[Seventy-five, and he does not have the brainpower to question it, not when the number sends vulgar sparks scattering through his mind. Not yet a century, and oh, Fenris is sure he's had any number of escapades in the past few decades. Little parties just like the ones they came from, where decadent orgies are common and the filthiest kinks are always on display . . . likely he's watched a thousand vulgarities by now. Sipping wine and chattering among his friends as hirelings rutted and suckled one another, tangling together in absurdly complex displays.
And when the lust took him, oh, Fenris is sure he's tangled with his fair share of partners. Sweet merchant princesses mewling for his mouth between their legs; experienced older men who drew him into their laps and bounced him until he shrieked.
But Fenris doubts very much he's ever truly participated in something obscene.
Not just rutting, but the kind of filth that requires letting go. Drooling and out of his mind with pleasure, his eyes rolling back into his head as he surrenders complete control— no, such a thing would surely be risking too much. Better to watch someone else do it. Better to stay safe among your peers, removed and yet witness still, enjoying all the fruits of someone else's labor.
And whether or not it's true is irrelevant, for now Fenris relishes that fantasy. This boastful little brat still virginal in all the ways that matter, thinking he knows all there is to know about sex just because he's had his share of tumbles and knows how to flirt . . . oh, Fenris would show him. Fenris would teach him so much.
The fantasies crowd through his mind, one after another, and this time he doesn't bother to push them away. Just lets them play out in his mind's eye as he glares as his errant charge, his wrist snapping as he tugs at himself. He'd haul that squalling brat over his knee, his hands bound and his hole plugged with a pretty toy, spanking him until he was wailing his apologies, swearing anything so long as Fenris would stop . . . or better still, teasing him with a vibrator. Tying his ankles to his wrists and watching as he writhed against a vibrator's endless buzz, drooling around a swollen ballgag as his untouched cock spilled messily on those pristine sheets . . . or simpler still: serving as cockwarmer. Mewling and whimpering, not allowed to touch as he's speared atop a thick prick . . .
Please, Fenris, please, I want it, please, and his lilting tones echo in Fenris' ears. His fingers tighten their grip, his pulls growing heavy and hard as he feels his own finish rising in him. It's too sudden, too fast, but oh, he's so pent up, he's so needy . . .
And gods, but that tale of the maid doesn't help.
The thought of Astarion with his mouth reddened and covered in slick, his breath hot as he panted against a swollen cunt and earned squealing cries . . . that could've been you, and he surely intends it as a nasty thing, Fenris on his knees among a crowd of nobles, but that isn't the image that comes to mind. It's Astarion on his knees: Astarion panting up at Fenris with a reddened mouth; Astarion looking so pretty with come glazing his face . . .]
It would take far longer than that for me to teach you how to fuck as though you mean it.
[His voice a leonine growl, his emerald eyes gleaming in the darkness.]
You're so used to fucking servants that wouldn't dare disobey their seductive brat of a master— or your peers, who rut clumsily and act as though they know what they're doing. Have you ever been properly fucked, little brat? Not just watching someone take it and gossiping about it in the aftermath . . . have you ever been driven out of your mind? I doubt it.
[His tongue moves without his say-so, his wary thoughts temporarily drowned under the fierce wave of lust smothering him and burning him to his core.]
Boasting to me of maids and parties . . . what can you really do, beyond wag your tongue and make yourself into an object of worship?
no subject
And when the lust took him, oh, Fenris is sure he's tangled with his fair share of partners. Sweet merchant princesses mewling for his mouth between their legs; experienced older men who drew him into their laps and bounced him until he shrieked.
But Fenris doubts very much he's ever truly participated in something obscene.
Not just rutting, but the kind of filth that requires letting go. Drooling and out of his mind with pleasure, his eyes rolling back into his head as he surrenders complete control— no, such a thing would surely be risking too much. Better to watch someone else do it. Better to stay safe among your peers, removed and yet witness still, enjoying all the fruits of someone else's labor.
And whether or not it's true is irrelevant, for now Fenris relishes that fantasy. This boastful little brat still virginal in all the ways that matter, thinking he knows all there is to know about sex just because he's had his share of tumbles and knows how to flirt . . . oh, Fenris would show him. Fenris would teach him so much.
The fantasies crowd through his mind, one after another, and this time he doesn't bother to push them away. Just lets them play out in his mind's eye as he glares as his errant charge, his wrist snapping as he tugs at himself. He'd haul that squalling brat over his knee, his hands bound and his hole plugged with a pretty toy, spanking him until he was wailing his apologies, swearing anything so long as Fenris would stop . . . or better still, teasing him with a vibrator. Tying his ankles to his wrists and watching as he writhed against a vibrator's endless buzz, drooling around a swollen ballgag as his untouched cock spilled messily on those pristine sheets . . . or simpler still: serving as cockwarmer. Mewling and whimpering, not allowed to touch as he's speared atop a thick prick . . .
Please, Fenris, please, I want it, please, and his lilting tones echo in Fenris' ears. His fingers tighten their grip, his pulls growing heavy and hard as he feels his own finish rising in him. It's too sudden, too fast, but oh, he's so pent up, he's so needy . . .
And gods, but that tale of the maid doesn't help.
The thought of Astarion with his mouth reddened and covered in slick, his breath hot as he panted against a swollen cunt and earned squealing cries . . . that could've been you, and he surely intends it as a nasty thing, Fenris on his knees among a crowd of nobles, but that isn't the image that comes to mind. It's Astarion on his knees: Astarion panting up at Fenris with a reddened mouth; Astarion looking so pretty with come glazing his face . . .]
It would take far longer than that for me to teach you how to fuck as though you mean it.
[His voice a leonine growl, his emerald eyes gleaming in the darkness.]
You're so used to fucking servants that wouldn't dare disobey their seductive brat of a master— or your peers, who rut clumsily and act as though they know what they're doing. Have you ever been properly fucked, little brat? Not just watching someone take it and gossiping about it in the aftermath . . . have you ever been driven out of your mind? I doubt it.
[His tongue moves without his say-so, his wary thoughts temporarily drowned under the fierce wave of lust smothering him and burning him to his core.]
Boasting to me of maids and parties . . . what can you really do, beyond wag your tongue and make yourself into an object of worship?