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"So, which end would you prefer?”
Just hurry up, Luard thinks, desperately trying to pretend there isn’t quite so much drool dribbling down his chin. The metal ring strapped between his jaws certainly isn’t doing him any favors, nor is Morfessa’s gloved fist twisted in his hair, pulling his head back and preventing him from even burying his face in the bedsheets he’s kneeling on. With the thick leather cuffs trapping his wrists behind his back, he can’t even reach up to wipe it away. Thankfully, he also can’t speak around the gag, which means no one can coax him into admitting anything about how much he might be enjoying any of it. The only thing left to fight is his own brain, and he's admittedly not doing so hot on that front.
But that’s exactly what this is about, right?
“Hmm...” a second voice muses, and heels click ominously against the floor as its owner circles behind his naked form. “I’ll take the mouth, I think, unless you’d rather...?”
“Oh no. Go ahead.” Morfessa laughs and lets go of Luard’s hair, letting him drop suddenly and unceremoniously face-first into the bed.
His muffled grunt only draws another laugh from both his tormentors, the mattress shifting under their weight as they take their positions. Luard keeps his head buried in the sheets as long as possible, willing his body to just please not embarrass him any more than it already has, but the burning tightness between his legs that arose just from being stripped and bound seems more resilient than ever. There’s a brief rustle of clothing to either side of him, and then another hand runs through his hair, ungloved this time, its fingers slim and unfamiliar. It scritches briefly behind his ear, and the quiet keen he lets out at the targeting of such a sensitive area is thankfully absorbed into the sheets beneath him.
Without warning, and in stark contrast to her companion, Morfessa’s leather-clad fingers dig roughly into his hips from behind as she readjusts him to her liking. There’s frustratingly little he can do beyond groan and drool as she lines him up, then leans forward over him, gripping an arm and a shoulder to pull his upper body back upright, until he’s on his knees and his bound arms are pressed against her warm, bare breasts.
Another hand reaches under his chin, tilting his face up too, and he gets a good look at its owner for the first time since this whole thing started.
Lady Luquier is beautiful beyond words – not that Lady Morfessa isn’t, Luard adds hastily to his thought, just in case, not pausing to ask when exactly he started calling either of them that – and her very presence radiates a sense of power, one that’s refined and composed, yet indescribably dangerous, one that could reduce a person to dust in an instant if they dared to cross its mistress. Her right eye is alight with magic, and Luard’s head swims as the hypnotic, red glow of her gaze meets his. It’s as if the world around her is dull and muted in comparison to her— to her everything, her modest yet perfectly formed breasts, the silken tresses of her long, black hair trailing down to the broad curves of her hips, her dark lips curved into a gentle, yet wicked smile, even the soft, sweet scent of her perfume hanging in the air. Is it perfume? Or just her? He can’t tell.
More than anything else, the thing that makes Luard’s stomach flip is the straps circling her thighs and hips, squishing just so into her flesh as she adjusts them to ensure her black, silicone cock is secured in place. Drool drips absent-mindedly onto his thighs as he watches it bob between her legs, its design sleek and simple but still very much large enough to be intimidating, noticeably bigger than his own even with the amount of blood currently rushing to it. A hollow moan echoes from his stretched lips as she runs a hand up and down its length and, apparently satisfied, pushes herself up onto her knees in front of him.
“Let’s see if you’re as much of a good boy as Morfessa promises, hmm?” Her hand finds his hair again and he whines quietly, shivering as her nails tease at his nape. “Go on.”
She pushes down gently, but meaningfully, and he follows her guidance, the two women supporting him as he leans forward until the toy — huge and dark and coated in the sheen of whatever she’s slicked onto it — is barely an inch or so away from his mouth. It feels even bigger up close, his whole body tight and heavy with nervous tension as the imposing shape of it fills his vision. Something about it simply commands his attention, and as much as he wants to lift his head to meet the gaze of its owner as she looks down at him, still casually tracing shapes with her nails against his too-warm skin, even the idea of looking away from it feels— disobedient. It's a thought that he shouldn’t even be having, that doesn’t quite sit right in his brain and leaves his body slow and sluggish to respond, like he’s trying to walk underwater.
