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Chapter Text

Wren shivered under her thin blanket, tossing and turning on her stiff little bunk. There was no particular reason for her to be sleeping under the Saint of Steel's roof; her own home featured not only plusher beds and thicker bedclothes but also a great deal more privacy. Almira's heavy snoring over her head fell into an odd synchronicity with Lorelei's on the other side of the room.

James had snored, too. And she'd gotten quite good at jostling him with an elbow in just such a way to make him stop.

If she'd gone home after the funeral, of course she'd have had all the privacy her heart could desire. Perhaps that was exactly why she was here. All that was waiting for her in the little cottage - one that was now hers and hers alone - was a cold empty bed and the silence of an empty house. She'd take the snoring if it was the cost of a warm body pressed up against her. If it came with a good fuck, she'd take morning breath and a drool-encrusted pillow besides.

You're awful, she said to herself, perhaps more seriously than she intended. He's gone forever and all you can think about is a good fuck?

Awful or not, a good fuck was exactly what she wanted at that moment, she realized. Or at least the fantasy of one. She slipped her hand between her legs and tried to summon her favorite memories of James. The way he buried his face eagerly in her cunt and gasped for air when he could hold out no longer -

- the way he gasped for air at the end, through failing lungs -

Even in the dark, she shut her eyes and winced. This was no good. There was no way on earth she'd be able to keep him healthy and alive in her fantasy when she'd seen and touched him so cold just days before. Her throat choked with tears.

Fine, then. I guess I'm forced to be one of those randy widows you hear about in stories. Besides her poor dear husband, who or what or why was the last thing to have stirred her loins?

Her answer was immediate. That previous day, she'd been helping with the paladins' laundry when a commotion in the hallway had sent everyone rushing to see what was the matter. It had proven to be nothing of consequence - a bird had gotten into the temple and knocked things over as it struggled to find its way back out - but one of the men had evidently been interrupted in the middle of a sponge bath. He'd rushed out, armed to the teeth- but wearing no more armor than he'd been born with. Once all was resolved, they'd all had a good laugh at his expense.

Wren, however, had been too transfixed to laugh. The naked man had been a lean fellow, one of the shorter ones among the Saint's men - not that this was saying much, as Istvhan alone tended to throw off one's sense of scale. He had bright red hair and piercing green eyes, and he'd evidently gotten to the bathwater in time for its warmth to raise a flush to his pink cheeks. But that much she'd seen already, when his cohort of paladins from another temple had arrived several days prior. What she'd had no way of knowing was just how large his cock was even when soft. The warm bath had clearly done him great credit.

She'd averted her eyes quickly, but not so fast that the redhead - what was his name? Gavin? - had not had time to notice.

"What?" he had said, with a mischievous expression and looking directly at her. "Fighting naked is a proud tradition of my people." He had a slight accent betraying some sort of westerly origin, lending weight to his remark.

Istvhan had thrust a towel into his hands just then and said something to the effect of, "And when we're in your land, we'll all try it out. But for now we're in Archenhold." This had set off another round of ribbing, which lasted all through dinner.

But now Wren was grateful to poor Gavin, or whoever he was, for the convenient distraction he provided. She peeked out from the covers just long enough to verify that the others had gone to sleep. Then she pulled them up over her head and let her tryst with the redhead begin.

In her fantasy, he was lying on her bed - her bed, the big plush one in her own bedroom. She felt a twinge of shame wondering whether this was a slight on James's memory, but pushed it aside. His auburn hair flowed across the pillows and he left marks on the sheets from the body paint that he'd explained - in real life, that is - was worn by all the warriors in his people's battle legends. His arms and legs sprawled wide, and he extended a hand gallantly to help her climb atop him and mount his impressive cock. What she'd seen before was only a fraction of his full size, she decided, but once she'd slid all the way down to press their bodies together properly he fit snugly inside her. She let out a guttural grunt of pleasure, and that at least was real.

She began to rock back and forth in the fantasy, matching the motion of her hand in real life in the dormitory. He grabbed her hips to steady her and held her close enough that her breasts smashed themselves flat against his lean chest. She was almost there - 

Wait, isn't he my brother?! Just as much as Istvhan is?

In the wake of that one thought, the moment slipped away. She came back from the edge both in reality and in reverie. 

No, not quite like Istvhan. I don't know him, not really. I'm not even positive I know his name. He's not going to be my brother in a proper sense until I know him better.

And oh, how she did want to know him better. Faster and faster she rubbed against him, the details of the fantasy growing vague and repetitive, until finally she climaxed to the sound of his passionate "Oh, Wren!" right into her ear.

Who actually moans someone's name? That's ridiculous, was the last thought she had before collapsing into the blessed relief of sleep.

In the morning, Wren fetched herself a bowl of porridge in the refectory and scanned the room sheepishly for signs of the dashing redhead. It was hard to miss those distinctive auburn locks; he was chatting boisterously with a little cluster of paladins split between his own cohort and hers. She set down her bowl at the same table, but not so close as to intrude.

"...and she was staring right at Galen!" one of them was saying. Galen, of course! Not Gavin after all. Then a sobering thought stopped her with her spoon halfway to her lips. Were they talking about her? Did he know? Could he see on her face what she'd thought about him doing, just the previous night, and just after her beloved's funeral, no less?

"I didn't want to disappoint her!" said Galen indignantly. Eavesdropping, she was able to glean the facts of the matter: they were talking about a pretty young fishmonger in the market. "She gave me a sweetheart deal! If I'd set her to rights, it would have cost the Temple money."

"Are you married, then, Galen?" Wren couldn't help but ask.

He burst out laughing. Wren burned with embarrassment.

"Me? No, I'm very good at fending off proposals." He winked. "I meant more that I'm completely immune to the charms of women."

Comprehension dawned, slower than it ought. Istvhan sat down, nearly tipping the bench, and added "And highly susceptible to the charms of men."

Galen spread his hands theatrically. "My fatal flaw."

"I have to take a piss," Wren mumbled. 

As she made her hasty retreat, she reflected soberly on the tableau she'd just witnessed. Well, in the scheme of things, I suppose I learned that the easy way.

Passing the room where the washtubs were stored, she mused, It's not as though I don't have plenty of memories of James bathing nude to choose from. And someday they'll be good as new for me to use.

Chapter Text

"Well, now you've really fucked us over, Mr. Goody Two-Shoes," hissed Brenner under his breath.

"Shut up," said Caliban without bothering to lower his voice.

The elderly demon-possessed rune eyed them with malice and mischief as two of her servants finished binding them back to back. For good measure, they tied each man's feet together, and their hands in tandem: Brenner's right to Caliban's left and vice versa. Caliban could not identify the material of the thin, sturdy rope, but it scratched painfully at his wrists despite the knots being tied with careful tension so as not to numb his hands.

"Such pretty vessels," the demon said. Her voice did not quite match the movements of her mouth, and it sent a shiver down Caliban's spine to realize this. "I have been given a great gift today."

They had been placed in the center of the round, squat building that served as the rune village's great hall. Dozens of rune crowded around the edges, leaving the captives a wide berth. 

"What can these beautiful gifts do for me?" She laughed, a shockingly bell-like high-pitched sound. Her deerlike nostrils flared in a way at once utterly alien and strangely familiar. She snapped out a short word in a language Caliban could not understand, and a rune standing directly in front of him stepped forward. He was male, broad at the shoulder and thick at the thigh, and immensely tall even without counting his antlers, though much of his height was in his long, slender lower legs. In his right hand he held a viciously curved sickle point-down against the dirt floor. Caliban had no idea how long these people's lifespan was, but considering that many of the villagers' fur had begun to go gray and this individual's hadn't, he supposed he was looking at a fearsome warrior in the prime of his life. Then a twinge of conscience plucked at him as he remembered what a sickle was actually for, and that he might just as easily be face to face with a peaceable farmer.

The demon uttered a different word, and Brenner grumbled, "Oh fuck." Some of the rune turned their heads in Brenner's direction, but kept their eyes lifted. Caliban supposed another rune had stepped forward on that side of the room, and that the words he'd heard had been names. He saw a female rune's eyes widen as she dragged two small, gawking rune children out of the hut. Several more of the spectators fled, eyes downcast.

The demon made an authoritative hand motion toward Brenner's side of the circle, and spoke what sounded like a full sentence in a decidedly imperative tone. Brenner made a noise of anguish. The crowd gave a collective shudder and Caliban could hear what sounded like feminine yelps of alarm. Brenner began to struggle violently, and Caliban was sure that any second now he'd feel Brenner's form slacken as a spray of blood landed on the back of his neck and a head rolled across the packed earth. Instead, Brenner relaxed almost imperceptibly. Caliban could feel a slow, rhythmic movement pressed against his entire body, starting from the back of his head.

Somehow, he felt it should be obvious what was happening, but whatever it was, his panic-stricken mind failed to grasp it. His attention was swiftly taken up by the demon's sharp command toward his side of the room. The sickle-wielder walked forward, steadily and oddly somberly, with his weapon hand fidgeting nervously at the sickle's haft. Caliban closed his eyes lest the last thing he see be its wickedly sharp point driving mercilessly into his chest.

Something else drove into him instead. An intense muskiness filled his nostrils and something firm was pressing against his lips. He could feel the heat of a living body close in front of him. Finally he understood what was happening to Brenner, and what was presumably about to happen to him. 

He opened mouth and eyes alike. The warrior- or the farmer, or whoever he was - stuck his cock between Caliban's lips and began to thrust firmly but not without gentleness. Caliban had expected it to be enormous, considering the height of his massive frame, but it measured a perfectly ordinary size when compared with the few human specimens Caliban had sampled. 

It was shaped oddly, though. Caliban recalled having once slain a demon-posessed wolf in the forests of a lord's estate. The elderly gamekeeper had insisted on keeping the body for its pelt once adequately assured it was no longer possessed. Grinning nastily, he'd cut open the animal's penis and retrieved a thin curved bone to show Caliban. He had offered it as a grisly trophy to Caliban, who had declined.

For some reason, even though the creature entangled with him clearly had much more in common with him than either one of them had with any beast, he was put in mind of that moment. Did deer have bones like that? Was a rune anything like a deer under the skin? He wondered helplessly whether there was a slender curved bone somewhere inside the rigid flesh of the appendage pumping briskly in and out of his mouth. 

