The final sliver of the moon cast a weak, milky light through the tall arched windows of the Roswaal Mathers mansion. Silence, thick and heavy, had descended upon the grand halls. The day's work was done, the fires in the hearths had dwindled to glowing embers, and the other inhabitants of the sprawling estate were lost to their own slumbers. All except one. Ram, her pink hair a soft splash of color in the gloom, moved with an efficiency that bordered on silent grace. Her hands, though delicate, worked with a practiced, unwavering diligence as she polished a silver candelabra in a seldom-used guest parlor. The air was cool against her skin, carrying the faint, clean scent of wax and old wood. She was alone, a fact she usually relished, as it allowed her to focus entirely on her duties, her devotion to her master, Roswaal, the only thought that truly mattered.

Tonight, however, the silence felt different. It was not the peaceful quiet of a sleeping house but the tense, waiting stillness before a storm. A contingent of mercenaries, hired by Lord Mathers for a clandestine task on the domain's borders, were quartered in this wing. They were crude men, their laughter echoing like the grating of stone during the day, their gazes lingering on her and her sister with a predatory weight. Barusu had, in his typically foolish and loud manner, tried to stand up for them, earning a shove for his troubles. But now, Subaru was asleep, Rem was in her own quarters, and Ram was alone, finishing the last of her chores in their designated area. She could hear their low, rumbling voices from a nearby chamber, the clinking of bottles, and the occasional burst of coarse laughter. She ignored it, her expression a perfect mask of aloof indifference. They were beneath her notice, temporary filth to be tolerated until they were gone.

She placed the polished candelabra back on the mantelpiece, its silver surface gleaming, reflecting her impassive face. Her maid uniform, black and white, was immaculate, a symbol of her pride and position. It was a second skin, a suit of armor that separated her from the world's untidiness. As she turned to leave, a large shadow fell across the doorway, blocking her only exit. One of the mercenaries stood there, a hulking brute of a man with a scarred face and a leering grin. Two more appeared behind him, their bulk filling the frame, their eyes glinting with a shared, unpleasant intent.

“Well, look what we have here,” the leader drawled, his voice a low growl that vibrated in the still air. “The little pink-haired doll, all alone.”

Ram’s spine went rigid. She did not show fear, for that would be a weakness they would savor. Instead, she lifted her chin, her magenta eyes cold as ice. “The guest wing is off-limits to staff at this hour, and this parlor is certainly not your tavern. Remove yourselves.” Her voice was sharp, clipped, and held a tone of undisguised contempt that had made far more powerful men than these flinch.

The man chuckled, a deep, unpleasant sound. He took a step into the room, followed by his companions. The door swung shut behind them with a soft, final click. “Feisty, ain’t she? I like that. We were just getting a bit bored. Thought you might provide some… entertainment.” He gestured around the opulent room. “Lord’s not here. The clown’s not here. The other little maid is tucked away. No one will hear you.”

Her heart began to beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a traitorous drum of fear. She was not the demon prodigy she once was. Without her horn, her physical strength was limited, her mana a shallow pool that would be quickly exhausted in a real fight against three trained killers. She was cornered. Her mind raced, searching for an escape, an advantage, but the cold reality was clear. There was none. Still, her pride would not allow her to break. “If you lay a single filthy hand on me,” she said, her voice dangerously low, “you will find that Lord Roswaal’s displeasure is far more terrifying than anything you’ve faced on a battlefield.”

The leader’s grin only widened. He was now just a few feet from her, his sheer size oppressive. He smelled of sweat, cheap ale, and leather. “We’ll be gone by morning. By the time your master gets back, we’ll be miles away with our pay. A little fun is just part of the bonus.” He reached out, his calloused, dirt-caked fingers brushing against the pristine white fabric of her apron. Ram flinched back as if burned, her composure finally cracking. The other two fanned out, flanking her, cutting off any hope of retreat. They were a pack of wolves, and she was their trapped prey.

The leader’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist in a grip of iron. Ram gasped, struggling instinctively, but it was like pulling against a stone wall. He twisted her arm behind her back, forcing her body against his. She could feel the hard muscle of his chest, the heat of his breath on her neck. “Let’s get a better look at what’s under this stiff uniform,” he snarled into her ear. Another pair of hands fumbled with the bow of her apron, untying it with clumsy haste. The fabric was pulled away, and she felt a sudden, profound sense of vulnerability. It was the first piece of her armor to be stripped away.

