Captive Princess

I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh, the story, or the characters. Wish I did, though.


He used to resist, but what was the point? There were a lot of them, and only one of him. He didn’t know how many there were, because they never came all at once, and sometimes he was drugged. Now he put up with it, lying still when they told him, and moving when they gave the word.

He used the wax in the bathroom, every morning when he got up. He’d forgotten, a couple of times, and the Master always noticed. It wasn’t bad, doing it yourself. Being chained up, downstairs, while they did it for you was worse. After that, he’d shower, and put on the underwear that was left for him, pink or green, and lacy. Then he’d wait at the dressing table for the next step.

His hair was growing long now. Every morning – It was always the same ritual – they’d comb it, and curl it; brush it until it was smooth and perfect. There were sprays and gels to keep it in place, afterward. Then came the make-up. It took an hour, sometimes, getting it right, and he didn’t recognize himself in the mirror when they were done.

He’d lie in bed, waiting for what was next. Sometimes he found himself looking down at his own long, smooth legs. He and his friends used to laugh at the swimmers, at school, back home, because some of them shaved their legs for speed. What would they say, if they knew he was hairless all over now?

It was night, usually, when they came again. There’d be one or two, never the same ones, and the Master would watch them with him. They never took their clothes off; he had to do them, feeling the scratchy wool against his skin the whole time.

Who knew you could act that much like a girl? There were ways, if you squeezed your thighs together; the Master said it was just the same. He’d learned to do it, because the other choice was the hormones. He would moan and writhe, sigh sometimes, and say their names.

It was bad. He didn’t like to think about it too much, it was so bad. Sometimes he thought death would be better; then he remembered how it felt down on the rocks, when he thought the tide would take him away.

There was candy in a dish by the bed: Pink and green; everything was pink and green in this goddamn place. And there was nothing to do. No TV; no games; not even a porn magazine to pass the time. He laughed suddenly. Maybe he should go to the mirror; he could get his rocks off, looking at himself.

But there wasn’t any point, was there? He knew how he looked, pretty and dreamy-eyed, like the girl in the portraits. Maybe he could get some sleep instead; stop himself thinking about the night that was coming.

It wasn’t the times when he did the guards that were the worst. The Master came alone, sometimes. He was tender, and very affectionate, kissing every inch of skin carefully, as if it were a treasure, easily bruised. He removed the pink and green underwear, every touch very gentle, and he took his pleasure, murmuring endearments the whole time. “And he calls me Cyndia.” Keith’s stomach clenched. He buried his head under ruffly pillows and hoped for sleep, because he knew: “Tonight’s the Master’s night.”