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Cazador could hardly believe his luck.
It took him less than a minute to take in the scene before him, understand what had taken place here, and calculate the delicious advantage it afforded him. And with that advantage in mind, a plan made its contours known to him.
The pale elf lay sprawled on the asphalt before him, bruised and groaning and barely conscious. His handbag lay beside his broken body, turned over and with anything not valuable enough to steal scattered on the ground nearby. So, a theft gone wrong. Perhaps with a touch of further violence inspired by how absolutely queer this man was.
Cazador felt as though he already knew him intimately, his eyes tracing the delicate dip of his waist and the round curve of his ass beneath the trousers he wore. The lovely, pained fluttering of his lashes as he struggled to hold onto awareness. The blood pooling beneath his head, perhaps where the attacker had slammed his head into the ground. Cazador licked his lips.
“My, my, you're in quite a state,” he murmured, syrupy with false compassion as he stooped down to graze his fingers along the elf's cheek. The man flinched at the unexpected touch, then leaned into the caress when his fingers stayed resolutely there. Cazador smiled. He might be easier to train than he'd thought. “Yes, my sweet, I'm here.”
“H-help…” The man's—no, he thought, the boy’s —voice was so weak. So faint. So needy .
“Of course. Let's get you up, and I'll take care of you,” Cazador crooned.
It was a simple matter to help him walk up the street, made simpler when the boy’s legs collapsed beneath him and Cazador simply carried him, limp like a damsel, up the steps to his home. His head of staff, Violet, met him at the door, her eyes widening when she saw the precious cargo he held.
“Mr. Szarr, can I help you with—should I send for Dalyria?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. I’ll care for him myself. Prepare the guest room beside the master bedroom and bring up whatever first aid supplies we have.” It wouldn’t do to involve his personal physician, even if she was available to make house calls. He wanted the boy all to himself.
Violet nodded and hurried off. Cazador smiled as he walked unhurriedly from the foyer through to the living room, the smaller elf still cradled in his arms. He wanted everything to be ready for his new pet so that he could waste no time in lavishing attention on him.
As he often did when surveying his home, Cazador took a moment to reflect. A modern palace, he liked to call it: ten bedrooms, a grand staircase, and a handful of rooms dedicated to his more… off-menu interests. The main house was entirely white: walls, furniture, countertops, appliances, cabinets, doors. All save for a few striking artworks in red: a skull cradled in a skeletal hand; an imposing canvas covered in abstract, violent strokes of scarlet; an ornate mirror whose surface reflected the room as though it were bathed in blood.
All painstakingly curated by the finest interior decorator money could buy. Cazador smiled wistfully, remembering how he’d blackballed the man after the house was finished, ensuring that his career would never recover. No one else would ever have as fine a home as his, and he’d made sure of it.
The boy stirred against him weakly, his lovely face—bloodied and blooming with bruises, more the pity that Cazador hadn’t been the one to put them there—nuzzling into his rescuer’s chest. Cazador tutted affectionately. “Just this once, dear one, I won’t be cross with you for dirtying my clothes. I’ll make sure you’re a good, obedient pet in future.” If the boy heard him, he made no indication that he understood.
And how could he, after all?
—
Laid out on the bed in the guest room, the boy looked even more beautiful. His beauty was transcendent, particularly when his flesh was kissed by marks of violence. His skin was luminous where blood had dried along the edges of a cut, the swollenness of his bruised and battered flesh tempting enough to make saliva pool in Cazador’s mouth. He wanted to devour him already, but he made himself be patient. He had restraint. He must make the boy well first, before he could take his time in dismantling him.
He dismissed Violet and his other staff until further notice, ignoring the unsettled looks they gave him as they left. He wanted nothing and no one to intrude while he spent time getting to know his beloved most intimately. He began by stripping off his clothing and cleaning the blood and dirt from his body with a cool, damp cloth, taking care to remove any gravel that had become embedded in his wounds. He dabbed antiseptic and wrapped bandages, shushed when his boy whimpered at the sting, massaged ointments into supple skin.