Caliban cast a sidelong glance over the crowd. He had feared that they'd be watching eagerly, lasciviously - and one of the spectators did appear to have his rough homespun breeches tented out as he watched - but for the most part they were quiet, chattering almost imperceptibly amongst themselves, with a restless energy that put him in mind of a city square on the day of some unfortunate announcement.

Suddenly there came a cry behind him - clearly not human, but nearly so - and Brenner slackened slowly against him. The rune he was sucking off, presumably, had climaxed and ended the performance. 

"Not so bad when you get used to it," Brenner muttered with exaggerated dismissiveness. You suck one cock, you've sucked them all."

Caliban's own suitor, however, was still going strong. He moved in short, fluid strokes in and out, with only enough force to propel himself. He'd even handed off the sickle to a timid, elderly rune who took it away for safekeeping. His odd carefulness astonished Caliban. Perhaps this truly was a gentle farmer who'd been pressed into a task he wanted no more than Caliban did. Perhaps the demon's words had meant something to the effect of "These are the finest courtesans of the Dowager's City; let them ply their trade for you" and the rune villagers were somehow under the impression this was a respectable assignation - though he doubted as much. Or perhaps he truly was a steel-eyed rapacious warrior who simply took his pleasure in an understated way. Caliban had no way of knowing.

At last he gave a deep groan, starting low and rising practically to a screech, and spilled hot bitter seed down Caliban's throat. To his utter shame, Caliban was himself hard in his trousers. Having been stripped of his armor along with his weapons, he was on display for the whole room to see - though if any of them noticed, at least they didn't point or laugh.

The farmer, as Caliban had come to think of him, pulled up his breeches, which Caliban noticed bore a scattering of embroidered flowers. He secured the garment at his waist with a belt of intricately braided twine. He pressed his hand gently to the side of Caliban's face; in Caliban's exhaustion he failed to look upward in time to take note of what expression the rune's face might bear as he did so.  Then he stepped back with a gentle bow of his head and shuffled back into the crowd. His fellow villagers clustered around him, whispering.

"Good," said the demon with the barest hint of a smile and a dreamy look in her eyes. "These are good vessels. I shall take care not to break them immediately."

Brenner's fingers wriggled gently against Caliban's; whether he was simply itching at their bonds or whether it was meant as a gesture of comfort, Caliban couldn't say. He could see the tips of the farmer's antlers in the crowd, but his face was obscured by other rune jostling back and forth to gossip. In vain, Caliban willed his cock to soften and spare him a tiny fraction of his indignity. The fact that Brenner couldn't see the state he was in - probably not, at least; did he have some sort of assassin's trick that would let him see? - was his sole comfort. That, of course, and the fact that Slate was not around to witness any of the spectacle. Perhaps by the time she'd found him, he'd be dead and he wouldn't need to explain anything.

All of a sudden, there was a tremendous clatter and a distinctly human figure crashed through the round aperture in the roof. A distinctly shapely, distinctly female human figure. The rune gasped and panic broke out. Some ran for the exits; some flattened themselves against the walls. A few prostrated themselves against the floor against the wrath of whoever - the demon or the intruder - might be inclined to violence.

"Get the fuck away from them!" said Slate as she got to her feet. She brandished a sharp, gleaming knife in front of her and faced the demon.

As she took in Caliban's sorry state - his entire, hard, aching, bruised sorry state - her eyes fixed his with a warm, affectionate glow for the barest fraction of a second before she returned her attentions to the demon.

"You are in my house," said the demon with an eerie, chill calm.

"Well, these two belong with me!" replied Slate with a defiant lifting of her chin, and Caliban's heart soared.

Chapter Text

"Feeling chilly, paladin?" said Brenner from somewhere nearby in the camp. In the dark, Caliban couldn't see his face, but there was an exaggerated earnestness to his words that could only be meant in mockery.

"I'm fine, thank you," Caliban said crisply. "I dressed for the weather."

"Well, if you need someone to keep you warm," Brenner responded in the same chipper tone. He didn't elaborate; he had no need to.

Caliban tucked his blankets tighter around himself. The chill of the wind bit right through them and into his bones.

"Do you need someone to keep you warm?" he asked.

Brenner left a silence so long Caliban thought he was being ignored. "I wouldn't mind."

Caliban made a choked noise of shock.

"I understand. You don't trust me with my knife at your back, do you?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Well, if you ever get over your-"

"Just come here," Caliban snapped. "It's frigid out. It's probably prudent. Please don't make me regret this."

He lifted the corner of his blanket. Brenner's steps were nearly silent as he stood and approached Caliban's bedroll.

"How grateful I am that you-"

"For Slate's sake, I repeat, please don't make me regret this."

Brenner fell silent, evidently taking the hint that any further speech would most certainly make Caliban regret this.

Footfalls came out of the trees from the direction of their latrine. Without looking, Caliban recognized them as Slate's: not as silent as Brenner's, but much quieter than his own lumbering steps or Learned Edmund's shuffling ones. The young scholar, clearly unused to so much walking, was already fast asleep.

"Oh, well, the least you could do is invite me."

Caliban looked up. A ray of moonlight fell on Slate; she stood shivering in her oversized nightclothes and the silk scarf she wore over her hair to sleep. Her arms were folded over her perfect breasts, and her expression was her usual deadpan, perhaps with the eyebrows arched ever so slightly higher.

"Of course you're invited," Caliban said sheepishly. "We're just keeping warm."

"She's on watch, you big dummy," said Brenner. "She's not invited. Not to sleep, anyway."

"Not to sleep, anyway," echoed Slate. "So does that mean...?"

"Good thing you showed up, darlin'," Brenner drawled. "Looks like I can't stir this big fellow's loins all on my own. I might need your help."

"My loins?" cried Caliban. "What are you talking about?"

"Stop teasing him, Brenner," said Slate. Caliban thought he could detect relief in her voice. "Just go to sleep."

"I'm being perfectly serious," said Brenner, "but I'll leave him be for the moment. Good night, Slate."

"Good night."

They lay like that for a while. Sleep didn't come, at least not for Caliban. To his dismay, he could not prevent his mind from unfurling fanciful scenarios of just what it might be Brenner had meant for the three of them to do. To his even greater dismay, his body was responding with great enthusiasm to his speculations. And to his abject horror, he was pressed against Brenner's back as he did so. He tried to shift away, but their tightly wrapped blankets meant that he only succeeded in driving his hard cock into the hollow between Brenner's cheeks. For a brief moment, he regretted surviving his exorcism.

"Changed your mind, eh, big man?"

"I'm sorry for disturbing you. I'm just trying to get to sleep."

"Hey, Slate," Brenner called out. "Looks like your guard dog has enough prick to share between us with plenty to spare."

Caliban's face burned hot. So did other parts of him.

"How would you know that?" said Slate. Her voice was balanced on the knife-edge of annoyance and amusement. Caliban had learned to recognize that tone during the course of their travels. What he couldn't yet tell was which side of the knife she might fall down on.

"Oh, don't you worry, he's being a perfect gentleman," Brenner replied. "He just can't hide certain things when we're packed together this tight. Poor fellow."

"It's not his fault you're such a tease, Brenner. Stop torturing him and sleep."

Something delicate - something that was holding Caliban anchored to reality- frayed and came apart. He didn't know it was happening until it was over. "Slate," he said, in a low but carrying voice, "do you want me to take him up on it?"

Slate walked over from her position on the edge of camp and squatted down on her heels. "You don't have to, Caliban."

"I know," he replied, "but do you want me to?"

Slate let out a nervous little laugh. "If you'd asked me back in the city, I'd have said not on your life."

"But...?"

"Gods damn you, Caliban, you know I'd love to. Do you have to make me say it out loud?"

"Oh," said Caliban. "Well... I... your wish is my command, of course."

Slate stifled a brief, triumphant giggle. Brenner began to wriggle out of the bedclothes.

"Right, well, I suppose I'd better fetch that tin of grease," said Brenner, with a faint note of smugness in his voice.

It was too cold for Caliban to undress fully, but he hitched his nightshirt up around his waist and crouched on all fours with his bottom in the air. Slate inched closer along the ground. With his vision adjusted to the darkness, he could see the hungry look in her huge, staring eyes.

Brenner returned with the grease and gave a low whistle. "I meant this for me, but if you're so keen to get fucked, so much the better."

"Oh." Caliban cleared his throat. "I... I just assumed you meant..."

"Don't scare him off, Brenner."

"I'm not scared of getting fucked," said Caliban, feeling strangely wounded. "I've been around."

Slate made a funny little squeal of what Caliban hoped was delight. "Well, be gentle with him."

"Gentle as a lamb," said Brenner mischievously. "Sorry for my cold hands," he added, sounding not the least bit sorry. Caliban flinched as Brenner slathered his hole in a thick layer of grease. 

In front of him, Slate was breathing heavily and strategically shedding her own clothing. She'd left her torso covered against the chill, but Caliban could see an inviting patch of hair between her ample thighs. He stretched his neck forward to breathe in her scent, and realized with a note of shame that he'd never so much as kissed her before.

"Have a lick if you want," said Slate, "but I'd really rather try out that big cock Brenner was boasting about. You should thank him."

"You're welcome," Brenner grumbled, as he worked his finger firmly into Caliban. Caliban responded with an embarrassingly loud moan. "Sounds like you really needed this," Brenner crowed.

"I suppose so," said Caliban absently. Slate was biting her lip and touching herself, clearly aroused by the men's performance. At that point, Brenner could have set his buttocks on fire and Caliban would have hardly cared. To Slate, he added, "You can try me out anytime you want. Come a little closer."

Slate wriggled onto her back and spread her legs wide. Caliban fumbled for the tin of grease Brenner had set down, dipped his fingers into it, and stroked himself while she watched.

"That's very considerate of you, but I've been soaking through my smallclothes every day I spend with you. I was plenty ready all on my own."

"Isn't that sweet," said Brenner. "And to think it took my doing to bring you two lovebirds together." He slid another finger in, with greater ease. "Slate, take my advice and get yourself something to fuck him with. Look how he craves it."

"'Crave' is a bit of a strong word," Caliban muttered, "but I do like getting fucked. I never said I didn't. I don't know why you act like that's such a revelation."

"Well, you'll be craving this long after we're done," said Brenner. "I can only be so patient for so long." And suddenly Caliban had Brenner's cock deep inside him. It was neither large nor small, thick nor thin. Caliban had the absurd thought that perhaps assassins having forgettable cocks was an asset to their profession, lest they be too easy to identify. 

