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The undercity's gonna eat you alive	By : RFsych101 Category: +G through L > League of Legends Views: 1303 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the fandom and do not make any money off the fiction

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
(Scenario where the Yordle is the winning client at the auction...)
Caitlyn slowly woke up to a red haze and music. Music that seemed to reverberate throughout a room the size of a living room area. A tacky crimson wallpaper that looked like little hearts adorned all four corners of the room. And there were some mirrors too, three to four foot feet in height, and about a foot in width, making them look taller than they actually were. They were along the walls, about two to three feet apart. The spacing of the tall mirrors, and them being on all four walls, made the room seem larger than it probably was. But it was an optical illusion, Caitlyn surmised with her sharp eyesight and attention to detail. Caitlyn estimated the room had to be no more than 25-30 by 30 square feet. The ceiling was a darker shade of grey, and looked to be only 9 feet in height, giving an almost claustrophobic atmosphere. There was recessed lighting in that ceiling, which emitted a mix of red and purple light that seemed to flash in rhythm with the unintelligible music she was hearing. It was like a blaring, industrial music—all bass and chaos, like a drunk heartbeat in an abandoned nightclub. It was coming from the walls, and Caitlyn realized that the speakers must have been embedded, and powerful to emit that intensity of sound. She could literally feel, as much as she could hear, that music. If it could even be called that. That, and the strobe effect of the light, was adding to her sense of disorientation.
Caitlyn slowly got to a knee, and stood up in the middle of the room, straightening her back to stand straight, glancing up at the disorienting ceiling, as if being mindful of the relatively low ceiling. She looked at the mirrors to see her reflection, and inspected her full Enforcer uniform—shoulder pads, vest, boots, and all—she felt sweat already gathering beneath the thick material as she inspected and adjusted them on her. She surmised the sweat was partially because of the stuffy atmosphere of the room, and her own unease at her current predicament.
Where was she? She sensed she couldn’t have been out that long. A few hours, perhaps? Long enough for her to have been taken from the brothel to… wherever she was now.
Despite her eyes still adjusting to the strobe lights reflecting off the walls and the mirrors, and finding it hard to concentrate due to the blaring music, she sensed she wasn’t alone, a feeling she confirmed as she surveyed her surroundings, and her eyes focused on one corner of the otherwise empty room.
Across from her, about 10 feet away, against a wall, and on a velvet red stool with intricately designed wrought iron legs, sat a leather-clad yordle. He was small. No more than 2-3 feet tall. Compact, but chubby, almost like a plush toy. Goggles glinting. Wearing that black leather outfit he wore when she first saw him walking the halls of the brothel. His mouth was hidden by a bizarre breather-mask that hissed with every inhale. His large triangular ears twitched with every movement. She couldn’t make out what he was saying or thinking, but she could tell he was excited, which added to her growing fear as she realized what his presence meant.
The Yordle was the ‘winning’ client. He was the one who …’won’ her.
The realization brought on a shudder that Caitlyn tried to suppress as she swallowed and tried to remain stone-faced as she stared at the diminutive figure. She wasn’t sure how she should feel that it was the Yordle that won the ‘auction’, rather than one of those other clients.
Time seemed to remain still for a few moments with the two of them just staring silently at one another as the music continued to play in the background. But then, after a few moments, the yordle tilted his head to the side, his ears twitching, as he raised a hand and pointed.
At her.
And then…
… to where she was standing on the black porcelain floor.
He twirled his stubby fingers in a rhythm that matched the beat, and shook his hips, gesturing that the wanted her to dance to the music.
He then dragged one paw down the centre of his chest, mimicking an exaggerated unzip, and as if someone had thrown cold water on her, Caitlyn realized what he wanted her to do.
He wants me to strip, Caitlyn realized.
Dance and strip for him.
Fighting to control her shock and indignation, the Enforcer cleared her throat and spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard over the music. She tried to project an air of authority and dignity in her voice as she lifted her chin up and said in a firm voice:
“I will not!”
The Yordle seemed to pout. But then, seemed excited, as he reached for something in his pocket, and held up a small device with one hand. Pressing a button, Caitlyn heard a buzzing sound, as if something were charging up. Something just under her chin. Something around her neck. Then she remembered what the brothel owner had showed her she’d be wearing before gassing her. The stun collar! She quickly reached to her neck, and felt the cold metal of the black collar that was just over her choker. She reached up frantically with both hands, as if trying to find some lock or way to remove the collar as she stared at the device in the Yordle’s hand in both anger and horror.
But before she could brace herself, she felt the static shock course through her.
“Aaaah!”
Her knees buckled as pain shot down her spine. She cried out, stumbling forward. The pain was excruciating. It was like the static shock one got from rubbing their feet on carpet and touching something, but so much worse. It felt like it had coursed throughout her whole body. As she fell to her hands and knees, she tried to flex her limbs, as if trying to regain control. A few seconds after the last of her spasms had subsided, she was able to do so, and took a deep breath to calm herself before lifting her head to glare at the source of her pain.
Across the room, the yordle clapped with glee. His legs were hanging off the stool, so he almost looked like a child, with their feet kicking out excitedly. Not a child-like figure that was wanting her to dance and strip for his demented amusement.
Caitlyn gritted her teeth as she stared daggers at the Yordle, saying to herself silently:
He wants a show? Fine, he’ll get one. But I’m not smiling, she said to herself defiantly.
The music pounded. Fast. Relentless. Caitlyn stood up and straightened her uniform. Then, she began to move.
Slowly at first, but then faster to try and match the pace of the music. It was an awkward movement. She wasn’t one to dance. Not to music like this. And not to an audience like this. But for the moment, she had no choice, so she pressed forward.
Starting with slowly turning her waist from side to side, she let her arms swing from side to side. She then forced her hips to sway, moving awkwardly in rhythm. She felt ridiculous, a feeling which was amplified when she glanced at the mirrors, and saw the sight of her gyrating in some random movements. She turned to look at the Yordle, not because she wanted to, but because she didn’t want to see the sight of herself dancing. She then saw the Yordle motion with the stripping motion again, as he held up the device as a reminder of what would happen if she disobeyed again. Suppressing her urge to try and ignore the Yordle, she reached one arm across to the other, and began unfastening the buckles and straps of her arms sleeves.
Having unfastened them, she yanked her leather gloves off, and then the sleeve stocking that went up to her bicep, for each arm, flinging them aside with disgust.
The Yordle squealed—actually squealed—and pulled out a camera. Before Caitlyn could realize what was happening, a flashbulb popped.
“No! Don’t you dare—”
ZZZZZTT.
Another shock slammed her through the collar. She gasped, grabbing her stomach as she dropped to a knee. She slowly looked up, and seeing the impassive face of the Yordle, staggered back up to resume her dance.
The yordle gave her a thumbs-up. The camera then whirred, printing a photo from the top. He held it up, wiggling with joy, before tossing it aside and clicking again. And again.
He’s documenting it. Like some grotesque scrapbook, she thought to herself.
She moved faster to avoid another jolt—grinding her hips, spinning, arching her back. She wasn’t a dancer. She never danced. But now, she was trying to match her movements to some unfamiliar music, if it could even be called that.
When she bent to remove one boot, the music actually sped up.
She tried to keep dancing—one hand on her thigh, the other yanking at the straps, frantically trying to unfasten them while moving her legs to keep up with the pace of the music.
She tripped and fell to a knee.
The Yordle laughed and clapped again, excitedly kicking and swinging his stubby legs off the edge of the stool as she scrambled up quickly, kicking off the boots. Caitlyn’s face felt like it was on fire, flush with humiliation, but she had to continue to avoid another shock.
After trying to move her body around, she then reached down for the stockings.
Tangled. Sticking to her slick thighs. They were normally snug and hard to remove under normal conditions, but now she was trying to do it while moving in random motions while also dealing with her growing perspiration.
She hissed as she peeled them down, jerking them free, kicking each of them off with venom.
Another click-flash from the camera.
“You sick bastard,” she muttered, eyes watering from fury.
The sound of her hard boot heels clicking on the porcelain tiled floor were now replaced with the softer sounds of her bare feet on the surface.
After discarding her belt buckle and the choker above the stun collar, she hurriedly tore the uniform open to avoid another shock.
But she then realized, as she was dancing, that she couldn’t take off the uniform until she got the shoulder pads off first. She quickly reached a hand across her chest to undo the straps holding them to her body, and wiggled them off as she continued gyrating to the music. She kicked the discarded uniform away and looked down at herself, almost stopping when she saw what she was left with.
She was now in her white bra and panties, which were now soaked in sweat. She then reached behind her to unclasp the bra and toss it before shifting her feet to maintain her dance to avoid another shock. She then put both thumbs around her panties and quickly bent down to pull them off. She struggled at the end, almost tripping, and stepped out with one foot before quickly kicking them away with the other foot. She looked down at herself as the music began to fade. She felt a sense of relief, her heart beating rapidly, and her trying to take deep breaths to calm herself. She looked away from the Yordle, and accidentally stared into one of the mirrors. Her faced turned red at what she saw.
