The Diakonos knelt before his mistress. It was natural, of course. Kneeling had become a part of his life. The Supreme Reverend Maxima no longer needed to command him to kneel prostrate and kiss her boots; she needn’t gesture nor speak to the various acolytes. They knew when to bow. Reverend Maxima was like dominion incarnate. She strutted around in high heels, clad in the dark leathers of her cult - black trimmed with red. And of course, she covered those most scintillating parts of her body - the red hair and piercing eyes - with a hood that draped over her visage. It left only her ruby lips visible to her followers.

    “Servant,” she said, addressing the Diakonos. “Remain kneeling.” Not that she needed to say it. The reverend strutted about for a moment, examining the gathered adherents before finally taking a seat - not on her throne, but on her servant. He grunted slightly. Her weight was a comfortable weight.

    “Our grand plan requires another gear. The divine machinations on which you are set are incomplete. No, not another adherent; a tool. I am afraid that there is no other choice. I know that each of you would gladly give up all that you have in order to service me… but that will not be necessary. I require only your obedience.”

    Her cult listened. The Reverend Maxima spent a few more moments letting the tension hang in the air. She wanted this to be good. She wanted all of them to hang on her every word.

    “There is a man, and you will bring him to me.” She began to describe him, his appearance, his style, and all the while she grinned. He would be hers; not just a fantasy, but a possession. Only when Maxima felt they were fully devoted to her schemed did she let the lot of them go. Maxima returned to her personal chambers. She’d need an interesting reception for her guest.

***

The grasslands had a habit of singing. Not verse, but a song nonetheless. Wind whisked through the spring air, and it made each blade of the long, unkept grass whistle and rustle like the finest of instruments. Shiro tried to take it all in at once, meditating and letting the sounds reach him. He was passive. The owls from a nearby wood. The squirrel bounding through some long reeds. The wind that moved through his hair as it did the foliage. All of this was known to him. And, if he could concentrate, perhaps more!

Shiro waited.

He stopped. It was tough to concentrate or meditate like this. He was young! Meditation was an old man’s game; he was barely twenty summers old. Perhaps come the winter, when there was more time to sit and relax. But it was a time for rebirth and action. Shiro should be out seeing the world, not sitting in some empty field.

“I want to live!” he said, falling backwards into the grass. An involuntary laugh escaped his lips. There was just something inherently funny about the situation; if anyone were to see it, that is. Certainly, his appearance didn’t lend itself to some vagabond sitting in the middle of a field. He walked to a nearby tree upon a hill and planted himself at the base, leaning his head against a root.

Aside from the white hair that contrasted with his youthful vigor, Shiro’s appearance wouldn’t normally raise eyebrows. That would, of course, change when he donned his garb - a black tunic, a red-and-white tabard, and thick body paint.

Shiro’s power came from more than just his innate magic; it came from the magically applied oils and unguents with which he covered his body. Arcane lines traced his form, going from his wrists to his torso and up to his face. No mere runes, but carefully-applied body paint that could be changed as needed. The red made him feel even more youthful, more energetic; he was ready for just about anything. If only he had an adventure to embark upon, he was sure he’d have fame and wisdom in copious amounts. The body paint extended to his face, where the red lines met with golden eyeshadow and a single, powerful stripe of red over his top lip. He hadn’t seen a mirror recently, but he knew that he had the appearance of a fierce diety to say the least.

Fierce was an understatement. He often forgot just how odd he looked, especially after he applied white paint across his body as well. It reinforced the red, amplifying his powers to intriguing new heights. The totems that covered his body were sometimes unpredictable, giving him surges of energy that he didn’t anticipate - but when properly treated, it made him a dangerous spell-slinger and the fearsome equal of any other wandering mage.

He flicked his wrists at a patch of dry earth across the way. It trembled slightly. Shiro grinned. He did it again, and it trembled more. Once more and the dirt began to fly into the air. His powers felt stronger than usual; not limitless, but of limitless potential. Dirt flew into the air, mixing with the moisture from the dew-covered grass, and forming into bricks. Fire flew from his fingers and baked the glob of dirt like a kiln. He gently set it down. He had created a brick. He could do many more. The land became dry earth by his own hand.

When he had finished, he had created a house of adobe. The inside was warm - perhaps a bit too warm for his liking. He should’ve created more ventilation. Still, it was impressive. Shiro gave himself a mental pat on the back; not everyone could make their own shelter using solely the arcane power of tattoos and markings. He ran his fingers along the smooth bricks, tracing the interior of his small brick hut. He knew that he could do better next time. He had plenty of living left to do.

