Archive of Our Own

The computer chimes, drawing Wendell's attention to the completed download. The hour is late and he should be asleep, but he can't resist flying back to his keyboard and booting up the game. It was fun enough before, a little dynasty-builder full of court intrigue and messy politics, but the seduction mechanics had left a lot to be desired. He wasn't the only person to think it; after waiting for months, a hefty mod fleshing out the seduction system is finally at his fingertips.

Wendell is near-salivating as the mod installs, sweaty hands tense on his keyboard and mouse. At last, the landing screen unfolds, the computer speakers pouring forth with the upbeat music that backs the main menu, a welcoming fanfare promising great things to come.

Wendell could load up his most recent save, but there's no telling how the new mechanics will mesh with the choices he's already made. It's a new mod and there are bound to be some bugs; better to start from scratch with a clean slate. Wendell clicks the option for "new character creation."

He's been following the mod through its development and so he has a good idea of what to expect. It isn't simply an expansion of the seduction system but rather, a complete overhaul to the entire choice system in the game. Sex and seduction have been worked into every interaction; if his character wants to advance in this new royal court fueled by carnal depravity, she'll have to use her body as currency to win every advantage.

And starting out as a young ingenue making her debut at the queen's court, her body will be the only weapon at her disposal.

So Wendell had better give her a body she can work with. He labors over character creation, painstakingly tweaking the sliders this way and that until the image on his screen is just perfection. The girl he's made is dainty and soft-looking, with curves in all the right places and an innocent, inviting look on her delicate, open face. Her eyes are enormous, the brightest sapphire blue the game supports; her hair is a rich honey-gold and falling to midway down her back in luxurious, thick waves. Her breasts are pert and full, and there Wendell encounters one of the first new toggles that wasn't in the base game: he turns off her clothing, beholding his creation in her full, hyper-realistically-rendered nude glory.

He wipes his sweaty palms down the lengths of his thighs and nudges the slider for her chest to a just slightly more generous position.

Satisfied with his work, Wendell clicks forward into the next stage of new game creation: the world parameters. There's way more on the page than when he'd been playing the un-modded game, and not all of it is about sex. Apparently, the modder saw fit to de-randomize every variable he could, letting his players cherry-pick exactly which content they wished to include or exclude, from the monsters, to the NPCs, down to even the weather. Most of it, Wendell flies through. He likes all the base monsters and is cool with a little randomness in his gameplay. What he's here for is — jackpot.

Kink curation.

It's a sneak-peek into all the new content the modder has programmed, and it's extensive. Wendell had been expecting just a list of options — do you want to include pissplay? No. Do you want to include degradation? Yes. Not so. Instead, the controls allow him to precisely define his character's likes, dislikes, what she's good at, what she hasn't done, what she wants to do in the future, all with exacting numerical precision. There's settings for the NPCs, both globally and by individual character. The level of control is unprecedented. Wendell gets to work.

He really wants to get through it all, speed to the end so he can start playing the actual game — supposedly the modder has even included a staggering number of new quicktime events, all designed with lovingly pornographic attention to detail — but his energy is flagging. He's so close to the bottom of the world parameters menu, he can see the little nub of the scrollbar slider hovering just a few breaths above the lower arrow, but he's struggling to keep his eyes open. Maybe he'll just... Put his head down at his desk for a moment... If he gives his eyes a minute to rest, then he'll be able to make a final round of decisions.

He's gotten as far as naming his character — Lady Lisette of Amber Reaches — and setting her win condition. He's in the home stretch; all he needs is a momentary breather. He rests his forehead on his arms, folded in front of his keyboard.

His eyes drift closed, and they don't come back open.

"Oh, miss," a voice says. "You got a little too sleepy in the bath, didn't you?"

Wendell tries to pull his head up and track the speaker but his body feels too heavy, sluggish and slow. He groans, rocking his face back and forth against the cushion beneath him.

"We don't have time for this," a different voice insists. "The debutante banquet is in less than an hour and here you are, yet to begin dressing at all! We still have to do your make-up! I'll not be punished for having the poor fortune of being sent to tend an irresponsible miss, so get. up."

Strong little hands grasp him under the armpits, hoisting him to his knees with a speed that makes his head spin. For a moment, he simply stares at the pale, sloped ceiling, the globes of golden light that are strung across it swimming before his unfocused eyes. He isn't in his bedroom. He isn't in any room he can remember seeing before. His body feels wrong, and a cold, creeping sense of dread trickles like ice water down his spine.

A fair little head pops out across his field of vision, as an unfamiliar girl peers curiously into his face. She's pretty enough, fair and freckled and with a frizz of orange hair curling about her ears. The deep blue catsuit she's wearing leaves not a curve or contour of her body to the imagination, clinging to her breasts and hips so closely that she may as well have not been dressed at all.

"You're quite pretty," the girl says. "Be a good girl and let us paint your face, okay? We'll show you off like a prize."

"Oh, don't baby her," the other voice says, as another girl darts in from Wendell's other side and pokes him in the shoulder, hard. "She's not scared, she's just being difficult. She wants to see how much she can push us around and I'm not having it."

Wendell is doing no such thing. He's still not entirely convinced they're talking to him, not really, but. He licks his lips, and swallows hard against a throat gone dry and tight, and slowly lifts his hands to cup against his chest. No amount of disorientation can truly deny that evidence: the heavy, soft breasts he's touching feel undeniably real.

"Stop that," the second girl says, reaching out to slap his arm. "If you can fondle yourself, you can dress for the banquet."

"I—" Wendell starts to say, and stops when his voice comes out wrong. It's high and soft, with a lilting, girlish quality not entirely ruined by the way anxiety makes his voice break.

"You?" the little redhead prompts, encouragingly.

"You nothing," her companion says, and pushes Wendell off what turns out to be a gorgeously upholstered chaise lounge. "No more complaints, miss priss, you're getting into your dress and out of my hair."

They poke and prod him, the one with gentle enthusiasm and frequent compliments, the other with a firm hand and short patience, until he stands and submits to their ministrations. They wrap him with gauzy silks and rub him with oil, tucking him into a dress that covers nipples and groin and not a lot else, before slicking up the wide expanses of his bare skin until they shine. Their hands are soft and clever, massaging his muscles and flitting across his flesh, lavishing him with such devoted attention that he can't help the pulse of heat that blooms in his belly before sinking lower.

He aches between his legs and it's wrong, it's all wrong, the body isn't his and he doesn't sit right in it, like he's riding along as a passenger in the back of his own head. He watches the girls in their identical blue catsuits as they move the body he's in like it's a doll and he recognizes it, he does, he knows every dimension of its limbs and the exact arcs of all its curves because he specified them himself, down to the exact golden-brown hue of its lovely flesh. He just can't quite bring himself to say it, even inside his own head, when the reality he's facing is so purely preposterous.

It was only a game. A mod. A silly little diversion where he'd click through some menus and carefully make choices and if he played his cards well enough, he'd get to watch his dream girl's breasts bounce as she was ravished in a 3D-rendered cut scene. It was all just a jerk-off fantasy, a dirty add-on that let him fantasize about a noble girl begging prettily on her knees to suck some thick, hard cock, all because she needed more support for her courtly schemes.

He designed Lisette because he wanted to fuck her, not because he wanted to be her.

"Miss, miss," the redheaded girl says, drawing his attention back to her. "Tilt your chin this way, if you would?"

The makeup brushes are light on his face, ghosting over his skin as they lay down powder and foundation, then moving more carefully once they've begun to paint his eyes and lips. Wendell feels very far away from that moment, watching the servant-girl's face from the distant end of a very, very long tunnel. Her hands are warm. He feels very, very cold, and not because the clothes he's in might as well be a collection of handkerchiefs, for how substantial they are. He's cold like the moon, seen through a veil of drifting snow.

"We're running out of time," the headstrong one says, looking between Wendell and the door.

Wendell has missed a step. One moment they were painting his face; now, they're not. The redhead is across the room, rummaging through a chest of more silks. It isn't Wendell who turns his head to track her movement, not Wendell who looks on as she retrieves a few jewels from another, smaller box. Wendell is somewhere else.

"It's fine, it's fine," the redhead insists, rushing back over. "Just putting on the final touches!"

It isn't Wendell whose throat she wraps with shining gems, because Wendell is very far away. It isn't Wendell who's about to be thrust into their royal court of sexual depravity, because Wendell designed that court, down to every last parameter and value, and he'd know better than to get stuck there.

The headstrong girl is at the door, staring out into the hall. "They're coming now, this is it."

"She looks lovely," the redhead gushes, for the sake of her companion moreso than for the girl she's transformed into a show piece. She leans in, searching the prettily painted face. "You have nothing to worry about, lady-miss Lisette, they're all going to love you."

That is exactly what Wendell is afraid of.

"And now the entertainment of the evening!" The words ring out clearly, loud enough to penetrate the heavy wooden doors between Wendell and the room beyond.

The doors are thrust open, dazzling Wendell with the lights of a dozen fixtures and pinning him in the paths of dozens of pairs of eyes. The room before him is an enormous banquet hall, filled with numerous round tables spread before the semi-circle of open space laid at the foot of the doors. Beyond the round tables is a single, long rectangle of a high table, a beautifully composed woman commanding the room from its head. Her features are sharply lovely, with thick, dark hair framing a face made up to doll-like perfection; her dark eyes, however, are hard and cold, like chips of precious stone.

Two servants march Wendell further into the space; each brawny man has a broad hand around one of Wendell's forearms, as if they expect him to fight or to try and escape. Wendell wouldn't; much as he'd prefer to be anywhere but there, he knows exactly how futile it would be to flee the High Queen's summer court.