She stood there now. In the centre of the room, her body shaking and —completely naked.
She was sweating, her blue hair strewn across her flustered face. Her chest was heaving and she was still panting, trying to compose herself.
But then…
…the music looped, and began again.
Seeing the Yordle hold up his device again, Caitlyn again began swinging her hips and moving in some semblance of a dance. She wanted to stop. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
Because she saw the Yordle waving the device for the collar, as if silently telling her what would happen if she stopped before the music stopped.
So she kept dancing.
Her breasts bouncing with every turn and twist she clumsily tried to execute. Her body was glimmering with sweat that shone against the disorienting strobe lights. She was also fighting to keep her bare feet from slipping on the porcelain floor that was now wet from her own sweat.
After what seemed like longer than 10 minutes, the music finally stopped. Caitlyn, exhausted, bent forward, resting her hands on her knees to stay upright as she fought to control her heavy breathing. The Yordle then turned and touched a button behind him, and the strobe lights stopped, the red and purple lights now replaced by a soft yellow which illuminated the room slightly more. It also illuminated Caitlyn’s nude body more as well, causing her to feel even more exposed as she looked up, then down at herself, and then crossed her arms to her chest, both to try and keep her rapidly beating heart from bursting, as well as trying to cover herself from the gaze of the audience of one.
The atmosphere felt surreal. Moments ago, she was in her uniform in a room that had archaic music and a disorienting strobe light display of red and purple, bathing her in those darkened hues of light. But now, the music was gone, as were her clothes, and she was standing in the centre of the room, fully illuminated in the dark room by the yellow light.
A few moments of silence passed, where she just stared in anger and anxiety at what the Yordle had made her do, and what he might be thinking. The Yordle just stared back, his head moving oddly as he craned his neck here and there, as if trying to get a better view, and his ears twitching, as if having a mind and will of their own.
Suddenly, the Yordle jumped down from the stool. He turned and opened a small door to reach in and pick up something in what must have been some kind of small room. He then excitedly began making his way to her. Caitlyn’s blue eyes then widened and her body went cold when she saw what it was that he was holding.
A dark brown bucket, with elegant gold accents and trims. The bucket was almost the size of his head. And in that bucket, was soapy water and a massive pink sponge. He placed the bucket down, dipped the sponge, and looked up her.
For a moment, she thought he was going to make her wash herself in front of him.
But she was wrong.
The Yordle instead wordlessly pointed to her, and then dropped to all fours himself—imitating the position—before pointing directly at her.
Caitlyn felt the back of her eyes burn and her stomach churn, as she realized that HE… wanted to bathe HER.
He wants me to get on all fours like an animal? So he can wash me!
The realization made Caitlyn struggle to keep from gagging as she felt her face warm with a renewed anger.
Caitlyn stared. Her fists clenched. Her remaining still, a message that she would do no such thing.
The Yordle seemed confused, but then reached into his pocket producing the device, and pressed the button. Caitlyn felt her body spasm with shock. Her body being wet with sweat made it even more painful.
Helpless, and seeing no other options, she took a breath to calm herself as she relented.
She got on all fours, trying not to shiver at the coldness of the porcelain floor.
Fury twisted inside her, but it was impotent rage, as there was nothing she could do but try to weather the moment. So she closed her eyes and tried to brace herself.
The wet sponge hit her back with a loud sloppy sound, the instant sensation of cold was followed by the warmth of the water’s warm temperature. Caitlyn kept her face looking forward, not wanting to see what was happening.
Warm water dribbled down her arched back, from between her shoulder blades down to the small of her back as the yordle hummed happily—a chirpy, tuneless sound that only made it worse.
He scrubbed in circles, jumping between shoulders and hips.
Then her thighs.
Then he put the sponge down, and reached under her to her breasts—cupping them slowly, fingers sliding beneath them to lift, weigh, and squeeze. Before releasing them to watch them jiggle, laughing giddily at the sight. He then picked up the sponge and reached under to wash the breasts he fondled so eagerly.
Caitlyn clenched her jaw as she tried to will herself not to react.
Don’t flinch. Don’t give him anything.
It would seem almost comical if someone were to watch, Caitlyn realized. Her, an adult human woman, almost 5 foot 9 inches tall, on her hands and knees, naked, while a Yordle the size of a toddler was happily washing and fondling her. In her position, her back was at the perfect position of a desk for the Yordle, Caitlyn thought to herself disgustedly. The Yordle’s head and shoulders were only barely taller than her now.
As she thought this, the Yordle then stopped washing her and stepped closer, lifted his breathing mask, and leaned over her body to kiss her toned back—wet and sloppy. Her eyes widened as they burned, but she fought to stay still, a part of her still not believing this was happening to her. The sensation of his furry mouth and whiskers touching her washed back made her feel revulsion.
But the Yordle wasn’t finished.
He kissed her again, walking, or sidestepping, from her upper back, to her mid back, then down further.
And then, the final humiliating act:
He kissed her rear. And then quickly walked around to her other side, and kissed the other. He then clapped both cheeks playfully, the sound of the naked snap making her flinch as much as the hit itself.
She gasped. It felt like her face was on fire as it took almost every fibre of her being, not to move. She had to open her mouth slightly, not just to let out a stifled gasp, but because if she continued clenching her jaw any tighter, she was sure she would have broken her own teeth.
So she stayed still, in silent outrage, as the Yordle then walked all the around to her side and tousled her damp hair, gently stroking it, and then, to finish off , padded her on the top of her head as if she were some pet, cooing like a satisfied animal as he did so.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he removed his breathing mask again.
And planted a sloppy, tongue-heavy kiss on her cheek, giggling as he did so. Her body shuddered but she didn’t react, wary of another shock.
Clenching her jaw, she turned her face away in disgust afterwards—but didn’t say anything.
The Yordle put the bucket back in the room, which must have been some kind of bathroom, and then returned, pointing to a mattress in the far corner—a pristine white pad on the tile, no blanket, no pillow.
A storage spot. Her bed. She didn’t move at first.
But then the collar buzzed, causing her to let out a stifled scream.
Taking a breath to wait for the aftershock of spasms to stop, she slowly rose on shaking limbs.
And walked to it, trying to walk straight, as if trying to maintain some semblance of dignity.
Stepping on the mattress, she then fell to her knees and lurched forward onto her side. Exhausted, both physically, and mentally.
The Yordle then climbed back onto his stool and reached for his camera again, holding the last photo up, admiring it as he squeaked with pleasure.
He then pressed a button on the wall behind him, and the lights in the room dimmed.
Caitlyn curled up, back sticky with sponge water. Although the room was muggy in atmosphere, her nudity made her feel cold and start to shiver. But there was no blanket to warm herself with. So she tried to tuck her knees to her chest and wrap her arms around them, slowly closing her eyes.
She wasn’t asleep. But she wasn’t crying. She wouldn’t cry, she told herself.
She was just… waiting.
She tried to fight off sleep, wanting to stay awake. To stay alert. To find some way out. But she couldn’t think of anything she could do. She was exhausted, and the darkened room made it hard to keep her eyes open. So after a few minutes, she succumbed to a sleep that lasted several hours.
The Next day…
The lights snapped on before Caitlyn opened her eyes.
Red. And shades of Purple, as the stone lights began do dance along the ceiling again.
She squinted at the disorienting colours, and groggily wiped at her eyes. Her body ached. Her eyes burned.
How long had she slept? It had to be the next day, she thought to herself. But how early in the morning? Or how late? Something she had to think about later, she told herself, as she had to focus on where she was.
She was still curled on the corner mattress—blanketless, naked, her long blue hair still damp from the last night’s “bath.” She shut her eyes instinctively as if trying to block out that horrid memory. She took a deep breath to try and calm and steady herself, and slowly sat up to look around and get her bearings in strobe lit room.
She heard a sound, and turned to see a door open on the far side of the room. Her heartbeat quickened as her anxiety began to rise. She stared intently at the door that was almost invisible, as if it were made to be a part of the wall that could disappear when not in use.
She then heard the familiar footsteps of the Yordle. Her suspicion was confirmed, but the Yordle was reaching back, dragging something with him. Caitlyn’s sharp eyes focused, and she realized it was some sort of rack on wheels.
The Yordle brought the rack next to her mattress, and then stood back to let her see what it was. It was a wheeled clothing rack. Caitlyn saw that it was packed with outfits. But not real clothing items. No, the rack was packed with outfits that were bright, lacy, and theatrical. A mockery of a wardrobe.
The Yordle wore the same black leather outfit he wore yesterday. Only, he had a dark red bowtie, which, while looking out of place on his outfit, did match the colours of the walls. His goggles were tinted enough that she could not see his eyes, something she was actually thankful for. After a moment, the Yordle pointed at Caitlyn, and tapped his wrist as if he were admonishing her for taking up time. He then gestured towards the rack.
As he did so, as if impatient, he began rummaging through the rack. He then seemed to find one to his liking, giggling happily as he pulled it down and turned it towards Caitlyn for her to look at.
