Work Text:
A tangle of threads wove around her wrists, snaking down her arms from the ceiling. Suspending her in midair, the spun gold glimmering gossamer gracefully gripped around her skin, digging in just enough to leave angry red marks whenever they finally decided to release their captor.
“How pitiful, really.” Came a firm tone behind her, blindfolded eyes unable to see its owner, though her voice was not that of a stranger. “Such… rudimentary techniques… you truly thought it was going to have any effect on me?” A small click of the tongue, an expression of disappointment more than reprimand. Though, the inability to touch the ground with her feet surely was punishment alone. The cold air on her bare skin indicated to her, however horrifyingly, that her humiliation had only just begun.
Earlier…
“A pleasure to meet you, Goldweaver.” She bowed politely, her voice cool and even, yet not without pleasantry. Sunday, exiled outcast though she was, retained much of her dutiful appearance and personality from her days in Penacony. The wings in her hair bristled slightly as she addressed the blonde woman.
“Please, call me Aglaea, o noble guest. You’ve come a long way to Okhema, haven’t you? Your clothes…” she gestured languidly to Sunday’s dingy and lackluster dress. The Halovian averted her gaze, slightly dismayed at having her clothes be perceived in its less than best shape. It is true that ever since her exile, she hasn’t exactly gotten to see a tailor but it hurt her pride no less. “Allow me to fix them up to their most pristine forms.” Aglaea said, and who was Sunday to refuse such polite generosity?
“You have my thanks, Ms. Aglaea.” Sunday lowered her head in gratitude. “How can I repay such kindness?”
“Come now, don’t think I don’t know who you are.” there was a glint behind those green eyes of hers, as though a schemer’s gears turning as she surveyed the woman standing before her. “You are Sunday of Penacony, your sister is the famous singer Robin, and you… are on the run.”
Sunday’s body tensed as she suddenly felt the presence of several faceless sentries… a quick glance revealed that she was more right than she initially thought. Several headless dressforms stood behind her, prohibiting her escape. “What’s the meaning of this? Do you seek to turn me in?” Sunday grinned wryly. There had been enough betrayals in her life, what was one more. She readied herself for a fight, only to be disarmed immediately by the gold-clad Amphorean appearing much closer to her than she was originally standing. Sunday jolted in surprise as she neared, resorting to her best tactic for escaping unsavory situations.
“Halt. In the name of the Order, I demand to know what is going on here and what you intend to do with me.”
Aglaea paused in her footsteps, and Sunday inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. It would seem even in this forsaken, untouched corner of the galaxy, her powers still held some form of sway here.
“I’m simply following my calling in this life, Sunday.” Aglaea responded. “As an ardent admirer of all that is beautiful… I’m only finding that which is beautiful and, let’s say, appreciating every detail I can, bringing out its most perfected form for all to see. And you…” she smirked, a devious flash in her eyes just before the trap sprang shut around the bird. “Need to be revealed in all your beauty.”
With a flourish, Aglaea moved her hand deftly, and Sunday’s once-dignified garb shredded to tatters before her eyes. As her hands flung to cover her modesty, one of the many mannequins seized her, arresting her movements and holding fast, its unfeeling body able to contort and secure a hold that the Halovian could not find any escape from. Wincing, her arms felt the limits of their articulation yet no pain or discomfort in the embrace of the animated inanimate. Sunday’s bare skin was being poked, prodded, fondled, groped by the woman with golden tresses, as though intimately inspected for certain determining factors.
In reality, while this was true, it was also to help Aglaea navigate better with touch what sight no longer quite allowed. Her eyes, though still filled with visions of designs and drafts and patterns, lacked the clarity to actually transplant those onto the bodies of her prospective customers. The dressforms were in part for such a purpose, to accommodate her weakening eyes. When finally she finished her thorough handling of Sunday, satisfied with the pliance of her skin, the healthy amount of elasticity and hydration, the lean and lanky muscle underneath, she withdrew slowly. Humming to herself, she muttered a series of numbers to remember them in their proper order.
“What is the meaning of—?” Sunday began to ask, but just as she opened her mouth, golden threads, like flaxen locks of hair, curtained down from above her, entangling themselves around her in a suffocating embrace, ribbons of the delicately soft, ornate strands curling around her limbs, pulling the stunned follower of The Order into a vulnerable position — yanking her arms above her head, constricting her back into a near-centaur orientation, hips jutting out behind her. Her heels were kept off the ground, forced to remain on her toes in order to keep any sort of contact with the cold marble beneath her. Aglaea stroked her chin thoughtfully, her finger tapping idly along her jaw as though marveling at a piece of work, critiquing her own handiwork.