"She's a pretty young thing, this one," the queen continues, her rich voice carrying, requiring no magnification. "Lady Lisette of Amber Reaches has traveled far to be with us this season, so let's be sure to give her the royal welcome every newcomer to the court deserves."

There's a soft tittering from the nobles assembled around the tables. Wendell fidgets, uncomfortable with all the eyes on him and beginning to catch a chill in the large room, half-unclothed as he is. He can feel it when his nipples begin to peak in the cold, the thin fabric of his dress rubbing distractingly against them. He is aware of how everyone in the room is eyeing the body he's in, the weight of their combined gaze heavy as it devours every clearly-visible curve.

"I hear tell," the queen says, voice shifting to the conspiratorial tone of one sharing a piece of choice gossip, "that Lady Lisette is virginal yet. She's come to us in the prime of her youth and oh, what a delectable prime that is. If you would, gentlemen?"

Each of the servants holding Wendell reaches out a hand — the free ones, the ones not holding Wendell by the arms — and tucks a finger in against the neckline of Wendell's dress. They pull in concert, stretching the bodice open until soft, heavy breasts drop free of their support and hang in the open air. Wendell flushes; it isn't even his body, not really, and yet he's mortified all the same, to be toyed with and put on display. His face is hot, a heat that creeps slowly down his chest, leaving his skin a patchy pink, hard little rose-brown nipples shown off prominently.

The queen sighs appreciatively.

"Oh, the joys of youth," she says. "As you can see, she's just ever so sensitive. And responsive, too."

One of the servants twists one of Wendell's nipples lightly between his fingers and Wendell gasps, jerking in the manservant's hold. There are a few more laughs from the assembled nobility and a not-inconsiderable amount of open leering. Wendell flushes deeper, weakly trying to pull away, shuddering as the servant continues to fondle him, rolling his nipple repeatedly between clever, insistent fingers. The other servant pinches him then, when he isn't expecting it, and he keens, high and loud.

"Imagine her beneath you," the queen suggests. "Writhing on your bed, arching and calling out. Absolutely begging for someone to ruin her."

Wendell is shaking, the unrelenting, clever touches sparking an ache between his legs that builds and builds. His chest feels hot and tender, warmed by embarrassment and arousal both, but the throbbing between his legs feels sharper, raw and almost painful. He whimpers softly, beginning to lean into the servants' working hands.

"I think she needs a bit more in order to satisfy her, don't you?"

"Show us the goods!" one of the nobles calls out, laughing.

"Yeah," his companion says, an unapologetic leer on his face. "Bet she's real wet already."

One of the servants obligingly pulls Wendell's negligible skirts to the side, baring his crotch to the roomful of hungry eyes. Looking down at himself, Wendell can only see a thin thatch of light brown hair, trimmed neatly into a perfect, unassuming triangle. The other servant lets go of Wendell's breast and reaches down, tangling his fingers in those curls and pulling up, tilting Wendell gently back until his cunt is visibly on display. The man slides his fingers just a bit lower, spreading the lips apart and revealing the shiny slickness that's near-dripping between Wendell's legs.

"Please," he whispers, mortified but aching and so aware he's no longer being touched, not in any way that matters.

"Such a little slut," the queen breathes out softly, though there isn't an ear in the room that does not hear it. "Just begging for someone to stuff her full. It's a wonder no one's managed to have her already."

"I'd take her," one of the nobles says, and everyone around him can't help but laugh.

Wendell's face is so hot, he almost cannot feel it any longer. He tries to rub against the hand between his legs but it's simply holding him, not positioned in a way where he can get any friction. When the assembled nobles see him do it, the laughter only redoubles, taking on a bit of a mean edge as everyone around him revels in his desperation.

"Oh, not so fast," the queen says. "Such a sweet, unspoiled thing deserves to be savored. We wouldn't want to ruin her too quickly. Leave that for now, my dears; there are other treasures yet to be plundered."

With a wave of her hand, the men let go of Wendell altogether before spinning him around. He's dizzy and not expecting it; when one of them pushes on his back he bends without thinking about it, letting them nudge his legs wider apart. His skirt is flipped up, baring his ass to the room. Wendell can feel warm, broad hands rubbing over it as the servants knead his asscheeks.

There come a few whistles; encouraged, the servants spread Wendell's cheeks farther apart. A thumb brushes across his asshole, gently, holding him open and giving all the gawking nobles a perfect view. Wendell's insides clench, squeezing down on nothing, and he can feel it as his own fluids begin to drip down the insides of his thighs.

"Everyone loves seeing a virgin fucked in the ass."

A hand comes down on Wendell in a hard, sharp slap; he jumps, gasping loudly, then moans as his aching rear is rubbed just where it stings most painfully. Between the queen's words and his mistreatment, Wendell burns with mortification and slowly creeping shame but his body refuses to get the message. It squeezes down again, grasping for stimulation, the ache in his belly verging on the unbearable. Wendell pushes back into the hands massaging him, desperate enough to be touched that he can almost push away his shame.

"Do you think she deserves a little satisfaction, my lovelies?" the queen asks.

"Think she deserves to get plowed," someone laughs, meanly.

"I have a hunting-hound at home that would know just what to do with her," someone else adds.

There comes a soft throat-clearing sound, then Wendell feels it as one of the servants spits against his spread asshole. The man slides his thumb through the saliva, working it over Wendell's skin and pushing in just a little deeper, then a little deeper still than that. It's not remotely enough lubrication and it should feel uncomfortable, should maybe even hurt. But Wendell is desperate and aching and finds himself pushing into the touch, unable to stop even when laughter once again rings out across the room.

"Such a greedy little pet," the queen says. "I imagine she'd take anything, if you teased her enough to get her wanting first."

Wendell sobs, at the queen's words, at all the overwhelming sensation, simultaneously too much and not enough. He jerks as the servant's first knuckle joint pops all the way inside, pushing back onto it as the man works it in and out of him once, twice, a third time — then pulls his hand free.

Wendell gasps out a wordless sound of loss, before the servants spin him back around to face the court. He'd been so close, the ache between his legs cresting to something sharp and sweet but not quite there, but it's gone now, falling away to be replaced with cold shame and hot embarrassment. Wendell ducks his head, trying to hide his face behind long, golden hair, but one of the servants brushes it away and tilts his chin up. His face feels hot, and wet. Wendell realizes that at some point, he's begun crying.

"Whatever shall we do with her?" the queen asks.

"I'd like to see her climb on my lap," declares a portly man, at a table right below the queen's. "Let her fuck herself on my cock until she's begging me to rail her."

"I imagine you would, Hermann," the queen says, indulgently. "But I can't imagine that will be much of a show for anyone else."

Wendell realizes, distantly, that what the queen has asked is not a rhetorical question. He realizes, the queen is fielding offers.

"I think we should all get to use her," another voice suggests. This man is far younger, fair-headed and as lovely as a girl. He smiles sweetly enough, but there's something sharp and mean shadowing his violet eyes. "She's got a lovely mouth. How many cocks do you think she can take, spending themselves on her face and her body, before her jaw aches too much to continue?"

The queen hums thoughtfully, tilting her head to the side in consideration. "I don't expect it would be very many, inexperienced as she is. Perhaps we can put her to a test in the future, when she's been tried a bit more thoroughly."

"I think you were onto the right idea," a woman farther along the high table says. "Everyone does love to see a virgin fucked in the ass, all the better if it's by something near big enough to drive her in two."

"Oh?" the queen asks, sounding interested. "Whatever did you have in mind, Magdalena?"

The woman bares her teeth at the room in a wide, toothy grin. There's something wild about her, bright-eyed as she is, with her chestnut hair pulled back along the top of her skull and falling down her back in a riot of untamed curls. "I know there's a hellhound in the menagerie. He's well-hung, and those sweet puppies will do anything for a treat from me."

There are a few titters from around the room, laughter at a joke that Wendell doesn't understand. He's gone cold and distant, the little aches of want that have been shivering across his body fading to a half-forgotten afterthought. A hellhound. This woman is talking about having him raped by some feral dog.

The queen pouts. "But if we put her to a hound, how are we to ensure it's only her ass the creature ravages?"

"Leave that to me," Magdalena assures her. "I have just the magic to close up that sweet little gash. I wouldn't want anyone to get inside her before you have a chance, my queen."

It's the right thing to say. The queen settles back in her seat, a pleased smile spreading itself across her face. She gestures with one hand and the servant to Wendell's right drops his arm, exiting the room back through the double doors.

Exiting the room to go wrangle the hellhound, Wendell assumes.

The nobles pick at their food in the meantime, snacking off of plates full of fancy little hors d'oeuvres and dishes of tiny sweets. They chat amongst themselves, a murmur of voices rising up around Wendell but carrying no meaning. The second manservant remains, still holding Wendell about the arm. Wendell feels lost. Cold. Empty. He stares off sightlessly across the room for a minute, unable to quite begin to come to terms with the fate that awaits him, before slowly becoming aware of the queen's sharp gaze lingering upon him.

Everyone else has chosen to ignore him for the moment, finding the company of their companions to be far greater entertainment. The queen alone is giving him her full attention, her cold eyes piercing him, like a specimen upon a card. Wendell shrinks away from her, scooting in against the manservant's side. In response, the queen only smiles, as if she might be enjoying Wendell's fear.

The party continues around Wendell for some time more; he loses track of it, untethered from the moment, his thoughts drifting above the situation helplessly. Then there comes a clap of hands, and all at once the attention of the court snaps once again to their queen.