The outfit he selected… was absurd.
It was a parody of a schoolgirls’ uniform: cropped white blouse, dark blue skirt with toned tone blue and gold accents, no longer than a belt, white thigh-high stockings and white platform pumps.
He motioned to her to stand.
She didn’t move.
The Yordle stamped his foot impatiently, and then, as if forgetting something produced the device and pressed the button.
It wasn’t a sharp shock—but one that was just enough to make her knees buckle. Her mind wanted to stand its ground, but her body couldn’t take any more shocks, so she relented, her shoulders slumping as she looked to the Yordle with an angry gaze.
“Fine,” she growled between clenched teeth as she slowly stood up.
She held out her hand for the dress, but the Yordle held the dress, tacitly telling her that HE would be the one to dress her.
She ground her teeth but said nothing, and simply gave a nod and walked to the centre of the room and let him dress her. She wanted to refuse, but didn’t want to risk another shock so soon. As he began to dress her, she kept her jaw clenched and tried to look away, as if trying to ignore him.
He began with holding out a pink pantie and bra pair that were practically see-through. She had to look down and step into them as he held the panties for her, letting her slip one foot in, and then the other. He then motioned for her to pull up the panties, before motioning her down to fasten the bra, which she did after letting out a silent exhale. After that, the Yordle ‘helped’ her put on the white stockings. He then moved on to her blouse, making her bend down, going on her knees to accommodate his lack of stature.
His hands were clumsy, but also almost reverent, as he pulled the blouse over her shoulders. He fumbled with the buttons, mouth hanging slightly open behind his breather.
When he slid the skirt up her thighs, as high as he could reach before he motioned for her to continue pulling them up, he giggled—a strange, breathy hiccup of joy.
He motioned for her to spin around by the waist, to make the skirt fan out. Caitlyn suppressed an angry retort, and stood back and gave a quick spin, her eyes burning at the sight of seeing her reflection in the mirrors in that ridiculous outfit.
Then he clapped excitedly, clapping and nodding for her to go to the centre of the room under the strobe lights, before running back to eagerly climb onto the stool. He then reached up and pressed the button on the wall behind him.
The music returned. Only this time, it was slower. Softer. Synth-heavy. Pulsing.
Because it was a slower tempo, it allowed Caitlyn more time to think about how to move to its beat. But still, it was a challenge, that hesitation between trying to improvise while making unplanned movements, trying to predict the beat or find some pattern to anticipate the tempo.
But she had no choice. So she began to move while still formulating how to react to the music as it played. And she had to do it well enough that she would avoid another shock.
She started with a slow sway of hips, a reluctant spin, arms lifting. She could feel her face warm, and not from exertion, but from how humiliated she felt. As she continued, she felt the Yordle’s gaze, and knew what he was waiting for.
So she reached up with one hand as she shifted her feet and swayed her body, and unfastened the blouse first, slowly pulling it open. She felt her anger rise as she saw the Yordle wiggling in his seat, as if trying to mimic her movements.
The skirt was next. Struggling to pull down the skimpy skirt, she managed to tug it down over her hips, letting it drop the floor, before kicking it away.
The stockings came next. And they proved to be the most challenging. She had to reach down and roll them down while continuing to sway to the music to avoid another shock. She then remembered she still had those ridiculous shoes on, so she had to reach down to unfasten their buckles and kick them off. She then finished with the stockings and kicked them away while trying to remain moving at all times.
As she stripped down more and more, the Yordle brought out his camera and began excitedly taking pictures again. Caitlyn fumed, but did nothing, as anything other than continuing with the Yordle’s disgusting show would result in a shock. So she tried to ignore the sound of the click.
Which was followed by the sound of another click.
And another.
Each click was followed by a flash, a poloroid print coming from below the camera, an impatient grab by the Yordle, followed by a giggle. He would then pocket the picture, and take another.
Each strip was met with excited squeals and eager snapping. She was down to her bra and panties. But they would soon be discarded as she continued dancing to the music.
And once more… she was naked.
She stood still as the music stopped—breathing hard, sweat returning already, staring at the Yordle with eyes that were a mix of anger, fear and humiliation.
The Yordle clapped but said nothing. Instead, he scurried to the wall and retrieved the bucket and sponge once again, leaving Caitlyn standing in silence.
Caitlyn backed up slightly. She refused to go through that again.
“You’re not washing me again” she said in a determined tone, trying to muster as much defiance as she could.
He seemed to ignore her words. And simply chirped something unintelligible, and again pointed to the floor, mimicking being on all fours.
She glared at him. He began to reach for his device, but before he could, she held up a hand as if to placate him, sighing as she relented. Again.
She then got on her hands and knees.
Again.
She tried to keep her eyes closed as she heard him waddle towards her, the sound of the water in the bucket sloshing around. She kept her eyes closed, sensing him position himself so that he was standing over her back, like before.
The sponge touched her back—warm, soapy. Sloppy circles again. Same routine.
Only this time…
…he didn’t giggle as much.
He sighed. Moaned faintly behind the breather. And his breathing did seem more… laboured?
Then, he kissed her shoulder. Not quickly. Not playfully. But slowly. And the kiss was wet. Lingering.
That’s new, Caitlyn thought to herself as she opened her yes and tried to crane her neck, trying to look behind her in vain to see what the Yordle was doing. She heard him shuffle his feet, as if trying to reposition herself. A moment later, she realized why, as her eyes widened.
He reached under her to cup her breasts. But this time, his small thumbs stroked her nipples as if testing how much she’d react.
Then he leaned over her, with his hands still cupping her breasts… and kissed her spine. Twice.
Then her lower back. Then her rear. One cheek. And then the other.
Again.
But longer this time.
He rubbed both cheeks of her rear afterwards. After giving both a long wet kiss. Then he clapped them again, giggling as Caitlyn’s body flinched at the touch.
But this time, when he circled around, instead of just tousling her hair, he gently pulled it back and tucked one side behind her ear.
He then removed his breather. She tried to stare forward, trying not to notice. Not wanting to turn and look at him.
He reached across her face with one furry hand, and held her face still as he planted a full, wet kiss on her cheek.
Sloppy. Lingering. More possessive than ever.
He then licked his lips as he pulled away. He was still giddy and giggling, but not as much as before.
Before Caitlyn could try to contemplate what that meant, he pointed again.
To the mattress.
His hand was on her toned arm, but the Yordle let it linger there. And he motioned for her to crawl on her hands and knees, so he could continue holding her arm. She wanted to refuse, but couldn’t take another shock in her exhausted condition. So she crawled.
He rubbed her bicep as she crawled. And then let his hand rest on her back, slowly rubbing it. Back and forth. And then using circular motions.
He didn’t stop until she was fully on the mattress. The Yordle then patted her head before moving off to put the bucket away. He then turned down the lights to the room to leave her.
She curled up as she did the previous day, her back to him.
She stayed awake longer this time.
Her eyes stayed open. She replayed and compared the Yordle’s behaviour from the first night, to what she just experienced, and felt a creeping realization:
He’s changing, she thought.
The games… the costumes… it’s not just fun for him anymore.
He’s starting… to want me.
She tucked her knees closer to her and curled up more as exhaustion beaconed her to sleep.
The next day.
Caitlyn heard him before she saw him — humming, shuffling, dragging the costume rack across the concrete floor with tiny grunts of exertion.
She was already awake, curled on the mattress, her mind still on the events of what happened after the last ‘show’.
She didn’t ask what he wanted.
She already knew.
The music hadn’t started yet, but he was already giddy — snapping his fingers in rhythm, twirling once like an excited child at a puppet show.
Today’s outfit was a mock maid uniform: sheer, frilly, with a too-short skirt and no undergarments this time. And a black satin ribbon for her neck.
Caitlyn sat up slowly. Her legs ached. Her arms felt heavy.
He gestured eagerly for her to stand.
She did.
‘Why resist?’, she thought to herself. He always wins. And she always loses.
Once more, she let him dress her.
His paws trembled slightly as he adjusted the skirt, as if holding back from grabbing her thighs.
He tied the ribbon around her neck with unexpected care.
Then stepped back. Snapped his fingers twice.
The music clicked on.
A slow, throbbing beat. An even slower tempo than the show before. Low synth. A sensual rhythm. Deliberate.
Caitlyn closed her eyes for a moment and thought to herself — just to block it all out.
Then she moved.
Hips swaying. Arms raising. Once more, trying to predict the beat or pattern to the music. She let her hands hover in midair, unsure of whether to clap, snap, or let them sway. After some time, she began reaching for her outfit, to prevent the Yordle from reaching for the device.
Her hands pulled the top open, one button at a time.
The yordle squeaked — actually squeaked — holding his camera to his face.
Click. Flash. Whir. Squeal.
She dropped the blouse. Then the skirt. Then stood — fully naked again — glistening under the warm lights, her chest heaving.
She didn’t even try to cover herself.
He’s already seen everything. Over and over. And yet… he’s still trembling. And getting more excited.
He’s getting worse.
After the show, she didn’t wait for the command.
