Lady Beatrice was on the cot that was to have been Constance’s. The bruises on her fair skin had faded to a greenish-yellow, dappled here and there ...ith smudges of blue. She had not made any effort to care for herself since the multiple rapes, save to nibble at food and use the privy. Her dark hair was a snarled mess, she was grimy, and her gown of apple-green silk was stained and rumpled. ‘Jean-Pierre,’ Constance said, and he flinched again at the sound of her voice. ‘I had hoped to speak to. ‘What… what the fuck?’ ‘Who are you? How the fuck are you doing this?’ ‘Let us go you fucking… fuck!’ (I know originality goes out the window in stressful situations but yeesh.) I let them talk, standing in front of them and openly admiring their bodies. Eventually they run out of steam and I take the opportunity to speak. ‘Take off your clothes. Sophie first.’ Not the answer they were wanting, and not really necessary to say because my commands do not need vocal prompts. But I want them to. More

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