"Patient?!" cried Slate. "Look at how patient I'm being!" She writhed on the ground and clutched scoldingly at Caliban's cock.

"Oh," Caliban mumbled. "I'm sorry. I won't keep you any longer." He slid inside her and they both made ugly little noises of pleasure.

"Oh, that's gorgeous," Slate cried. "And it's all mine. You hear me, Brenner? This is one cock I get to keep. Don't take it from me." Caliban flushed with pride at her words. He was already harder than he'd been in ages, but her appreciation made him harder still.

"Right you are, ma'am. I'll just take a finder's fee."

"In your dreams."

Caliban tried to match Brenner's pace and rhythm, but found he couldn't match the assassin's furious speed as he rammed in and out. Instead he contented himself with staying deeply buried inside Slate, teasing her with short thrusts as she panted and writhed back and forth. Her scarf had come askew and her face had settled into a peculiar grimace. It was the loveliest sight Caliban had ever seen.

Slate's moans were ramping up in pitch and tempo, and Caliban sped up to drive her over the edge. "No, don't change it," she said through gritted teeth. "Just... like... that..."

Caliban never got the chance to oblige her. Before he could, Brenner gave a twist of his hips that drove his cock home with the exact precision of force and angle to make Caliban explode.

He collapsed forward on top of Slate with a long, whimpering, shuddering gasp. Pinned underneath him, she muttered, "Damn you, Brenner!"

"Don't look at me! I didn't know he was such a sensitive creature."

"I'm sorry, Slate," Caliban whispered in her ear. "I'll make it up to you."

"Of course you will," she said in what he supposed was an attempt at a soothing tone. "You're going to lick up everything he made you spill. Isn't that right?"

"That's right. Anything you ask for."

"Let me finish up first," said Brenner. He escalated to a furious pace, gripping Caliban's hips firmly. "It shouldn't take long," he added between heavy breaths. "I've been over here doing sums in my head to keep from going off." A few more thrusts and he proved his point with a keening howl.

Brenner pulled out of Caliban and slapped him on the rump. "You're not so bad, paladin," he said.

"Thank you," Caliban mumbled as he lowered his mouth to Slate. "Now where were we?"

The harsh tang of his own seed was the first thing he tasted. He slurped it up as quickly as he could, to get it over with. Slate's squeals suggested that she enjoyed this flourish very much. He was left with her glorious musk. She'd bathed just that evening, but their exertions had brought the heavy scent of her arousal roaring back, and he was grateful for that. He licked, sucked, licked again, noting her reactions as he did so. He had only just determined that the best approach was to rub against her with his nose while sticking his tongue inside her, when the effectiveness of this technique brought on a powerful climax that set her hips rocking against his face.

Slate's held breath rushed out with a loud whoosh; she'd made no noise as she came. Caliban supposed this was a useful trait in a profession that called for stealth, then wondered absently why Brenner had failed to cultivate it. She fell back against the blankets with an oddly shy smile on her face, took his hand, and squeezed it. "Thank you," she said softly. "You're very good at that."

"I'm yours to command," he said fervently. Brenner stifled a laugh. Caliban supposed the stifling was a gesture of respect.

"We've had our fun, now let's get to sleep," said Brenner. Jerking his thumb at Learned Edmund, he added, "It's a wonder we didn't wake that little brat."

Slate dressed quickly, stood, and looked around awkwardly, averting her gaze from Caliban's. Caliban leaned down and planted an oddly chaste little kiss on her cheek.

She grabbed the back of his head and returned his kiss, this time on the lips. "Good night," she said as she made for her watch post.

"Good night," said Caliban softly as he snuggled down into the blankets with Brenner curled beside him.

Chapter Text

Marguerite had been on the road with Shane for several months before she realized what was happening to her.

It wasn't always obvious, of course. It could be so subtle perhaps even Shane didn't know he was doing it.

"Go to bed, love, I'll tidy up."

"Eat this, it will do you good."

And Marguerite would go to bed, or tuck in to whatever nourishing plateful Shane gave her, with great enthusiasm and gratitude for his tender loving care.

Sometimes, though, it was starker. They'd been wandering the back streets of some forgettable city when all of a sudden, mounted guards came whirling around the corner, with their spears out and the swift animals' hooves flying high as they ran.

"Duck!" Shane had shouted. Marguerite, of course, had grown up in Anuket City where the streets were even narrower, and the mounted guards even faster, and was prepared to walk past the spectacle with the barest glance of acknowledgment. But entirely without meaning to, she sank to her knees at the edge of the street with her hands folded over her head.

"You big oaf," she said affectionately. "Why did you tell me to duck?"

"For your safety, of course," said Shane as though it were the oddest question in the world.

"Well, I was looking after myself just fine."

"Sorry, my love."

It was only later that Marguerite realized the oddest part. She quite simply would not have ducked had Shane not told her to. She recalled his face, so tense with love and protective fury. 

It was the damn paladin voice. She couldn't resist it.

"Is it supernatural?" she asked, as they sat by the fire at a country inn. Shane, naturally, was on the side nearest the door. "Is it the Dreaming God commanding me through you?"

He shook his head. "No. It's not like that." He took a sip of his wine and paused. "At least, it worked for me between the Saint's death and now. You remember."

"Oh, right. Of course."

"Do you want to know what I think?"

"What?"

Another sip. "I think it only works on people who really, truly want to do what you're asking."

"That's nonsense," said Marguerite, placing a flirtatious hand on his thigh. "It works on demons, doesn't it?"

"Maybe the demons want to leave," said Shane. "Maybe they have a better nature that I'm able to appeal to."

Marguerite laughed. "You're too damn pure of heart," she said. "Give yourself more credit for having the most powerful voice I've ever heard."

Shane looked at her with love and wine blazing in his eyes. "All right. I'll try."

Marguerite drained her glass. "You'd better try right now."

"I guess I'd better."

She practically dragged him up the stairs and through the door to their room. Once they were inside, she pressed him up against the door and began kissing him fiercely.

"Easy now," he said, and there was just enough of the voice in it to make her oblige.

She took his hand and led him to the bed, where she reclined but made no motion to undress. "You could have me doing whatever you wanted with that voice. Why are you so shy about it?"

A flush rose on Shane's face. "That's exactly why I'm shy about it."

"What?" She stared at him, frowning quizzically.

"It's not for... amorous usage."

"Amorous usage!" Marguerite burst out laughing. "Rat's whiskers, Shane, please just say 'sex.'" She extended a hand and pulled him down onto the bed.

"It's not for sex."

"Why the hell not? Why would the Dreaming God pick the pretty ones and then not let them-"

"Marguerite."

"I'm not sure why you're being this way." She wriggled up close to him and draped herself over him, with her lips right by his ear. "What if I told you I want you to use it on me?"

"You... you what?!"

"I want you to use your paladin voice on me."

Shane sat silent and blinking.

"I want to lean my head on your chest and feel it rumbling through you."

"O... oh," stammered Shane. "I had no idea you felt that way about it."

"How could I not?" she whispered.

"But I... Marguerite, it's not a parlor trick. I need a reason to use it."

"Well, how's this for a reason? Let's say you want me to fulfill your wildest desires. How would you use the voice to get me to-"

"Get you to do what?!" cried Shane. "I... no, Marguerite, I couldn't! That's not what it's for!"

"Hmmm." Marguerite pondered her predicament. "The Dreaming God wants you incorruptible, yes?"

"That's the idea."

"Wouldn't a man be that much harder to corrupt if he were blissfully satisfied with hearth and home?"

"I.... well..."

"I want to give you all your heart desires, Shane," she said, disrobing. "But only if you tell it to me in-"

"Hush."

He held the last consonant, a long whooshing sound. His finger was pressed to her mouth. Immediately, she broke off her words. A smile teased at her lips; he'd begun to play along.

She nestled her head against his chest and pressed her ear to his breastbone. "Relax," he said, and his whole body vibrated with the power of his words, low and sweet. It made her ears tingle in a way that had no equal.

"I'm relaxed," she whispered. "Tell me what you want."

"I told you. I want you to relax."

Her naked body melted even further into him. He ran his hand gently up and down her back. She closed her eyes and let out a soft murmur of bliss.

"Listen carefully to my voice." The gentle, repetitive motion of his hand continued.

She giggled sleepily. "As if I could do anything but," she said, but her words were slow and dreamy. "What is it you want to say to me?"

"That you are a queen," he replied, soft and fervent.

"Oh, well, thank you-"

"You are an ancient queen," he went on, "the sort who keeps virile male servants to attend to her every whim."

This was the truest and most natural thing in the world for Marguerite to believe. How could it be otherwise? She knew, of course, that she was only a woman of common birth and ignoble, if oft romanticized, profession. She knew that spies with death warrants on their heads in a dozen backwaters did not rule kingdoms. And yet, the truth seeped into her bones: that she possessed the divine right and the privilege of position that entitled her to make her pretty blond footman into her personal courtesan.

"Yes," she breathed. "Of course. That's why I bring you around with me."

"Of course," he echoed. "Tell me your whims, my queen."

"I want a massage," she whined. "I'm tired from a long day. Affairs of state." The truth of what she'd spent that day doing - paperwork, some of it even legitimate - swam oddly in her memory. Surely that counted as affairs of state? What else would she call the business of her station?

"Right away, Your Majesty." He cleared his throat. "If I give you a massage, you won't be able to listen at my chest like this."

"That's fine," she murmured. He peeled her off of him and deposited her facedown on the bed.

Her servant's strong fingers sank into her muscles, dispelling aches she didn't even know she had. It was bliss. She could hardly imagine a more pleasant restorative. Unless...

"I'd like you naked," she murmured.

"Of course, madam," he intoned. The formality of his words excited her, and yet such was the way it had always been between them - hadn't it?. He stripped off his clothing with quick, tidy motions, and folded his garments for good measure.

"Is this better?" Shane resumed his kneading of her back and shoulders.  He made no acknowledgment of the fact that his cock was jutting hard and flushed against the bed as he massaged her.

"Much," she said. "In fact..." She sat up languidly and grabbed at his cock. "You're the new fellow, aren't you?"

"Yes, madam," he said, completely impassive.

"Well, of course you are. I think I'd remember a luscious thing like this!" She laughed dreamily. "Come here. Let me try you out."