“Something is missing…” she thought aloud. “There’s a spark here, something that keeps it from being truly beautiful.” She turned to one of her dressforms, speaking to the headless object rather than to the actual subject of her craft. “What do you think?” she said, more as part of a script than awaiting any actual answer. Sunday opened her mouth to speak, but a golden ribbon tied itself around her mouth, preventing her from being able to protest the sudden situation unfolding at her expense. To add insult to the, well, insult… Aglaea simply held her finger up as though shushing an interrupting child without so much as turning her gaze in her direction. The Dressmaker pondered quietly to herself, turning her back to the bound Halovian in the room.
“No, you’re right,” she said to no one in particular, her dim eyes glazing over as one’s eyes do when working on something with pure muscle memory. With a flick of her wrist, sturdy golden tassels draped over Sunday’s bent body, hugging the exaggerated curves that were highlighted by such a provocative pose. The oblong shape starting from the top of her head and trailing down to the tips of her toes framed her body in a way that resembled a birdcage, with thick strips of gilded gold grafting over Sunday’s shivering skin. Aglaea studied her handiwork once more, paying special attention to the folds in the skin where Sunday’s body was forced into an uncomfortable bend. The seam between fabric and skin was at first blush impossible to tell.
Aglaea smiled to herself. “There we go. The perfect golden cage for the prettiest songbird in Penacony. The fit is snug, almost strangling, but with just enough give left to draw one full breath at a time. The gold is the fanciful titles and positions you put onto yourself to feel any modicum of safety in a world you genuinely fear more than anything. But look at you, head so far in the clouds you barely have any connection to reality anymore. You think you have the power, because you can use your words to skew others into your sway, but the reality is all you’ve done is choke yourself into a tangle that you can’t get out of on your own, no matter how hard you try.”
At this, as though subconsciously urged to try, Sunday tugged hard with her wrists, trying to pull down the ribbons from their anchor in the ceiling, to no avail. With hardly any foothold, she lacked any real strength, instead sending herself lightly spinning around in place, losing even more points of contact with the marble floor beneath her toes and helplessly dangled midair by physics. Aglaea laughed, watching the absurd and meaningless struggle. The neat bow she tied over Sunday’s mouth, mocking the gift of the gab that the Halovian once possessed, rustled slightly as the woman tried to speak, to command, to beg. All of it didn’t even fall on deaf ears, for it never even left her throat.
“ Now you look like yourself.” She said, and Sunday felt her thoughts swimming in her head, each word of denial, each refuting retort, gagged by that damned taunting ribbon over her mouth. All she could do was spin uselessly, slowly, like a doll on a music box wound by a key. Her toes burned as exertion tired her out, unable to continue reaching for the ground and finding herself becoming more exhausted, slowly leaving the ground behind altogether and hanging pathetically, the wings on her head covering the red hot blush that further betrayed her ashamed face.
“Ah, ah.” the Goldweaver grinned to herself, prying the wings back with such force as to send pain rippling down Sunday’s neck, searing hot sensations eliciting tears in her eyes. “Who said you could cover my work?” She hissed, her voice a scathing glissando in Sunday’s ears. “I left you your ability to move these. I can easily take them away all the same, it’s too easy. So be a good girl and enjoy being my masterpiece.” At these words, the ribbons and strands that bound Sunday, caged her, seemed to glow with an aura that Sunday could feel washing over her. There was a feeling of dread deep in her mind, then a tingling sensation in her quivering slit before a shock of electricity ran up her spine and out of the crown of her head. Her clit was ensnared by a thin golden garrote, yanked up between her chest and tied around her neck. The pain enjoined with pleasure, tears welling in her eyes, stinging but with no way to assuage them.
“Looks like I missed a spot~” Aglaea purred, tracing her finger roughly down Sunday’s skin, nail digging against flesh and leaving an angry red trail in its wake. “That should fix what was missing to complete this.” She gazed at Sunday’s face, eyes wide with terror and humiliation mingling with undeniable arousal. “They say that leaving that leaving the mouth exposed when covering a face forces the subject into an objectified position. To not be able to see the soul that lays within, only hear the sounds and see the orifice as an object to be used, or to be ignored. Contrarily, keeping the eyes exposed instead when covering the face allows for one to humanize the subject. To connect with them on a non-vocal level by staring deep and drinking of the emotions that lay within. The eyes being the window to the soul — according to common wisdom, anyway. But tell me…”
Aglaea bent forward, until Sunday’s gaze could meet hers. “Tell me… do you see anything in these clouded windows?” She locked eyes with the trapped art piece, her unblinking eyes dim and lacking the light that the woman staring at her still had. Sunday made to shake her head before realizing that she would not see it nearly as well as hearing a noise to indicate a negative response.