"I believe the hound will be here any moment," the queen announces. "So perhaps we should all prepare for the show?"

The nobles shift in their seats, rearranging themselves so that everyone is turned toward Wendell at the front of the room. The remaining manservant runs a hand down Wendell's flank, like soothing an animal he doesn't wish to spook, before his hand rises to Wendell's chest, rolling and pinching one nipple between dexterous, insistent fingers.

Preparing Wendell for the show, he thinks, distantly.

This time, the manservant's ministrations have less of an effect. Wendell is too distracted by the looming specter of the hellhound, fear of what it will do to him killing any arousal before it even begins to build. He's aware of the queen beginning to frown, but there's nothing he can do about it. Farther along the high table, Magdalena rises from her seat.

"If I might, your majesty?" she says.

"Please," the queen agrees, though she folds her arms across her chest in a show of petty displeasure.

Magdalena walks around the high table and between the round ones arrayed in their semi-circle, coming up to the edge of the open space where Wendell stands. She makes a complicated gesture in the air with one hand, ending with a little flourish of her fingers which Wendell immediately feels in his guts. There's a twisting, pulling sensation, like an invisible hand squeezing between his legs, and a sharp tightness that makes him jerk and gasp aloud. What follows in its wake is pain and then a tingly coolness, spreading over the lips of his sex before pouring inside. He feels full, as if something has been stuffed inside him, but when his body clenches down in response, there's no resistance, the muscles still grasping only at air.

"Touch it," Magdalena bids the servant. "To show that it took."

The man pulls Wendell back against him, pushing his legs wide apart and nudging up his hips. He reaches down between Wendell's legs and presses his fingers against the slit between them, but while Wendell can faintly feel the man's touch, it's somehow at a distance. He rubs up and down over what should have been an opening, but cannot find the place to slip his fingers inside.

"My queen," Magdalena says, dropping into a deep curtsy and inclining her head down toward her monarch to accompany the offering of her work. "If it pleases you."

"Oh yes," the queen says, her posture relaxing once more. "Very nicely done."

"I can plug her up afterward as well," Magdalena confides, rising from the floor and returning to her seat. "If we wish to keep the, hmm, mess of this coupling bottled up inside her."

"I'll leave that to you," the queen says, pleased.

Wendell isn't left with much time to consider that development. The doors open once again, admitting two new servants who are bearing some complicated piece of furniture between them. They place it in the center of the room's open space, at which point the manservant holding Wendell pushes him in their direction. As he stumbles toward the device, he recognizes it to be a sort of mounting platform.

The majority of its construction is built from fine, dark wood, with rich burgundy cushioning at the points where Wendell's body is meant to rest. The servants direct him to kneel on a pad at the near end of the contraption, adjusting a post immediately in front of it so that the adjoining support is at the correct height to cradle Wendell's middle, keeping his hips lifted in invitation to the hound. Wendell allows his torso to droop toward the front of the platform, where further padding cushions his arms and where a polished wooden bar stands before him, something small and fiddly dangling off of it, hanging from a cord.

"For you to hold onto," one of the servants murmurs to him, indicating the bar. "So the pup doesn't jostle you around too much. And if you need something to bite down on... Well, that's what that bit hanging there is for."

Without a further word, the two furniture-bearers retreat from the room.

Wendell grasps onto the provided bar, abruptly feeling like he needs some kind of anchor. He isn't looking at much; the servants positioned the mounting platform parallel to the high table, allowing the queen and her court a sidelong view of Wendell's body and leaving Wendell with only a stretch of wall to the side of the tables to stare at. He hears, rather than sees, the sound of the doors opening a second time. He knows what's coming, and he doesn't want to look.

The gathered nobles, meanwhile, are gawking happily. An admiring murmur passes through the crowd, followed by delighted clapping and some shuffling of seats. Slowly, almost unwillingly, Wendell turns his head. The manservant is there, holding one end of a leash. Clipped to the other end is the most enormous dog Wendell has ever seen. Pitch black, its shoulder comes roughly even with the servant's shoulder, its body heavily muscled, yet sleek. Its snout is long and pointed, its head topped with two high, triangular ears, its overall build most closely resembling that of a doberman, save for the whip-like tail ending in a spade-shaped club, and for its red eyes, burning with an unnatural, fiery light.

Its posture is relaxed but interested, ears pricked, tail waving calmly back and forth. Its eyes have locked on Wendell; something about its poise coupled with the intensity of its fascinated stare unsettles him to his core.

He'd been expecting, dimly, in the part of his mind that can't help but try to anticipate what will happen to him next, for the servants to have to... prepare the hound, somehow. For it to be a dumb beast, an animal which would have to be baited into mounting Wendell. But there is a fierce, inhuman intelligence in those red eyes, and Wendell is abruptly certain that the creature knows exactly what it is expected to do, that it might even be looking forward to the pleasure.

"Allow me, your majesty," Magdalena says.

Wendell doesn't have to look to know that she's casting another spell. His gaze is still locked on the hound; he can see the pink tip of its cock hidden between its legs and as he watches, it hardens and extends fully from its sheath, hanging heavily in full view of the court. The beast trots back and forth a few times, proudly, its equipment bobbing as it moves, like the dog is showing off.

There comes a soft click; the servant has unclipped the hellhound from its leash. Both servants quickly back away, removing themselves from the stage of the spectacle. Wendell has no such luxury.

He turns his head back to face forward, fingers tightening around the grip bar and knuckles showing white. He can no longer see the dog but he can hear it, first the sound of its nails clicking against the marble floors, then the noise of its soft panting, before the heat of its moist breath ghosts over his rear. It's unbearably hot and Wendell tries to flinch away, but the cradle of the mounting platform holds him in place. The dog's wet nose is followed by the broad, searing surface of its tongue, swiping between his asscheeks and coating his skin in heated saliva.

Even through the magic sealing him up, its tongue is warm against his cunt, achingly so. Wendell squirms on the platform, trying to lift his hips higher up, trying to guide the hound's tongue to where he can most bear to feel it. The dog continues to lick, pushing hard against his asshole, like it's trying to open him up. Before Wendell can quite accustom himself to the sensation, it pulls its head away.

He's cold for only a moment. Too quickly, the hound moves up and over him, surrounding Wendell in smothering warmth. Its cock nudges against him, the pointed head stabbing too high, then too low, as the dog jerks its hips against his backside, seeking just that right angle. Wendell holds his breath, knowing he should try to relax but unable to stop his body from tensing up. The dog adjusts and its next thrust goes true, forcing Wendell open with one abrupt, inexorable motion.

Wendell screams, high and sharp and startled.

The hound ignores it, caring only for the fact that it has successfully seated itself. It begins to thrust at once, quick jerks of its powerful hips, strong enough to rock Wendell's entire body against the platform. He's immediately grateful for the breeding platform's padded cradle, for the grip bar he's clinging to with both hands. Without them, the hound would be smashing him into the floor. As it is, it's simply shoving him against the wood with force enough to bruise, dull aches blossoming in his hips, thighs, arms, but paling in comparison to the sharp, stinging burn radiating out from his asshole.

The sensation is so acute, so all-consuming, it almost doesn't register as pain. Wendell is aware, dimly, of the murmuring and chuckles coming from the nobles, from the depraved hedonists who see his defilement as a kind of sport. He's aware, with a similar, distant level of removal, that he is whimpering, crying, a constant stream of noise falling from his lips without his making any conscious choice to utter a sound. But more than either of those things, Wendell is arrested by the feeling of the hellhound fucking into him, each shock of sensation demanding his attention, followed so quickly by the next that he has no time to think, to process, to remotely catch his breath.

The hellhound ruts against him with violent fervor, hips jackhammering into Wendell, showing no signs of slowing or of being anywhere close to completing the coupling. Wendell has no option but to hold on and endure.

His mind drifts, not so much thinking about what is happening to him as absorbing it, soaking up the sensations, the shame, the building ache in his backside, all of it without passing any sort of judgment on the experience. The hellhound is snuffling at the back of his neck, licking and nipping the bare skin there. His insides clench rhythmically around its cock, over and over, his hole twitching repeatedly in overstimulation. His discomfort builds, sharp twinges in his knees and tightness in his forearms attempting to distract him from the overwhelming ache in his ass. He wonders, distantly, whether the experience might have been any more pleasant, if he'd at least been aroused before it.

The walls of the room aren't white, but a very, very pale blue, Wendell notices. His gaze is locked on the one before him; his eyes water, spilling over with overwhelmed tears and blurring the hall to an indistinct smudge. He gasps every time the hound thrusts into him, hitting his limit all at once and sobbing out loud.

"Please!" he cries out. "Please, no more! I can't, I can't, please... stop this, please..."

But no one moves to help him. Wendell's energy for begging dies as quickly as it had seized him; his sobs fall off to quiet whimpers, body going limp, surrendering itself to the hellhound's use.

It feels like a very, very long time and simultaneously no time at all, before the hound is done. One moment it's fucking him; the next, it stiffens, and the first spurt of searing come spills into him. It never quite stops but its pace does slow, each more leisurely thrust spilling another gush of heated seed inside his body. The ache inside of Wendell is already so absorbing, he doesn't even notice when the hound knots him — only when it tries to pull away at last, and finds that it is stuck.

Bizarrely, that fact is greeted by a round of furious applause from the room. The hellhound slumps over Wendell, tied in place and equally spent, and the gathered nobles lose themselves in cheers and shouts. There is the soft scrape of a chair against the floor, and then the queen is speaking.

