I can only lay breathlessly on my back, drifting weightlessly save for that which holds me firm to muddy ground. Her presence is overbearing, fraying thought all over the beaten dirt that has been pounded with rain. I'm wet, a coldness I no longer feel that yet grips my shivering form. I'm wet, a warmth I no longer have the luxury of denying exists, mocking me beneath my faulds. If I'm to wake with only a cold come morning, I won't be laced with half as much regret as I suspect I'll face. Should I be permitted to wake and think and speak, this mass of killing flesh that masquerades as Manderholt will surely do her country proud and take her captors with her into the halls of death. 

That merciless gaze unravels me still, coaxing surrender in its silent judgement. Weighing my worthless character and ruling me undeserving of thought as it strips my dignity in slicing strokes.  Her gaze turns downwards and I feel it cut across my chin and threaten to sever my head. So swiftly it'd outpace my next blink, I know I'd be dead before my face met the mud.

"Captain Manderholt." I can't speak, for the voice of her. She smirks and I can't emote for she locks it all away with fear. "You make for quite the comfortable seat, though all this muscle could be softened some to make nicer cushion." Her cloying words assault the senses as fiercely as her subjugators twisted my army into servitude. I think, distantly I think, that I might be all that's left. I think, but the thoughts come slow and tired. I've lost haven't I? Why think, when their comforts are the only thing that can spare me?

I can't think, for the draw of her. A part of me would love to be her softened chair, a piece of furniture just as devoted to the role as it once was in leading men to battle. Manderholt's are used to fighting, and winning, battles against other fighters. Not this seductive sorcery that has me small and unworthy to lead, sat upon by a her who doesn't fight with hands but hexes. My head, oh my head, make it hers. A desperate chant that never touches my lips. When this battle began, all of twenty minutes prior, I said much the opposite. 

"Her head, make it mine! I believe those were the words, my comfortably captive captain. Oh yes, we can read your mortal minds with our magic. This resistance is admirable, you've outlasted all who you outrank so there's nothing left to prove. Time to give it up, dear captain." Dulcet tones dismantle my lingering duty, awe beginning to surface on the face that no longer answers to its owner. My body has a new leader now, one who won't make me fight for callous cause. The teeth of tyranny that bite this land and make me answer their screeching call no longer reach. In the face of my ill-fated fight, perhaps being a chair is a higher calling after all...

No! I can't give in, for the pride I hate. 

"Oh don't worry, silly woman. It'll be the very first thing we free you of. Here, a taste of Fey magic up close this time. Don't struggle, if I miscast I could boil your blood or worse, make you into a man. Then you really would be miscast!" A flutter of laughter from the creatures littering the battlefield, who have already reshaped my men into something more suited to their sapphic taste. I'd laugh too, were it not for the dread of her. I'll become something new and inhuman soon, it's a fear of fantasy that whips my hope with wicked whimsy. Cruel magic I timidly invite, wanting to be rid of flesh and mind and consequence. No longer will I fight, this much was certain when military battles stopped making sense. When steel blades turned into toys to be tittered at by the fluttering fairyfolk. When war became their playground.

The thing atop me continues to giggle at my pretend plight, both of us knowing how happily unmade I'll be come the weaving of her spell. As she sits up, I finally see more than just that sharp face that almost decapitated me with its black look. Such inhuman features, untouchable to our instruments of death, luminous skin that beckons and blinds. "That's right, my Manderholt, gaze upon the true form of lust and be consumed. I make meals of wanton women like yourself, too devoted to their petty crusades to see to that weeping wetness down below." Nails long and sharp dance down to my crotch and I lift it with what little purchase I find. Forget pride, I need relief. If she wasn't right, it wouldn't feel so wrong to deny her. As her fingers plunge into my sex and lay claim to my sensitive clitoris, the Fey subjugator lunges down with those myriad wings impaling the ground around me in sharp, intimidating thuds. Translucent wings surround us in a cocoon of helpless pleasure and guilt-free submission that siphons pride away bead by bead. When the rain pitter patters onto those huge, curved wings and rolls down onto the mud, the light rays bouncing off of them create a swirling rainbow like you'd see in spilt oil on days like these. 

My eyes are dazzled by the array of light and colour while the Fey grabs handful of my face to better tilt it towards those mesmerising patterns. Nails press into my cheeks and the pain makes me meek and subservient, her sharp teeth tearing though the straps of my breastplate and relieving me of the armour impressively hands-free. My chest is sweltering hot despite this biting cold, encased in thick padding and steel all day and bearing my futile exertion. A face buries into my breasts and makes a home in them, fingers curling inside of me as the pretty moving patterns carry me away to pleasures unknown. 

I'll be just another broken toy for the fairies soon, god knows I deserve it. My readiness to please will be an act of reparation, my vaunted family name smeared against loving lips. Nothing left but gratitude and pleasure, Manderholt meaning little more than a displeasing arrangement of sounds I'd sooner replace with the throes of another climax. Again and again I'll hit that edge, a razor's edge that severs all I once was from the feytouched slut I've become.

I can't feel shame, for the lack of me.