When he returned outside, he was no longer alone. Shiro did a double-take.

Nearly a dozen figures now stood in the evening sun. They universally wore robes of pale black, purple, and gray. Many of them wore long hoods that covered their faces. One or two did not, but wore shemagh scarves around their mouths regardless. The sight was unsettling, to say the least.

“Can I help you?”
The crowd stared at him in silence. Shiro placed his hands on his hips; in his mind, he need to assert a casual sense of dominance. He could easily fight them off, presumably, but there was no need ot engage if merely talking would do.

The central cultist pulled away his hood. He was a young man, probably a decade older than Shiro at most, and had dark hair. The most notable feature was the glowing wax rune on his forehead, and perhaps most notably, the thick panel-gag across his lips.

Shire gulped. It was a kinky, intriguing sight… and also meant that discussion was off the table. He seemed to wear it naturally, even willingly; as though it were somehow comforting him. Odd enough, though it was scarcely the strangest thing he’d ever seen. Shiro merely assumed that having your speech robbed by way of a thick, leather paddle pressed against one’s lips wasn’t going to be his way of achieving bliss.

The lead cultist knelt. A voice began to play, transmitted magically from the symbol on his forehead.

“Shiro… I have been watching you from afar. My name is Maxima, and you will be mine. The circumstances of your ascension to my side are up to you; you may come willingly, in which case you will be unharmed. Or, you may show that youthful domi-”

The message didn’t finish. Shiro was already hard at work keeping his freedom safe from harm.

Two charged him, bearing batons and four more began summoning with arcane motions. Shiro tumbled out of the way of the first to, sending a fist with the strength of stone against his stomach and forcing the lead cultist to the ground in a groaning heap.

Two more came at him with metal-studded clubs. Shiro pounded the ground once, and dry earth caked them up to their wastes as the soil obeyed his command. They flailed helplessly. He sprinted towards the tree. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he was going to knock these idiots out - one at a time, if needbe.

One cultist bearing a metal staff threw it at Shiro. He dodged it easily, though he tumbled into the path of two more. They began to surround him, brandishing their clubs and now proudly displaying their thick gags. He punched one in the side, and delivered a swift air-enhanced kick to the other two - leaping into the air and nearly doing the splits with his kick.

Their numbers were beginning to thin out when the four from earlier approached. These were fellow magic-users; it was quite obvious from the balls of flame that danced on their fingertips! Two of them threw a small shower of fireballs at the earth around the white-dyed youth, and two more did the same with balls of crackling electricity. They were serious!

Luckily, Shiro was serious as well. He summoned the strength of the air and threw the tree in front of him. The fireballs impacted upon its branches. Men gasped in shock as the massive trunk rose up from the ground. Others shouted in fear when the electricity scarred its surface and he threw it to the side like refuse.

“I can take anything you can throw at me,” he said. “My strength is far greater than yours. Go on. What’s next? Acid? Maybe some more flames? Please, you’ve got nothing on me.”

Four of the cultists joined their hands, and summoned a crackling sphere of energy that flew towards Shiro like lightning. He didn’t have time to grab the tree again or summon grass; he only had time to throw up his hands and try to deflect it. It flew into the air, sending him a few inches backwards.

Shiro leapt to his feet.

“Good try, good try.” He was grinning now. They were looking tired.

The sphere burst open above his head, drenching the hill and his attackers with water.

“Okay,” he said. “Another good try.” Shiro wiped the hair from his face. “But my tattoos are treated. You won’t be getting rid of them that easily. I’m afraid that I’m quite impervious to whatever magics you’ve got left… and I’m guessing that’s not much.”

Shiro looked down for a split-second to notice he was sinking into the earth. The lead cultists, now recovered, grinned beneath his gag. Shiro could see a twinkle in his eye before he was suddenly plunged up to his neck in soft, magically-attuned mud. He wriggled for a moment, and then they did it again. The earth became sticky, the air became noisome and hard to breathe.

A few minutes later, he was unconscious.

The cultists stared at their handiwork. The Diakonos, the chosen lieutenant of Maxima, removed his gag to speak to the captive.

“Shiro, Shiro… what the mistress wants, the mistress gets. And she wants you. Just accept it.”

The youth slipped from consciousness and the cultists descended on him.

***

The Reverend was pleased.

Shiro was not. He was wrapped and trapped in what seemed like an infinite web of silky, sticky goo. It was more than just mud or magically-created water. It was something more, something that made him think of spiderwebs… if spiders were man-sized.

He couldn’t see, but his other senses still functioned. He heard the occasional steps of boots on stone, the squeaking of leather, and occasionally, the giggle of someone nearby. He smelt the scent of the sticky substance, and occasionally caught a whiff of strong perfume.