While he worked, he allowed his eyes to feast on the extravagant meal that the boy’s nude body made. He let his hands caress his slender limbs longer than necessary, trailed his hands over ribs and the alabaster musculature of his chest. He indulged in a squeeze or two of the boy’s waist, even hovering a palm over his cunt as he slept just to feel the heat he radiated there. His little cock was adorable where it peaked out from atop his folds, and Cazador’s mind positively reeled at the thought of what was to come.
All these gentle touches added up, one by one, to a quiet relaxing of the tension in the boy’s muscles. His body seemed to learn that Cazador would only treat him gently, that he was safe, taken care of. The thought made Cazador chuckle to himself; how soon the boy’s body would learn an entirely different set of lessons.
After a few hours’ rest, the boy— his boy, already—groggily opened his eyes. “W-what happened? I—ow,” he whined, hand going to his side as he tried to sit up.
“Now, now, don’t move too much. You were quite injured when I found you, and you’ll still need to recover a while,” Cazador purred, gently pushing the boy back down to the bed with a manicured hand on his chest.
“Thank you, I don’t—oh, gods, they beat me.” His lovely wet eyes squeezed shut, letting a lone tear trail down his cheek. Cazador wanted to lick it, taste his despair. Ah, but he was getting greedy.
“I know, love, but you’re safe now.” Cazador petted the boy’s mussed curls lovingly, keeping his talon-like nails sheathed for now. “I’ve bandaged your wounds. You can stay here as long as you need to heal.” A small lie. The matter had already been decided.
The boy nodded. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr…?”
“Szarr,” Cazador supplied smoothly. “Cazador Szarr. You are most welcome in my home. What is your name, child?”
The boy looked a bit perplexed to be addressed in such a way, but said nothing about it. “I’m Astarion. Thank you for helping me, Mr. Szarr… I’m rather tired still, I might close my eyes…”
Cazador smirked, watching the boy’s eyes flutter closed. “Of course, Astarion. Rest up, my pet,” he murmured, tracing a feather-light touch over the pulse point on his wrist. The beat beneath his fingers was a little faster than the resting heart rate of one drifting back to sleep. Good. His body already knew to anticipate the pleasures Cazador would bring him.
—
The days went on, and Astarion began to regain his strength. Though he seemed at first unsure of Cazador’s caresses, unnerved at being touched and spoken to with such familiar affection, with time he learned to enjoy the feel of his benefactor’s hands on his body. Cazador grew bolder with each day until Astarion positively craved his touch, leaning into the hand that cupped his cheek as he awoke, making little gasps as Cazador pressed his fingers to his injuries to check how well they were healing. He allowed Cazador to grasp his chin, a gentle enough touch that would have grown firm and unyielding had he resisted, as the dark-haired elf stared into his face for minutes at a time.
Whenever Astarion had questions—about Cazador, his home, what Astarion might be able to do once he felt better—Cazador answered in honeyed phrases that revealed little and ignored the boy’s presumption that he would eventually leave. Even if his new pet did have a mind to leave without Cazador’s permission, every door and window had locked automatically on the day he’d brought Astarion home. The floor-length windows that exposed the western side of the house to the sea only appeared to let in daylight, a clever trick: every window was specially treated to block the sun’s rays. Instead of bathing the rooms in a warm, golden glow, the light that filtered in was cold, drained of its life-giving essence. What appeared to be a lavishly furnished home would, in time, become the gilded cage in which he toyed with his pet.
Cazador kept Astarion dependent on him, feeding him only meager broths to sustain his weak, slack-limbed state. His boy was already beautifully slender, so little fat to keep him warm, and he began to burrow closer to Cazador when he sat down to care for him, seeking body heat even as his mind was too addled to realize that Cazador had none to give.
One evening, he finally looked up at Cazador with those lovely, shining eyes. “Please, would you… get in bed with me?” He blushed and ducked his head, already embarrassed that he’d asked. Cazador’s lips curled upward. Yes, my boy. Let yourself need me so terribly.
“Why, of course, my dear boy. How could I ever deny you? Are you cold, is that it?” Cazador murmured, sickly sweet, paternal.
