Master's POV
I stood at the edge of the marble hall and watched the attendants lead her in.
Isolde’s body had already changed. One night under the living collar was enough. The perpetual wetness had rewritten her nerves; I could see it in the way she moved carefully, almost desperate to keep every soft curve coated. Any patch of dry skin now felt like denial to her. That knowledge pleased me.
They brought her to the low stone pedestal in the center of the hall. The golden collar around her throat pulsed thicker tonight, secreting in continuous rivulets rather than the slower drip of the first evening.
The fluid ran in gleaming trails down the deep valley between her heavy breasts, over the soft undercurve of each full tit, across the heavy roll of her belly, and straight between the p