As soon as he brought the bucket and sponge, she moved to the centre of the room and got down on all fours.
The Yordle didn’t press the button.
That was her reward.
The sponge came next. Warm. Sloppy.
His humming was back — but faster now. And his breath more laboured.
He scrubbed her back, her thighs.
Then paused.
Then kissed her spine. Slowly.
Then again. Lower.
And then — between her thighs.
She gasped. Twitched. And stiffened.
She felt him pause, and then could hear him holding the device, but not pressing the button.
It wasn’t a threat. It was a reminder, Caitlyn realized. She forced her body to relax. She then heard the device being tucked away. The Yordle then reached for her again.
He slid one hand along her inner thigh, petting it.
Then used his sponge again. But slower the next time around.
He reached under her and cupped her breast. Rolled her nipple with his thumb, squeezing gently, then letting go and massaging.
He then leaned forward and licked the small of her back.
This isn’t a bath anymore, she thought, body stiffening.
He’s tasting me. Like he’s checking the oven before the meal is done.
She kept still. Breathing through her nose. Eyes shut. Trying to dissociate her mind from her body, but failing to do so. All she could do was brace herself…
…as the wet sponge slapped against her back again. And his fingers began to prod. And the kisses began to increase.
She wanted to so something. To say something. But she knew that if she spoke, that if she resisted, that those shocks would return. And another truth began to hit her. One she didn’t want to admit, but couldn’t deny:
'I’m too tired.'
‘He doesn’t need to shock me anymore.’ Caitlyn slowly realized, ‘I’m—I’m do it all before he asks now.’
As she thought this, the Yordle circled around in front of her.
She kept her eyes low.
He placed a kiss on her cheek again.
Then bent under her chin as he pressed another kiss to her collarbone.
Then — a quick, clumsy kiss to her lips.
Her body jolted at that one. The sensation of his rancid breath, furry face and then the wetness of his lips made her fight the urge to gag. But she resisted her natural instinct, and kept her lips soft and relaxed so as to not provoke another shock.
After the kiss, the Yordle giggled.
Then walked off to grab another costume from the rack.
He’s already thinking about the next show, Caitlyn realized, blinking back something wet from her burning eyes.
And I don’t even know what part of me he hasn’t touched yet. Or will touch again.
Exhausted, Caitlyn once again fell asleep on the mattress, nude, and curled up.
The next morning.
Caitlyn woke up exhausted, despite having slept without waking up once.
She sat upright on the mattress the moment the strobe lighting came on. But this time, sorting was different. The lighting changed. It was a blue, purple and orange strobing now, pulsing like alarm beacons. She took a breath as she tried to summon some semblance of strength to get through another day.
She was sore. Her limbs trembled slightly from the last performance. Her stomach churned. She’d been fed portions of some basic rations between dances, along with water, but that was it. It was enough to sustain her strength. But that was about it. The Yordle had also pointed to a door in a corner that had a bathroom for her to go to when needed. But other than that, the mattress and the dance floor were the most familiar parts of her days and nights now. She tried to blink away the thought and focus on the present. She looked up from the mattress at the sound of footsteps and the rack.
Across the room, the Yordle entered and stood beside the costume rack again, rocking back and forth on his heels like a wind-up toy. He wore his goggles, his leather coat… and this time, seemed more excited than before. Turning, he pressed a button on the wall. The same button used to start and stop the music.
The music began.
But something was wrong.
Caitlyn frowned as she narrowed her eyes, as if trying to hear what was being played. And she realized what it was about the music that sounded wrong to her.
It was fast.
It was too fast.
Heavy drums. Quick synth loops. Each beat a demand. It was so fast.
Caitlyn closed her eyes, swallowing as she realized:
He picked this music on purpose.
He tossed the new costume at her feet — a nurse outfit, short, translucent, obscenely low-cut.
She didn't bother resisting. What was the point?
She stood up and dressed herself.
Just keep the collar from blinking. Just move. Just get it over with, she told herself.
The moment she stood in the centre of the floor, the yordle raised his camera again.
Click. Flash. Whirr. Print. Giggle.
The beat hammered in her bones.
She started moving — faster than before.
Throwing her arms up, twisting them in some movement that almost resembled a fighting motion. Unsure whether to clap or snap her fingers at certain points in the music. Jumping, shuffling her feet, twisting her body, as if trying to envision what the music was supposed to look like, if converted into a dance. She was sure she was nowhere near matching the tempo and beat of the music, but she also realized, that the Yordle probably didn’t care. So she continued.
Each thrust of her hips matched the tempo. Her arms lifted and spun. Her hair clung to her forehead in wet strands. At one point all the turning and twisting was making her feel disoriented, almost dizzy, but she continued on. She could feel her heart beating harder and faster.
She tore the top open. Spun. Kicked her leg out.
Each stocking came off mid-twirl. Her balance faltered. She stumbled, catching herself on her knee, then rising again as the tempo only increased. Trying not to cry or scream, she began to realize:
‘He’s not doing this to watch me dance and strip. He’s doing this to watch me break.’
Her cheeks burned. Her throat was dry. She could barely catch her breath.
But she kept going.
The skirt fell.
The ribbon dropped.
The platform shoes were kicked off.
And once more…
…she was naked.
But she didn’t stop.
Because the music didn’t stop.
So she kept swaying. Spinning. Twisting. Gyrating. Panting. Her breasts bouncing as she moved and twisted in rushed motions to keep pace with the chaotic music. She worked to keep some rhythm of breathing going, to keep from hyper-ventilating.
Until finally, mercifully, the track finally ended in a warped electronic fade.
Caitlyn collapsed to her knees. Exhausted. She barely noticed the strobe lights being changed back to the serene yellow that illuminated her nude and sweat-soaked body. All she could do was wait for the Yordle to approach her once again. She closed her eyes as she heard the pitter patter of his footsteps, and the sound of water overflowing from the bucket he carried.
Taking a deep breath, she crawled into position without being told.
All fours. Face forward. Eyes glazed. Or empty.
She barely reacted when the sponge hit her back with a wet slop, as she was too busy focusing all her energy on staying on all fours and taking deep breaths. The sponge’s movements may have felt warm and lazy…
…but the Yordle’s hands weren’t.
They were explorative. And they wandered.
To her rear.
To her breasts.
To her inner thighs.
His humming had stopped. Now he breathed heavily. Audibly.
He dropped the sponge.
And started kissing.
Slowly.
Across her back. Her ribs.
Then her rear.
Then, without pause — he parted her thighs.
And pressed his small mouth against her exposed sex.
“No—” she whispered, weakly between haggard breaths.
She stiffened, but then heard the sound of the device being pulled out. She didn’t need to turn and see it. She knew. So she relaxed her posture and let out a sigh of defeat.
And let him continue.
And he did.
She could feel his warm breath and whiskers against her folds, a fraction of a second before she felt his lips press against them.
He wasn’t skilled. That much, she could tell. And feel.
He licked at her sex clumsily, noisily — seemingly driven more by lust and a desire to taste, rather than a more sensuous, focused technique.
He giggled and panted heavily as he moved — like he was grateful, obsessed, possessed.
His tiny hands gripped her thighs, as if trying to get a better grip as he pressed his face deeper.
His tongue probed, licked, and traced her with an almost cartoonish sloppiness. She could feel his thick tongue tracking along her folds, and then licking horizontally, vertically, and then diagonally. Each time, eliciting a suppressed gasp and shudder from the exhausted Enforcer.
He moaned.
She didn’t respond.
She just bit her lip and stared ahead.
Breathing. Barely. Her breaths coming in staggered, halting breaths.
When he finally pulled away, slick-faced and panting, he didn’t walk off.
He crawled around beside her.
And pulled on her arm.
Gently.
Toward the mattress.
She moved.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she couldn’t say no. She couldn’t take another shock. She was too tired.
She lay down.
But this time, he didn’t walk away to turn out the lights.
This time, he crawled in beside her. As she had laid down on one side, he laid down behind her.
No command from him. No shock. It wasn’t necessary anymore.
He just pressed his tiny body to her back, and curled up like a child.
His face nuzzled into her shoulder blade.
His hand — sticky, trembling — reached around and rested over her stomach.
He kissed her shoulder once.
Then Twice.
Then her neck.
Then stopped.
Caitlyn lay still.
Eyes open.
Breathing slow. Realizing…
He’s not going to stop. This isn’t about shows anymore.
It’s just him and me.
And I’m… I’m too tired to fight.
The next morning…
She was already awake when she felt a weight on her thigh.
Small.
Warm.
Twitching with excitement.
The yordle was already on top of her — straddling her waist, face close, breathing heavily, goggles still on, mouth uncovered.
His hands were moving.
Not grabbing. Not groping.
Exploring.
Tiny fingers skimmed across her stomach, then upward to her ribs, her breasts. They paused there—fascinated—his thumb brushing lazily across one nipple.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t scream.
She barely breathed.
‘Maybe if I lie still, he’ll stop.’
He didn’t.
He reached for her shoulder, and pulled her back, so that she was on her back, fully exposed.
