Diana had to take rapid, pathetic, shallow sips of air just to maintain her basic physiological needs. Her heavy head drooped slightly, searching for a path across the carpet, her disheveled black hair pulling uncomfortably from the tight, elaborate updo the maids had forced upon her.
Suddenly, Duke Darren stepped forward. With a predatory smirk, his hands shot out and ruthlessly seized her impossibly cinched, steel-bound waist.
"Ah!"
The sudden, rough movement caused Diana, already trembling on the razor-thin edge of balance, to completely lose her footing. Her ankles buckled in the towering stilettos, and she staggered, falling weakly and helplessly against his chest.
Darren let out a dark chuckle. His greedy hands immediately began to roam, rubbing aggressively along her freakishly compressed waist. He slid his palms down to squeeze the flare of her thick, muscular hips, utterly relishing the absolute power and control he possessed over the fallen goddess. He dragged her lower body flush against his own, making sure she could feel his growing erection pressing hard against her silk-clad thigh.
Diana's expression twisted into one of extreme disgust and revulsion, but in this crippled, magically bound situation, she had absolutely no room to resist. Every desperate breath was a losing battle against the unyielding corset; each inhale required all her remaining strength, only to push her massive, spilling breasts higher and closer to Darren's face. In this degraded state, Diana could only surrender to gravity, temporarily leaning her full weight against the very man she loathed, using the brief moment to regain some shred of balance.
Her body trembled violently in his arms. She tilted her head to the side, trying to avoid his hot, arrogant breath on her neck. Her arms, tightly bound in the sheer silk evening gloves, were entirely stiff, pressed uselessly against her sides. She could offer neither a push to reject him nor an embrace to steady herself. Her breathing was a frantic, shallow panting, a stark contrast to Darren's calm, victorious rhythm.
Because of the brutal six-inch heels, her toes barely scraped the ground. Her entire, voluptuous weight rested almost completely on Darren's arms. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the humiliation. Yet, her corrupted body betrayed her. Whenever Darren's hands squeezed her waist or brushed against her ass, her body involuntarily hitched, her dripping pussy throbbing and leaking a fresh wave of hot slick into her panties. The magical tiara hummed, translating her intense discomfort and tension directly into a deep, shameful sexual need.
Duke Darren held her firmly, practically dragging the limp, leaking superheroine step by step toward the solemn, massive dining table.
The blank-faced maids nimbly approached the table. One gently pulled out the grand, thronelike chair at the head of the table, while another turned to a subordinate side seat. Darren, keeping one arm locked around Diana's waist, mockingly gestured toward the side chair.
The weakened, panting Diana allowed herself to be guided. Her body was at its absolute limit; the crippling stilettos, the suffocating corset, and the relentless forced arousal made even a ten-foot walk an agonizing, mind-melting challenge.
Darren roughly deposited her onto the velvet cushion. The moment her ass hit the seat, Diana felt a microscopic fraction of relief, even though the side chair was far less luxurious than the master's seat. She slumped forward slightly, her heavy breasts practically resting on the polished wood of the table, heaving with every ragged breath. She glanced at the long table, laden with exquisite porcelain and silverware, suggesting a grand banquet.
Darren looked down at her flushed, exhausted face with pure, sadistic satisfaction. He slowly walked to the head seat and sat down, lounging like a king who had just conquered the world.
He steepled his fingers, his dark gaze sweeping across the opulent room before locking onto Diana's heaving cleavage. A cold, cruel smile played on his lips.
"You know, Diana," he purred, his voice dripping with condescension, "I've always felt that history is one of humanity's most precious treasures. It can teach us so many things... especially about how to properly domesticate and use women."
Diana's jaw clenched. Her face was taut and pale, her body so weak she had to use almost all her remaining strength just to sit upright. Despite the humiliation, her warrior's mind refused to shut down; she carefully absorbed every word, looking for a weakness.
"In feudal society, women were understood for what they truly are: beautiful, delicate, mindless vessels," Darren continued, his eyes darkening with lust. "Their tasks were exquisitely simple. To spread their legs and serve men. To keep their mouths shut, and to breed. But now? Modern women, especially arrogant, powerful bitches like you, seem to think you can challenge the natural order."
Diana took a shallow, shaky breath, struggling to remain calm despite the pain in her ribs and the wet ache in her core. Darren's filthy words made her want to scream, to leap across the table and rip his throat out, but she knew she was too weak to even lift a butter knife right now.
"You think breaking with tradition is progress?" Darren mocked, leaning forward. "Your actions, your 'heroism,' only prove that you are a morally corrupt, unnatural freak. A worthless whore playing dress-up as a god."
His tone grew increasingly hard, striking her like a physical blow.
Diana quietly lowered her azure eyes, hiding the burning rage and shame welling within them. She knew every word he spoke was meticulously calculated to humiliate and oppress her, to break her psyche and force her into absolute, slutty submission. But she also knew that this pain was temporary. Her Amazonian heart remained filled with a stubborn, burning conviction. She might be a weak, leaking, bound plaything right now, but the second she found a crack in his magic, she would shatter Duke Darren's pathetic worldview and his skull along with it.
Duke Darren smiled, mistaking her silence for defeat. He looked at Wonder Woman—the legendary Goddess of Truth—leaning weakly against the back of her chair, her massive chest heaving with shallow, panicked breaths, completely lacking the strength to even speak. The sight gave him a massive, throbbing erection.
"Look at you, Diana. Look at what you've become," Darren asked provocatively, his voice a dark, lewd whisper. "This is exactly how you should be. Gentle. Weak. A dripping, mindless slut completely dependent on a man's cock. Tell me, Princess... how does it feel to finally be put in your place?"