"Quiet down, quiet down," she says, indulgently. "Our star of the evening did ever so well for herself, it's true, but there's no need to shout. Let's allow her a moment to rest, shall we?"

Wendell wishes he could lower his hips; the platform keeps them raised and with nowhere else to go, the hound has dropped the majority of its weight onto his back. Everything hurts. All he wants is to lie still and never move again, but he'd prefer to do it without a hellhound's cock buried inside him.

The assembled nobles murmur and titter, but quiet down and with a discordant scraping of chairs, put themselves to rights.

"She'll join us when she's ready," the queen adds. "Whenever the beast releases her. In the meantime — let the feast begin!"

And with a flurry of motion Wendell barely perceives, an army of servants descend from the wings, bearing a procession of dinner delicacies out to the ravenous guests.

"I see the belle of the ball is ready to join the party."

Wendell wouldn't go so far as to say he's ready, but the servants have helped him up from the mounting platform, giving him a cursory mopping-off with a soft, damp towel but making no other concessions for his disheveled state. They helpfully retied the halter top of his dress behind his back rather than around his neck, leaving his breasts loose and bare. Wendell doesn't like it, but he doesn't have the energy to object or to otherwise fix it himself.

Magdalena is standing nearby, petting the hellhound's face and cooing to it, while intermittently feeding it hunks of rare meat from a platter laid beside her on the nearest table. She gives it a final pat before handing the leash off to a servant, who will presumably return the hound to its usual enclosure. Magdalena spares Wendell a final glance and a smirk, before returning to her seat at the high table.

Wendell shifts where he stands, sore everywhere but especially achy to the rear, and painfully aware of the plug Magdalena had slipped into him, after retrieving her precious dog. That toy is far more solid than the magic sealing him up in front, but there was still a funny, cool tingle to it when Magdalena worked it in. More magic, Wendell is sure. Whether it's simply to ensure he stays plugged or to some other purpose, Wendell couldn't say.

The majority of the guests are ignoring him, happy to absorb themselves in the meal after the spectacle of the hound. The queen alone is regarding him steadily, beckoning him forward with one crooked, insistent finger.

"Sweet Lisette," the queen says. "This party is for you. Now that you've finished with that beast, I must insist that you enjoy yourself."

Wendell would enjoy a very long nap and to never see any of the assembled guests again, but he knows that isn't an option. He designed this hedonist's court and so he knows exactly how badly things could go for him, if he chose to fight or otherwise resist the whims of the queen. He's been meek and compliant out of fear of the consequences if he were to do otherwise, but he's reaching his limit. He's living in a nightmare and soon, soon, he needs to wake up.

"Have something to eat," the queen suggests, in the face of Wendell's empty silence. "Socialize. But, ah, I'm afraid all of the refreshments have already been spoken for. If you're hungry, you'll simply have to find a way to convince the other guests to part with some of their dinners."

He'll simply have to debase himself for so little as a bite of food, is what she means. She's smiling, deep red lips curving up sharply with wicked mirth, and she again beckons for Wendell to come forward.

"Would you like one of these berries, sweet pet?"

She shows Wendell a piece of fruit, small and red and shining, held between slender fingers each tipped with a sharply pointed nail. It's not even a full mouthful, not remotely enough to be satisfying, but Wendell knows he cannot say no.

He moves a little closer, right up to the edge of the table opposite the queen. He whispers, meekly, "Please."

The queen reaches out with her free hand, grasping Wendell behind the neck and pulling him in, the points of her fingernails pricking against his skin. She pulls him down to her level and kisses him hard on the mouth, firm pressure followed by one brief thrust of her tongue, and the sharp nip of her teeth into his bottom lip before she's pulling away. Pain blossoms in the wake of her teeth; she licks her mouth, swiping up the bright streak of blood from where she's broken skin.

While Wendell is still slack-mouthed and still, she pushes the berry between his lips, then lightly massages his jaw until he thinks to chew. She pats his cheek once before pulling her hand away.

"Get to know the court, dear pet. I'm sure you'll find other ways to barter for your meal."

Wendell turns away, cold, not wanting to look at the queen any longer but uncomfortable beneath the stares once again focused in his direction. The idea of outright asking anyone for food, knowing that they could make any variety of demands in return and that Wendell will have no choice but to agree to them, is mortifying. He wishes he could just, vanish into the air, or sink down through the floor and out of existence. He wants to run away, but he's too cowardly to try.

"Girl," a man calls, from the table immediately below the high one. Wendell recognizes him as one of the nobles who made a suggestion for how Wendell should entertain them — Hermann, he believes it was. He holds up a bit of something soft and sticky. "Come here, girlie, and let a proper man feed you a treat."

Unwillingly, Wendell moves closer. When he's in range, the large, portly man, Hermann, reaches out and catches him by the wrist, dragging him in toward his table so abruptly that Wendell stumbles, almost tripping onto the man's lap. Hermann laughs, and his large, curling moustache bunches up above his top lip.

"Eager, aren't you?" Hermann jokes, and laughs again, a little meanly. "Let me at those knockers, sweet thing, I've been wanting a handful ever since the men got them out of that dress."

It's the least anyone's asked of Wendell all evening, really. He looks aside, embarrassed all the same, and says, somewhat sullenly, "Go ahead."

"What are you looking sour for, doll?" Hermann asks, but he also wastes no time taking the invitation.

One large hand reaches out and grasps Wendell around the breast, squeezing roughly, thick fingers digging in and making Wendell gasp, from surprise and discomfort more than anything. He twists his wrist, catching Wendell's nipple between thumb and forefinger and giving it an ungentle tweak. Wendell gasps again, higher, the pinch sending a jolt straight to his groin.

"You like that, huh?" Hermann says, not truly a question. He rolls Wendell's nipple between his fingers, with a rhythmic sort of motion, dragging more of Wendell's flesh into his grasp, slowly letting it slide between his fingers, then grasping more of Wendell all over again. Wendell whimpers, reflexively squeezing his thighs together, and Hermann chuckles, letting go of him. "Think you've earned this."

He holds out his other hand, the one with the bite of something sweet and sticky smeared across his fingers. Wendell eyes it skeptically.

"Go on, sweet thing," Hermann says. "Lick up your treat like a good girl, or aren't you hungry?"

Wendell's stomach is almost completely empty, gnawing away at the insides of him, but he'll be damned if he admits that. Hermann smirks, his moustache twitching with his amusement.

"Or is this not the treat you want, hmm? Want me to feed you my cock instead?"

Wendell abruptly shakes his head in denial, grabbing the man's hand. He closes his mouth around the first finger, sucking the sticky cake off of it as quickly as he can. Hermann groans, and grabs Wendell by the hair with his free hand.

"Slowly," Hermann says, holding Wendell still and beginning to push his fingers into and out of Wendell's mouth.

Wendell whimpers around them, distressed, but caught by the hand wound into his hair and unable to pull away without pain. He sucks on Hermann's fingers as the man thrusts them slowly, repeatedly into Wendell's mouth, unapologetically watching the way Wendell's lips spread around them, with obvious pleasure. There isn't a hint of cake left well before Hermann pulls away, satisfied.

"Oh, let me have a turn with her," says a voice from Hermann's other side, allowing Wendell no pause.

He turns, greeted by a buxom blonde currently in the process of lifting her breasts out from her already low-necked blouse. When Wendell meets her eyes, she smiles prettily and holds his gaze, smearing a thick streak of cake across her chest.

"Let me feed you a treat, darling girl."

Wendell practically flies to her, on his knees before her chair in an instant. Compared to Hermann's lecherous old man pawing, a beautiful woman presenting her chest to him feels like a godsend. She reaches out toward him, one soft hand cupping against his cheek. Wendell leans in, dragging his tongue softly up the outside curve of her breast, pulling the bite of cake into his mouth and managing a tight, nervous swallow.

"This way, sweet lovely," the woman says, maneuvering Wendell's face until his tongue swipes up over her nipple and she gives a hiccuping little gasp. "A-Ah, yes, there you go, darling pet, just like that."

Wendell does it again, and is rewarded with a fond stroke to his cheek. He sucks more of her breast into his mouth, tonguing at her nipple until it's hardening into a stiff little peak, until she's pulling his face in tight to her chest and rubbing herself against him, smearing the remains of the cake across his cheeks and riding the sensations from his tongue. He's half-smothered between her breasts but carries on, licking and sucking with quiet determination.

"Yes! Yesss! Like that, ahh, just like that, lovely darling girl, like that, ahhhh yessss!"

And then she releases him, pushing Wendell back so he falls to his knees on the floor, stunned, uncertain whether he'd just gotten a noble lady off with nothing but his mouth working against her breasts. She picks up a napkin from the table, wiping the rest of the cake from her chest and beginning to tuck herself back into her blouse.

"Was that enough of a show for you, Ivan?"

There comes a grunt from behind Wendell, who realizes she must not be speaking to him. He turns his head and is confronted by the sight of a man at the next table over, pants loosened and cock in hand, jerking off furiously over a small plate held in his other hand. The motion of his fist is nearly a blur, so quickly is he stroking himself, his face contorted in an expression midway between pleasure and pain.

"Hnng, it was—" the man starts to say, cutting himself off momentarily with another grunt. His arm shakes, his hand moving even faster, frantic. "Ngh, pretty good. Could've done with, hnngh, a bit more, if I'm being, ahh, picky."

The blonde laughs, like he's told a funny joke. "Oh, Ivan. I'm sure you've seen more than enough of my breasts by now. Simply imagine the rest, if you need more encouragement."