He squirmed so prettily under her hand that it sent a pleasant shiver through her cunt. "Madam. I cannot refuse you, but are you certain?"

Marguerite's head swam. Shane's lovely voice was in full force, and she was cast adrift between truth and fantasy, Shane's genuine timidity and his obvious desires and his theatrical show of reluctance. What did he want?

"Give me a good fuck and I might not have you flogged later," she blurted out.

Shane nodded crisply, but he couldn't stop himself from making a soft noise of delight. At once the part of her still anchored in reality understood. This was a bargain, a quid pro quo just as clear as if she were selling information or buying silence. He would let her feel the power of the voice, if only she indulged him by making him feel deliciously exploited. She felt sure she had gotten the better end of the deal.

Shane took the pillows from the bed, plumped them, and arranged them for her to recline. "Please," he said politely, gesturing expansively at the pillows. She lowered herself onto them with a groan.

He arranged himself kneeling in front of her on the bed, stretched his muscles briskly, then leaned forward until he was on top of her. She wrapped a hand around his muscular bottom and guided him forward until he slid all the way inside her.

"Don't be gentle with me, my queen," he said, thrusting with slow relentless precision.

"Presumptuous," she said, slapping his posterior with a dismissive snap of her wrist. "Why ever would I need to be gentle with you?"

"Forgive me." Faster thrusts, now. "I spoke out of turn."

"Perhaps you'd better focus on what it is you do best." She squeezed him with her thighs, as if he were to need any clarification.

"Of course. My apologies, madam."

He maintained his fast pace far longer than it was reasonable to ask of him. When she began moaning and twisting up her face with the closeness of her orgasm, he looked almost as if he wanted to say something, but didn't. At last, with a howl of dissipating frustration, she crashed over the edge. Each wrenching squeeze of her cunt allowed her to push back against his hardness and on to new heights of pleasure. When it finally ended, she sank back against the pillows, utterly wrung out.

Shane climbed off of her, took her hand, and kissed the back of it. "Will that be all, my queen?"

She gawked at his prick, still rock-hard and dripping from her caresses. "Will that be all?!" she said in disbelief.

"Yes. Will that be all?" His lovely blue eyes stared intently at her. It was a peculiarity of her paladin that he seldom wished to be indulged even when it appeared he did. But then, wasn't this entire tableau an indulgence for his sake?

She nodded slowly. "Yes, thank you. That will be all."

"Good night, madam."

The erotic haze she'd been under had lifted somewhat with her orgasm. She had a brief, awful notion that Shane might head off toward the actual servants' quarters of the inn, but instead he dressed and slipped under the bedclothes. His hardness was obvious even through several layers of fabric, but fatigue was overtaking her and she could not rouse herself enough to make any further use of it.

"Go to sleep, my love." 

And so she did. She couldn't help it even if she wanted to.

Chapter Text

Piper made his way slowly down the steps of the morgue, leaning heavily on the banister. His friends and colleagues had protested vehemently when he’d expressed his intentions to go to work. It was a monstrous thing to ask of him so soon, they’d said, outraged. Couldn’t the city allow him a moment’s peace at a time like this? And anyway, at his age, shouldn’t he be enjoying a quiet life of repose?

It would be monstrous, he agreed, if it was the city officials asking it of him. But he relished the thought of returning to work. The unfortunate dead did not take holidays for one man’s bereavement. It would do him good to bring the families their measure of justice or certainty. And there was nothing in particular about being seventy-seven years of age that made the notion of repose any more appealing to him than it had been at forty.

He sat down, reading over the notes he’d been left about the day’s dead. No apparent deaths by another’s hand; that was good, of course, but several dead of illness or wounds who would no doubt have grieving families wondering if the doctors had truly done all they could.

He’d certainly done all he could when it was his turn.

Piper glanced around furtively - a useless precaution, as he had no assistant with him today.  He reached a hand under his collar and pulled out the small bag which hung around his neck. Opening it, he retrieved a single, neatly severed human finger.

With a deep breath in and out, he placed the fingertip into his mouth and sucked gently.

It was peculiar, looking up into his own face. He looked awful - bags under his reddened eyes, sunken cheeks - but he wore a sad little smile. It was even more peculiar to receive his own kiss.

In the vision, his body was so slow and heavy with poppy milk that it no longer ached. Precise thoughts and feelings were always difficult to determine, of course, but this one positively burst with them. Weariness. Resignation. A faint trace of fiery anger at the vagaries of circumstance. 

A hard-won peace. Gratitude. Love- a fierce tangle of desire and adoration directed at the ghoulish apparition of his own face hovering just above him.

The vision clouded, dimmed, slowed. It had been his final kindness, as they’d agreed upon: a huge dose of poppy milk, to be given when nothing more was to be done. It had the bonus effect of calming Piper, too, as he felt it taking hold. When everything finally faded out, he found himself sitting at his desk, lips closed lovingly around the finger he’d so carefully cut and preserved.

You’d find it funny, he thought to himself as he replaced the digit in its pouch and tucked it back under his clothing. In the end it’s just me sitting here sucking on your finger, when it was always you who loved sucking mine.

A favorite memory came to him, unbidden.

They were newlyweds, still caught up in the heady rush of fucking against every horizontal surface available and a few vertical ones for good measure. Piper was riding Galen with great gusto, moaning and crying out with the reckless abandon that Galen had so thoroughly enjoyed. He took Galen's hand and dragged it over to his own cock in an unsubtle bid for assistance.

Galen simply grinned, wriggled his own hand out from under Piper's, and pressed Piper's hand into place there instead. "Use those beautiful hands," he murmured.

Piper smiled and obliged him, teasing himself with long, exaggerated strokes. It was nothing like the brisk motions he usually favored when alone; he was performing for Galen, and they both knew it, but it was an honest performance. Watching him only further excited Galen, who thrust up and into him eagerly, hips coming up and off the bed even with Piper's added weight across them. The combined sensations were nearly overwhelming.

"I need your other hand," said Galen, his green eyes wide and staring. Piper held it out, and Galen stuffed two of Piper's fingers into his mouth. He groaned blissfully around them and sucked them with just as much enthusiasm as he displayed when sucking Piper's cock. 

Piper was so transfixed by the sight of Galen enjoying his fingers that he forgot the show he was putting on and began tugging himself quickly and ungracefully. The noises he was making took on a frantic edge as he writhed on Galen's cock - shorter than his own generous length but much thicker, absolutely made to be ridden. He twisted this way and that to drag himself down further onto it. When at last he came, it was in great glorious spurts over Galen's chest.

Without missing a beat, Galen took Piper's fingers from his mouth and used them to scoop up the mess. He slurped Piper's fingers clean, dipped them back into the sticky spot, and kept on in this way until the puddle was reduced to smears on his chest. Then, still holding Piper's hand reverently as he kept sucking on it, he placed his free hand on Piper's hip and thrust his way to his own powerful orgasm, which he marked with a long satisfied groan.

"You like my fingers, don't you," Piper murmured, still seated in place.

"I really do," said Galen, pulling him close for a sticky kiss.

In the morgue, Piper was surprised to find he'd gotten hard just recalling the memory. He briefly considered letting it go away on its own and proceeding with the day's work.

At your age, and freshly widowed, you should be grateful, said Galen's teasing voice in his head. Besides, do you really think it's appropriate, cutting up bodies while you're practically ready to hump the table?

Stop being ridiculous, he replied. Even when I'm doing your thinking for you, would it kill you to be serious?

Being serious isn't what killed me, but thank you for asking.

I blame you for this, said Piper to Galen - the lovely Galen he'd married, hair still thick and lush and paprika-red, green eyes unclouded by age. He sighed heavily, sat back down, and removed his outer garments. Then he undid his trousers and stroked himself at the most furious pace his arthritic hands could manage, trying to stay quiet and finding limited success. He made an awful noise through gritted teeth as he spilled into a rag, then sank back exhausted against his chair.

There you go, that's the spirit. And anyway, no one can blame you - they'll just say you've gone a bit mad with grief.

Who's to say I haven't? said Piper, as he grasped the little pouch on its cord and pressed it over his heart.

Chapter Text

"Did you get everything on your list?" said Sarkis. He opened the door for Halla even though both his arms were occupied carrying their heavy bags.

"I think so!" said Halla brightly. "We should be very well stocked."

"Loaf of bread?"

"Yes!"

"Butter?"

"Yes!"

"Eggs?"

Halla frowned. "Oh dear. I think I forgot the eggs."

Sarkis sighed, but did not comment overtly on the lack of eggs. "Onions?"

"Yes!"

Together, they determined that apart from the eggs, cinnamon, and carrots - all Halla's responsibilities - their purchases had all been made. It was market day in Amalcross, and they were outfitting Bartholomew's house with provisions while they stayed there to sort through his voluminous collection.

"I'm sorry about the eggs. I really am. I think I got distracted because the egg vendor was right across from the beekeeper. He was selling honey in every color you could imagine."

Sarkis raised an eyebrow. "Did you buy any?"

"Oh, yes! I bought a dark one that you can't even see through, and a pale one the color of... well, of piss, to tell you the truth. But the sort of piss where you've drunk plenty of water so you-"

"Well, that's not an egg, but I suppose it will be nice to have at breakfast." He set his purchases down and rummaged through them. "Look. I've bought us a treat as well."

He drew out a little box wrapped in a brightly colored cloth and handed it to Halla. She removed the cloth and opened it. It was filled with small flaky biscuits topped with crushed nuts.

"Oh, those look delightful!" Halla reached for a biscuit, but Sarkis abruptly yanked the box away.

"Halla, don't-"

"I thought they were for us to share!"

"They are. I'm sorry. I ought to have explained first." He picked up a biscuit, held it under his nose, and inhaled its aroma. The corners of his lips quivered almost imperceptibly upward. "Oh, these should be strong."

"Strong?" Halla frowned. "What do you mean, strong?"

"They're made with oil of hemp blossom." Sarkis popped the little biscuit into his mouth and his expression wavered for just a moment on the edge of what might be considered a smile. His eyes closed as he savored the pastry. "Good. That baker wasn't putting me on."

She sniffed the biscuits and made a face. "Are they supposed to smell like flowers? I think they've gone off."

Sarkis laughed. "Not that sort of flowers. Hemp blossoms, Halla." He waited in vain for comprehension to dawn on her face. "The... the kind people smoke," he added. "At least they did in the Weeping Lands."