Above him, Lady Morfessa says something, but that too is lost, the words simply sailing over his head. He could have reached out and grabbed them, maybe, he thinks, if he wasn’t being held down, if it wasn’t easier to just let his body do what it wants and lean forward again. This is where Lady Luquier directed his attention, so this is where he’s supposed to be.
He feels so much lighter when he just follows her lead.
The toy is perfectly sized to fit snugly through his ring gag, because of course it is, and when her cock touches his tongue, it’s like a wave has broken over him. A rush of warmth and pleasure bubbles through his chest, escaping around her length in a low, eager moan as he struggles to mentally right himself again. She wastes no time sliding straight into him, though, fingers tightening in his hair as she eases as far as she comfortably can into his mouth, not quite bumping against the back of his throat – not yet, anyway.
“There you go,” she coos, stroking his hair flat where her grip disturbed it. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
It does, but between her cock filling his mouth and the ever-intensifying haze clouding his brain, he can’t exactly say so. It takes all his focus just to process the feeling of her inside him, filling an emptiness he hadn’t even really been aware of until it was made whole again. Firm and unyielding, her shaft presses his tongue to the floor of his mouth, its cool, slick length tasting vaguely of... something unusual, maybe strawberries, he thinks. It tastes almost the same way she smells, and somewhere in his mind he’s dimly, just barely aware that she doesn’t need lube for this, that she deliberately wants him to taste her.
A thumb catches one of his eyelids, pulling it open, and his gaze rolls helplessly with it. The narrow smile on his Lady’s face is enough to make chest swell. She fits so cozily into him that it doesn’t even feel intrusive, but of course she does; he was made for her. He realizes this now, under the soft, weightless glow of her right eye, a veil between him and the rest of the world.
“So far gone already,” she says, and Luard doesn’t understand, the ghost of her words passing right through him, but he’s sure that whatever she’s saying is valuable and important. “You weren’t lying. He is susceptible.” Her voice is the clear tinkle of wind chimes in a quiet breeze, a lull that makes him want to lie down and sleep right here, still holding her in his mouth.
It’s Lady Morfessa’s fingers at his hole that remind him of his true role in all this. He’s already well stretched, of course, and lubricated; as he should be, because this is his purpose. He can’t believe he’d almost forgotten it — but if either of his Mistresses have noticed the transgression, they don’t mention it. A leather-clad finger swipes around his entrance, gathering a cool trickle of lubricant that had apparently leaked out, and then enters him, testing him, and he sighs around the shaft in his mouth as his back curls in blissful completeness.
The few seconds of waiting after Morfessa removes her finger seem like an eternity, but soon her hands — now gloveless — are back at his hips, holding him securely in place as the tip of her cock nudges his hole. Shuddering in long, languid vibrations from head to toe, his spine arches with effort as he tries to push back against her without moving away from Luquier. His attempts, of course, are little more than a token of loyalty; Lady Morfessa claims him swiftly and easily, sinking her cock into him until he can feel her hips against his buttocks, and her thighs against his own.
Finally, Luard is full and whole in a way he’s never been before, never even knew that he could be — but somehow, paradoxically, he’s sure he’s never been anything else. He knows what he needs to do, even without being told, and he doesn’t hesitate, because he’s a good, proper, obedient boy.
(The words swim in his head as if they weren’t his own, like little fish nibbling at his brain, but he doesn’t see reason to doubt them; who else is there but his Mistresses, whose words are law regardless?)
At that, he draws his head back, Lady Luquier sliding off his tongue for one long, sad moment before he bobs down onto her again. The movement massages her taste into his tongue, strawberries tingling on his lips as he repeats it, once, twice more, rocking his hips back against Lady Morfessa as he does. It’s like swaying in a hammock, the way he moves between them, his nerves lighting up with sensations that don’t quite reach his sleepy brain.