The nobles around them at both their tables politely chuckle, and Wendell realizes that quite a few people have begun to watch. He's stunned for a moment, stalling out on processing the entire situation, and then the man — Ivan — is groaning louder, shooting great spurts of come across the plate and what appears to be a dish of ground meat, served nearly raw.

Ivan reaches down, his cock still dangling out the front of his pants, and sets the plate on the floor. Wendell stares at it, a feeling of dread beginning to well up inside of him.

"Go on," Ivan says, as he leisurely leans back in his chair. He gives his cock a few last pulls, as if to see whether there's any spend left to give, before going ahead and tucking it back into his trousers. "You like coupling with dogs. Let's see if you like eating like one."

A few of his companions giggle, all of them looking on with interest. Wendell stays where he is. He can see the mess of seasoned meat and cooling jizz from where he sits and his stomach turns over, expressing its displeasure with the idea of forcing that unsavory meal down. Wendell starts to reach for the plate with one hand and a boot comes down on his fingers, nudging his hand back.

"Ahh, ahh, ahh," Ivan says. "Not like that. You ever see a dog pick up its dish with its hands? On your knees, like a bitch would do."

Wendell looks away, face burning with shame and eyes pricking hot with humiliated tears he absolutely refuses to shed. He shuffles forward, resentfully, on hands and knees until he's directly over the dish of tainted food. It has a strange smell, as he lowers his face toward it, spicy-sweet but with the added scent of sweaty musk somewhat ruining the aroma of the richly-prepared food.

He pokes out his tongue, scooping it under the meat and attempting to drag a portion into his mouth. It's clumsy, and he only manages a little bite, succeeding more in smearing meat juices and come against his chin than he does at eating. He closes his eyes, refusing to take in the looks from his tormentors. The taste is a little gross, but it could be worse; the spices on the meat largely serve to cover the flavor of come. What's most humiliating is eating from a dish on the floor like an animal, without the use of his hands, getting food all over his face as he opens his mouth wider and bites up whole mouthfuls of the mess, trying to swallow it all down as quick as possible just so the ordeal will be over.

No one says anything while he does it. They're all silent; he can feel the heavy pressure of their combined gaze but there isn't even any laughter, just the occasional soft murmur and the more distant sound of conversation coming from the farther-away tables, whose occupants aren't watching Wendell's current humiliation. His throat feels tight and his stomach aches, unhappy with the overall meal thus far and sick with stress, while his knees scream with displeasure to be kneeling again, and this time without any sort of cushion between Wendell and the hard marble floor. It's a struggle, but bite by bite he chokes down the food, until there are only a few stray morsels left on the plate.

"Lick it clean," Ivan tells him, sparing Wendell no pity.

Miserably, Wendell opens his eyes and licks at the dish, trying to be methodical about it, desperate to retreat from this specific debasement. There's an extra sting lurking beneath the baseline humiliation, the shame of knowing that they all think he asked for this, jumping at the chance to kiss a pretty girl's breasts only to turn around and receive his just desserts for the pleasure. If Wendell had known this was the price to almost enjoy one part of being played with like a toy, he would have passed on the blonde woman's coy invitation.

"At least she's a good dog!" Ivan declares, reaching out to pat Wendell condescendingly on the face.

It's the last scrap of attention the man pays him; he turns back to his table and the rest of his meal, seemingly satisfied with his crack at the evening's object of entertainment. Wendell stays where he's sitting, hoping against hope that perhaps everyone will just leave him alone for a minute.

No such luck.

"Ah, lady Lisette," a warm voice calls out from another table over. "Won't you come here a moment? You're a right mess; let a true gentleman do you the honor of cleaning you off."

Warily, Wendell pushes himself all the way to his knees and up to his feet, shuffling over to the speaker. He's a younger man, brown-haired and slender, with a handsome face and generous, smiling mouth. Wendell knows enough not to trust him on appearances alone, but with his mind and emotions raw as they are, it's hard not to let his guard down at the first sign of kindness.

"Come here, my lovely," the man beckons again, holding up a napkin that's been dampened in his glass of water. "Sit down right here, if you would, and I'll wipe that muck off your face."

Wendell does his best to keep his guard up but does as he's told, kneeling once more on the floor but this time, with his hands resting on the gentleman's thighs and body canted in so the man can more easily reach his face.

"My name is Derek," the man confides. He swipes gently across Wendell's face, sponging up meat juices and worse, dabbing delicately in an effort to get all of it. "I haven't been at court long, compared to some of the old crowd, but I'm fairly well-established at this point, you know."

Wendell blinks up at him, knocked sideways by the unexpected prospect of someone trying to make normal conversation with him. His mouth drops open in surprise and Derek dabs at that too, carefully wiping across Wendell's lower lip with the cloth, then following after it with a gentle, thoughtful swipe of his thumb.

"I'm sure this all seems very new and overwhelming to you right now," Derek continues. "Especially depending on what things are like at your home estate. But you'll get used to it, and it helps to keep an eye out for those who can help you. A strong alliance can mean everything at court, and is the best way to put yourself in a position of greater advantages."

He finishes cleaning up Wendell's face, every touch delivered with the utmost of thoughtful care. Once satisfied with his work, Derek sets the napkin aside, his empty hands coming back to Wendell's face and stroking gently across his cheeks, plucking lightly at his lower lip. A warm smile has spread across his face, looking down at Wendell.

"I'd like to give you something a little more personal," Derek says, voice dropping to the hushed tone of an imparted confidence. "You'll be a good girl for me, won't you?"

Wendell knows he shouldn't trust Derek, knows that in the summer court, every hint of sweetness masks thorns, but he is weary of being suspicious and even if he wanted to say no, refusal would only invite painful consequences. He nods, though his agreement is given with some trepidation.

"That's a good girl," Derek praises him, continuing to stroke his cheek with one hand. With the other, Derek begins to unfasten his trousers.

Ah, so it would be that sort of treat. In the grand scheme of things, a handsome noble sweet-talking Wendell into swallowing his cock is little more than a minor inconvenience. At least Derek has been kind about it, and gentle. If Wendell is lucky, the pattern will continue, and he can suck this man off with minimal unpleasantness.

When Derek pulls out his length, however, it's still small and soft. There's no hint of arousal at all but that doesn't stop Derek from loosely wrapping fingers about himself, directing the head toward Wendell's mouth.

"Take it in gently, there's a good girl," he says.

Wendell does as he's told, opening up and letting Derek feed the first inch or so of his cock into Wendell's mouth. He closes his lips around it and begins to suckle gently, assuming that what Derek wants is for Wendell to work him up to hardness. Maybe this is Derek's fantasy, this pantomime of intimacy — a secret blowjob, stolen beneath the table at the party, all soft hands and softer mouth, as if they truly care about each other. Wendell can't help but find it kind of pathetic, even as he's grateful for a break from the more mean-spirited depravity of the night.

"You'll want to breathe through your nose," Derek says, as if Wendell is a complete novice (he is, and they all know he is, but somehow it rankles to be reminded), one hand cupped gently along his cheek, fingers curling against the underside of his jaw. "Just relax, and take it in slowly. And be sure to swallow it all, like a good, sweet pet."

Wendell refrains from rolling his eyes and sucks a bit harder, just once, in a sort of petty revenge. That's when the first jet of piss hits the back of his mouth. His eyes go wide and he starts to jerk back in surprise but Derek is holding onto his jaw and won't let him. Wendell swallows, more out of reflex than anything else, and the acrid taste of urine coats his tongue and his throat, hot all the way down. Derek watches him do it, the warm, eager smile still on his face.

He pisses into Wendell's mouth slowly, just a little bit at a time, watching him swallow each shallow mouthful before letting lose with the next. He strokes the underside of Wendell's jaw while he does it, murmuring "good girl" and "just like that" in a condescending litany of praise to accompany Wendell's every swallow. Wendell's eyes smart, hot with unshed, unexpected tears, and he can only guess at when the humiliation will be over. Surely there's only so much Derek's bladder can hold, even going as slowly as he's done.

"Keep going," Derek says, his warm, kind voice starting to go tight. "Just like that, sweet girl, like that. Swallow it all, good girls always swallow."

He's beginning to lose his control, each renewed stream of piss jetting a bit harder and longer against the back of Wendell's throat. He coughs, startled, and rivulets of pee leak out the sides of his mouth to stream down his cheeks and the sides of his throat, beads of urine collecting on his bare breasts. Derek groans, louder, and his control slips further, his hand tightening on Wendell's jaw as his bladder proceeds to empty itself with force. Wendell gasps and chokes but Derek is holding him in place; he swallows, and sobs, and swallows again, but he can't keep his lips sealed around Derek's cock any longer and too much of Derek's piss is spilling past his lips to stream down his naked breasts.

Derek tilts Wendell's head back, pushing his cock further into Wendell's mouth and letting go altogether, pissing directly down the back of Wendell's throat. Wendell gags, hearing the wet gurgling sound of his own failed attempts to swallow, and then, at last, the stream tapers off and stops. Wendell swallows a few more times, trying to clear the taste and the last lingering trickles of piss from his mouth, unwittingly working lips and tongue against Derek's cock in the process.

"Keep going," Derek urges him again, still holding onto Wendell's face.

He's thrusting shallowly against Wendell's tongue and his cock is no longer quite so soft, nor so little. Wendell sucks weakly at him, a half-hearted attempt at compliance, and Derek doesn't complain of the poor performance. He's growing hard in Wendell's mouth, with or without Wendell's encouragement, and his hand has moved from Wendell's jaw around to the back of Wendell's head.