“Exactly. While conventional wisdom might be correct for conventional people… to me, keeping the eyes exposed and the mouth sealed works for me. After all, my best way of understanding people…” she slowly strode around the taut hanging body. “Is to hear them, not see them. So if I can’t hear you…” she rounded the side, coming to a stop right behind Sunday. “Do you exist? Are you human? Questions like that cease to matter. To me, you may as well be as one of my lovely dressforms. Bodies to decorate. Shells to fill. Dolls to use for my ends and then discard.” Her hand gripped hard on the Halovian’s flesh, squeezing her ass with such force that a muffled yelp shot out before Sunday could stop herself.
A sturdy impact smacking against Sunday’s entrance alerted her, and she tried to spin around to see what it was, only to have her suspended body arrested by the Dressmaker’s firm grip on either side of her hips, the stiff object poking and prodding at the slicked hole. Sunday’s voice was muffled by the ribbon tied in front of her mouth, and she could barely manage any sound to get past the golden gag. She trembled, muffled protests rising in pitch and in frequency as she began to panic. She felt the object sliding in, splitting apart her defenses and battering into her pussy. Choked groans and useless screams were absorbed by the bind, her quaking body floating in the air with no control over even how she hung limply. Aglaea’s hitched breathing filled her ears, accompanied by the sound of flesh smacking against flesh, of bodies enjoining at a point, of uncooperative flailing being punished with heavy slaps.
Sunday closed her eyes. The total helplessness, perhaps, could be assuaged if everything went dark, if reality ceased to exist around her. Yet, this only heightened the sensations she could feel stirring inside her, the sounds permeating her ears, the fire in her nerves. Her wings fluttered pathetically, her face burning as spittle began to accumulate on the ribbon that sealed her mouth. She felt herself being split in half again and again, as the Goldweaver wove herself in and out of Sunday’s body, reprogramming the shape of her cunt into something more suitable to her position, yanking on the halo behind her head with enough force to strain the neck muscle, the sides of her neck cramping as she was made to hold an awkward pose as each piston motion push and pulled on the weak joint.
Aglaea’s breaths became heavy pants, labored breaths that signalled a mounting pressure that Sunday hoped meant the promise of an end to her ordeal. Her hopes were dashed however, when the erratic smashing of their bodies only quickened and dug deeper inside her, forcing her pussy to stretch to accommodate every bit of her and then some, the rest simply battering past the limit despite Sunday’s rattling legs and her pitiable attempts to pull her hips away. Sunday prayed that Aglaea would at least say something, to direct even the most cruel of words to her, found herself craving anything acknowledging that she was still a sentient being even if one that was nothing more than a toy. All she could do was stare ahead, her moans and pleas fully dampened by the now soaked ribbon. Her body began to tire, to ache, to relax in any effort to mitigate the soreness and pain, and as her eyes glazed over, she finally went limp, only reflexively clamping down on Aglaea’s vicious cock, wringing it out with automated, involuntary seizing, convulsing. When finally Aglaea let out a single strained groan as she unceremoniously climaxed inside of Sunday, the suspended toy didn’t even feel relief from the rush of cum gushing into her, then dripping out onto the floor when the blind woman pulled out abruptly without a care. The sound of the thick viscous liquid dropping out of her used hole to the ground seemed so far away. Her breathing was hollow, her eyes open but not seeing. Yet despite the released tension from her hips, despite hearing the footsteps retreating from her and encircling around her again, Sunday’s numb arms felt no relief from the suspending gold. Her body was no less ensnared in the snakelike grasp of the bondage. She was no closer to being free.
“Are you still awake?” the cold blue-green gaze of the Dressmaker appeared before hers once more. “Ah, looks like you are.” she said when Sunday’s eyes hazily glanced this way and that. “Good.” With a smile curling up the corners of her mouth, she hummed to herself. “You see, such a gorgeous “dress” can’t go unknown by the people. So, I’ve decided to show you off.” A few dressforms flocked around her, providing her with the means to freshen up and clean herself off. Sunday didn’t respond. “Ah, you’re getting it.” Aglaea said with a twisted grin. Then, a sudden gasp. “Oh dear, I forgot the most important part of all this.” She snapped her fingers, and a dressform loosely placed a habit on top of Sunday’s head. “Perfect.”
The doors to Aglaea’s at-home shop opened not long after, and throughout the course of the day, all were invited to participate in the “interactive fashion statement of the year” by the celebrity Goldweaver. A placeholder label at the front of the queue read:
“The 7th Day — enjoy some rest and feel luxurious wearing this new accessory for a moment, or for an hour. Inspiration phrases include “The Bird in a Gilded Cage”, “Broken Pedestal”, and “Subject or Object” to create a truly divine design that accentuates the wearer’s waist and is sure to both increase confidence as well as make for quite the conversation piece.”