He leaned forward and kissed her collarbone, then her neck, then her jaw, which was clenched shut, as Caitlyn was trying so hard to keep from jolting and flinching with every touch.
Another kiss. And another.
Then his fingers wandered lower.
He slid down her body slowly, like a child crawling backwards across the floor.
His mouth followed the path of his hands—kissing her breasts. He kept planting small kisses all over them. Then he dragged his tongue over her areola, giggling as he felt her suppressing a shudder. He then let his whiskers touch the tip of her nipple, before kissing them relentlessly, squeezing and giggling when they shook like jelly as he let them go, leading to him to kissing and fondling them even more.
After lingering for what seemed like more than a few minutes, the Yordle then moved his hands and mouth lower, to her slim and toned stomach.
Then he paused.
He took her thighs in his hands and nudged them apart.
She didn’t resist.
She couldn’t.
He kissed her sex, softly at first, then messier. Longer.
His hands slid under her rear and squeezed her like dough, giggling faintly through his breath.
He tickled her inner thighs with his whiskers, kissed the creases of the inner folds of her sex, then worked his way down each of her thighs to her long shapely legs. She stared at the darkened ceiling, the back of her eyes burning. She wanted to squeeze the Yordle’s head between her legs, but she couldn’t. She was too exhausted. And she wasn’t sure how much of that exhaustion was physical. And how much was mental. So she took a deep breath, tried to stay still, and let the Yordle continue kissing her.
Which he happily did.
Kissing all the way down her legs, the Yordle then licked the arch of one foot. And then, the other. Letting his whiskers rub against the soles and arches of her feet.
She flinched at that.
He giggled.
She fumed. But was told exhausted to say or do anything.
Then, using both hands to hold her ankles firm, he pressed his whiskers and mouth against the soles of her feet, giggling as he kissed and licked them, delighting in how she squirmed when he dragged his tongue along her arches. All the while, Caitlyn tried to remain silent while trying to understand the Yordle’s motives, realizing:
I’m not a woman to him, she thought.  I’m a puzzle. A body with parts that he wants to explore. And memorize.
After what seems like an eternity to Caitlyn, the Yordle got up and happily scurried across the room and returned with a glass of water. Caitlyn took a breath at the small reprieve.
He motioned her to sit up, reaching to her face and tapping her lips gently.
A few days ago, Caitlyn would have slapped his hand away, or bit his fingers in defiance.
But she realized, she wasn’t the same person she was when she first woke up in that room.
Sighing and nodding, she opened her mouth, more out of instinct than actual obedience.
He held the glass to her lips, using his other hand to rub her back as she drank. As much as she hated it, she needed the hydration, as her mouth and body were parched.
After finishing, the Yordle then set the glass down and lay beside her as he gently pushed her to lay down on her back again.
He then took a step closer, leaned down and pressed his face into her shoulder again.
His fingers began to trace lazy circles around her navel as his breathing grew heavier.
“Stop,” she whispered. But she was sure it was so inaudible that the Yordle didn’t hear.
Not that he would have cared. Or stopped.
He just chirped. He continued for a few moments longer before leaning in to the side of her face.
Then he kissed her ear.
She stared at the ceiling, lips dry.
Her body ached—not just from the dancing, the bathings, the shocks—but from being touched like this… over and over again.
‘I was Caitlyn Kiramman.
I was an Enforcer. I had a job. A title. Purpose.
Now?
What am I?’
As those questions plagued her thoughts, the yordle nuzzled into her side, purring like a pet who’d found its favourite pillow.
He kissed her shoulder again.
And his hand wandered between her thighs once more.
Now I’m a toy. A doll. A thing he feeds, washes, and uses.
He doesn’t know what I used to be. It didn’t matter.
He just knows that I dance. I strip. And I lie still.
She closed her eyes.
Not from peace.
But because fighting took energy.
And she began to realize how little she had left.
The Next Day: 
Caitlyn woke up alone.
For a moment, she thought maybe it had all been a dream — the music, the sponge, the slick hands and wet kisses.
Then she sat up.
And saw the corner.
It hadn’t been there yesterday.
It was a padded area — all soft foam tiles and pillows in various shades of pastel colours, light blue, pink, white and yellow — and cordoned off from the rest of the room with a low plastic white coloured fence.
Inside the ‘playpen’ were stuffed animals, cushions shaped like stars and hearts, a white blanket embroidered with picture of pink and pastel blue flowers, and a small platform with a pink cloth backdrop.
There were props too, she realized as she looked on, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing. There was a toy teacup in soft pink, a plastic brush in matching pink, and what looked like a flower crown.
As her gaze swept the area, she then saw, sitting on a small pink chair, the yordle.
Waiting.
Beaming. She could see him fidgeting with excitement as he waved at her, causing her stomach to churn.
Behind him, the camera sat ready.
He waved her over with both arms.
She slowly propped herself up on an elbow and then stood up to move — not because she wanted to, but because not moving meant punishment.
She stepped over the low fence into the toy corner.
The foam mats were warm. Soft. A false comfort.
The yordle guided her by the wrist to sit down onto a plastic chair that seemed tailored for a human adult. Then he gestured for her to sit with her legs folded, hands in her lap, and her back straight.
He tilted her head with both hands, clapping happily before turning to get the camera behind him. He walked towards her, and again reached to her, tilting her head slightly once more.
Then the Yordle stepped back.
Click. Flash. Whirr.
He squealed.
Then he repositioned her legs — apart this time, almost 90 degrees apart. He then gestured for her to lift one arm. And took her other hand, and placed it so that she was cupping her breast.
Click.
Another photo.
He posed her again. This time, she was kneeling, hands behind her back. Then on all fours. Then curled up beside a teddy bear. Then hugging the teddy bear while sitting cross legged.
Click. Click. Click.
Caitlyn didn’t speak. Because she didn’t have the energy.
Just let herself be moved.
I’m just a doll now, she thought.
Not even a person. A toy. A thing to dress, pose, and put away.
After a dozen pictures, the yordle dropped the camera.
He scampered forward.
And crawled into her lap as she was made to sit back on the chair again.
And then began kissing her again.
Softly at first. Her neck. Her collarbone.
Then lower — her breasts, her thighs.
He licked her hip.
Nuzzled her side.
His breath was hot. His hands small but eager, gliding across her belly and back, petting her like a favourite stuffed animal.
She tried to look away, and then closed her eyes, hoping she could ignore what was happening.
Meanwhile, the Yordle giggled happily.
He leaned in to lick between her legs — one sloppy, lingering stroke. He then followed that up, with a quick kiss that caused her to just barely suppress a spasm.
He’s not just playing anymore, Caitlyn thought.
He’s worshipping me. Like I’m his possession.
He then leaned up and kissed her cheek. Then her other cheek. And then her lips — wet, imprecise.
Then he slowly stood.
He held the camera out at arm’s length.
And then turned it.
He pulled her close. With her sitting and him standing, they were at almost the same head level.
He then took a picture.
The two of them together.
She didn’t smile.
He did.
Tongue out. Eyes gleaming.
Then he gently took her by the hand, and walked her over to the pile of pillows and gently pulled her down, gesturing for her to lie down on them. After she did so, he stroked her hair, and patted her head twice. He then waved to her, as he walked with a happy jump to his step, Turning off the lights as he left the room.
Caitlyn tried to stay awaked in the darkened room, but found she couldn’t. One, because she was exhausted, and two, because… she wasn’t sure what the point would be anymore. She let the sleep take her.
The next day.
She must have been so exhausted that she didn’t notice what happened when she slept.
Because she woke up already dressed.
The yordle had dressed her in an immaculate lace and silk wedding dress while she slept, pinning her straight blue hair with a white silk ribbon, and placing a veil over her face. As she looked down to inspect herself, she saw that certain parts of the dress were a white mesh, allowing some of her skin to be seen. The opening of the dress had a large slip up its side, revealing enough for her to see that, along one white stocking, was a thin white and pink garter that clung to one thigh.
She looked around at the ‘playpen’, and saw that the Yordle had decorated it. A white carpet rolled how out beneath the padded mats. Pink plastic roses were taped to the white picket fence. Pink and pastel blue paper hearts strung overhead. And in the centre of the area, a small, glittering ring box, resting on a plush pink pillow.
The yordle stood beside it, bouncing on his feet, goggles reflecting the overhead light. Caitlyn saw that he had a white bow tie.
Caitlyn wanted to move. To run. To do… something. But she couldn’t. All she could do was close her eyes as if to try and compose herself, brace herself, for whatever the Yordle had in mind, and then, after a few seconds, she opened them.
And when she did, he clapped.
And ran to her.
He took her hand and pulled her down gently to a kneeling position on the plush carpet.
He placed a plastic tiara on her head.
Then he stood on tiptoe.
And, removing the veil and tossing it aside, kissed her forehead.
Then her cheek.
Then her other cheek.
Then her lips.
Quick.
Then slower.
Then again.
And again.
It’s not a ceremony, Caitlyn thought.
It’s a ritual. A branding. Of me.
He then backed up and grabbed the camera.