Astarion shivered as though in reply. “Yes, and—you’ve been so kind to me, I just… it’s nice when you’re here,” he broke off, the tips of his ears bright pink as he burrowed a little deeper into the blankets. Ah, how his desires humiliated him. Cazador wanted to taste that feeling, bottle it up and let it drip slow like honey on his tongue.
“Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to hear you say that, my boy,” Cazador breathed as he stood and began to disrobe. “I will warm you with my body, child. Warmth is better shared from bare skin to bare skin. I will hold you close and take care of you.” His voice took on a commanding quality, no longer tender and nurturing even as he spoke the words. Now that Astarion had invited his touch, Cazador knew he was ready. Now that he’d said the words, he would accept what was given.
Cazador stood nude before his boy, noting how Astarion’s eyes flicked to the semi-hard cock rising between his legs. Good. It had been one of the more tiresome parts of this process, hiding his arousal at each kittenish movement and sound that his pet made, waiting until he’d left Astarion alone to plunge oiled fingers inside himself and fist his cock in time with the debauched movements he imagined subjecting the boy to. Finally, he could take his chance to enjoy this supple young body the way he truly desired.
Cazador lifted the blankets and slipped between the cool linen sheets, relishing the way the soft-rough fibers tugged at his bare flesh. Astarion made to turn toward him, but Cazador shook his head and turned him by his shoulders so that his back faced him. One arm snaked around his waist while the other slid under his neck, and he pulled his boy flush against him, feeling his sudden intake of breath as Cazador’s growing erection came to rest softly along the cleft of Astarion’s ass. How pleased he was that Astarion was already nude, that he had kept himself so exposed and ready like this. Perhaps, in the hours when Cazador left him to rest alone in this room, the boy had touched himself to thoughts of Cazador as well, rubbing the slick between his folds as he imagined Cazador entering him, filling him up, possessing him. At the thought, Cazador shifted to rub his cock between the boy’s cheeks, letting out a little hiss of pleasure at the sensation.
Astarion shivered harder as Cazador pressed close, seeming to realize his crucial misunderstanding of the situation as the deathly cold of his host’s body instead stole what little body heat he had. The arm around his waist pushed firmly between his thighs and spread them, forced him to lift one leg as cold fingers found his small cock and pulled at it.
“Ah—please, I don’t—” he gasped, straining away before Cazador’s other arm tightened like steel around his neck, briefly cutting off his air.
“Call me father, child,” Cazador said in his ear, voice rough with lust as he worked his son’s cock between two fingers. Astarion grew wetter the more he stroked him, and his arousal grew the more his boy fought against him. “You have given yourself to me. Do not fear, for I can read your desires more plainly than you can. Let your father care for you.”
“Please, n—” Astarion’s final protest was cut off by Cazador hooking two fingers in his mouth. The boy made a gorgeous choking sound and whined, but otherwise stilled his struggle and let his back rest against Cazador’s chest as his little cock hardened and slipped between Cazador’s slender fingers.
“Good boy. You will call me father soon, as is my right. Perhaps I shall make you beg for it.” His fingers slid down to stroke at Astarion’s wet, swollen folds for a moment before pushing two fingers into him up to the knuckle. Astarion squealed around the fingers in his mouth, hips bucking to try to move or get away, but Cazador had him caught like a fish. His squirming only pressed the delicious flesh of his buttocks against Cazador’s cock, and Cazador bucked against him with a groan. He fucked his fingers in and out of his son’s cunt quickly, impatiently, finding that his self-restraint was wearing thin. He had spent long enough feeding his hunger for the boy with looks and light touches. It was time to take what was his.
He withdrew his fingers from Astarion and took his own cock in hand, pressing its length between the boy’s thighs and rubbing the shaft against his slippery folds. Astarion moaned brokenly and squeezed his thighs together, allowing his father to fuck his thighs tighter as his cock became coated in slick.
“That’s my good boy.” Cazador repositioned his fingers in Astarion’s mouth so that they pressed down on his soft tongue. Saliva had already pooled in his mouth and dripped now from his lips as Cazador fucked his fingers in and out a few times. “Suck my fingers as you would my cock, boy.”
