Hells' mercy, they don't stop for a single assailing second between them, these vampiric things with a wealth of pent-up strength to expend.
(Oh, they don't stop when Astarion violently latches himself claws-first onto those hips with a bracing grip as he spills— hot as embers and drenching as a flood— into dominated little channels at last; they don't stop when Vakares' prick finds itself clean once more— only to be rigid again and hungry as it drools in demand for the tender mouth that bathed it; they don't stop when those mewls pitch high and whine and dive or bury deep around the shape of savaging pumps from overswollen lust, muffled to be pushed back in for minutes at a time; they don't stop when the last to come of that trio finally finds his own desperate length cupped within his master's pitying grasp and kneaded to squalling exertion with his mouth full and his hips still punishingly rut: a broodbitch given its vital due at the end of such hard use.)
And isn't he lucky for that?
Isn't he lucky, spoiled sweetheart that he is, kept panting and moaning at the top of those unremittingly sex-starved lungs for so many maddening hours that they're all three of them winded by the time they sprawl together in an enervated heap amongst torn sheets (they always tear his sheets; he never once complains, their patient sire), his arms hooked about them on either side and all thought gloriously eased back into relative numbness behind half-closed eyes.
What complaints could he have like this, so serviced?
What misery could find Vakares when his precious paramours had lapped over each other on trembling hands and shaking knees until they were all equally pristine? Dazed in the aftermath. Comfortably dragged down into utter passivity's soft measure like denmates finally exerted, forgetting their prior slights.
He can think of nothing better to dream of in the coming decades.
Nothing he'd want more.
That's why he tells them first.
Before the vying competitors and obedient allies catch wind. Before they're leapt upon without warning— or worse, pit against each other by those who couldn't picture moments such as these, where they lie tame and still with subdued floes still bedded deep within them, shared in every sense.]
I am sure you've already expected that someone here is meant to take my place while I sleep. [A little wry, that: the guests have not been discreet in their aims, and the banquet itself hasn't been, either. They're not fools, his darlings. He knows they know.]
1/2
Hells' mercy, they don't stop for a single assailing second between them, these vampiric things with a wealth of pent-up strength to expend.
(Oh, they don't stop when Astarion violently latches himself claws-first onto those hips with a bracing grip as he spills— hot as embers and drenching as a flood— into dominated little channels at last; they don't stop when Vakares' prick finds itself clean once more— only to be rigid again and hungry as it drools in demand for the tender mouth that bathed it; they don't stop when those mewls pitch high and whine and dive or bury deep around the shape of savaging pumps from overswollen lust, muffled to be pushed back in for minutes at a time; they don't stop when the last to come of that trio finally finds his own desperate length cupped within his master's pitying grasp and kneaded to squalling exertion with his mouth full and his hips still punishingly rut: a broodbitch given its vital due at the end of such hard use.)
And isn't he lucky for that?
Isn't he lucky, spoiled sweetheart that he is, kept panting and moaning at the top of those unremittingly sex-starved lungs for so many maddening hours that they're all three of them winded by the time they sprawl together in an enervated heap amongst torn sheets (they always tear his sheets; he never once complains, their patient sire), his arms hooked about them on either side and all thought gloriously eased back into relative numbness behind half-closed eyes.
What complaints could he have like this, so serviced?
What misery could find Vakares when his precious paramours had lapped over each other on trembling hands and shaking knees until they were all equally pristine? Dazed in the aftermath. Comfortably dragged down into utter passivity's soft measure like denmates finally exerted, forgetting their prior slights.
He can think of nothing better to dream of in the coming decades.
Nothing he'd want more.
That's why he tells them first.
Before the vying competitors and obedient allies catch wind. Before they're leapt upon without warning— or worse, pit against each other by those who couldn't picture moments such as these, where they lie tame and still with subdued floes still bedded deep within them, shared in every sense.]
I am sure you've already expected that someone here is meant to take my place while I sleep. [A little wry, that: the guests have not been discreet in their aims, and the banquet itself hasn't been, either. They're not fools, his darlings. He knows they know.]