He snapped five photos in rapid succession. He turned it towards them as he leaned in to kiss her again.
Each kiss had to be documented.
And it was.
After the last kisses, the Yordle grabbed something from his pockets and threw it up in the air around them. It took Caitlyn a moment to realize that it was meant to be confetti.
There were no vows. Not that there needed to be. He didn’t need them. For him. Or from her.
He reached up and grabbed her hand, pulling her onto the nest of pillows, laying her on her back, and crawled on top of her, but not before tossing away the tiara, and the pins that held Caitlyn’s hair up, letting it fall naturally. Then he lay down on top of her.
Not forcefully.
Almost… sweetly.
He curled into her chest.
His face rested against her breast, and his stubby arms wrapped tight around her ribs.
His breathing slowed.
He was using her as a pillow.
A bride-shaped, human-sized pillow.
He nuzzled her. Kissed her chest once. He then inched up and kissed her collarbones.
He inched up more and kissed her jawline. Then kissed along her jaw, up to her ear.
Then he kissed his way back—slowly— to her lips again.
Again.
And again.
His tongue brushed her mouth this time.
Caitlyn didn’t flinch. Didn’t fight back.
She didn’t move, as much as her body was trying to will her to.
She just stayed silent, her limbs laying limp beneath him as he continued his exploration of her.
One hand rested on his back, not holding—she just left it there because lifting it away would have required effort and could have resulted in another shock.
As his kisses continued on her face, he whispered something unintelligible.
Then he licked her cheek.
Then he kissed her eyelid.
She closed her eyes.
‘I’m not even the bride, she thought.
I’m just an item he won.’
He kissed her lips again and again, giggling as he did so.
Then, seemingly content for the moment, he sighed with deep satisfaction, and curled up tighter into her.
Before drifting into his usual post-play drowsiness, he reached for the camera and positioned it next to them.
He set it to what Caitlyn realized must have been some kind of timer.
He then turned to her, and held her face in both furry hands.
And pressed one long, wet kiss to her lips. She wanted to fight it, to press her lips together, but instead, she sighed and let her jaw relax, allowing him to kiss her with no resistance.
The camera clicked.
Capturing them locked together in a kiss. A kiss on their ‘wedding’ day.
And then he whispered something happy but unintelligible before dozing off against her skin. As much as she wanted to stay awake and be conscious with her thoughts, she soon fell asleep as well, with the Yordle wrapped around her.
The lights never dimmed.
And the wedding dress never came off.
Caitlyn spent the day as his bride — not walking, not speaking — simply being. He didn’t let her dress in anything else. He didn’t let her leave the toy corner. It was her home.
He wouldn’t let her feed herself. He fed her from his hand, and delicately wiped her mouth with a towel like she was fragile porcelain.
He’d crawl into her lap, rest his head between her breasts, and say nothing.
But he kissed her.
Constantly.
Her cheeks, her neck, her lips — quick, clumsy kisses, again and again, as if affirming something only he believed.
Each time she turned away, he’d just follow, clinging tighter, as if telling her she was his wife and that what they were doing was normal.
Eventually, after hours of curling, nuzzling, and childish giggling, the yordle stood, a different expression in his mannerisms. He seemed more… excited.
His hands trembling, he reached up with both paws and grabbed the strings of the dress at her chest.
He pulled gently.
The fabric slid off one shoulder.
Then the other.
He tugged the tiara from her hair and tossed it aside, then began unfastening the back of the bridal mesh with fumbling, eager fingers.
Caitlyn blinked. Some echo of who she was tried to cry out, to compel her to do something. And for the first time in hours, no, in days, she said something.
“Don’t,” she murmured.
He looked up at her with wide, glassy eyes. Then leaned in and kissed her lips again.
“Stop,” she whispered.
He kissed her again. This time lower — her collarbone. Her chest. His hands trembled.
She tried to lift her arm to stop him, but then saw him reach into his suit pocket to produce the all too familiar device for the collar she’d almost forgotten and never left her neck.
So she stopped. And didn’t try to stop him again. But she still tried to reason with him.
Taking a breath, she exhaled slowly as she said in a soft voice, almost pleading.
“Listen to me,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “I’m not your wife. I didn’t agree to this. To any of this. I had a name. I had a job. I was… I was someone.”
The yordle looked up from where he was tugging the lace down her waist.
He paused.
Stared at her.
Then wrapped his arms around her middle and pressed his face into her stomach, hugging tight.
“Stop it,” she said, firmer. “You can’t just pretend this is real. You can’t just—”
He kissed her stomach through the silk dress.
Then her side.
Then pulled her fully down onto the pillows and climbed over her, straddling her hips, holding her face between his small hands.
And kissed her again.
Soft.
Slow.
Repetitive.
Many times.
Too many times.
She closed her eyes as he began undressing her. This time, without her protest.
He saved her stockings for last, removing everything from her bra and panties and arm sleeves to her dress first.
He then pulled the stockings off, exposing her milky white porcelain skin.
Now she was naked again. He exhaled in satisfaction, and curled up on top of her.
Pressing himself to her body like a blanket.
One hand on her breast, the other between her thighs — not exploring. Just… resting.
He crawled up her body and kissed her lips again.
And again.
And again.
Her breathing slowed.
Not from calm.
But from knowing there was nothing else left to do.
‘I used to walk in sunlight’, she thought.
‘I had a voice. A badge. And was respected.
‘Now I’m a body belonging to this creature who won’t stop touching me.
And I’m too tired to scream. And too tired to fight, anymore.’
The light never changed in the room, as there were no windows, only mirrors, reflecting her. Or what she’d become.
There was no way Caitlyn could tell what time of the day it was, but somehow, she knew it was morning.
She could feel it in her body. There was that dull stiffness after hours of sleep, and the stiffness of her neck from being in one position too long. She also knew she wasn’t alone.
She didn’t need to open her eyes to know he was there.
She could already feel him wrapped around her, his face buried in her neck, lips brushing her collarbone in small, wet kisses.
His hand rested between her breasts, like it had all night.
When she finally blinked, the ceiling greeted her again. It was a dark read, just like yesterday. And the day before that.
The next day.
He stirred as she shifted. Somehow, he could sense she was awake.
And like always, he started kissing her.
Not out of passion. Not with urgency. Just out of habit.
One kiss to her chin.
One to her cheek.
Another one on her closed eyelid.
A fourth one, just beside her lips, before finally settling into a long, sticky one on her lips. One that lingered too long.
She didn’t kiss him back.
But she also didn’t pull away.
She just waited for it to be over.
The routine of dancing had changed. Or rather, was now gone.
Because he never asked her to get dressed anymore.
No dance. No music. No dresses.
Just her. Naked. Always. Either laying down on the pillows, or moving slowly within the room or the fences, wherever he gestured.
He’d tug at her arm if he wanted her to sit down. He’d guide her gently by the wrist if he wanted her to bathe.
And she let him.
Because fighting meant punishment.
And she was too tired to fight anymore.
Silence was survival.
The baths were no just longer a daily occurrence she had to endure.
Because now… he bathed her three times a day.
And she knew… it wasn’t just to clean. But to touch. To kiss. To be as close to her as he could be. And to explore, and re-explore, every inch of her.
She no longer sat at the edge of the room.
Now, she sat on a pillow beside him during meals. She was rarely allowed to eat on her own. because he’d hand-feed her fruits, wipe her lips, and clap when she swallowed.
And after that, he’d lay across her lap and ask for her hand to pet him on his head.
She never said yes. But she just did it anyways. Without resistance.
She used to dream of escape.
Used to imagine her hands around the collar’s clasp, or running through a half-open door to freedom.
But now?
She couldn’t remember how long it had been.
She didn’t dream of being free anymore.
She didn’t dream of being Caitlyn.
Because she was finding it harder and harder… to remember who that was.
The next morning she woke, and noticed something different when she looked around.
The costume rack was gone.
No velvet curtain.
No plastic heels. No corsets or lace. No toys.
Just the room.
Just the padding. The lights. The ever-present warmth.
And him.
The yordle was curled at her side, one arm across her stomach, head pressed into her ribs, breathing softly. His fingers idly traced her hip. Not searching. Just… reminding her he was there.
She looked toward the far wall.
Where’s the camera?
Gone.
No stage.
No click. No flash. No timer.
And then it hit her.
There’s nothing to put on because… he didn't want her to wear anything anymore.
He stirred soon after.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t clap.
Just sat up beside her and leaned down to kiss her flat stomach — once, then twice. Then laid back down on her lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His hands rested across her thighs. His lips pressed lazily to her hip.
No music played.
No sponge was fetched.
But she knew: a bath would come later. It always did.
She soon realized:
‘He doesn’t want the performance anymore.
He doesn’t want the dancing. Or the striping.
He just wants me.’
Constantly naked. Constantly available. Constantly his.
No fabric between her skin and his touch.
No layers to peel away.
Because she had nothing left to hide.
As those thoughts passed through her mind, the Yordle kissed her breasts again, sucking on her nipples gently, and then kissed her shoulders. She suppressed a shiver, but she knew the Yordle could tell there was some faint flinching, which always seemed to arouse him even more.
