Work Text:
The Enchantress had not endured confinement for millennia to discover her religion vanished in the sands of time. Humankind has forgotten she had once been their idol, a deity owed great respect, for she had guarded their settlements from predators, illness and drought. Under her protection, their crops had flourished and their people had enjoyed a life of plenty.
The sacrifices she had requested as recompense had been a trifle in comparison. A share of their first harvest, prayers in her name and that of her brother, a beautiful young girl to act as her vessel until such time as the Enchantress chose to discard her in favor of a younger, more beautiful one.
Being chosen as her medium had once been considered an honor beyond measure and temples had been dedicated to the schooling of maidens who would enter into her service. She had but pick one.
Those days were a part of dim history now, yet they could return.
The Enchantress has regained the power to lay the foundation of a new era.
"Isn't it beautiful?" she asks without turning from her view over the city she has conquered.
The tinkling of fine chains announced the appearance of her newest disciple. The child's attire is a sheer dress adorned with charms, the like of which the Enchantress herself had worn upon her first manifestation in this world, after her long slumber. The child's bare feet make no sound on the cold marble.
Fretting her lower lip, she frowns at the gray wasteland beyond the tower the Enchantress had chosen as her new temple. It does not compare to the temple complex that was once dedicated to her, yet is is acceptable until these children construct one much grander for her to reside in, with wide, open walls and a garden for her to stroll through.
Ceiling-high windows will serve as an inferior substitute for now. Anything so as not to seem a prison.
When the Enchantress turns from the view of her domain, she startles an undignified squeak from the child. Quickly, she sinks to one knee, rattling the wine pitcher on the tray she is bearing. The Enchantress relishes this reaction. Her presence can be overwhelming.
"Yeah, mistress, it sure is a sight."
The Enchantress refills her goblet with the poison-dark liquid and runs her fingers over the child's head. She has not been in her service for long, yet she is determined to prove her worth.
It is that or regretting the choice of trading in her freedom so her lover be returned to her. Her love for him had been stronger than the newly forged bonds with that band of miscreants she had associated with. The Enchantress commends such devotion, having once known it for her brother before these children ripped him from her so violently.
In her grief, she had often lashed out at the child for her complicity.
Her eyes are big and hurt when the Enchantress would strike her, as though wondering which of her actions had invited such punishment. She acquiesces quickly every time, accepting any abuse of her flesh as penance for the consequences her decision entailed.
With the child's aid, the Enchantress had enslaved the world, beginning with the child's former comrades, and had continued to rain destruction upon those who dared defy her.
The child's arms are beginning to tremble when the Enchantress caresses the dark green collar encircling her neck. It is a mark of ownership and of trust; the Enchantress would not break her servants unless they displeased her continually.
And she has grown rather fond of this child, so willing to please as she is. She sucks in a small gasp as the Enchantress hooks her finger over her collar, lightly scratching the skin of her throat. The child's pulse beats strong against her own skin.
A flash of pain punctures her ribs and she clutches her chest in agony. She staggers, tugging the child on her collar. A loud crash follows, liquid and splinters brushing her legs.
The child is by her side to lend her support, but every touch is akin to a thousand needles. The Enchantress pushes her away.
The pain vanishes as quickly as it came. Panting, the Enchantress realizes it was but a memory, a relic from the time she herself had been enslaved to that human witch they called Waller. The wounds she had inflicted on her heart, the Enchantress still carries within herself.
With a growl, she kicks the child sitting beneath her, picking shards from her hands and knees.
"That was a gift from your former mistress," she says as she yanks the child up by her hair. "You will have to accept punishment in her stead."
"Y-yes, mistress," the child replies through gritted teeth. "Whatever you wish."
"Good answer," the Enchantress smiles and releases her hair again.
There lies power within freedom, she is all too aware. Thus relinquishing such freedom of one's own volition is the greatest sacrifice of all. That is why the Enchantress has been patient with this one, even though her initial insolence had strained whatever goodwill the Enchantress had been willing to extend.
She has come far since then.
Using her magic, the Enchantress strings the girl up in front of her, positioning her so that her arms would be stretched away from her body, as though chained to opposing corners of the room. That way, she would be unable to hide her face between her arms. Her heels are lifted from the floor so she would be straining to keep her balance. Droplets of wine are running down her arms in tiny rivulets, mingling with the blood beading on her cuts and continuing their journey with a richer color.
The sight makes the Enchantress hungry.
She would make a feast of her.
The girl cries out when the first lash lands upon her back, but it is surprise, not pain, that causes it. That will soon change.
"Yes," the Enchantress says and caresses the girl's chin, "cry as much as you like."
This time, she is rewarded with nothing more than a muffled grunt. Whether it is a remnant of defiance or something else will reveal itself in time.
