She stood in the doorway in that silken corset, laced in blood-red and black, the kind no real mother should wear—especially not for her barely-of-age stepdaughter.

But Queen Isadora was never a real mother. She was a crowned predator.

And Alina? Alina was just a needy little brat with her half-buttoned uniform, pleading to get into her dream college—the Royal Academy of Sciences—without earning it. She’d failed her entrance interview. Miserably.

So now she came crawling. Just like they all did.

“You know…” Isadora drawled, circling the girl slowly, heels clicking on the marble floor, “You have such a pretty little mouth for someone who’s so bad at speaking when it counts.”

Alina flushed red. “Please… I just need your letter. One signature. They’ll take me if you say so. You’re the Queen. They’ll obey.”

“Oh, I know they will,” Isadora purred, sliding a gloved finger beneath the girl’s trembling chin. “But why would I help a useless, ungrateful little girl who’s never learned how to serve properly?”

“I—I’ll do anything.”

That was all it took.

The Queen’s smile curled into something wicked. She leaned in close, lips brushing Alina’s ear. “Anything, little pet? Be careful with words like that. Because I collect promises. And I break girls.”

Isadora snapped her fingers, and the guards outside the door vanished. Locked.

She pulled the girl deeper into her private chamber—a room lined with velvet restraints, polished oak furniture that doubled as thrones or punishments, and mirrors. So many mirrors. Because Isadora liked her girls to watch themselves fall.

“Get on your knees,” she commanded, voice dripping with honeyed dominance. “Not for me. For your future.”

Alina obeyed, shaky, unsure, wet already. The power radiating off the Queen was overwhelming. Her perfume—spiced sandalwood and sin—wrapped around the girl like a leash.

The Queen sat back on her chaise, legs parted slightly, that wicked smile never leaving her face.

“Now,” she said, tugging the straps of her corset lower, revealing just enough creamy cleavage to drown a girl’s last bit of self-respect. “Tell me how badly you want that letter. Show me you’re worthy. Use that pathetic mouth you’ve never put to good use.”

And Alina? She did. Eagerly. Sloppily. Gagging on the Queen’s taste, her praise, her punishments. Every time she hesitated, she got a sharp tug to the hair. “No, no, sweet brat,” Isadora cooed. “You do it my way, or you go back to school with nothing but spit on your transcript.”

Soon, Alina was bent over the Queen’s lap, that tight little school skirt pushed up, her panties in a forgotten heap on the floor. The Queen’s palm was merciless, slapping crimson into her pale cheeks while she moaned and begged and promised to be good.

But good girls didn’t get into royal academies. Only obedient, filthy ones did.

And as the night went on, Alina learned the curriculum.

Obedience.

Service.

Depravity.

By the time the ink hit parchment, she was marked in more ways than one.

The Queen handed her the signed letter at last, sealed with her personal wax crest. Alina held it in trembling fingers, mascara streaking down her flushed cheeks, hair a tangled mess from being yanked every time she hesitated. Her thighs still quivered.

Isadora leaned down, whispering into her ear again. “Consider this a scholarship, my sweet. You earned it on your knees.”

But it wasn’t over.

Over the next weeks, Isadora summoned her again. Sometimes in the throne room. Sometimes in secret gardens under moonlight. Sometimes, beneath the banquet table, where nobles feasted above and Alina was hidden below, gagging quietly as she performed like the Queen's prized little beast.

Each encounter pushed her limits. Each time, Alina told herself it was the last. That she had what she needed. But she always came back. She always needed more.

And Isadora? She was more than happy to corrupt her.

One night, Alina found herself wrapped in silk ropes, hanging halfway off a carved wooden post in the Queen’s private library—gasping, begging, her wrists stretched and body trembling as Isadora toyed with her like a trained pet.

“You're mine now, you do know that, don’t you?” the Queen whispered, her voice soaked in velvet.

Alina nodded weakly, tongue out, back arched. “Y-yes… I’m yours… please don’t stop…”

“Oh, I won’t. Not until you’re completely rewritten. You don’t get into the Royal Academy. You become it. You become the lesson, the rule, the example. Every inch of you trained in service.”

Alina came undone. Not from pleasure, but from the complete loss of self. Isadora had remade her.

And she loved it.

The recommendation letter got her through the gates. But it was the Queen’s collar, locked beneath her blouse, that she wore with true pride.

The academy itself was no escape. If anything, it was a deeper descent. Queen Isadora’s influence extended into every stone hallway, every professor’s whisper. And Alina? She was watched. Evaluated. Not as a student, but as a prized servant in training.

She wasn’t the only one. There were others. Girls like her. Boys too. All marked by the Queen in secret. All learning how to kneel when no one was looking, how to obey commands wrapped in riddles, how to edge themselves to tears, and hold still until dismissed.

Her dormmate, Lys, was one of them. It didn’t take long before Alina was ordered to train her.

“You’ll be her mirror,” Isadora had said through the crystal communicator late one evening. “Show her how you’ve grown. Break her sweet little pride.”

So she did.

Alina cuffed her friend to the bedposts, whispered the Queen’s mantras, touched her gently, cruelly, teaching her body to melt to power and pleasure. All while Isadora watched through enchanted mirrors—pleased, approving.

By the end of the semester, Alina was no longer a student. She was a handler. A whisper. A creature reborn.

But then came the Masque of Names—a private event where only the most elite of the Queen’s inner circle were invited. Alina wasn’t sure if she’d be allowed to attend, but the summons came in a midnight envelope sealed in black wax.

She arrived trembling in an obsidian corset, laced so tight her ribs ached, eyes masked with onyx lace. The hall was draped in crimson and gold, filled with bodies worshiping power in silence. At the center, Isadora sat on a throne carved from desire itself.

And when the Queen called her forward, everyone watched.

“Strip,” the Queen commanded.

Alina obeyed.

For hours, she was used. Displayed. Examined. Her body no longer hers—it was the curriculum. She was part of the Queen’s performance.

And when the night ended, Alina was the one who crawled back to the Queen’s feet and begged for more.

Because power tasted better when it was earned through ruin.

And ruin? Was divine.