Then he curled up once more, with his arms wrapping themselves around her as if she were a blanket.
‘This is the rest of my life, she thought.
Just… this. Every day. Every night.’
Naked.
Kissed.
Held.
Owned.
And him?
He kissed her neck again.
Then settled in with a sigh, as if finally, her— their, performance, was finally over.
And the curtain would never rise again.
The next morning.
Caitlyn stirred beneath the soft weight of Yordle.
The Yordle lay on her chest, lips occasionally brushing her skin in lazy kisses. One hand rested on her side, the other clutched her breast loosely, not even moving.
She blinked at the ceiling.
No stage.
No lights.
No command.
Only his breath.
And his touch.
He shifted, nuzzled into her ribs, and let out a quiet, satisfied chirp.
Then he reached up.
Two small fingers found the collar clasp at her throat. She could feel him fumbling, as if pressing something into the collar.
Something clicked.
So small a sound, Caitlyn barely registered it.
But the weight that followed—the absence of the metal ring, the way air brushed her neck—that, she felt.
The yordle had kissed the part of her neck where the collar had rested.
No fanfare. No ceremony.
A part of Caitlyn felt she should have felt something at the removal of the collar. But another part of her knew better, why she didn’t.
Because it was more than just a quiet gesture of victory from the Yordle.
It was him telling her she didn’t need it anymore.
Because he knew she wouldn’t run.
Because she wouldn’t know where to run to.
And because she wasn’t the same person she was when he… when he ‘won’ her.
As she contemplated the hollowness of the collar being removed, the Yordle took her hand after bathing her, and led her around the space.
Bare feet on padded flooring. Unclothed body bathed and patted dry, yet again, gleaming under the warm artificial lights.
She didn’t flinch when his hand reached up to touch her rear or her thighs.
And she didn’t react when he gently pulled her by the wrist to make her crouch, so that he could cup her breasts, or brush her hip with his hand as they paused near the wall.
He pointed at a picture drawn in crayon on the wall —a house, a tree, a crooked figure with a heart above its head. Curiosity would have made her try to analyze who the figure could have been, but it was so hard for her to focus on anything other than trying to endure the Yordle’s touches.
He squeaked happily, pressing his head to her side as she was crouched to be at his level.
He then leaned down and kissed the middle of her stomach.
And did so again.
She didn’t stop him.
‘This is what I am now.
Toured. Touched. Kissed. Kept.’
She felt like a pet, being walked around the room in the nude. He then walked her over to the mat and made her sit beside him while he ate.
Between bites, he kissed her shoulder.
Then licked a smear of syrup from her thigh.
He fed her slowly with his fingers, humming softly while she chewed in silence.
His hand never left her leg.
The next bath was longer.
The sponge slower.
He washed every part of her with tender, circular motions, but lingered over her arms, her chest, her hips.
Not out of lust. Not yet. And she realized why.
It was because he was treating her as if she were something valuable.
A priceless vase he needed to polish.
He rinsed her in soft pours of warm water, then kissed each part anew.
Knees. Ankles. Feet. Between her shoulders.
Caitlyn closed her eyes.
She would have fought this before. Her muscles would have tensed. She would have reacted.
But now her body just… accepted it.
Shortly afterwards, she sat back down with her legs folded and her skin bare, still wet from rinsing.
She looked down at herself.
Not in shame.
Not in fear.
Just in quiet acknowledgment of her current state. Questions began to form in her thoughts.
How long had she been like this?
A week?
A month?
Long enough that she forgot what clothes felt like. Long enough that she didn’t brace when he touched her anymore.
Long enough that being clothed would have felt wrong.
Her breasts, her stomach, her thighs—all exposed, all kissed, all touched.
There was no “getting dressed” anymore.
There was no “after.”
Just… this.
Caitlyn soon began to understand the Yordle’s behaviour.
He doesn’t want her naked to humiliate her anymore.
He wanted her like that, because that was how he saw her.
And that was how he wanted her to live.
Nude in the morning.
Nude while eating.
Nude while walking, sitting, being kissed.
Nude when held like a blanket.
Always nude. Always ready to be touched. Always his.
And as for her?
She no longer flinched from it.
She no longer searched for the uniform she once wore.
Because there was no Caitlyn the Enforcer.
Not in here.
There was just her body.
And the small hands that held it.
And the wet kisses that claimed it.
Over. And over. And over again.
Later in the day, the Yordle made her walk around the room.
Then jog.
All of it naked, and without hesitation.
He clapped gleefully as her body moved, her breasts bouncing, sweat glistening along her thighs, feet pressing softly into the warm floor.
Sometimes he’d hold her by the wrist, walking her in lazy circles.
Other times, he simply sat and watched, his eyes drinking in every movement, every sway of her hips, every line of her back.
And her?
She just moved without question.
Without shame.
Without remembering what it ever felt like to be covered.
She used to wear boots that reached above her knees.
A shirt buttoned high. Gloves. A badge.
Now she walked around naked for someone who clapped whenever she moved.
Later on, in bed, her mind wandered, as she tried to remember what it felt like to wear clothes. The press of leather, the weight of the buckles, the softness of cotton, and even the sensation of clothes clinging to sweat.
It was so hard to imagine now.
Because even the idea of a waistband or blouse felt restrictive. Unnatural.
Fake.
As those thoughts entered her mind as she lay on her back, her chest rising and falling steadily, the Yordle on her chest stirred slightly, and lazily reached down to stroke her thigh while lazily kissing the underside of her breasts.
She didn’t flinch. Or recoil.
She just accepted it.
The next morning, she got up to go the bathroom. Her only place of privacy left.
The room was silent except for the soft pitter patter of her feet as she walked on the porcelain floor towards the door of the bathroom. The room was dark, but her memory allowed her to find the door with no effort. Getting to the bathroom, she let out an exhale, feeling a small sense of comfort she hadn’t felt in, she wasn’t sure how long.
Because she was in the bathroom. The one sacred line. The one place she was allowed to be alone. Doing the one thing the Yordle had never tried to intrude on to witness.
But not anymore.
Just reaching the door and turning on the bathroom light, she turned at the sound of soft quick steps behind her. She frowned, still tired, and her eyes widened when she saw him following her, the silhouette of his small body and large pointed ears unmistakable. Before she could say anything, or ask if he wanted to use the bathroom first, the Yordle looked up at her and grinned, and then rested his small hand on her thigh to gently steer her towards the porcelain white toilet. As he followed her into the bathroom, he turned and shut the door behind them.
He then motioned for her to sit and go to the bathroom.
She felt her stomach sink and felt her skin crawl at the same time.
‘No. Not this. Please don’t…’
That was what she wanted to say. This was her one sanctuary where she had solitude. Her last bit of dignity. But the Yordle was undeterred. She swallowed, and slowly turned to sit on the toilet seat. As she did so, the Yordle drew closer and placed one hand on her thigh, stroking it slowly. He then used his other hand to pat her on the head and stroke her hair. He let out a soft coo as he did so. He then leaned up and kissed her sloppily on her check. Then motioned for her to continue. She wanted to protest. Wanted to say it was too much. That despite everything she had relented to, this had to be the one thing she still could have. But the Yordle’s impassive face, his glee and enthusiastic hands told her it would be a fruitless venture. So she stayed silent, and used the bathroom.
While he watched.
While he stroked her thigh and back as he kissed her.
While he kissed her knee, and gently grasped her ankle, raising her lower leg to massage and kiss her feet, one at a time, before setting them down. All the while, Caitlyn tried not to react, but was shaking inside.
After she finished, he motioned her to get up, and then made the familiar gesture for her to get on all fours. She did so with no emotion. The Yordle then used a bucket of water in the corner, and with soapy water, washed and wiped her clean. Not like a caretaker, but like someone who did not believe she needed any privacy anymore. And maybe he was right.
Because she didn’t cry, or shout out in anger, or shiver, or flinch. The outrage and indignity had been all but extinguished from her. After he finished, he motioned for her to get up and flush the toilet. As she did so, he clapped and kissed her thigh, and led her by the hand back to bed. She looked back at the bathroom door as she was led to the pillows again, and thought to herself:
That was the last vestige of privacy she had. And now it belonged to him as well.
She said nothing as he gently pulled her down to the pillows and covered her body with sloppy kisses before nestling his head just under her chin, one arm cupping her breast, the other underneath her. She sighed and let herself drift off to sleep.
The next morning, she was awoken by the Yordle, who excitedly pulled her by the wrist to get up and follow him, jumping with glee as he did so. Caitlyn’s feelings of weariness and the memory of her last vestiges of privacy and dignity being removed was momentarily eclipsed by her curiosity at what the Yordle wanted now.
The yordle pulled at her wrist, guiding her toward a new section of the room. One with something tall. Something covered by a purple drape.
The Yordle pulled the drape off, revealing what it was covering.
A full-length mirror. It’s frame immaculate with dark wood and gold trim.
Tall. Wide. Unforgiving.