Nails rake hungry, stinging trails down the sides of his stomach, and without warning, Morfessa’s hips snap forward; Luard moves with them, the tip of Luquier’s cock hitting the back of his throat with a jolt that lances straight down his spine like an arrow loosed from a bow. A whimper squeaks from the corner of his mouth, and he jerks back from her, instinctual and at the same time, understanding.
Their pace is sloppy at first; Luard’s wrists squirm in their cuffs as he tries to adjust to both their movements, and the fog settling over his thoughts only grows thicker and heavier with each bob of his head, each roll of his hips. The weight sinks into his chest and limbs until it feels like they’re filled with rocks, and the light of Luquier’s gaze is a pool that he’s sinking deeper and deeper and deeper into with every second. His Mistresses are the only thing holding him steady, keeping him moving, and it’s like he’s been speared all the way through; the brush of their hands and thighs and hips is all secondary to their cocks, to the shapes they carve out as they stake their claims within him. Stretched mercilessly around their girth, skin taut and tight across his entire body, he sinks, and keeps sinking, and before long he gives himself over to their rhythm, pious and obedient.
Luquier murmurs appreciatively, says something that whistles inaudibly by Luard’s brain as she tightens her fingers in his hair. A dull pain bites at his scalp as she pulls him onto her, tugs him back again, the ebb to Morfessa’s flow, and it all seems so distant, like his body is already asleep and all this is only a dream, too idyllic to be real.
His Mistresses are the entire world, as they should be. He exists only to please them, and his body is their plaything; trying to influence its natural responses is expressly forbidden. How could he have ever forgotten that?
He’s so thankful that they’re there to remind him. Lady Morfessa is always so kind and forgiving.
Is she?
Yes, yes, of course she is.
Luard doesn’t even notice his own orgasm as it happens. Everything beyond the comfortable stretch of his mouth and ass is shrouded in static, separated from his brain by an endless sea of fog, and he only realizes what happened when his Mistresses pause their movements, Luquier wiping something from her thigh and smearing it stickily across his cheek. The smell hits him, raw and dirty, and it smells like himself, but he’s not ashamed of it— of course he’s not. Why would he be ashamed? Why would he even think that?
“Such a good boy,” Luquier purrs, fingers snaking back into his hair, and Luard’s already forgotten whatever he was just worrying about. “Now, don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He wouldn’t even dream of it. The only difference now is a vague, wet feeling between his thighs, as untouched and forgotten as it always was. He should be— he is proud that they don’t even have to waste their energy on working him to his finish, that his body — their toy — will show its appreciation without any prompting at all.
Above him, Luquier moans as she tightens her grip, filling the hollow of his mouth once again. Her fingers curl in what can only be ecstasy, as if the silicone in his mouth were a true extension of her — because of course it is; Lady Morfessa is a magical genius, one who deserves inordinate amounts of praise in all her endeavors, and one for whom enchantments such as transferring sensations through inanimate objects must be little more than child’s play. Lady Luquier, of course, is no lesser; the brilliant light of her eye is so soothing, so beautiful, and it’s in service to that beauty that Luard renews his efforts to please her.
Tongue working against the underside of the thick silicone cylinder, he sucks her as best he can given the obstruction of the ring gag, its unrelenting shape keeping his cheeks stretched and distorted even when he pulls back almost to her tip. At the same time, Morfessa pulls him back against her instead, and a hot shiver wracks his body as she sheaths herself, presses up against something bright and eager inside of him that makes it clearer than ever that he was born to take her.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” Luquier says, charming as always, but undercut by a strain that Luard hasn’t heard before. “Keeping such an adorable toy to yourself.” Something about the words slices through the dull buzz surrounding his thoughts; they aren’t meant for him, and yet she’s allowing him to hear them anyway.