"Just like that," Derek groans, thrusting into Wendell's mouth and just beginning to push his way into Wendell's throat. Wendell gags again, but Derek doesn't slow at all. "Good girl, good girl, swallow me just like that. Loved watching your pretty little throat work, swallowing my piss. You're so good, Lisette, so good, feel real good around my cock. You're gonna swallow for me again, aren't you, sweet Lisette?"

Wendell whimpers around Derek's cock but he cannot pull back, cannot deny the man's declarations or his use of that horrible, wrong-sounding name. Derek is leaning up from his chair, almost fully on his feet, using the hand on Wendell's head to pull Wendell down onto his cock, then off again. The pace he sets is quick but steady; Wendell gags and gasps until he figures out the rhythm, stealing weak, shallow breaths of air when he is able. Derek praises him all the while, a resumed litany of "good girl" and "feels so good" and "swallow for me, Lisette" filling up Wendell's ears so he can think nothing else.

It's over quickly. Derek face-fucks him thoroughly for a blessedly short period of time and then he's stiffening, sending a final hot spurt of something else down Wendell's abused throat.

Derek pulls off, removing his hand from Wendell's hair and allowing Wendell to sink fully onto his ass on the floor, spent. Derek, meanwhile, sinks back into his chair, flopping back bonelessly, a warm and sated smile spread across his face.

"Oh, Lisette," he murmurs, more to himself than to Wendell. "You are truly a gift. Thank you for indulging me, my darling girl."

Wendell can only stare up at him, reproachful and disbelieving, somehow more angered by this man thanking him for permitting his abuse, as if Wendell truly had wanted to do it, as opposed to just using him whether he liked it or not, as all the other nobles have been doing.

"Remember what I said," Derek adds, like an afterthought. "About alliances. There's a great deal I would give, to have your pretty mouth at my sole disposal whenever I might like it. I'll tell you as much for free; use that information however you wish."

Abruptly, Wendell wants to be away from him. He pushes himself up from the floor but then Derek catches his wrist, loosely, and turns Wendell back toward him.

"A moment," he says, much like he'd done at the start. "Let me wipe that up for you."

And he reaches out with the same damp napkin, seemingly forgetting the previous stains, and dabs a bit of the piss from Wendell's face and chest. His fingers brush lightly over Wendell's breasts in passing, too glancing a touch to truly be prurient but heavy enough for Wendell to shudder when he feels it. He pushes the feeling away, flatly refusing to quantify whether it's revulsion or some horrible, unwanted arousal.

He finds that he's quite lost his appetite — not that he'd had much of one to begin with.

"If I might have your attention!" the queen calls out, bringing immediate silence to the hall.

The same two manservants ease Wendell away from where a pair of sisters have been monopolizing him, after taking pity on a clearly-weary girl of their same age. They asked blessedly little of him and simply contented themselves with feeding him tidbits from their fingers, walling him in from either side so that other nobles would have to go through one of them for a turn. He's sorry to be parted from them and their uncomplicated company, but consents to go with the servants as they lead him back to the center of the room.

All around him, servants are converting the hall. The round tables are pulled to the periphery and a dizzying variety of soft cushions, blankets, and unfamiliar padded contraptions are brought out to fill spaces in the empty area left behind. The guests break off into pairs or small groups, moving to lounge on the cushions or kiss in shadowy corners, as the lights in the hall are lowered to a more intimate nighttime ambiance. Not everyone has given the queen their attention, but she doesn't seem to mind, content with the audience that has chosen to sit about her feet.

"As the evening draws to a close and we move forward into, hmm, more private entertainments, there is still one final matter requiring attention," the queen says. "Our flower of the evening has never attended a court party before, which means she has merited the treat of, ah, a measure of most personal attention."

Wendell fidgets, standing between the servants, nervously watching the queen. She has come around the high table, moving until she's only a handful of paces distant from Wendell. He stands at one end of the oblong, open space, surrounded by watchful nobles arrayed on cushions, with the queen standing at the other. He doesn't want personal attention from her but, as with all things in the summer court, his wants are nothing before the queen.

"If you would," the queen says, gesturing to the servants with one hand.

One of the men reaches behind Wendell and ever-so-slowly begins to ease the plug out of his rear. The ache in his backside has dulled to an inconvenient afterthought, in the face of so much fresh discomfort and humiliation, but the moment the plug is touched, it ramps back up to full, throbbing unpleasantness. Wendell winces, insides gripping down on the toy, but the manservant is insistent and with an additional few wiggles, the plug comes popping free.

There is a gush of fluids streaming down Wendell's legs and splashing onto the floor, the hellhound's spend proving voluminous enough to create an actual puddle between his feet. And as a parting gift, the plug's removal sparks a magical chain reaction, dissolving the seal over his vagina with a cool, lingering tingle.

"Oh, what a messy thing you are," the queen murmurs, nodding to the men with another thoughtless wave.

They each take Wendell by a shoulder, pushing him down to his hands and knees on the floor, kneeling in front of the puddle of his own mess.

"Just a filthy little creature," the queen continues, voice soft and sweetly vicious, swaying toward Wendell with slow, predatory steps. "Leaking and weeping wherever you go. Has no one ever thought to teach you a lick of manners?"

The queen comes to a stop before Wendell; he keeps his head bowed, not daring to look up at her prettily-sneering face. Her boots stand before him, fashioned from gleaming, polished red leather. She lifts one foot, hooking her heel against the back of Wendell's neck, and tugs his face down into the mess on the floor.

"Does this seem like something I should be pleased about?" the queen asks. She rolls her ankle, rubbing Wendell's face back and forth through the semen and grime. "Foolish girl. I should make you lick my floors clean for the insult. Or would you like that too much? It wouldn't be the first time you did something of the like, now would it?"

Wendell groans against the slimy marble pressed to his face, unable to get anything more intelligible out with his cheek against the floor. Having his face rubbed in filth like an animal who'd pissed on the carpet is purely miserable, bathing him in a sick, hot shame he's desperate to escape. But the magic Magdalena cast on him lingers; the cool tingle remains there between his legs, whispering and teasing against his clit, distracting in a way that almost, almost feels good.

His wires cross, torn between the misery of the queen's humiliation of him and the tingling pleasure sparking against his sex. He squirms, pressing his thighs together, and the queen's toe tucks underneath his chin, pulling his face up in time to witness her slow, smug smile.

"I am not without mercy," she says. "Perhaps I shall allow you the opportunity to apologize for your mistakes."

She turns, moving to seat herself on a low couch that must have been brought out while Wendell was being manhandled. The servants pull him upright again, one of them taking a moment to painstakingly clean the slime from his face, which is clue enough to how the queen must expect him to make his apologies. She has arranged herself on the couch, lounging back against it with legs just parted, her skirts pulled fully up around her hips.

"Come here, dear girl," the queen beckons. "And let's see what else that pretty mouth is good for."

Wendell obliges, slinking over to the couch and kneeling down beside it. The queen opens her thighs, gifting Wendell with the sight of tight, dark curls above a neat slit; one hand reaches down to part the lips for him, in obvious, unsubtle invitation. Wendell leans in, nervous, heart beating faster and nose filling at once with the smell of her musk. He's tentative, as he opens his mouth to give an initial, faltering lick. She doesn't bother taking the time to be patient with him; once his face is close enough, she reaches a hand behind his neck and drags him in flush, grinding her hips up against his lips and nose.

"Oh, very good," the queen sighs, rocking herself against his mouth, rubbing him against her as if he were a toy.

Wendell gasps, half-smothered by the press of her flesh all around him. Her thighs close around his face, holding him in place, and though he attempts to move his tongue, to lick, to suck, to do anything, the queen pays little mind to his actual ministrations. The scent of her overwhelms him, her juices bitter on his tongue, and for a moment he struggles, absolutely certain he cannot breathe. He gets his head just free enough to gasp, then the queen is pulling him back in.

"Oh, none of that," she whispers, sweet voice souring with displeasure. "We can't be having that."

Her fingers trail against the back of Wendell's neck; there is a brief pulse of heat along his skin, then coldness, then nothing. The queen grinds herself against Wendell's tongue again and he gags, then tries to gasp, then finds the air simply will not come.

The air won't come, as if something — or someone — has sealed his lungs away.

Wendell thrashes, panicking, desperately trying to breathe, but the queen's legs are locked around him, and she is stronger than she appears. She rides him through it, moving with each jerk and buck of his alarmed body, pushing herself against his mouth all the harder for all his attempts to get away. Then her nails bite in against his neck, sharp pricks of pain which momentarily startle Wendell into stillness, and the queen pushes her advantage.

"If you'd like to breathe again, sweet pet, you'll have to hold still and get me off. Because if you can't... Well, it will be all too unfortunate about that spell, now won't it?"

Wendell's mindless panic is doused with an ice-cold shot of fear, his entire body going still, frozen in terror. The queen lies back again, satisfied, and pulls Wendell in against herself. Her hips roll, rocking against his face with more leisurely, unconcerned motions. The message is clear: if Wendell wishes to save himself, now he will have to use his own skill.

Wendell dives in, licking hard between her legs, dragging the flat of his tongue up the length of slick, warm folds before sealing his mouth desperately against her clit. His chest feels tight and hot, seized up and aching painfully. The smell of her is dizzying — or perhaps that's just the lack of air, beginning to go to his head. He sucks, hard at first, then softer but more insistent, alternating with little feathery flicks of his tongue. The queen sighs above him and Wendell whines with nerves, not so much a sound as a ghost of a sensation, when he can no more push air out than he can suck it in.