"Ohhh!" Halla's eyebrows shot up and her mouth dropped open. "What's it going to do to you?!"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing so wild as you're thinking. I suppose it's a bit like being drunk, but you won't be sick or wake up feeling awful."

Her eyes went from wide with alarm to wide with curiosity. "That sounds... nice, actually."

"Oh, it's very nice. In fact..." He drew her in close for a kiss. "Some people like it for making love," he whispered in her ear.

"Oooh!" At this, she grinned bashfully as her hand shot out for the box.

"Only one!" cried Sarkis. "They creep up on you."

"All right," said Halla. She selected the biscuit with the most generous allotment of nuts, placed it in her mouth, and chewed experimentally.

"It tastes funny," she said, hand flying up to catch the crumbs that fell from her lips. "Is that normal?"

Sarkis nodded. "That would be the hemp blossoms."

Halla swallowed the pastry and looked at Sarkis with an eager expression on her face.

"Halla, you have to give it time."

"Hmm." Her brows furrowed. "How will I know when it's working?"

"Believe me," he said, taking another pastry. "You'll know."

"I thought you said only one!"

"Only one for you," he said with his mouth full. "Think how much more wine it takes to get me drunk compared to you. It's like that."

She nodded slowly. "I guess that makes sense." She pressed a hand pensively to her mouth. "So what now?"

"We wait," said Sarkis. "It's not like we have any shortage of things to sort through around here."

They started with two large crates of art, in varying states of preservation. Sarkis lifted the items - mostly prints, diagrams and paintings- out of the crates one by one while Halla searched for the corresponding description in the list of Bartholomew's personal effects they'd been given.

"All accounted for!" said Halla cheerfully when they were done. "That's two out of how many?"

"Twenty-three," said Sarkis flatly.

"Oh dear." Halla gave a languid sigh. "I'm not sure I could take twenty-one more of that. But I suppose we have to try." She stood decisively. "I'm going to get something to eat. Would you like anything?"

"Yes, thank you," said Sarkis distractedly. He was struggling with the third crate, which appeared to count several items of heavy sculpture among its contents.

By the time Halla returned, he had maneuvered the fourth crate into place and begun removing the nails holding it shut. She was holding two plates laden with food.

"I wasn't sure what you wanted," she explained through a mouthful of crumbs, "so I thought you might like a little of everything." Everything, in this case, was cheese, onion, pickles, sausage, and bread, all cut into neat if somewhat mismatched slices, plus a little dish of honey for each of them.

Sarkis, however, did not appear overly concerned with the contents of the plates. He was staring quizzically at Halla.

"Halla," he said wearily, "are you eating another cake?"

She nodded and swallowed. "It's been, what, an hour of work? And I don't feel a thing. I thought maybe the first one was no good, so I'd better try a second."

Sarkis's lips began moving silently. By now, Halla could recognize the eights-based counting system of the Weeping Lands without even trying.

"What? What's wrong with that?"

"You're not the first to make this mistake," he said evenly, "and you won't be the last."

"Mistake?! It's just a little biscuit!"

"I meant what I said when I told you they sneak up on you. You might as well say 'It's just one jug of unwatered wine!'"

"Oh," she said. "Oh dear."

"Just... whatever you do, I beg you, don't eat any more of them."

They made good headway on the third crate. Halla fidgeted in her spot on the floor, marking off the list as Sarkis heaved and hoisted the bulky sculptures and pieces of esoteric equipment. At last, she spoke.

"Sarkis," said Halla sheepishly, "I know you wanted to get something nice for me. I think that's lovely. But..."

"But what?"

"But I really think those pastries were no good."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well," she wailed, "it must be hours now since I ate that second one and I swear nothing's happening to me at all!"

At this, Sarkis's impassive mask began to crack. A low chuckle rose from his chest, teasing his lips with a smile, before he fought it back down.

"What's so funny?!" cried Halla.

"My love," he said, "it has been, at most, one quarter of an hour."

"That's impossible!"

"And," he went on, "did you even notice you've finished your entire plate?" He indicated the low table where their dishes sat. His was still half-full of Halla's miscellaneous delicacies; hers was not only bare but also licked clean.

"Did I?" She glanced where he was pointing. "Oh, I suppose I did."

"In my experience, that most certainly means it's working. Minutes feel like hours, and you get very hungry all of a sudden."

"Oh." She frowned. "Then why don't I feel... I don't know, unusual?"

"Hours passing inside your head without passing outside? You don't think that's unusual?"

"Hmm. I suppose you're right." She turned back to the packing list. "Let's keep going."

It was on crate number five that the dam burst.

"Looks like a drawing of a dog on the hunt," said Sarkis. "Unframed, of course. Signed by..." He squinted at the lower corner of the image. "Octavius... Melon? Mallen? I don't know, can you read that?"

In response, Halla simply collapsed into gales of laughter.

"Halla? The... the signature?"

"Sarkis, look!" she said, cackling. "It... it's just... that DOG!" She pointed at the drawing, gasping desperately for breath.

"What about it?" said Sarkis.

"I don't know, it... it just... it's like this!" She pressed her teeth firmly together and stuck her lips out as far as she could. Then she drew her eyebrows down low and growled deep in her throat. Even Sarkis had to admit that she was doing a credible impression of the unfortunate hound depicted in the drawing.

"You know, you're right," said Sarkis with a faint smirk. "That's exactly what that dog looks like."

"Grrrr!" said Halla again, giggling helplessly. "It's just... it's so stupid!" Tears streamed down her cheeks as her laughter escalated into a noiseless wheeze.

"Uncontrollable laughter," said Sarkis with a knowing look, "is a sign that you have been hitting the hemp blossoms very, very hard."

"Or it's just a sign of the world's stupidest dog!" Halla shrieked.

Sarkis shook his head in affectionate tolerance. He swept her up in his arms and kissed the tip of her nose. In response, she tightened her arms around him and stuck her tongue sloppily into his mouth.

"What was that you said earlier," she said sweetly, "about making love?"

"Oh, yes," he murmured, "it often puts people in the mood."

She was running her lips absentmindedly over the thick growth of beard along his jaw. "Hmmm, I see now."

Halla's wandering hands were preventing Sarkis from getting much of anything done. He took her face in his hands. "Does that mean you'd like to-"

"Of course," she said, "once it's really properly working." Her arms were still twined around him.

"I see," Sarkis intoned. "And how will you know once it's really properly working?"

"Well, I don't know," she admitted, "but I'm perfectly sober. Let's keep working on these crates."

"Let's," said Sarkis. His voice bore a note of deep skepticism that ought to have been obvious to anyone who was perfectly sober.

The next item in the crate was a large metal sculpture depicting several dancing figures attached precariously together. Despite its apparently delicate nature, it was shockingly heavy. Sarkis staggered under its weight.

"Let me just set this down," he said.

"All right," said Halla. Rather than step aside, she grabbed hold of his bottom and pinched it hard.

Sarkis cried out and stumbled, nearly letting the sculpture fall. He caught it before it reached the ground, but not without a cry of pain.

"That was my knee!"

"Oh no," said Halla. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to... I... you just have such a wonderful body!" she blurted, eyes wide with earnest sentiment.

He turned to face her and planted a kiss on her lips. "We're not going to get anything else done today, are we?" Exasperation and amusement battled one another on his face.

"No," she said sheepishly, "I don't think so."

"Now are you convinced it's working?"

"I... you know, I think it might be." She turned to him with a sheepish smile. "How about that lovemaking?"

He scooped her up and slung her over one shoulder with a soft grunt. "Yes please."

Sarkis deposited Halla onto the bed and stripped off his clothing. She followed suit. He reclined alongside her, stretching his limbs like some large cat basking in the sun. Sliding his arm underneath her, he maneuvered her until she was lying draped on his chest, with her large soft breasts pressed against him. 

"Glorious," he breathed, crushing her tighter in his embrace so that her breasts spilled out to all sides. "They're just glorious."

She laughed. "Have the biscuits put you in the mood, too, or is it just me?"

"Both," he admitted. "I do feel a little lightheaded. But I'm not nearly such a lightweight as you."

"So it's mostly me then!" she crowed triumphantly.

"It's always you." He kissed her deeply and she made a soft, melting noise. "Come here," he added, resting one hand on the curve of each generous ass cheek. He squeezed them both at once and motioned to her to inch her way up his body until she was hovering above his mouth.

Halla sank down with a squeal of delight. She rocked tipsily back and forth, side to side, slower and less driven than usual. Sarkis lay back, savoring the sensations, the musky smell and the salty tang of her delicious cunt, with the drug pushing all mundane concerns to the back of his mind.

Suddenly she dismounted. He let out a quiet moan of frustrated longing.

"I want this," she said decisively. She wrapped a hand around his fat hard cock and gave it a firm tug. "I want it now."

"It's yours, love," he said, lost in bliss. "Take it."

She sank onto him with a groan of satisfaction and beamed down at him. As she began to ride, again her movements were lazy and slightly off-kilter, as though the air in the room were replaced with thick liquid. At one point, she poked his belly and giggled, still swaying and grinding on his cock.

"What's so funny?" he said with a little half-smirk.

"Your tattoos," she said. "Look at these little hunters with their bows and arrows."

"Halla, you see my tattoos every day."

"Yes, well," she said distractedly, "I notice something new every time."

"That just means you didn't look hard enough the first time." His arousal was undiminished.

"Mmmhmm," she said cryptically. 

It went on thusly for some time, a softer and more luxuriant rhythm than they usually favored. When Halla's orgasm finally overtook her, she seemed almost surprised. Her moans started low and soft, then rose in pitch until she exploded with a funny little breathy squeak. A dreamy grin broke out across her face.

"Oh, I felt that," he said appreciatively. "Must have been a big one."

"It was," she said, beaming. "It's still fading out." She pressed a hand to Sarkis's chest. "Your turn, love."

He wrapped his arms around her and rolled her over onto her back. His lips were right at her ear, so he nibbled it gently while greedily helping himself to handfuls of breast. It didn't take him long before he came hard into her, with a loud noise escaping from deep in his chest.

Halla covered him in kisses. "You know," she said, "After all that fuss you made about only one biscuit, I had a very nice time with two."

Sarkis grumbled something unintelligible.

"What was that?"

"'Night," he said, as he drifted off into sleep.

Chapter Text

"Flowers," said Stephen.

Grace held another vial under his nose. "And this one?"