They pushed her forward, making her stumble until her hands hit the cold, polished surface of a large mahogany table in the center of the room. She was bent over it, her back arched, her pristine dress and petticoats bunching up around her waist. A rough hand tangled in her short pink hair, yanking her head back. She cried out, a sharp sound of pain and outrage. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of fury and burgeoning terror, caught her own reflection in a silver platter on the table. She saw the fear she was trying so hard to hide. She saw her maid’s headdress askew. She saw the looming shadows of the men behind her. They began to tear at her clothes, the sound of ripping fabric a violent violation in the quiet room. The crisp black dress was torn down the back, exposing her pale skin to the cool air and their hot, hungry eyes.

Her stockings were next, ripped down from their garters, followed by her simple cotton panties. She was completely exposed from the waist down, bent over the table like a sacrificial offering. A wave of humiliation, so potent it was nauseating, washed over her. She was Ram, the proud, untouchable senior maid of the Mathers estate. She was an extension of her master’s will. And these animals were defiling her, treating her like a common whore. A hand slapped her bare bottom, the sting sharp and shocking, and a guttural laugh followed. She squeezed her eyes shut, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the table. She would not scream. She would not give them the satisfaction.

The leader positioned himself behind her. She could feel the hard, thick length of his erection pressing against the cleft of her buttocks. It was a blunt, brutal promise of what was to come. “Hold her down,” he grunted. The other two men grabbed her arms, pinning them to the table, while another hand held her hips firmly in place. She was completely immobilized, her struggles futile. She felt the wet, probing tip of him at her entrance, a place of such private sensitivity that the mere touch felt like a brand. She tensed her entire body, trying to clench her muscles, to deny him entry.

It was a useless gesture. With a powerful, merciless thrust, he forced his way inside her. A raw, tearing pain ripped through her, stealing the air from her lungs. It was a brutal, dry invasion, and she couldn’t stifle the strangled cry that escaped her lips. He was huge, stretching her to her limits, filling her completely. The pain was a white-hot agony that consumed all other thought. He began to move, his thrusts rough and deep, slamming into her with a relentless rhythm. He grunted with effort and pleasure, his breath hot against her back. The men holding her arms laughed, their own excitement growing as they watched their leader take her.

Ram’s mind felt detached, floating in a sea of pain and humiliation. Each jarring impact sent a shockwave through her body. She could feel her own insides being bruised and battered. This was a violation, a defilement of the highest order. Yet, as the man continued his relentless pounding, something else began to stir within her. Deep beneath the agony, a strange, unfamiliar sensation started to bloom. A friction, a warmth that was entirely separate from the pain. Her body, a traitor to her proud will, was beginning to respond to the sheer overwhelming stimulation. A faint wetness began to ease his harsh thrusts, and the tearing pain slowly subsided into a deep, throbbing ache.

As the first man neared his climax, one of his companions moved to her front. He knelt before her, his rough hands parting her thighs. He pushed his face between them, his tongue, wet and hot, swiping across her clit. The shock of it was electric. Her body jerked, and a gasp, entirely different from her pained cries, escaped her lips. While one man hammered into her from behind, the other devoted himself to her front, his tongue lapping and sucking at her most sensitive nub of flesh. The dual assault was disorienting, a maelstrom of sensation that short-circuited her thoughts. Her mind, which had been clinging to rage and humiliation, was being flooded with something else. Something dark, primal, and terrifyingly pleasurable.

The man behind her let out a final, guttural roar, his hips bucking violently as he flooded her womb with his hot seed. The feeling of being filled so completely was another profound shock to her system. He pulled out of her, leaving her feeling slick and achingly empty. But there was no respite. Before she could even process it, the second man, the one who had been at her mouth, had moved to take his place. He was thicker than the first, and his entry was a new kind of stretching fullness. His rhythm was different, slower, more deliberate, each thrust a deep, grinding rotation that seemed to target a hidden core of nerves she never knew she possessed.

Meanwhile, the third man had unbuttoned his trousers. He grabbed her by the hair again, forcing her head to the side, and pushed his stiff cock against her lips. “Open up, little doll.” Her jaw was clamped shut in defiance, but his thumb and forefinger dug into her cheeks, cruelly forcing her mouth open. He shoved himself inside, filling her throat, gagging her. Her eyes watered as he began to fuck her mouth, his hips moving in time with the man fucking her from behind. She was being used in every possible way, her body no longer her own, but a vessel for their lust. Her senses were overwhelmed. The taste of him, salty and musky; the feeling of being stretched and filled in two places at once; the sight of the polished tabletop just inches from her face; the sound of their grunts and her own muffled whimpers.