He's light-headed, spots popping up at the edges of his vision. He closes his eyes, licking her sweetly, motions becoming sluggish as he struggles to think. He begins to shake, though whether it's from fear of failure or oxygen deprivation, he could not have said. Once he starts, he finds he cannot stop, but his shuddering between her legs only earns him a small, happy gasp from the woman above him. She rocks her hips down against his mouth, hard, and with a long, drawn-out moan, comes apart all over his face.

Abruptly, the ability to work his lungs returns to Wendell, his body gasping and seizing as he jerks away from the queen's loosening hold. He sucks in deep breaths of air, shaking and dizzy, feeling abruptly as if he's about to throw up. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the queen's hand working quickly between her legs, effortlessly coaxing another pretty orgasm from her body as she watches Wendell panic and shake, staring with hot, hungry eyes.

Reflexively, Wendell starts to scoot away from her, a panicked animal reduced to its base instincts and giving in to the impulse to flee. But she stops him with a look, and he freezes.

"Not so quick," she says, as she strokes herself through the aftershocks of a final climax, before propping herself up on the couch. "This is our special time, sweet pet. I'm not so certain I'm through with you."

The only thing more powerful than Wendell's need to escape is his fear of what will happen if he does so against the queen's wishes; with extreme trepidation, he shifts back a little closer, holding himself stiff and still. The queen reaches out, stroking the back of one faintly-sticky hand against his equally tacky cheek.

"Welcome to the summer court, lovely girl," the queen murmurs. "I suspect you'll make a pretty place for yourself here; you're tougher than you look, and such a treat to play with. If you wanted to come to my bed tonight... I don't think I would refuse you. But of course, it's the right of every new young thing to pick who might have them on their debut. If there's someone else you have in mind, I hope you've been clever enough to choose an advantageous match."

Something half-forgotten begins to bubble up from the depths of Wendell's memory at the queen's words; in the changelog documenting what added features the mod would bring to Wendell's game, there had been something about a first night alliance. It was the earliest major choice of the updated game, an action that would steer a save toward one main plotline or another, depending on which noble a character chose to bed when she was fresh and had no allies. Wendell had refused to think about it, expecting to wake up from his nightmare with each new shock of the evening.

But he's still in the summer court, and the evening is drawing to a close, and that means the moment of his major choice is soon at hand.

If there is one thing Wendell is sure of, it is that he does not wish to lie with the queen for his first night. He doesn't think he would volunteer to ever lie with her again, given a choice, not when his pain and fear had filled her with such delight. He turns away from her on the couch, gazing around him at those nobles who remained on their cushions around the queen's impromptu stage. Most have shifted from watching them to toying with each other, but something in Wendell's gut says that these nobles, the ones who have kept close to the queen, are his best bet for a capable ally.

One man, dark-haired and dark-eyed with an angular, handsome face, turns his gaze to Wendell almost as quickly as Wendell looks upon him. He's well-groomed and composed, his hair slicked back and his facial hair carefully trimmed in a neat goatee that frames a thin-lipped, serious mouth. Wendell is almost certain he was seated at the high table before, somewhere between the queen and the lady Magdalena, who'd saddled him with the hellhound. He's someone important, to be sure — and based on the heated way he looks at Wendell, devouring every nearly-naked curve of his body, Wendell is certain he'd be more than pleased to be selected.

Before he can change his mind, Wendell stands up, taking several swift steps over to where the man reclines on his cushion on the floor.

"My name is— is lady Lisette, of Amber Reaches," he says, stumbling a little over the name and pulling the words haltingly up from his hazy memory. "It is a pleasure to meet you. By the customs of the summer court, I ask that you pass the night with me, unfamiliar as I am in this place, and much in need of a chaperone."

The man rises in one smooth, fluid motion, reaching out to take Wendell by the hand. He lifts the back of it to his lips, pressing a kiss to Wendell's naked skin. "My name is Nikolai, of Shadows Crossing, and I accept your invitation to have you for myself on this, your first evening in the summer court."

He releases Wendell's hand, allowing it to fall away and instead reaching out to grasp Wendell gently about the waist. He leans in, lips just brushing the shell of Wendell's ear, and murmurs an addition not within the bounds of the court script: "I've watched you all this evening, fair Lisette, hoping for the moment when our eyes might meet. Now that I have you, please, allow me to show you the depths of my delight."

Nikolai lowers his head further, lips brushing against the side of Wendell's throat, kissing the spot beneath his ear, then a breath lower, then a breath lower than that. Wendell's hands jerk up to grasp the man's sides, knees abruptly going weak and shaky, body flushing hot all the way down to his chest. Nikolai chuckles softly, a not-unkind sound, and pulls Wendell in a bit closer.

"That's not the only thing I'd like to do with my mouth," he confides. "Now let's be away. The rabble have had enough of a show for one evening; from here on, it will only be my eyes upon you."

Not wishing to allow himself time to second-guess his choice or to wonder if he's made a mistake, Wendell allows Nikolai — this man he does not know at all — to spirit him away out of the hall.

"Allow me to pour you something to drink," Nikolai says.

He moves across the richly-appointed suite of rooms where he's brought Wendell, opening a liquor cabinet and removing a glass bottle of something dark and syrupy. The wine glasses he pours into, faceted like jewels, wink in the low, golden-hued lighting. Heavy bookcases of sleek, dark wood line the walls around them, and thick, red velvet drapes hang before what might be windows.

Nikolai crosses back to him, handing him one of the glasses and clinking his own lightly against it. They chime together like bells. Nikolai raises his wine to his lips, swirling it briefly and inhaling of the aroma before taking a slow, measured sip.

Wendell hesitates over his own drink, reluctant to put anything else foreign into his stomach, after the "dinner" he's been served. But Nikolai smiles encouragingly at him and, not wanting to invite further awkwardness to an already uncertain situation, Wendell drinks shallowly from the glass.

"I'm... A bit tired after the party," Wendell says, glancing off to one side.

In the game, there were never dialogue options during a seduction sequence. It was all stats and algorithms and a bit of chance, and after a moment of hangtime, the game would simply display the result of the gambit. Even in the modded version, the game would cut right to the hacked-in quicktime movie. Wendell is at a loss for how he's meant to navigate a situation he never expected to be in, where he doesn't even have the game rules to fall back on.

The one advantage of being railroaded and manipulated throughout the whole party, without even a minute to have an opinion of his own, was that Wendell never had the chance to really think about being helpless.

"Such is the way of a debut," Nikolai agrees. "Rest assured, my dear, my intentions towards you are nothing so demanding. Tonight, I plan to be doing all the work."

So much for the possibility that Nikolai might take pity on him, and not cash in on the expectation for sex. Not that Wendell had truly expected anything different. He takes another sip of his wine, deeper this time; it's sweet and rich, and the way its syrupy texture coats his throat and tongue is not unpleasant. He's beginning to feel warm, though he couldn't say whether it's the alcohol or the more comfortable surroundings.

"I've never done this before," Wendell says. "Obviously. And I don't really want to do it. Not right now, and not– Nevermind. It doesn't matter. I'm not going to run away, or fight you, but I'm not going to pretend I'm happy to be here, either."

"You chose me," Nikolai points out.

"I had to choose someone."

"So it was just random chance? You had to make a decision, and I was there?"

"Kind of, yes! You were there, and... You seemed like you were close with the queen."

"Ah," Nikolai says. "So your selection was not just a roll of the dice. You did choose me, specifically, because you suspected the decision might be advantageous to you."

It's not an incorrect summation, but it does bring Wendell up short. He shouldn't have to feel guilty about trying to use someone, not after an evening that was start to finish about everyone under the sun finding a way to use him. But he feels as if he's been caught in a lie, wrong-footed and unsure of where to jump next.

"I don't mind," Nikolai adds, as an afterthought. "I wouldn't want you nearly so much, if I didn't think you capable of playing court politics."

"You want me," Wendell echoes, with an empty, bitter laugh. He drains the rest of his wine, thrusting the glass back into Nikolai's hands. "Like you're claiming a prize. If I told you no, told you that I wanted you to stop, would you listen? Would you even care?"

Nikolai pauses a moment, head tilting to the side, seriously thinking over the question. Then he says, "No."

Wendell goes very, very still.

"I can't imagine anyone here would," Nikolai continues. "Such is the way of the summer court. I respect your will as a free individual and I accept that you may have feelings different than mine. But a lion sheds no tears when he brings down a gazelle, and neither will I. It is his nature, and he can only be expected to act within it."

"So you're an animal," Wendell surmises.

"If it pleases you to think of me that way," Nikolai says, smiling wide enough to show a brief gleam of teeth. "Then so be it."

Wendell couldn't feel much farther from "pleased" if he tried. He feels trapped, like a hunted animal with the hounds closing in. The urge to run rises up but is just as quickly drowned by Wendell's cold fear of what might happen when he's caught — when, not if, because no one escapes the whims of the summer court.

Nikolai reaches out, setting both wine glasses aside and moving to take Wendell by the waist. He jerks, reflexively pulling away, but his body doesn't move quite how he wants it. The floor heaves beneath him with a brief but disorienting wave of vertigo and suddenly Nikolai is much closer, one hand at the small of Wendell's back, the other picking at the tie securing Wendell's dress, little though its done for his modesty, slung low as it is about his midsection.

"What—" Wendell begins to say, but his tongue is heavy in his mouth, slurring the question into near-incomprehension.

"Nothing to worry about, my dear," Nikolai assures him. "But I believe it may be time for us to move to the bedroom."