"Flowers," he said again helplessly. "But different flowers this time."

"How about this?"

Stephen grimaced. "Er.... trees?"

"What kind of trees?"

"I... trees that grow in forests?" He buried his face in his hands. "Grace, I think I'm hopeless."

"I mean, technically speaking, you did go three for three just now."

"Really?"

She nodded. "Rose is a flower. And jasmine is a flower. And pine is a tree."

Stephen slapped his forehead. "Rose. I ought to have known."

"I think you're better than you think you are, though," said Grace. She corked the vials and set them aside.

"I'm flattered that you think so," said Stephen, "but I'm not sure what to make of that if I can't put it to use."

"Hmmm." Grace frowned. "I think I have an idea." She vanished into her bedroom.

"Should I come with you, or..."

"No. Wait there."

Grace returned with her hands behind her back. "All right. Close your eyes."

Still seated at the workbench, Stephen obliged her. He felt the touch of fabric on his face and Grace's hands tying a handkerchief over his eyes.

"What's this for?"

"I think it might help you identify scents."

"Being blindfolded makes your sense of smell better? Is that... I didn't think smell worked that way."

"It doesn't," Grace admitted, "not exactly. But most people aren't used to paying proper attention to what their noses tell them. Sometimes it's easy to get distracted."

Stephen pondered this. "All right. Let's try."

"We'll start with an easy one," said Grace. 

Stephen felt the weight of Grace's hand lift from his shoulder. He could hear the soft tinkle of glass as she rummaged through her supplies. When her warm presence at his side returned, she brought with her an equally warm and tempting scent.

"Nutmeg," said Stephen. "That's easy."

"Right!" said Grace. "They won't all be that easy. How about this?"

Stephen took a deep breath. The scent was bright and fresh and made him think of summer. "Lemons?"

"Very close," said Grace. "Do you want another try?"

"Grapefruit," said Stephen, less certain this time.

"Not a bad guess," said Grace, "but it's bergamot."

"Was that supposed to be an easy one?" said Stephen with a laugh.

"I don't know," said Grace, and he could hear the shrug in her voice. "I just said they wouldn't all be easy. Sometimes I forget that most people don't know what bergamot smells like." Another soft rattle of glassware. "All right, how about this?"

This time whatever it was practically burned the hairs inside Stephen's nose. He made a noise of disgust. Grace laughed.

"Is this even perfume?" said Stephen. "It doesn't smell very good."

"I never said they'd all be perfumes either."

Stephen took another breath. It made his eyes water. "It smells like... like nothing, somehow. But also like strong liquor at the same time."

Grace laughed and kissed his cheek. "Well done! That's neutral spirits. It's for making extractions."

Stephen groped clumsily for her and returned the kiss. "I think the blindfold is working!"

"Don't get too cocky now. I'm going to make it difficult for you."

He heard the sound of a vial being uncorked, and the aroma that wafted out was overpowering.

"I know what that is," he said. "That's musk. You must have gotten it from Tab."

"Well, not so fast," said Grace. "I also have muskmallow. Which one is which?" She removed the sample from in front of him. "Take a few deep breaths to clear your nose." He did as he was told.

"All right, give me the next one."

He breathed in as deeply as he could. "It's.... well, it's musky."

Grace's merry chuckle rang in his ear. "It is, isn't it?"

"Damn it. Give me the first one again?"

"You're doing very well," she said. He heard the sound of her unfurling a folding fan and waving it under his nose. She held out the first vial again.

"Nope, this one's Tab," said Stephen. "Definitely."

"Correct!" Grace leaned over and planted a kiss on his lips. He stuck out a hand to feel for her, and his arm bumped something off the table. It landed precariously, caught between him and the table's edge. "Aaah!" shrieked Grace as she flopped across his lap with her elbow jammed into his thigh, narrowly missing his sensitive bits.

"Sorry!" he said, wincing.

"It's all right. I caught it. You nearly spilled my latest batch of- well, you tell me what it is!"

It was a wonderful scent, elegant and floral and strangely alluring, and yet he wanted to lick it in a way that most flowers never inspired him to do.

"It's beautiful," he said. "I'm so glad I didn't break it."

"Oh, I'm very glad," she said, laughing. "But what is it?"

"Er..."

"Yes?"

"Flowers," said Stephen at last. "Wonderful, beautiful flowers."

"What kind?"

"Damned if I know. Maybe... jasmine, again?"

"Oh," she said, "don't worry, that one was difficult. It was orange blossom."

"No wonder I wanted to..." He trailed off.

"Wanted to what?"

Stephen rubbed the back of his neck. "I wanted to taste it. Is that odd?"

"No. Sometimes bakers use it in pastries. Makes perfect sense to me."

"Does it taste the way it smells?"

"I suppose so."

"You should wear it. I mean, you should wear whatever you want to," he added hastily, "but I liked it."

"Oh!" He could hear her bashful smile in even one small syllable. "All right, then."

"Is the next one going to be hard?"

"Hmmm." She paused for a moment. "I don't know. I mean, I don't know if you'll find it hard or easy or in between."

"Try me."

"Just... give me a moment to get it."

He could hear the rustling of fabric. Then came the snap of the folding fan as it opened. The gentle breeze of the fan tickled his face.

"All right, Stephen," said Grace softly. "What do you think this is?"

It was musky, to be sure, but a gentler, softer musk than either the civette or muskmallow. There was a briny undertone that put him in mind of sweat. He took a deeper breath and filled his nose with it. Even before he could put it into words, it had a powerful effect on him. He began to feel warm all over, and a soft murmur of delight escaped his lips.

"Grace," he said quietly, "I... I think I know what this is, I just..."

"Yes?" she said sweetly.

"I think this is your scent." He gulped.

"What do you mean, my scent?" There was a teasing edge to her voice. "We're in my workshop. Aren't they all my scents?"

"Well, of course," he said. "I mean I think you... you touched yourself and got your finger wet."

"Correct," she whispered into his ear. His arousal heightened.

"Oh," was all he could say. "Really?"

"Yes." Her arms wrapped around him and she kissed his neck, then leaned her head on his shoulder. "I thought I might be able to fool you."

"That's where you went wrong," he replied. He drew her in tighter. "I'd know that scent anywhere."

She kissed him deeply for a moment, then pulled away and tugged gently at his hand. "Careful. Don't knock anything else over."

He stood cautiously and inched his way clear of the workbench. Grace led him by the hand to the door of her bedroom. It creaked open and she pushed him down onto the bed. His leg landed on something squirming, and he heard the snarling noise of a displeased civette.

"Oops," he said. "Sorry, Tab." The sound of scampering feet indicated that Tab had chosen to forget the slight and left the room.

Stephen heard the sound of Grace's clothing hitting the floor. She flopped down alongside him and he could feel warm naked skin everywhere his fingers brushed against her. He shed his clothing and flung it over his shoulder. 

He knew her body like the back of his own hand, of course, but the blindfold still made him slow down and explore her everywhere he could just to be sure she was still as he remembered. He pressed his eager hands into her breasts, belly, thighs, everywhere there was even the slightest bit of yielding flesh. She responded with soft grunts and sighs of delight, and returned his caresses.

"Maybe you should study my scent a little more," said Grace.

"I think I should," he replied. He kissed his way down her belly and between her legs, where he spread her thighs wide with his hands and breathed deeply. Musk and brine again, all the more powerful for coming straight from the source. It made his mouth water. He longed to lick her, but he was well aware there was no point in it if it wouldn't please her. And he longed even more deeply to please her.

Instead he felt his way along the inner side of her thigh and slipped two fingers inside her. She gasped and wriggled around them, but he quickly drew them back out again in order to lick her intoxicating flavor off of them. 

"I don't know how you thought you could fool me," he said earnestly. "There's nothing quite like it." He slipped his fingers back inside and teased her lazily. She reached a hand out to return the favor, but the angle was too awkward and she could only manage a perfunctory stroke or two.

"Get on top of me," she said. It was an order, but her voice was soft and undemanding. "It's been a long day, and I need it."

"Of course," he said. He stretched himself full-length atop her, pressing her into the mattress. He didn't enter her just yet, though, but lay there kissing her neck while she writhed impatiently underneath him. 

"I'd ask what you're waiting for," said Grace with a groan of satisfaction, "but it just feels so good to have you lying there that I can't complain."

"I can get on with it if you like," said Stephen. Pressed hard against her belly, he was in no position to suggest otherwise.

"Get on with it," she said, "but start slow. I want you to really drag it out."

He obeyed eagerly. The blindfold made him clumsier than usual, but he worked himself inside her and thrust slowly in. Just as slowly, he drew back out, taking care to drag the tip of his cock along her walls as he went.

"Perfect," she murmured into his chest. She wriggled down the bed until her back was as flat as it would go.

"You're perfect," he replied at the fullest extent of a lingering thrust.

"No such thing", she mumbled.

He kept on diligently. As he'd expected, Grace soon decided she'd had enough teasing.

"Speed up," she said simply, reaching a hand around to give his bottom a couple gentle slaps of encouragement. The soft sting, and the loving casualness with which she'd delivered it, made him feel cherished in a way he was hard-pressed to explain. He sped up immediately, corkscrewing his hips and covering her body with his in the exact way he'd come to know she liked best. She stretched her legs as wide apart as she could to allow him greater depth.

Grace was making strained noises now, writhing restlessly in counterpoint to him. He didn't need to see her in order to imagine her tightly shut eyes and grimace of concentration. At last she climaxed with a loud groan of relief as her heart began pounding against him.

This was his cue. He abandoned the corkscrew motion in favor of straightforward thrusts. She twined her arms around him and made little appreciative sounds in his ear as he drove himself into her. He couldn't wait to rip off his blindfold and see her serene, satisfied face, even though he could picture it effortlessly. His eagerness to look at her spurred him on further and further until he could take it no more. He pulled out of her and spilled his seed onto her belly, where it pooled in her navel and began to run down her sides.

With a great satisfied sigh, he pulled off the blindfold. As he'd expected, Grace was staring up at him with dreamy, faraway eyes. She dipped a finger into her navel and held it up to him. "I think you can identify what this scent is."

He made a show of sniffing it anyway. "Yes, I think so. It's, ah, it's certainly not as nice as yours."

She shrugged. "You have other scents that I like."

Stephen fetched a washcloth and handed it to her. "Such as?"