Maxima took some time to ogle her prize. It really was rather impressive. Shiro was young and had a certain youthful attractiveness to him. He had the sass and spunk of of one who hadn’t seen the world… and who could be bent to her will. She was already growing eager at the thought of binding him, teasing him, and driving him mad with lust for her person. Shiro, of course, didn’t know any of what was coming. He was trapped; held in a mess of gooey, sticky strands and liquid that let him wriggle just enough to make him think he had a chance of escaping. The fact that he was also locked behind iron bars hadn’t occurred to him as he wriggled and writhed.

The goo was all-encompassing. It had seemed to creep beneath his clothing, getting all over his skin and trapping him in a formless mass. There weren’t any locks to pick, nor were there any guards to bribe… and as he moaned and groaned, desperately mmphing against the goo, he knew that there wasn’t any chance of talking his way out of this either.

He couldn’t really figure out how to get out of this. His powers were still there… but subdued. Something about the goo, the fact that he couldn’t see or move made his concentration  drip away like water through a sieve. The best he could hope for was that someone would take pity on him and let him out of his rubbery, squishy prison. Maybe if he wiggled his butt, he thought with a panicked, half-hearted sense of irony, he could entice his captors into letting him out.

It didn’t work… though Maxima certainly enjoyed the show. When she was sure he had exhausted himself, he ordered him removed. There was still a lot of work to be done. He had to get dressed, after all.

Shiro was helpless, exhausted, and if he were awake, unsettled by his imprisonment. Maxima practically fed on all of these, enjoying every moment of it. She let him sleep for a few minutes, watching over him like an owner enjoys a pet before acting. A few cultists helped remove him from the gluey mess and they brought him the central chambers of their small stone headquarters. A specially-designed cell had been prepared for him, and they were going to make use of it. It was a cage with bars on the door and walls, placed off to the side but within sight of any who visited the cult’s outpost. The padded floor and walls also had a series of rings installed on the stone walls, so that they might restrain him - or any other ‘sacrifices’ - further.

When he finally awoke, Shiro knew better than to simply start throwing fire or shaping the earth. His body paint remained, but smudged in places… and he was surrounded by cultists.

“Shiro,” said a low, sultry voice.

“Ma’am?” He tilted his head, searching for its origin.

Maxima clapped her hands, and candelabras flickered to life. She was an intimidating figure, dressed in dark leathers and wearing a long, vermillion cape. The supplicating cultists around her gave the human woman a devil-touched appearance. It was an interesting contrast to the younger, more vibrantly-colored Shiro.

“What sort of goals do you have?”

Shiro shifted his position so that he was sitting against the stone wall. It made him more comfortable, and visually made him a bit more in-charge. “I will master my art and abilities. Yourself?”
She grinned again. That youthful spark certainly hadn’t, and wouldn’t be leaving him. “I have many goals.”

“Name just one.”

“Recruiting you.”

“Not going to happen. Name nother.” Shiro’s eyes narrowed.

“Please,” she said. “I don’t expect to have you as my little cultist or anything. You’re not going to be bowing and kissing my feet like these men and women do. No, I should say… obtaining you?”

“Done, then,” he said. “For now.”

“For now.” She sighed and shifted. He heard the loud squeak of her leather against her chair. “Acquiring you is a path to power. The power to topple nobles or priests, or control them. The power to control others and better myself. The power to tap into new energies yet unseen.”

“Are you a wizard?” Shiro asked.

“No,” she said.

“Let me guess, then.” Shiro raised his head and his eyes widened slightly. He was broadcasting a devil-may-care attitude. “You want to skip all the important tricks, and you don’t want to learn about how to control magic. You don’t want to have to do what I do, learning all the little tidbits and nuances and preparing the unguents. You just want the fun stuff.”

Maxima’s eyes narrowed now.

“You want to use me to teach you? No… no, you don’t want that. A lady like yourself probably wouldn’t consent anyway to being taught by a young little thing like me, anyway. You’re the controlling type, I get it. So no, you don’t want me to teach you. You’re not going to sacrifice me, either; no bloody altars here. You would’ve probably already done it… not to mention that you know I wouldn’t be much use. My power comes through my body and my mind… and I’m not a virgin, either. So you need me alive, if not willing.”

He saw Maxima cross her left leg over her right and purse her fingers.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

She shrugged. “You’re guessing.”

“But I’m right.”

Maxima didn’t respond.