Wendell makes another clumsy stab at a question, pushing words weakly against his unresponding lips, but all that comes out is a sloppy mumble. Nikolai steers him about with the arm around Wendell's waist; his feet flop in uncoordinated protest when he tries to move and he almost trips, but Nikolai is holding him too securely to let him fall. One hand slaps against Nikolai's chest and drags against his evening jacket, but Wendell's grip isn't strong enough to hold on.

"This way, fair Lisette," Nikolai murmurs, and sweeps him through a high set of doors.

On the other side is a grand four-poster bed, piled high with plush-looking mattresses and sumptuous bed sheets, its posts hung with heavy red curtains, tied open at the corners. Nikolai swings Wendell up and onto the bed, spreading him out upon silken covers. He sinks ever so slightly into the bedding, which slides against his skin with teasing, perfect softness.

Wendell's body is heavy, slow; when he attempts to lift his arms, to sit up, they simply flop back against the covers after barely a twitch. He fights to remain as calm as he can, staving off panic, even as cold fear eels its way up his spine. His eyes dart about what he can see of the room, half-watching as Nikolai removes his evening jacket and hangs it on a chair, half searching for a way out, for any means of rescuing himself.

Nikolai sits on the edge of the bed, bending to unfasten his boots. Without the jacket, he's wearing only a loose shirt, the elaborate collar to which now hangs open, revealing a slim triangle of fair, muscular chest. Wendell looks away, staring instead straight up at the deep red canopy above him.

His skin is warm, flushed, but even so, a prickle of goosebumps springs up across it. The harsh reality of the situation snaps into focus around him; more than the manhandling, or the hellhound, or the debasement of the dinner, this moment is what terrifies Wendell. Alone, unable to move, with a man who has calmly assured him that his protests are meaningless and will be ignored, Wendell can no longer pretend that everything is happening to someone else, to a character.

This is happening to him and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

"Oh, but you look lovely, my dear," Nikolai says, snapping Wendell's attention back to him.

He reaches out, tenderly unwinding the straps and the bodice of the dress, pulling the fabric open so the entirety of Wendell's chest and stomach is bare. His hands sweep over Wendell, unhurried, caressing, palms warm as they briefly massage Wendell's breasts but his fingers don't linger there. They travel on, admiring touches sliding across his flat, smooth stomach, fingers curling to the sides, about his waist, and hands spreading to frame Wendell's bare belly. His thumbs move in idle, circular patterns, stroking Wendell's soft skin and sending shivers up and down his spine.

Unable to move, all Wendell can do is feel, so sensitive beneath even the lightest of touches. His body clenches down, squeezing around nothing, and his mouth falls open with a soft, helpless gasp.

"Magnificent," Nikolai murmurs.

He pulls the dress away further, finding the hidden catches to the skirts and unwrapping the thin, silken streamers that have done what they could to protect Wendell's negligible modesty. He squeezes his eyes shut, able to do that much, overwhelmed all at once by the awareness that Nikolai can see everything.

His gaze is too intense, heavy, following the lines of Wendell's borrowed body with a hungry, assessing stare. His hands spread down the tops of Wendell's thighs, gently nudging them apart, giving himself a better view of the neat slit between them, lips plumped up and flushed with uncertain arousal. His fingers drift close, trailing over the sensitive skin around Wendell's sex, back and forth, over and over, refusing to touch him directly. Wendell shudders beneath Nikolai's hands, trying to twitch his hips up but unable to get them properly onto him.

"Let's not rush things, my sweet," Nikolai says. "I'm to understand that this is untraveled ground; first times are meant to be savored. I do intend to enjoy every moment of yours."

He shifts his hands, thumbs just barely dipping in and spreading Wendell apart, affording Nikolai a far lewder view. Wendell gasps again, shocked and breathy, and his body squeezes down so hard he shakes.

"That's correct, isn't it?" Nikolai asks. "That you've never been touched here?"

His fingers move so easily, sliding through Wendell's own slick. It takes all the effort he can summon but he mutely shakes his head, acknowledgment that this is new, that he is as virginal as the queen promised. Nikolai's thumb rubs against Wendell's clit, with tight, firm motions that leave Wendell flushed hot and desperately aching. He's slow and clumsy as he pushes his hips up, grinding into Nikolai's touch, near-sobbing with unmet need.

"You'd like something inside of you, wouldn't you, my dear?"

Nikolai's fingers are unyielding, focused entirely on that one white-hot spot. Wendell cannot escape it, jerking against Nikolai's hand, helplessly nodding his agreement. He needs it, more than he's ever needed anything in his life, needs Nikolai to stop teasing him and get on with fucking him, filling him up with his cock.

"It's the wine," Nikolai confides, out of nowhere. "Makes you pliant like this — aroused, oversensitized, but also slow and uncoordinated. I find it makes the evening all the more pleasant; simply surrender to the magic, fair Lisette, and allow yourself to feel."

Rather than alarming Wendell further, the information simply slots into place; he's afire with sensation, hips lifting into Nikolai's hands, desperate for more. It's less of a choice and more how Nikolai says: a surrender, giving in to demands his body cannot help but make. The ache inside of him builds, grows deeper, barreling onward with unstoppable momentum, tumbling towards an edge that Wendell can almost, nearly, grasp—

Nikolai pulls his hands away.

He leans back, long fingers moving instead to unfasten his pants. Wendell's groan of despair cuts off in favor of hungry staring, watching as Nikolai pulls out his cock. It's of a decent size — nothing preposterous — and Nikolai wastes no time taking it in hand and shifting forward, at once coming to lie over Wendell and lining himself up with Wendell's aching, drenched core.

There's a tense feeling when Nikolai thrusts in, sharp but not exactly painful, spreading him open and leaving him breathlessly full. There's nothing tender about it, but Nikolai is careful, precise, each movement measured as he begins to roll his hips, his rhythm slow and even. Wendell's eyes roll up, staring at the canopy, breath hitching and catching on ragged, hiccuping gasps.

"How's that, my sweet?" Nikolai asks, a bit breathless himself.

Wendell has no breath with which to answer, giving in to sensation, embracing the sweet ache as his body repeatedly clenches down around Nikolai, pulling him in deeper.

"Such a greedy little thing you are," Nikolai says. "You've gone untouched like this for so long, but you must have always wanted it. This lovely body of yours, so soft and delicate; the moment I saw it, I knew I would have you. I wanted so very much to breed you."

Wendell's hips stutter, failing to meet Nikolai's cleanly, knocked momentarily off balance. Nikolai gives no sign of having noticed.

"I'll get you with child, my sweet," he promises, one hand coming up to cup Wendell's face, thumb stroking gently across Wendell's cheek. "It won't take me more than once. Though you've promised me the whole evening — perhaps I'll keep you in my bed until sunrise, taking you over and over, making sure that it sticks."

His thrusts speed up, gaining force as Nikolai loses himself in the fantasy. His head ducks down, pressing a kiss to Wendell's jaw, then nuzzling in against his neck, biting gently at a spot beneath his ear. Wendell gasps, fingers catching against Nikolai's shirt and holding on weakly.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Nikolai asks, murmuring directly into Wendell's ear. "For me to come inside you so many times, it would be impossible for you to be anything other than pregnant."

Wendell whimpers, horrified by the concept but unable to protest. The words won't come; his body won't let him. The heat inside of him demands satisfaction, clutching at Nikolai, grasping for any and everything he has to give. Nikolai moves his hand from Wendell's face down to his stomach, fingertips feather-light as they brush across it, tenderly tracing out its current shape.

"When I'm through with you," Nikolai says, "you'll grow heavy and round with my seed, just here. I'll keep you in my bed at all hours, pampered and waited upon, available to me whenever I should wish to have you again. And I will have you, repeatedly, so your body never forgets who has gotten you this way."

His hand continues to pet across Wendell's belly, over and over, clearly imagining it fuller, rounder, voice gone rough and low with want. The pace of his thrusts has settled at something steady but harsh, each jerk of his hips driving him hard into Wendell. Every time their bodies connect, Wendell gasps, beginning to shake with exertion and need.

"It won't be the only time, either," Nikolai promises. "Do well for me, my sweet, and perhaps I'll simply keep you like that, with one pregnancy after another. I won't be able to help it, not when this body of yours longs for me so desperately, longs like this to be filled. I imagine I won't even have to try, not with how badly you'll need me, in the end. Think about it: every time you birth me a child, I'll take you again fresh, and every time I'll get you with child again, just like this."

On the final word, Nikolai's hips jerk hard and he pulls Wendell against him, holding him there as he spills his seed inside of him. Wendell swears he can feel it there, hot and potent like magic, as his body helplessly clenches down tight, in an attempt at wringing every last drop from Nikolai.

When he pulls out, he keeps Wendell's hips tilted up against his lap, his softening cock resting against Wendell's thigh. He massages Wendell's stomach with distracted fondness, then drops his hand lower, rubbing at Wendell's clit with steady, circular motions until Wendell shakes and shudders his way through the overwhelming sensations of an unfamiliar orgasm.

"This is the trick," Nikolai whispers, with soft conviction. "It's only superstition, of course, but a climax like this, with the seed still inside of you, is said to help the pregnancy to take."

Coming down from the high of it, Wendell is flushed with a cool wave of fear, followed by the overwhelming urge to reach down with both hands and scrape Nikolai's semen out of him with his fingers. But he's still too spent to move; Nikolai continues to pet and fondle him, alternating between admiring the gentle curve of his stomach and massaging him between the legs, coaxing him slowly, gradually into another trembling orgasm before Wendell notices that Nikolai is hard again, his cock already resting between Wendell's thighs.

"As I promised," Nikolai says. "I'll have you as many times as it takes."