Work Text:
The last of the knights had left him with their cheers still ringing, tankards clashing somewhere in the city of Mondstadt above. Their Grandmaster just dismissed them all with the same easy grin, the same broad clap on the shoulder, as if the night would end for him in laughter and ale. No one noticed that he lingered behind when the hall emptied, nor that his steps led not toward his chambers but down the quiet stone stairwells that twisted beneath the keep.
The deeper he went, the colder it grew. The smell of smoke and spiced wine faded, replaced by damp mortar and iron, something sweeter buried beneath. His keys scraped against the lock, loud in the silence. One turn, then another, and the door groaned open.
The chamber beyond was dim, lit only by the pale shimmer of a few lantern resting on the floor. The man named Flins was there, as always—waiting, though not willingly. He sat upright on the narrow bed, his back pressed to the wall, his long hair unbound, falling across his shoulders like silver shadow. His eyes followed Varka without a word.
The Grandmaster ducked beneath the low arch as though he belonged there, massive frame filling the space. He closed the door behind him and set the keys aside.
“You’re restless again,” He said, voice low, almost casual. Not a question. A statement carved from experience.
The smaller man didn’t answer. His breath was steady, but his shoulders were drawn tight, his body caught between pride and the ache gnawing at him. The faintest tremor in his hands betrayed him.
Varka’s gaze softened, though his grin did not. He stepped closer, boots loud on the stone floor, until the lantern’s glow painted his scar and threw his shadow across the bed.
“It’s time of the month, isn’t it?”
Flins’ jaw clenched. He turned his face away, but he didn’t deny it.
Flins kept his eyes on the far wall, where the lantern glow barely touched the stone. Silence stretched until the faint rasp of Varka’s gloves cut through it, leather creaking as he tugged them off finger by finger.
“You’ll make yourself sick, holding it in like that,” he said. “Stubborn as ever.”
A low breath escaped Flins—half a laugh, half bitterness. “Better sick than treated like cattle.”
The knight chuckled, the sound rough and unbothered. He dropped his gloves onto the table beside the bed and leaned down until his shadow swallowed Flins whole. “Cattle don’t glare at me like that. Don’t bite their tongue just to prove a point. You’re just a pet, not a prisoner.”
Flins’ lips thinned. “A pet locked in the dark is still a prisoner.”
For a moment, Varka said nothing. His hand braced against the wall just above Flins’ shoulder, the weight of him close enough to press the air thin. Then, softer, almost indulgent: “A prisoner I keep alive. Don’t forget that.”
“Besides,” Varka went on, voice rough but not unkind, “I’m actually doing you a favor here. Keeping you safe."
"Don’t you remember the time I pulled you out from under those bastards? The ones who only wanted your fancy milk, that worth thousands mora on the black market.”
The words landed heavy. Against his will, Flins’ mind dragged him back—back to the stench of damp earth and iron, the press of too many hands. Shackles biting into his wrists, the sound of men laughing as they weighed what he was worth, but as livestock.
And then the noise had split open, claymore metal singing against bone, a voice cutting through the haze like thunder. Varka. He had come out of nowhere, a wall of muscle and scarred jaw, scattering them like dogs before a storm. Flins still remembered the warmth of those arms hauling him up, the scent of leather and steel and blood, the way the world spun as he was carried—whether he wanted it or not.
Back in the present, Flins’ shoulders hunched. He hated how the memory softened him, how the ache in his body seemed to sharpen along with the memory of helplessness. His voice, when it came, was quieter but edged.
“You saved me from one prison only to build another.”
Varka tilted his head, watching him like one might watch a wolf snap at its own leg in a trap. His mouth quirked, not quite a smile.
“And yet you’re alive. Breathing. Here, instead of in some gutter, bled dry. You think they would’ve given you freedom? They would’ve sold you sip by sip until nothing was left.”
Flins flinched, just faintly. His body betrayed him again, shoulders hunching as another wave of discomfort rippled through him. He hated how visible it was, how the ache bent him no matter how sharp his words tried to be.
He was a rare breed of fae, one born not with wings or fire, but with this peculiar, cursed gift. To humans, it was exotic. To collectors, it was treasure. To those men who had once bound him in chains, he had been nothing more than an animal to be farmed, bled for coin until he collapsed. That memory clung like smoke, and every time his body reminded him of what he carried, it felt like their hands were still on him.
It came like clockwork—once every month, the swell that built inside him until his body could no longer bear it. Nature’s cruel demand. If he ignored it, the pressure only grew worse, leaving his chest tight, his limbs heavy, his very breath dragged thin. Milk, richer than most, a gift that strangers called rare and priceless—but for him, it was nothing but a burden, a curse.
Like an omega in heat, there was no outrunning it, no sheer will that could hold it back forever. His body demanded release, and when it came, it left him shaking, emptied, half-wrecked. The pain alone was enough to drive him to his knees.