“In that case, I’ll finish with my very correct guesswork. I’m going to say that you’re going to try and break me to your will. Probably tantalize me rotten if you can; using your body to your advantage. Not that I blame you, again. But it still won’t work.”

“Why won’t it?”

“Because I’m made of stronger stuff than that.”

“Are you certain?” She sat up straight, parting her legs slightly.

“I think I’ll manage. Mostly because, again, I know that you’re too proud to ever give in.”

She stomped a foot. “What makes you so sure I want you alive?”

“You’re talking to me, aren’t you?” Shiro said. “Listen… I’ve dealt with villains like you before. Maybe not quite in this situation. I was never stripped naked and kept in some sort of strange kink dungeon. Again, no issue with all that. Just… well, dear, you’re not that special. Me? I’ve got luck and I’ve got skill. You? You’re just taking shortcuts.”

“I’m doing no such thing!”

“No… no, you definitely are,” said Shiro. “In fact, I think I figure it out.”

Maxima didn’t stay to listen. Shiro relaxed. His chance for escape would probably come soon. They’d move him to some other place, some other sanctuary or ransom him… or something.

***

    A day later, the ‘or something’ happened. He wasn’t sure if he had brought this upon himself, or if he had simply become a victim of a grander plan. As he was roused from his cell, Shiro really began to question if the treatment being presented to him was going to be his fault. Had he provoked her too much? Had he taunted her unnecessarily? Could he have possibly made for better circumstances if he had accommodated her? Already he was trying to think of a way to grovel without groveling. Should he pretend to be enthralled? Ask if he could change his mind?

    The panic started when they began to pile things on a small rolling workbench. The sound of thick, heavy leather and lots of rope was a bit startling, as was the sound of straps clinking against chains and rings. What exactly were they planning? Some sort of outfit? He envisioned those bizarre gags that the initiates wore. Or would they do something else? Something stranger? Would he become some kind of leather pet for them? Shiro curled up in his cell a bit, and tried not to let his imagination take total control of his situation. He wasn’t sure if he had succeeded; images of him bound and gagged had flooded his mind. And, while he’d never admit it, those visions excited him in unpredictable ways.

    After a few minutes of measuring, Maxima returned to the room. She ordered him gagged and brought to the main temple. Getting back on her ‘good side,’ whatever that meant, could be the difference between life and death - and so he complied.

    When they arrived in the main temple complex, he was surprised to see a familiar tableau of ingredients. Paintbrushes, oils, sponges, rare magical reagants… what was this for? He tilted his head slighgtly and Maxima ordered him ungagged.

    “Look familiar?”
“Yes. These are the same tools I use for my own magic.”

    “Exactly right. Exactly ‘rite’ as well, ah-heh heh. We’re going to be trying something a bit different on you.”

    “Please don’t.” He said it somewhere between sarcastically, knowing she wouldn’t listen to his groveling, and somewhat earnestly - hoping despite his logical knowledge that she would perhaps take pity on him.

    “Very cute, Shiro,” said the cultess leader. “We’re going to paint over the white with a nice golden hue. You’re going to be an interesting sort of golden and red creature for me.”

    “And what will that do?”

    “Oh, nothing to cause permanent harm to you, Shiro. Why, that is not at all what we want. But please, don’t try and resist. No squirming, dear. It’ll be a tiny bit thicker, but you can be good and let us paint you, yes?”

    Shiro tried his best to stay still. It was a rather intimate process. He was, after all, stripped to the nude. Men and women were touching every inch of his body, painting over his mystical gold tattoos while leaving the red ensconced in white. It was a thoroughly uncomfortable and embarrassing process! It was far from painful… but it was just somehow shameful.

    All the while, Maxima regaled him with tales about other ways to catch him if he tried to escape. If he ran for it, she’d set off a glue bomb hidden in the temple, encasing him in white, sticky gel. If he tried to fight them off, she’d wrap him in spiderwebs and leave him as a struggling, sticky mummy. If he tried to attack her own person, she’d have him dipped and trapped in a muddy prison, and then left to be grabbed by the living slime constructs that her cult summoned. It wouldn’t be pleasant, she assured him. It would by sticky, all-encompassing, and inescapable.

    “You don’t need to threaten me.” Go with it. Try to suppress the youthful endeavor. Let her talk. Let her think she’s in charge. He just needed to play the part.

    “You’re right,” said Maxima. “I don’t need to threaten you. I like threatening you, because it makes you squirm. Even though you’re trying so hard to stay still while we prep you.”

    As the cultists finished, he had to finally ask. “So… prepare me for what? Some sort of magical avatar? A brainwashed warrior?”