"Let me hear how well you scream."
The Enchantress strikes her face with her open palm. There is an odd satisfaction in physical castigation, yet she prefers to watch as each lash rends a new tear into her garment. The exposed flesh beneath is turning a delectable shade of pink, the pink of a fresh scar.
She takes delight in how the girl's wrists flex against their invisible bonds with each impact, how she sways in and out of balance, as though trying to escape her punishment at the same time as yielding to it.
The first sight of blood on the girl's back satisfies a primal lust the Enchantress harbors, and a determination to decorate the more neglected areas of her skin consumes her. The girl's screams rise in pitch when next lashes strike the soft skin of her inner thighs or the underside of her breasts.
The flimsy fabric of her dress gathers in shreds at her feet, no longer obstructing her gleaming pink skin from the Enchantress' voracious gaze.
and the Enchantress is rewarded with an unobstructed view of the girl's creamy skin. It's gleaming with sweat and the salty runnels of tears.
The girl sobs when the Enchantress lets her fingertips trail up her twitching stomach, and sobs again when another blow lands across her backside. Her strength is seeping from her bones like the sands of time.
The Enchantress caresses the glowing pink lines she has left on her skin, gathering drops of blood on her knuckles where they dilute in the salty runnels of her girl's tears. The taste of distress is an adulation to her attentions.
For the moment, she slows her strikes without losing their intensity. She cups the girl's breasts and flicks her thumb over a stiff nipple. The girl sucks in her bottom lip and her brows are drawing together, as though she is directing her entire focus to the tenderness of this new touch.
With a cruel twist to her lips, the Enchantress times one last blow with a vicious pinch to the girl's nipple. She is not disappointed. The girl screams, throwing her head back and jutting her hips forward, upsetting her balance again.
"Mmh, child," the Enchantress intones, "I can smell your excitement."
Her nails graze raised skin as she lowers her hand down to the girl's sex. She finds it swollen and throbbing, and her fingers glide easily through it.
"M-mistress!"
"Yes, child?" The Enchantress circles her fingers leisurely through the girl's essence.
"Please!"
"What, child? Would you like more of this?" she asks and teases the girl's fluttering opening.
The girl nods shakily. "Yes!" she exclaims but a scream cuts her off when the Enchantress slaps her sex.
"You were not supposed to derive pleasure from this punishment, child."
"S-sorry, mistress. Can't— help it."
The girl is shuddering and sobbing and would be shrinking back if her bonds allowed for it. Her features speak plainly of misery, yet it is not a misery born of frustration. It is a misery born of the fear of disappointing the Enchantress.
This knowledge, that the child has entrusted herself completely to her, even so far as to view her own release to be less important than pleasing her mistress, soothes some of the aching rage in the Enchantress' ancient, bleeding heart.
Brushing the sweaty locks out of the girl's tear-stained face, the Enchantress says, "Perhaps a reward would not spoil you."
A tentatively hopeful look overcomes the girl's features and she sighs softly when the Enchantress runs her fingertips up the rising welts on her inner thighs. Her core flutters as soon as it is touched, and the Enchantress teases it with featherlight touches.
The girl squirms and flinches and whines, and the Enchantress drinks in her desperation. Slackening her invisible bonds a fraction, she gathers the girl into her arms and nudges her thigh against her sex.
"Go on, child," she says to the trembling girl that dares not move without permission.
With a desperate whine, she presses her cheek into the Enchantress' neck and grinds herself against the offered thigh.
Cradling her head and murmuring encouragements, the Enchantress trails her fingers through the bloody stripes embellishing the girl's back. The girl hisses sharply, and her hips jerk and gyrate, and before long, she has found her release.
Stepping back, the Enchantress liberates her girl from her magic cuffs. She collapses onto the floor and stays where she has fallen, quivering and gasping for breath.
The Enchantress intended to leave her thus, allowing her to gather herself, but the girl reaches for her train to stall her. Despite the tremors that wrack her body, she crawls forward on her elbows and knees until her lips can rain kisses upon the arches of the Enchantress' feet to give thanks.
Endeared, the Enchantress thinks she may have yet another gift to bestow. She leans over the girl, dragging her fingers through her wounds and removing them from her body. The blemishes are gone and only the pain remains to remind her of this encounter.
"Thank you, mistress," the girl mumbles over and over, enveloping the Enchantress' wrists in her limps hands and kissing her blood-stained palm.
When she pets the girl's head, she knows herself a benevolent goddess once more.
This is how it should be. Humankind on its knees and thanking her for every morsel of attention she grants it. If this one could learn how to truly worship the Enchantress, perhaps not all hope is lost for what is left of her kind.