She froze as she saw herself.
Her toned porcelain body, her breasts and sex exposed and her hair down, parted to one side.
Her skin wasn’t bruised. Or scarred. Or marred by hickeys. But Caitlyn felt like she could see every area, every inch of her body that had been… touched.
Tended to.
As she stared at the sight of herself, the Yordle pressed himself to her side, arms around her leg, hugging her as if she were a pet.
The Yordle then leaned forward and kissed her inner thigh, watching her reflection as he did.
She watched too. He kept kissing her, each kiss becoming more sloppy. More enthusiastic.
He then pulled her gently down into a kneeling pose, her knees open, arms hanging limp.
He proceeded to kiss her stomach.
Then her breasts. One at a time. Giggling as he squeezed and fondled each one.
Then, finally, her face.
Softly. Slowly.
Like each kiss marked her as his signature. Caitlyn’s mind wandered back to what her life used to be.
She used to wear a uniform.
Now she wore nothing.
She used to have privacy.
Now she had only mirrors and him.
But she didn’t look away in shame.
Because there was nothing left to cover. Or hide.
The next morning, the Yordle got up, and after getting her to get up, said something unintelligible while he gestured upwards with both arms.
It took a moment for Caitlyn to realize what he wanted.
He wanted her to carry him.
Wordlessly, she bent down to pick up the Yordle and position him on her hip, with his stubby arms draped over her shoulders and neck. She then stood and straightened.
The Yordle giggled and motioned for her to walk him around the room. She suppressed a sigh, and without voicing a yes, or even a nod, began walking to where he was pointing. As she walked, he giggled again and began kissing her, first on her cheek, then her neck, then her collarbone. His hands also began to wander, one cupping her breast while the other stroked her hair. He periodically pulled one hand away to point her to another part of the room that he wanted her to walk him to, which she did wordlessly.
She didn’t stop him.
She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t flinch at his touch.
Because it didn’t feel the way it did, when he first started touching her, when it repulsed her.
Now… it felt normal.
As they walked by a mirror, Caitlyn turned and caught sight of her carrying the Yordle, feeling a swirl of emotions at the sight, and how ridiculous it looked. Or would have looked to her, before.
At first sight, it looked like she was an owner carrying their pet, but then she realized the irony of that statement, and how wrong it was.
Because she was the pet. And the Yordle was the owner.
Her owner.
Later, at the kitchen mat in the ‘playpen’, she sat cross legged, with the Yordle now on her lap.
The Yordle picked up slices of fruits from a tray, and fed her with sticky fingers, wiping her mouth, and kissing her cheek between bits while she said nothing.
She chewed without tasting or reacting to the kisses.
When the meal was done, the Yordle kissed her softly and curled up in her arms, resting his head against her chest.
But not like a lover or protector.
Like a child clinging to something warm. The irony being, the Yordle was likely centuries old. But did that matter? She decided, it didn’t.
And as for her?
She held him without resisting or saying anything.
Because that was what she did now. That was all she did.
The next day came, but it was no different than any other.
And mornings in the playpen weren’t different from any other, either.
There was no clock. No news reports on activities. No day or night.
Only light.
Only warmth.
Only him.
Caitlyn walked the playpen and room barefoot, arms loosely at her sides, her back and posture still straight, as if subconsciously trying to retain some elements of her past life as an Enforcer, and letting the rhythm of her steps carry her. She didn’t think. She didn’t try to track time. What was the point? She didn’t feel shame at the way her bare body moved. Or, in how he watched her.
Because this was what she did now.
She walked.
She let him hold her hand when he offered it.
She let him pull her down and kiss her neck when they passed the wall.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t react.
She hadn’t. And the times when she did, seemed like a distant memory that faded with each passing day.
Later on, as they were walking around the room, the Yordle stopped and looked up, causing her to do the same.
“Up,” he chirped, at least, that’s what it sounded like as he patted her thigh, pointing to the corner of the ceiling.
He wanted her to jump and try to touch the ceiling.
She looked at the spot, then down at him. He was smiling, bouncing gently on his feet like a child waiting for a game to begin.
She was taller, stronger, fully grown. But it didn’t matter.
What mattered was what he wanted.
So, taking a quiet breath, she bent down at the knees and crouched.
Then jumped.
Not high. Not with effort.
She couldn’t quite touch the ceiling as she landed softly, her blue hair falling at her sides and her breasts bouncing as she did so.
But he clapped anyway, delighted.
Then tugged at her hand to make her do it again.
And she did.
Not because it meant anything.
But because it was what he wanted.
Later at the feeding mat, she knelt with her legs folded beneath her and her back straight, and let him place food in her mouth.
Sticky fruit. Soft bread. Warm broth.
Sometimes he kissed her after each bite. Sometimes he laid his head in her lap, stroking her side.
He then wiped her mouth with his sleeve.
Then kissed her collarbone.
And she let him.
Because it was what he wanted.
When it was time, he led her to the mattress.
They curled together like they always did. His head rested on her stomach, and his arms were clinging around her middle, one hand brushing the underside of her breast.
Almost mechanically, she placed a hand lightly over his shoulder and stared at the ceiling.
The lights never turned off. At least, not fully. The Yordle seemed to want them to stay on a lower setting, as if wanting to be able to see her better all the time.
The Yordle soon fell asleep, but Caitlyn stayed awake. For some reason, her thoughts went back to that night.
The night her investigation took her to the brothel.
The night she ended up in the booth.
She didn’t shudder, or feel the same anger at the events that got her to where she was.
Instead, she thought of the booth. And what it meant. Or represented.
The glass. The collar. And the uniform.
She thought to herself:
Was that really her?
Was that uniform real?
Was she ever really an Enforcer?
Or was it just a costume she wore to pretend that she was, until someone finally saw through it?
She thought of herself now.
Naked.
Always touched.
Always obeying.
And wondered…
Maybe the uniform was the lie.
Maybe she was never an Enforcer.
Maybe that’s why she was never taken seriously.
Maybe this… was what she was meant to be.
As she thought this, the Yordle stirred on top of her. 
He pressed his lips to her side and hummed softly.
She closed her eyes.
The hum vibrated through her skin.
The light never dimmed.
It pressed soft and constant against the room’s pale walls, glinting faintly on her bare porcelain skin.
Caitlyn lay still on her back atop the pillows, the Yordle on her chest, his hands lightly stroking her thigh and hip as if afraid she might vanish.
He kissed her flat tummy. Letting his tongue draw circles over her navel before kissing his way upwards.
To her breasts.
Then the inside of her arm.
But she didn’t move.
She didn’t flinch.
She just watched him.
He continued kissing her, working his way from her arms to her shoulders. As his lips touched her collarbone, he craned his neck up to look at her, as if curious why she wasn’t reacting, or flinching. Even when she fought the urge to flinch, the Yordle could still sense the tension, but now….
They locked eyes for a moment. Caitlyn’s blue eyes to the goggles of the Yordle.
For a few moments, they remained still, Caitlyn on her back, her arms limp, her legs apart, her head propped up on a pillow, just enough that she could look down at the Yordle who’d been kissing his way up to her. They just seemed to stare at each other in the darkened room.
She could have looked away.
She could have turned her head.
But she didn’t.
Instead, after a few moments of silence, she took a breath, as if to compose herself, and said in a soft whisper, one that seemed calming and reassuring, but was more one of resignation, or was it acceptance:
“It’s okay.”
The Yordle seemed puzzled for a moment, but then, a smile grew on his face, as he nodded and resumed his kissing, sloppier, and with more enthusiasm, not realizing, when she said “it’s okay”, Caitlyn wasn’t saying it to him…
…so much as she was saying it to herself.
The yordle chirped softly and kissed his way up to her neck, chin, jaw and cheeks.
And then, her lips.
But she didn’t pull away.
She just closed her eyes.
And let him continue.
Because it was what he wanted.
And as her gaze went from the darkened room, the play pen and pillows, to the Yordle who was laying on top of her, planting sloppy kisses all over her face, she realized that this… was her home now. She wasn’t sure what the Yordle wanted to do tomorrow, or the day after, but she realized, it no longer mattered. The Yordle who bought her, the one who ‘won’ her, no longer needed the collar to control her. To make her do what he wanted. And a part of her wondered why. Did it have to do with her previous life? When she was an Enforcer?
Assuming she ever truly was an Enforcer. For some reason, she wasn’t sure if that was it. Or if it was something else.
But for now, all that mattered was that she did whatever the Yordle wanted in that room. As the Yordle’s kisses worked their way down to her breasts before ending at her navel, he slowly drifted off to sleep. Caitlyn looked down at the Yordle on her lap, and tried to make sense of the last few days, what it meant for her, but her exhaustion, both physical and mental, won out, and she soon joined the Yordle in sleep, reasoning that it didn’t matter, as that room and playpen were her new home now.
What she didn’t realize, was that the Yordle had plans for tomorrow. Plans that would involve them leaving the room to partake in even more fun...activities.
To be continued?
- 6
- 7
- 8
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The undercity's gonna eat you alive