How pleased he was as Astarion obeyed after only a moment’s hesitation, slurping around the fingers obscenely as tongue stroked around and between them. He was not so virginal, then, as his prudish struggling would suggest. He knew how to pleasure a man, and Cazador imagined him servile, on his knees, presenting his mouth to be fucked by any man with enough presence of mind to call him beautiful.
“Good, my child, my little whore,” Cazador crooned. Astarion moaned wantonly around his fingers and took them deeper, nearly swallowing them in his eagerness. How perfect he was.
Cazador could hold himself back no longer. He lifted Astarion’s leg and pressed the head of his cock against the entrance to his cunt, relishing the keening sound that issued from the boy’s throat in reply. He rocked his hips experimentally once or twice, already drunk on the way the tight, wet heat suckled at his glans as it leaked precum. With one brutal movement, he seated himself inside fully, earning him a choked scream from around his spit-slicked fingers.
“I am going to take you now, my boy,” Cazador whispered, licking lasciviously at the sensitive tip of Astarion’s ear and making him shudder. “Mind that you do not bite me. If you do, there will be consequences. But take my cock well, please me, and I will fill you so completely that you will weep to be used again.”
Astarion struggled to nod his head, so obedient already, as Cazador slowly withdrew his cock until just the head rested inside his entrance, then sank back into him, relishing how the boy’s muscles clenched around him as his thrusts picked up speed.
Cazador used his cunt without a thought for the boy’s pleasure, slowing his movements when it pleased him to do so and hammering his cock against the boy’s cervix when he wished. A colder sort of lust curled like fog inside him when he caused pain like this, when he forced fingers down his throat or pounded his swollen cunt mercilessly. Astarion’s moans turned to sobs and incoherent babbling, all muffled by the fingers he still sucked greedily as though they would eventually spill down his throat.
And still his dear son arched desperately back against him, hips tilting to meet Cazador’s punishing thrusts eagerly. Much as he wanted to keep a firm hand on his command of Astarion’s mind, carefully mold the image of himself that he wished to imprint there, Cazador found increasingly that he could make no noise more intelligible than his son’s beautiful cries. He felt his release nearing as the hard slap of his hips meeting Astarion’s made lewd, wet noises that reminded him of the stunning, searing truth: this gorgeous boy was his own. His child. His cock sleeve. His toy to play with and break and put back together as he pleased.
One more brutal stroke and he was coming, his cock spurting hot spend against Astarion’s slick walls. He kept up his thrusts as he pulsed with pleasure and filled the boy’s cunt. The waves crested, and he slowed but continued lazily fucking into Astarion, watching as his body jumped a little each time Cazador’s cock met his cervix. He pulled his fingers from the boy’s mouth and simply held him close as he used him for the sake of it, for the languid pulses of pleasure it brought him.
A few moments passed, and he felt Astarion’s muscles begin to clench urgently around him: his boy wanted to come, too, and he was close. “F-father…” he moaned, hoarse from the abuse to his throat.
“Oh, sweet boy,” Cazador murmured fondly against Astarion’s ear. “I will allow you to come this time, our first time. Let this be a reminder to you always how badly you wanted to be mine.” He began thrusting hard again, pushing his seed back inside Astarion’s hole and hitting that tender, swollen spot inside of him.
It didn’t take much longer before hot tears rolled down Astarion’s cheeks as his cunt spasmed and hot fluid leaked out of him onto Cazador’s cock. At the same moment, Cazador used the fingers still inside Astarion’s mouth to pull his head to one side as he sank his fangs into the supple flesh of his neck. Blood, richly spiced and thick with languid pleasure, pulsed over his tongue, and he drank deeply of the beautiful boy who belonged to him.
He supped greedily and long until he felt Astarion still in his arms, his heartbeat coming only weakly. It was a shame to have to stop, but he would long have use for this gorgeous creature, made more beautifully pallid by blood loss.
For now, Cazador was quite content to slip into trance beside his dear boy, his cock still sheathed inside him. He pleasured himself with Astarion’s body again when he woke a few hours later, and once more when the cold body stirred anew with undeath.
Cazador smiled to himself as he gathered his child in a tight embrace. This was his Astarion, newly baptized.