That was why Varka always came. He said it was to keep him safe, to spare him from tearing himself apart. Maybe it was true. Maybe it was just another excuse to keep him here, tethered in the dark, waiting for the moment when his strength finally bent and he would have no choice but to let Varka take the ache from him.
Yet here, even now, his body whispered betrayal. The ache was no longer just ache—it pulsed deep, rhythmic, almost sweet in its cruelty. His chest prickled with warmth, the faintest tingle that made his breath falter. He despised it, despised how much his own flesh begged against his will.
Varka caught the shift instantly. Of course he did. Nothing ever escaped him. His grin, once wide and careless, eased into something quieter—intent, steady, a heat in his eyes that wasn’t only hunger.
“Really hurts, doesn’t it?”
Flins’ lashes lowered, shame burning hot under his skin. He wanted to spit back some denial, some sharp retort to keep the last shreds of his dignity intact. But his body throbbed, cruelly honest, and the words never came.
Instead, he exhaled, long and uneven, and forced out the only concession he could manage. His voice trembled with bitterness, though his body leaned forward in surrender.
“Go on, then. Do what you came for.”
The words were barbed, but the resignation beneath them only made Varka’s chest tighten with something dangerously close to fondness.
As if the Almighty Grandmaster didn’t wait for further protest.
And for more permission. He never did.
One broad hand closed around Flins’ wrist, the other cupped behind his back, and in a single pull he dragged him off the narrow mattress. Flins stumbled, his body too heavy with ache to resist properly, though his breath caught as leather bit against his skin.
Varka didn’t give him time to find his balance. Fingers hooked into the edge of his coat, tugging hard until the clasps snapped loose and the heavy fabric slid down his shoulders. It fell to the floor with a dull thud, swallowed by shadow.
Next came the belts. One after another, Varka stripped them away, buckles clinking as they scattered against stone. The sound was merciless, each clatter echoing through the chamber like a reminder of how little dignity the fae had left.
Flins shifted, tried to twist free, but Varka’s grip was iron. A gauntlet tugged from his arm, then the other, metal and leather peeled away until the pale length of his arms lay bare. His breath stuttered as the air touched his skin—cool against fevered flesh, sensitive and exposed.
Varka’s hands moved lower, tugging at the fastenings of his trousers. Fabric loosened, slid down his hips, pooling useless at his ankles. Bare feet pressed against the cold floor, toes curling at the sudden chill.
And then he was stripped fully, nothing left but the faint sheen of sweat on skin and the trembling tension of muscles pulled taut. Every layer that had once set him apart—armor, cloth, dignity—was gone, peeled away by hands that claimed and commanded.
Varka stepped back for only a heartbeat, gaze sweeping down the length of him, slow and deliberate. A grin curved his scarred mouth, heavy with possession.
“Better,” he rumbled. “Now you’re mine to handle."
The another “bed” waited in the corner of the basement. It wasn’t a bed at all, not in any comforting sense—more like a frame Varka had built himself, iron and oak joined with thick leather straps. A contraption made for one purpose only. The sight of it made Flins’ stomach clench every time: the angled rest that forced his back to arch, the padded bar across the hips that bent him forward, the rings fixed into the wood where wrists could be bound. It was indecent in its design, cruelly precise.
“Don’t be too rough...” Flins muttered, though the word carried no strength. He dug his heels against the floor as Varka maneuvered him closer.
“Shh,” Varka rumbled, steady and unbothered. “We both know how this goes.”
The words hit deep—because they were true. Flins remembered too well the first time Varka had forced him into the frame, how he had thrashed and cursed until the pain cut sharp enough to wring soundless cries from his throat. Since then, Varka never let him start without restraints. Said it kept him from tearing himself apart.
Leather circled his wrists now, one by one, pulled tight and buckled into the side-rings above his head. The strain bent his body forward until his spine curved into an unnatural bow, forcing him into that humiliating half-fold. His knees pressed hard into the padded rest, hips raised and fixed in place, body opened whether he willed it or not.
From this angle, his breast hung freely beneath him, heavy and swollen from the month-long burden he had tried to hold back. Fullness dragged at his skin, pulling both mounds down in a way that looked almost obscene—like some ripened fruit left too long on the branch. Each shift of his body made them sway faintly, tight with milk that ached to be released.
It was this sight that deepened the shame, the reminder of what he was—a rare breed of fae, cursed with a female-like body that produced milk too rich, too tempting. And now, bent over and restrained, he had no way to hide it. The swollen weight of him was displayed in plain view, ready to spill at Varka’s touch.
Directly below, the bucket waited, its rim catching the light as though mocking him. One drop, then another, had already gathered at his taut nipples, threatening to fall.
Flins squeezed his eyes shut, shame burning hot through the ache. His body wanted relief, begged for it, yet every detail—the restraints, the bucket, the way he was bent like an offering—made him feel less man and more beast.
Behind him, Varka’s shadow loomed, steady hands braced at his sides. “There,” the man said, voice low, almost soothing. “Better this way. You fight, you hurt yourself. Like this, I can take care of you.”
