear. “Wait… It’s okay. The ship was just shot down. The Aurelians are dust.”
My heart stops.
The room calms down, and there’s even nervous laughter amidst the tension.
At the front of the room, Peter stands there, his brow knotted. His fingers tap nervously against his belt.
“You see, Don Sloor? Nothing to worry about. I’ve got this placed sealed up as tight as a nun’s cunt.”
But there’s doubt to his words – and Peter turns to one of his henchmen and orders: “Just in case – double the guard around the perimeter. I want everyone on high…”
There is a huge crack as the wooden doors of the hall shatter under the weight of Augustus.
My heart surges as I see the enormous Aurelian stagger into the room. Like a wrecking ball, he bullrushes through the guards and henchmen with his triad – the three Aurelians and…
No way!
…the prizefighter from the fighting pits from earlier!
All four of them crash into the room like a breaking storm, and my jaw drops as I watch my three Aurelians engage with Peter Paradooli’s men.
They move like flowing water.
I never knew war could be so beautiful.
It sounds terrible to say it, but that’s the only world that I can think if.
I guess I’d never seen Aurelians fight before. It’s like they’re dancing. The three of them are like a blur of whirling death.
Gunshots ring out, but nothing can touch them. The blue-black blades of their Orb-Weapons hum with nearly musical purpose – slicing through flesh and bone as effortlessly as paper, and drinking in the blood and souls of Peter’s men as they’re cut down like shafts of wheat.
It’s a