"Oh, well, now you've put me on the spot!" she said, mopping up the mess.

"I'm not in a hurry." He smiled and snuggled up alongside her.

"Your armpits," she admitted. "When you've had a hard day's work."

"Really? I... I had no idea."

She laughed. "Really. It pairs very nicely with the gingerbread smell."

"You know," said Stephen, "I'm glad to hear it. Seeing as I've got no shortage of hard days' work and all."

She turned in his arms to face him, buried her face under his arm, and breathed in. "You could use a bath. But, you know, in a sexy way. I like it."

It was his turn to laugh. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, and kissed her.

Chapter Text

Shane sat restlessly on the floor of the cage, stretching each of his limbs in turn. If space had permitted, he would have been pacing back and forth, but if he were to stand, his head would have brushed the ceiling, to say nothing of how he could cross the tiny cramped space in two strides. Without a clock, it was hard to tell whether it was past midnight and therefore whether Marguerite was late. The wind whistled through the bars and he shivered, pulling the disgusting pile of rags - it could hardly be called bedding - tighter around himself.

Hours passed before he saw a short figure weaving between the trees. If his eyes had been even a little less adjusted to the dark, he might have missed her altogether in the drab cloak she'd wrapped tight around herself.

"There you are," she said. She crouched down and extended her hand between the bars of the cage. He took it and kissed it reverently. She touched his chin and gently pulled his face forward until their lips met. 

"I was afraid something had happened to you," he said softly.

She waved a hand dismissively. "One of their scouts was on my tail. I had to take the long way around to lose him. How are you holding up?"

"Can't complain," he said. He rubbed his hands absently over the goose pimples on his forearms.

"Oh, hush, you," said Marguerite. She sat in front of the cage, arranging her skirts neatly. "You're clearly freezing. Let me get you out of there."

"I thought we said it would be better for me to wait here for an ambush. They must be assuming I'm dead by now."

"It would be better," she said slowly, "but from what I've just learned, they won't be back until well after dawn. That's a long time to wait in this chill."

"Wouldn't be the first time," he said. "The Saint and the Dreaming God have both put me through colder nights than this."

She rolled her eyes. "Shane, do you have to be made of such strong stuff all the time?"

"I... I think it's my nature, yes."

Marguerite laughed. "Well, suit yourself. It's not as though you don't make a very pretty caged beast."

"If I'd known you thought so, I'd have done this a lot sooner."

"Oh yes," she said conversationally. "Look at you, so fierce and defiant, crouched in there like a wolf or a tiger."

"I don't feel much like a wolf or a tiger. I feel like a tired, cold man."

"I told you, I can break that lock and have you in a warm bed inside of an hour."

He shook his head. "If even one of them gets back before dawn, we're finished. Tell me more..." He trailed off.

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me more about what a pretty caged beast I am."

"Oh, I can do that," she purred. She leaned forward again and kissed him deeply. "Look at those muscles," she murmured against his mouth. She reached out and squeezed his arm. He closed his eyes with a shy smile. "All that power, kept under lock and key. Waiting to spring out."

"Should I throw myself against the bars and growl?" He was speaking in a low, grave voice, balanced precariously between wry and serious.

She sat back, softly smirking. "Yes, if you don't mind."

Shane gripped the bars and made a guttural noise of exertion and frustration. He rocked his full weight back and forth against them as best he could. The metal bowed slightly, but did not bend.

"Oh, you're magnificent," said Marguerite. "Again."

He repeated the performance, to which she murmured appreciatively and offered delicate applause. "I'd better be careful. I think I actually could break them. If anything looks out of place, the game will be up."

"Good thing you're so practical. I'd love to see you rip them off their mountings."

"I'll have to show off for you some other time."

"I'll hold you to it." She reached out a hand to scratch his head. The moan that he let out just then was loud and involuntary. His cock had begun to respond to her touch and her words, braving the bitter cold to stand stiffly to attention under his thin breeches.

"Now that you have me here," he said from low in his chest, "what do you want your caged beast to do?"

"Hmmm." The sky had cleared slightly, leaving enough moonlight to cast a glow over her devilish grin. "Get on all fours." 

He did as he was told, and added a little flourish of tossing his head and growling. "What else?"

"I'm thinking." She reached out a hand, took a fistful of his close-cropped blond hair, and yanked on it. The noise he made in response could only be described as a howl. "The trouble is that there are so many nice things I could do with you on all fours, but not with you in there and me out here."

"If I may?"

"Oh yes," she breathed, "you may. Give me an idea."

Wordlessly, shivering, he lowered his trousers and turned around so that he was crouched facing away from her.

"Oh, brilliant," she said. He could hear the noise of her rummaging through her effects and the light clanking of her cloak clasp against the bars as she maneuvered herself into place. He thrilled to the touch of her warm hand against the cold skin of his hip. Her fingertip, greasy with what he supposed must be one of her innumerable cosmetics, pressed gently into him.

"Testing your beast's virility?" he said, amused. "Making sure all's in order?"

"Something like that," she replied. She pressed the finger further in and made little probing motions. Cold air was tickling very sensitive parts of Shane's body in ways that were not altogether pleasant, but her teasing fingers kept that far from his mind. She added another, now moving them in tandem, now in counter-motion. "You may touch yourself, if you like," she said conversationally. "You're a beast, you don't need manners."

"Thank you, ma'am," he breathed. He wrapped a freezing fist around himself and began to stroke.

"I just said no manners." She teased faster now, and more forcefully. The cold was stinging Shane less bitterly now; he felt hot all over even though he could see his breath in the air. 

It was difficult work, stroking himself while balanced on three limbs, but he managed it. He managed it so well, in fact, that he could feel his climax nearing in about the usual amount of time, despite the cold and his aching muscles and the pins and needles starting to take hold of his hand. When Marguerite raked the nails of her free hand viciously across his backside, it became too much. He let out a strained howl as he drenched the already-filthy bedding with his seed, then collapsed.

"Well done, beast," Marguerite murmured. "That was magnificent."

"That was very reckless of me," said Shane. "Imagine if they'd come back early. I'd have given away our position."

"Reckless of us," she said. "You're too gallant, taking all the blame. And I told you not to expect them before dawn at the earliest."

He ignored the rejoinder. "Anything for you?"

"Soon," she said, "but not now. Slate will be wondering where I am."

Shane nodded. "Stay out of trouble."

"It's a bit late for that."

She planted a deep kiss on his lips through the bars, then drew back and slipped silently away through the trees.

Chapter Text

“Not half-bad duty, is this?”

The rough voice in his ear shook Shane from a reverie. “Pardon?”

”If you’re looking after the kind of toff who goes to lots of parties and likes you kept close at hand…” The other bodyguard took a glass of wine off a passing tray. “Then you get to go to a lot of parties.”

Shane nodded. “I see what you mean.”

The present soirée was being thrown by a young woman named Carolina de Monterrey. She had just become betrothed to a penniless nobleman whose family had lost the fortune several generations prior, and Miss Monterrey was apparently eager to prove to her future husband’s social circle that he had as much reason to marry her for her charm and skill as a hostess as for her considerable wealth. 

Marguerite, naturally, had secured herself an invitation; that crowd was notoriously steeped in a heady mix of money, wine and sex, and so naturally there would be both rumors spread and new rumors created at such a swank affair. It was all but assured that one of them knew, or knew someone who knew, the secret of the elusive artificer and their mysterious benefector.

Which was why, at the present moment, Shane was watching a heated debate break out over what sort of rope was best for tying up one’s lover, and being assured by all around him that this sort of thing was not unusual for their set.

The night was not even half over when a pair of young lords, their voices made loud by wine, began regaling one another with tales of their latest bedroom escapades. The conversation, of course, was not in Harshek; fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, one of his fellow bodyguards stood by closely translating the action. One nobleman’s new mistress insisted on being tied only with cords of velvet, which the man took to be an alluring marker of the luxury to which she was accustomed.  The other had recently married a woman who preferred unwaxed cotton, as she relished how it chafed at her skin and tightened when she struggled. A third young man had apparently stood forth and asserted that "Celia was always fond of punishment." The second had taken offense, Celia being the woman he’d just wed, and the whole thing might come to blows were it not for the intervention of a dashing youngish man who’d been hanging off to the edge of the circle.

When Davith stepped into view, it was all Shane could do to keep from visibly rolling his eyes. "I don’t know why they don’t use hemp rope,” he said loudly, and in Harshek, to the woman Shane took to be Celia, she of the impugned honor.

”Isn’t that scratchy?” said the woman on the other side of Celia. 

“In a good way or a bad way?” said Celia, giggling.

”Not particularly,” said Davith, “not if you care for it right. Hemp can be quite soft if it’s well-made and well cared for.”

”How do you know so much about rope, Ian?” said Celia’s friend flirtatiously.

”I was a naval cadet once,” he said. The thought struck Shane that that might even be true. “The skills have… stuck with me in other areas of life.” He winked and the women laughed merrily.

“I bet you can do all kinds of fancy tricks with rope,” said Celia with an expression that trod the line between innocent and predatory.

”Oh, I can,” said Davith with a grin. His voice rose. “And I’m happy to demonstrate them on anyone, provided they can bring me a rope to do it with. And a willing victim,” he added, his voice taking on a vulpine note of mischief.

A murmur broke out across the room. The necessary rope was procured from somewhere; it proved to be hemp after all. Various revelers either put themselves forward or lasciviously shouted others’ names. But it was Shane’s ill fortune that Carolina, the hostess, cast her eye on him at that moment.

”Ooh, how about that pretty blond fellow at the back!” she said in a tipsy squeal. 

Davith followed the line of her pointed finger and locked eyes with Shane. "Him?" Many of the women, and several men, clapped and cheered in response.

Shane cast his eyes desperately in Marguerite's direction. She was standing by the glittering crystal punchbowl just a pace or two away, having what looked like an intimate chat with a man clad in rich silks. He pleaded with his eyes, desperately wishing she'd say something to get him out of his predicament. He couldn't very well serve as a bodyguard, after all, if he were to be restrained.

Instead, he was shocked to find there was something fierce and strange in her eyes, and that it was directed at him. She glanced at him and then away, looking flustered. Could it be that Marguerite actually hoped he'd be Davith's volunteer?

For a moment it looked like Marguerite might come to his rescue anyway, but Shane lifted his chin and stepped forward. "Sure," he said. "Why not?"

