Richard is restrained in one of the positions they like to keep him in. They think it's humiliating, to keep him trussed like this, his wrists bound together tight with duct tape and secured to the iron ring behind his head, a rough cloth stuffed into his mouth, keeping him silent.
And of course, the occasional humiliation of the cream.
They knew how much he adored his indulgent suppers - the chicken in rich broth, or the thick cheese sauce with mushrooms. The pastries stuffed with almond paste, doused in cream.
The pudding he'd smeared into Buckingham's face and jacket, before rubbing dirt into the stickiness and stain, and then ridiculing him for looking like shit and having had no pussy that day.
And so, now, they sometimes use it against him; first, a bowl of thick cream - actually, probably nearer cream cheese, tipped down the front of his pristine white briefs. The pristine white briefs which, covered by the sheer nude-coloured tights, he'd first started wearing when everything went adrift after taking the throne.
Now, with hindsight, he has to admit swapping the sober monochrome suits (even that snazzy number he wore when he condemned Hastings) for underpants, tights, a corset and a neckbrace probably wasn't the greatest way of getting himself respected and adored as a monarch. But he still thinks fondly on the corset. He looked fucking lush in it.
So, they pull his tights and pants away and tip the freezing semi-defrosted cream cheese down over his cock and balls. And then the same again at the back, down the crack of his arse.
He doesn't mind that so much, now.
But the first time they did it, they raped him first. He lay on his side afterwards, vomiting and sobbing, not so much from shame or disgust, but from the sheer pain of it, from having been repeatedly penetrated in a way he'd never experienced before. He bled for three days afterwards.
Now, he's more accustomed to rape. They use it sparingly, to maintain its power to hurt him, no doubt, but if it's not rape they're inflicting, it might be some other form of penetration. Richard tries not to think about it.
They think he's sick, the way he grinds his arse into the mess in his pants, and twists himself around to smear it over his cock and fuck himself in it. But he doesn't care.
The thick cream he smeared on his face in those end days signified the culmination of his descent into sin. The dried, dead, cracking face he bore at Bosworth was a fitting testament to his catalogue of incarnadine infamy.
So, now, if he gets a little pleasure, writhing and coming into the mess of his undergarments, it will serve him well against what horrors he may yet have to endure.