“Please,” Morfessa laughs, and Luard shivers as she shifts inside him, “you know I wouldn’t push him into anything he wasn’t ready for. These things take time.”
“And I suppose this is just another step in his training, isn’t it?” Lady Luquier pumps Luard’s head up and down her cock, a wet sheen of saliva trailing after his lips.
“Of course.” A hand catches him by his cuffed wrists, steadying Lady Morfessa’s body as she leans over him, the weight of her breasts against his back. Her breath is hot and fluid, like honey dripping into his ear. “I’ve seen how your body acts without your inhibitions tying it down now, haven’t I?” Her words are a vicious, twisting heat under his skin, but Luquier’s cock chokes his response out of him as it slams the back of his throat. “You’ll never be able to pretend again that you don’t get off on any of this, and the best part is, you’ll always remember that you asked for it. You kissed my boots and begged me to expose you, didn’t you?”
Yes, Luard’s heat-addled brain cries out, a moan bubbling weakly around Luquier’s cock. Yes. I did.
Morfessa straightens up, patting him on the hip. “I’m still treading lightly with the dirty talk,” she explains, and her voice suddenly sounds as if it comes from the far end of a long, dark tunnel. “He's so weak to it. I always worry he might combust on the spot if I tell him outright how much of a worthless degenerate little slut he is.”
“One of those types, is he?” Luquier’s breath tightens again, and her fingers run keenly through Luard’s hair. “Keep working, boy. Just a little more.”
The words barely brush the edges of Luard’s consciousness, but with or without them, he has only one role to play. When his Mistress’ cock hits his throat again, he swallows as hard as he can around it, sparks dancing in front of his eyes. Lady Luquier groans, somehow still managing to sound elegant and refined, and shudders hard against him, grip tensing hungrily in his hair for a long, luxurious moment before going slack.
“Good boy,” she says softly, nails combing blond strands back into place. “Good, good boy.”
Morfessa leans over again, saying something that Luard can’t hear as she presses his head firmly against Luquier’s crotch; his body gags instinctively, but it feels like little more than a long-distant memory. From above him comes the equally-distant sound of lips meeting lips, but the pressure of the two women’s combined grip keeps his vision turned down, dominated by the creamy skin of Luquier’s abdomen.
It’s then that Morfessa’s body goes momentarily stiff as well, the nails of her other hand biting sharply into his hip, her gentle moan muffled against unseen flesh. A warmth floods Luard’s chest as if she’d injected it into him; self-satisfaction is forbidden, of course, but something in the back of his mind nudges another feeling into the light, an unbridled joy that blooms with the knowledge that his Mistresses are pleased, and he clings onto it with everything he has.
He’s honored to be allowed to serve such beautiful, powerful Mistresses; he’s not sure why it took him so long to realize it, but now he’s definitely never going to forget.
It doesn’t occur to him to be embarrassed by anything until much later, when his holes are empty and the bedclothes have been changed — by himself, and he may or may not have almost come again while doing so — and the bright glow of Luquier’s eye has faded to that of a distant, muted sunset. The exhaustion — and the awareness — hit him all at once, like someone loosed off a stray fireball spell and he’d been standing in the exact right — or wrong — place, and his body probably heats up enough in that instant to power all of Eingang for a week.
At the very least, neither of his tormentors call him out this time. The two women lie curled around him on the fresh, silken bedsheets, all three of them still naked, and he can’t even muster the energy to tell them what cruel, malicious witches they are.
Somehow, they’re getting away with making him do all those terrible, humiliating things, escaping through some horrible twist of fate that definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the twin pairs of breasts pillowing his chest and back, or the soft kiss Morfessa presses to his forehead, or the weighty, undeniable satisfaction nestled deep inside him.
If only, he thinks sleepily, and maybe a tiny little bit half-heartedly, someone would bring these cruel, oppressive women to justice.