Her mind was breaking. The walls she had built around herself, her pride, her control, were crumbling to dust under the relentless sensory onslaught. The man at her front was gone, replaced by the relentless, grinding pressure from behind and the suffocating presence in her mouth. The pleasure, once a faint undercurrent, was now a roaring tide. Her hips, once held still, began to move of their own accord, a slight, almost imperceptible rock back to meet each thrust. Her body was chasing the feeling, betraying her will completely. The man inside her groaned, feeling her subtle response, and his thrusts became harder, faster, driving her closer and closer to some unknown precipice.

A knot of unbearable tension was coiling in her lower belly. It was an agonizing, exquisite pressure that demanded release. Her legs trembled. The man in her mouth pulled out, and she greedily sucked in a ragged breath of air, just as the one behind her found a perfect angle. He struck a deep, hidden point within her, and her entire world exploded in a flash of white light. A scream, raw and stripped of all artifice, tore from her throat as her first orgasm ripped through her. Her body convulsed violently, her back arching off the table as wave after wave of intense, shattering pleasure washed over her. Her inner muscles clamped down on the man inside her, milking him, and he roared as he too found his release deep within her.

She was left panting, trembling, her body slick with sweat. Her mind was a complete blank, emptied by the sheer force of her climax. But they were not finished. The third man, the one who had used her mouth, pulled her off the table and threw her onto her back on the plush Aubusson rug. He spread her legs wide, exposing her glistening, used cunt to the air. The other two watched, their own cocks hard again, their eyes hungry. He positioned himself between her thighs and plunged into her, her body already slick and accommodating from the others. He moved with a frantic, desperate energy, and to her own profound shame and shock, Ram found herself responding instantly. Her body was now awake, alive with a ravenous new hunger. The pleasure returned immediately, sharp and demanding. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her nails digging into his back, pulling him deeper.

The other two didn't wait long. One knelt at her head, once again forcing his cock into her mouth, while the other took her hand and made her wrap her fingers around his own shaft, guiding her in a pumping rhythm. She was the center of their world, the sole focus of their collective lust. There was no thought, no pride, no Ram—only sensation. The feeling of being filled, stretched, licked, and used. Her moans were no longer stifled; they were loud and shameless, echoing in the grand parlor. She met each thrust with a buck of her own hips, her head thrashing from side to side. She came again, a long, keening wail of pure ecstasy that was muffled by the cock in her throat. And then again, as the man inside her pumped his own seed into her already full womb. One by one, they used her, took her, and emptied themselves into her until they were finally spent.

They left as suddenly as they had arrived. One moment she was surrounded by their heat and weight, and the next, she was alone on the floor, the door clicking shut behind them. The silence that returned was now truly empty. She lay there for a long time, her body a canvas of their lust. She was sore, bruised, and sticky with their seed, which now began to slowly leak from between her thighs, pooling on the expensive rug. Her uniform was in tatters, a pathetic ruin of its former pristine state. Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself up. Every muscle ached. She looked at herself, at the mess they had made of her and the room. A profound wave of self-loathing washed over her, so strong it made her want to vomit.

But beneath the shame, something else lingered. A phantom echo of the pleasure. A deep, resonant thrumming in the core of her being. Her body felt fundamentally altered, awakened to a capacity for sensation she had never imagined. With trembling hands, she gathered the ripped pieces of her dress. She stood on unsteady legs and made her way, step by agonizing step, back to her own small, spartan room. She didn't look at her reflection. She couldn't. She stripped off the ruined garments and scrubbed her skin raw in a basin of cold water, trying to wash away their touch, their scent. But she knew she never could. They had branded her, not on her skin, but on her soul.

Dressed in a simple nightgown, she lay in her bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. The mansion was silent once more. But for Ram, the peace was gone. Her body still tingled with a forbidden heat. Her mind replayed the events with horrifying clarity—the pain, the humiliation, and, most damning of all, the overwhelming, undeniable pleasure. She had been broken, defiled, used like an object. And a secret, shameful part of her had reveled in every single moment of her surrender. A single, hot tear finally escaped and traced a path down her temple into her pink hair. It was not a tear of sadness or of anger. It was a tear of terrifying self-discovery. The night had taken her pride, but it had given her something else in return: the knowledge of the deep, dark, and passionate abyss that now lay waiting within her.