    She waved away as though he’d said something foul and noisome. ‘Oh no. Nothing so crass, dear Shiro. You’re going to be a part of me! Inside me, even.”

    He blushed.

    “Hah hah! Ah, I kid, I kid… the latter’s an exaggeration. Perhaps I should say that your power is going to be inside me.”

    He was still blushing. “I won’t teach you anything unless you let me go.”

    “No, no, no! You were right the whole time, Shiro. I’m skipping that step. I’ve found a way to just borrow your power, dear! I’m going to have you wrapped up, strapped up, and bound so tightly you’ll hardly be able to move or beg… and thanks to all that new paint, all that latent energy is going to go to me. You see, you’ll be kept magically alive… and thanks to the fact that you won’t be doing silly things like walking around or escaping or the like, every tasty drop of your magical vitae will go to powering my own form. I’ll be able to wield the power of six spellcasters.”

    “Six?” Shiro swallowed. He had theories about what that meant. “You mean you’ve got five others?”

    “Well,” she said, “Maybe more. But they’re nothing like you. You’re going to be permanently displayed at the very center of our temple for all to see.”

    He tried to flex his left arm, preparing to cast a spell or summon energies; but they failed. He felt his mana drained, traveling to his captors like water into a sponge.

    “Let me go. Let me go, or you’ll regret it,” he said.

    “You’re right,” said Maxima. “I will regret it. I already regret not having more fun with you when we had the chance. You’d be a lovely leatherslave, you know. But ah, well… maybe in a few years, or another lifetime.” She nodded, and he was set upon by the cultists. They were already inches away, grabbing at his arms and legs. Shiro didn’t stand a chance at resisting.

    They grabbed at his limbs and bound them up with straps.

    He felt his wrists tugged behind his back and touched against one another. He was bucking his legs, but it did little good; they dodged or grabbed at him. A pair of grippy balls were shoved into his hands, and he felt his fingers adhering as though glued to the spheres.

    It made it an easy thing to lace up a pair of long, elbow-length mittens along his fingers. They were practically sewed in place! It was tight, very tight… and he saw no way to get his hands free. Even if he did, they were now laced up into magical mittens. He wouldn’t even be able to open doors!

    They sealed his arms behind him in an oiled leather box-tie. He couldn’t even see his arms, and thanks to the growing grip of the cultists, he couldn’t get enough physical freedom to bend and try to free himself from the boxtie. It didn’t help that they were harnessing around his nude form.

    The harness was cold at first. It was made of sturdy, studded leather with thick rivets inscribed with charms. Each metal rivet made his skin shiver, and he blushed. The sensation was intense, but they quickly grew warm as he struggled. The harness went three times around his waist, then more around his stomach. They looped long straps around his neck and over his shoulders, tightening it to extremes each time before locking it in place with an arcane padlock.

    He wriggled his arms left and right behind him. He must have looked ridiculous. He knew that he couldn’t get free from that without help...but tugging left and right somehow made him feel better.

    “Off me! Get off me!” he shouted. “You’ll pay!”

    “I’m sure we will!”

    “You’ll all pay!”

    Maxima started to laugh, and his ears felt so warm. He was blushing. He was blushing because he was captured and nude and being tied up so tight he knew he’d never escape, and because some crazy cult leader was going to drain him dry of his magic!

    They dragged him towards a frame shaped like an upside-down V and began lashing his legs to each of the posts. They locked him onto it by his ankles first, and he groaned. It was padded with leather, but that didn’t make it any more emotionally comforting! And when they started to lash his legs to it, he couldn’t even kick or run.

    He was immobilized in the center of the church. His legs were spread, his arms were bound and then lashed to a long pole behind him. He felt like a witch about to be burned at the stake… though he hardly looked the part. He was young, male, vigorous, and covered in red and gold paint!

    “Open wide, Shiro! I wanted to gag you with something we could remove if… and that’s if, not when, if we decide to open up for some conversation.”

    They passed a padded bit-gag between his painted lips, and Shiro’s pleas for mercy became grunts of a more intimate nature. It didn’t help that they also lashed a blindfold around his eyes.

    He had fantasized about this; blind, gagged, helpless, glued, and trapped. He hadn’t been sure about the person in charge, but in this case it was a mysterious sorceress - not quite the partner he’d pictured. But it was still enough to arouse him, and beneath his face paint, he grew red.

    The last thing he saw was Maxima waving ‘good-bye.’ Everything went silent and still for a moment as his struggles ceased. He felt only the sense of being sleepy; of being drained. And that was all he felt for a time, trapped in a dreamy sleep as a decoration in the temple… until he felt a mysterious mistress’s gloved hands on his exposed form, that is.