Time to reflect

Lady Dun rests her feet on your back like a human footstool but otherwise doesn't engage with you and you're in no position to strike up conversation, gagged as you are. You're already just a thing to Lady Dun. A ****, barely worth acknowledging. ****. The word sends a thrill through you, straight to the burning need between your legs. This used to be your secret dark fantasy but now, as tightly chained as you are, it's very real. And certainly no secret. Your sex is practically flowing with anticipatory fluids, running lazily down your thigh or simply dripping to the hard wood beneath your knees. Similarly, slick drool drops periodically from your lip as the intrusive gag prevents you from closing your mouth.

You'd never imagined Laurel Dun could have been involved with the slavers, but it does make sense in hindsight. She enjoys safe travel to a lot of areas with a lot of unscrupulous sorts of business practices, and her wealth couldn't be explained by her more obvious business venture. She must have ingratiated herself with the Order as a means of maintaining rapport to avoid scrutiny, or perhaps just to keep an eye on their activity. Captain Irisa must have gotten close to discovering the truth. You just happened to wander directly into her arms. At least Irisa had fought to avoid this fate; you had gone into it willingly, driven by your perverse need for it.

Still, you know you do want this. To be a ****. A thing, used, abused, and fucked senseless by whoever was strong enough to take you from whoever owned you. It was all beyond your control, now, and probably always would be. If you know nothing else of Laurel Dun, it's that she is precise and careful. You will not be granted any opportunities to escape from her, and anyone she does business with will certainly be no less prepared to keep you in your place forever.

Your place. A ****. In chains.

You chose this, but whatever happens next will be outside of your control and that thought fills you with so much anticipation that your chest aches. The mounting arousal is driving you to distraction, leaving you a pitifully squirming mess as the minutes tick by. Your knees and jaw ache and you've nothing to distract yourself with but imagined scenes of what awaits you when the carriage finally stops, and that only serves to keep you extremely hot and bothered for the entire trip, which seems to last forever.

By the time the wheels grind to a halt, you've driven yourself to the edge of desperation with a dozen fantasies of countless men taking their turns with you, or of being sold at the block, coldly examined by your disinterested betters, of being leashed naked and led through crowded places. You imagine everything from goblins to fat noblemen. Crude cages in the woods to elaborate castle dungeons. No matter what comes next; it's going to be much better than being **** to sit and wait.