Instantly he cursed himself for saying it. What had come over him? He'd had some wine, true, but it was hardly strong stuff, and he'd made sure to nurse it slowly so as not to dull his senses for Marguerite's sake. But when he saw the expression on Marguerite's face - fascination, disbelief, excitement, dare he even say hunger - he realized he couldn't bring himself to back out even if he'd been able to do so while saving face.

"Excellent," said Davith. Nothing in his face betrayed the slightest recognition of until Shane was standing face to face with him. Then, for the barest fraction of a second, Davith's eyes had glimmered with acknowledgment, with complicity in a private joke Shane could only hope he was in on.

Shane, for his part, stood in what he hoped was a nonchalant way, trying his best to look like someone accustomed to situations like these. His scant hope that he could manage this was short-lived.

"Take off your clothes, for starters," said Davith airily, examining the rope as someone handed it to him for inspection. A little crowd had gathered, with a circle in the center of it and Davith and Shane in the center of the circle.

"What?!" spluttered Shane. "I... I thought you were just going to tie me up!"

"I am," said Davith. "Don't worry. It's just easier to do without your clothes to get caught up in the rope. And it looks nicer, too."

Cheeks burning red, Shane stripped off his clothing, starting from his reinforced jacket and his sword-belt, which were handed to yet another of the various bodyguards. Soon he was clad only in his smallclothes. For a moment, he feared he'd be asked to remove those, too, but instead Davith simply nodded his approval.

"Good," he said. "Now kneel."

Shane did as he was told. "Excellent," Davith intoned. He took the long coil of rope, folded it in half, and wrapped it around Shane's chest a few inches below his nipples.

"Take a deep breath in," said Davith. "I want to be sure you have room to breathe."

Shane obliged him. Watching his bare chest heave appeared to be having an effect on several members of the audience, but he couldn't see Marguerite to determine whether she was one of them.

Working with fluid, easy movements that Shane still couldn't follow, Davith maneuvered the rope so that it passed once over each of Shane's shoulders. He entrapped first Shane's left arm, then his chest, then finally his right, tucking the rope over and around and under itself so that it formed a sturdy harness. The spectators murmured. Looking down, Shane could see that the sturdy hemp lay in a star-shaped pattern across his chest, with its five points at his shoulders, the end of his breastbone, and under each arm.

Catcalls and squeals of glee issued forth from the various corners of the room. By this time, Shane could see that Marguerite had come into his field of vision. She was drinking something golden-brown from a squat, stemmed glass, and staring directly at him. She did not, however, appear to be saying anything. Shane swallowed hard.

"He can still move his arms!" someone shouted.

Davith grinned. "Should I tie his arms too?"

This earned him a resounding cheer. "And legs!" someone else cried.

"All right. In that case, I'll need more rope."

More was fetched, and Davith tied the ends skillfully together. He wrapped Shane's left wrist, creating an intricate cuff, then his right, so that both wrists were secured at the center of his back with his elbows pointed outward. This presumably produced some sort of reaction from the crowd, but Shane took no notice of anything besides the appreciative arch of Marguerite's eyebrows.

Finally, with two fresh lengths of hemp, Davith attached Shane's ankles to his thighs with more thick cuff-like patterns, leaving him unable to do anything but kneel even if he'd wanted to. He affixed these ends to the harness at Shane's torso with a few decorative flourishes.

"And there he is. I think that's about as secure as I can make him." Davith grabbed the rope at Shane's back and jerked back and forth a few times, leaving Shane swaying unsteadily on his knees but unable to do anything about it. 

Shouts and applause. The original squabbling noblemen all rushed forward to clap Davith on the back and praise his skill. A few of the onlookers crowded around to peer at Shane, examining Davith's handiwork. Heat started to gather on his face.

It also gathered between his legs.

He expected the wave of shame that overtook him. What he hadn't expected was the thrill of it. Several people nudged one another and laughed or made lewd facial expressions, but that was about the extent of it.

He soon saw why that was. Marguerite's watchful eye was resting on Shane and his admirers from halfway across the room. As she approached him, the crowd thinned.

"You make a very good model," she said, her voice low and even. Only the slightest hint of merriment crept in around the edges.

"Thank you," he said. His smallclothes strained to contain him.

Marguerite placed a hand atop his head and stroked his hair. Then, wordlessly, she placed the toe of her silk-slippered foot against his hard cock and gave it a gentle but firm nudge.

Shane came in an instant, shocking even himself. He did his best to stifle an involuntary groan. His smallclothes were soaked with seed, and he felt like a wrung-out rag in both body and soul.  The glittering room and its strange delights were oddly exhausting to him just to look at. He noted with faint relief that at least no one else appeared to have noticed, as the band had started up a lively tune and the dancing had resumed.

Still, Marguerite offered no acknowledgment of what had just happened. She simply stroked his hair another time and said softly, "Shall I have Davith untie you now?"

He nodded wearily, desperate to move his limbs again and to fetch himself a drink of water. "Thank you, Marguerite."

Chapter Text

Grace threw her arms around Stephen, and squeezed extra hard as though to prove to herself that he was real. It was mere weeks since the end of her trial, and she was trying to remind herself that in the scheme of things they’d really just met, and she had no reason to believe that he’d be a permanent fixture in her life, and that honestly, she shouldn’t get too attached, in case he tired of her and left.

For some reason, no amount of telling herself as much seemed to make it true.

This particular evening, Stephen had stopped by, assuring her that he wasn’t needed at the temple until late the following day. She’d taken the hint and dragged him into her bedroom, where she was currently sprawled atop him, kissing his mouth and cheeks.

"You're delicious," she said, tugging his shirt open to press her lips to the exposed flesh at his neck. "I... I just want to taste every inch of you." He smiled shyly and pulled off his shirt to allow her to do so. She kissed her way down over the muscles of his chest and on to his softly padded abdomen, relishing the soft tickle of his hair against her face. When she reached the line of his trousers, they were straining to contain his desire for her. She undid them hastily, then tugged them down, freeing the magnificent cock she'd already been fortunate enough to enjoy several times. Murmuring softly, she slid her mouth down around him and sucked.

"Grace?" he said. His voice was light but concerned. "What are you doing?"

"Tasting you," she said with a nervous little laugh. "I did say every inch, didn't I?"

"Oh." His expression turned bashful. "You... you don't have to do that."

"I, er... all right." She sat up, one hand still wrapped gently around him. "Why not?"

Stephen looked puzzled. "I... I mean, I thought you didn't like, well. You know. Mouths."

Grace frowned and stared back at him with a quizzical expression. "Mouths?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "That first night in the chapel. You... you didn't want me using my mouth."

"Ohhh." Comprehension dawned and Grace sighed with relief. "No, it's just other people putting their mouths on me that I have a problem with. Nothing to do with me putting mine on you."

His confusion, however, only deepened. "But... but isn't that unfair?"

She slid up until they were face to face. "No, I don't think so. What's unfair is the way he treated me." She didn't need to specify who it was she meant. "He only ever wanted to hear what a wonderful lover he was and how hard he made me come and how generous he was in bed. He never bothered learning what it was I actually liked. So every time he went to lick me..." She shuddered. "It was like a bribe. Like he was trying to buy compliments from me. It was awful."

"And he... he didn't let you use your mouth on him?" Stephen wrapped an arm tight around her.

Grace nodded. "That's right. He... it didn't let him live out his fantasy of being the world's greatest seducer of women. He thought any brute could make a woman suck his cock, but only he could make them scream with pleasure." She sighed wearily and shook her head. "It just made me wish he'd let me try. Anything different, just to get a break."

"Would you like me to be your 'anything different'?" said Stephen quietly.

"I'd like that very much," said Grace. She kissed him once more on the lips, probing deeper with her tongue as he squirmed silently under her with his hard cock pressing against her thigh. This she took as an invitation to skip the return journey down his body and to simply pick up where she'd left off. She slipped her mouth around the plump tip and gave it a firm experimental suck. Stephen gasped in such a lovely way that she did it again.

"Is that good?" she said.

"Yes," he said. "That's very good."

"I guess I'll keep doing that, then," she said, and followed through on her words.

"You can do whatever you want," said Stephen. "I'm not very fussy. I just love the feeling."

In response, Grace opened her mouth a little wider and took him in just a bit deeper. He groaned so loudly that she could feel her blood rushing between her legs. A single overzealous flourish, though, made her gag when he bumped the back of her throat.

"I'm sorry!" he said, sounding a trifle guilty.

"Not your fault," she mumbled unintelligibly through a thick mouthful of cock.

"If... if you want to make it easier..." He gestured with his hand, curled fingers and thumb meeting with room for something long to be held in the middle. 

Grace took the hint and wrapped a hand around the base of his cock. She was left with a much more manageable length. With that, she was lost in experimentation, sucking and licking and stroking firmly with her hand. She even ventured down to his balls for a quick kiss and caress, and learned that this trick was very good for getting Stephen to moan with pleasure. She was captivated - so much so, in fact, that it all but escaped her notice when Stephen appeared to be trying to warn her.

"Grace, I -"

It was already too late, but she didn't care. Bitter semen - highly alkaline, if she were to guess - flooded her mouth. She put her hand to her lips as though she might spill it any second. Awkwardly, she sat up and looked at Stephen, pleading for guidance with her eyes.

His answer came in the form of pulling her close and pressing his lips to hers while nudging them gently apart with his tongue. Gratefully, she let him suck his own seed from her mouth and then kiss her ardently.

"So?" he murmured into her ear. "What did you think?"

She frowned in consideration. "Well, I didn't care much for the taste..."

"Neither do I, I suppose" he said, chuckling slightly.

"...but everything else was very nice. I... I like..." She trailed off.

"What is it you like?" he said softly. 

"The smell of you, of course," she replied. "I mean, of your cock and balls. You're so clean it shows in your smell, but there are just some things soap can't take away."

He appeared oddly pleased by this, then looked at her desperately aroused face and met her eyes somewhat sheepishly.

"Oh, I..." He sighed. "I'd really like to make it up to you, but... well..." He gestured down toward his rapidly deflating prick. "I'll need a bit of time first."

She patted his thigh appreciatively. "It's all right. I've got all the time in the world."

He laughed as she writhed eagerly against him. "Now I'm no expert, but I don't think you have ALL the time in the world."

"Hmm. I suppose you're right." She kissed him. "Just until tomorrow afternoon, which may as well be the same thing."