The position was humiliating, and Flins knew it. His throat worked as he tried to steady himself, his dark blue hair falling forward like a curtain to hide his face. Even so, he could feel Varka’s gaze on his back, burning.
His chest ached with fullness, heavy enough that the shift of gravity made it worse. The swell was unnatural on a man’s body, curved and taut, the skin stretched pale around swollen pink nipples that looked almost too tender to touch.
“You’ve been holding back too long,” Varka muttered, more to himself than to Flins. He traced one calloused thumb along the side of that fullness, testing the heat beneath. The skin was tight, hot, flushed with strain.
Flins’ breath caught, a tremor running the length of his spine. The leather straps creaked faintly as he shifted, wrists tugging without thought.
“Just get on with it, Grandmaster...” he bit out, but his voice cracked, betraying him, thin with the edge of pain and need.
Varka’s grin widened. Gods, he lived for that mix—the defiance and the breaking beneath it. But when his palms slid beneath, lifting the heavy swell with both hands, there was no mockery in the way he touched him. Careful. Steady. Like he was handling something precious.
“Still not used to it, hm?” he drawled, leaning close enough for his breath to brush the back of Flins’ neck. “After all this time?”
Flins bit down on his answer, but the way his shoulders hunched spoke for him.
Varka leaned in close enough for his breath to graze the back of Flins’ neck, low voice rough but almost calming:
“You will be.”
Varka shifted, circling to the other side. He caught Flins by the chin and pushed him up, forward—palms braced on the bedding, chest hanging low above the bucket.
He stood in front of Flins now, tall and looming, the lantern glow behind his shoulders. From this angle, the view was his alone. He reached out slowly, almost leisurely, as if savoring the helplessness painted across Flins’ body.
One thumb grazed the tip of a nipple, once more. That was all it took.
A droplet welled and fell, landing in the bucket with a soft, unmistakable sound.
"Hahh... hngh!"
Flins gasped, the relief so sudden his knees trembled. His breath cracked into a moan he couldn’t swallow fast enough, echoing in the small chamber. His nerve alight, shoulders quivering with the effort to stay upright.
Varka’s eyes gleamed. He bent closer, voice low and rough against the hollow space between them.
“Already leaking just from a touch,” he murmured, watching another bead gather and spill. “Look at you.”
Flins shook his head, face burning, but another tremor wracked him when Varka’s calloused fingers closed more firmly around the swell, caught another drop, then another. The patter into the bucket quickened, and with it, Flins’ helpless shuddering.
Varka braced his hands beneath the heavy swell, fingers spanning the curve with ease. He gave a firm squeeze, not cruel, but practiced—like a man who’d done this many times before.
Milk spurted out in a thin stream, striking the bottom of the bucket with a wet sound.
Flins cried out, his whole body arching from the shock of release. His fingers clawed at the bedding, trying to anchor himself against the flood of sensation. The ache that had been clawing at his chest eased with every pulse, but it was too much, too sudden. His moans broke between ragged breaths, shame lacing every sound.
"Leaking like crazy." Varka muttered, though his grin lingered. He worked methodically, squeezing in rhythm, each press of his hand drawing another gush. The bucket rang with the steady patter, filling faster than Flins could will it to stop.
His nipples, swollen and tender, hardened further under the constant pressure. Drops ran down the curve of his chest when Varka’s aim wavered, streaking pale across flushed skin.
“You hear that?” Varka rumbled, leaning close enough that his voice warmed Flins’ ear. “That’s you. Giving me everything.”
Flins squeezed his eyes shut, trying to swallow his sounds, but the relief was unbearable. Every pull of Varka’s hands wrung more milk from him, more trembling moans from his throat. His body sagged, weak with the weight of it, shoulders quaking as the flow kept coming.
Varka’s gaze stayed locked on him, devouring the sight. The proud, sharp man reduced to this—bent, leaking, trembling. And yet, there was a strange reverence in the way his hands steadied Flins, thumbs brushing circles when he felt him flinch too hard, easing the pressure only to start again more gently.
The bucket was already a quarter full, froth collecting at the surface, but Varka didn’t slow. His grin softened into something darker, deeper, as he pull out another stream. “Good pet,” he muttered under his breath, too quiet to be for anyone but the two of them.
Flins sucked in a breath through his teeth as Varka’s thumbs shifted, rough pads brushing over the hardened peaks. The touch wasn’t delicate—his hands were calloused from steel and years of battle, and every drag of skin against skin sent a raw, unfamiliar shiver shooting through him.
A tingling bloomed at both nipples, sharp at first, then spreading in waves that made his chest tighten and his breath break. It wasn’t pain, not exactly, but it wasn’t comfort either. It was too much—too strange. His body jolted with each pass, nerves lit like fire, forcing small, helpless sounds from his throat.
He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, but it didn’t stop the moans from slipping out, low and unsteady. The restraints creaked as he writhed against them, not sure if he wanted to pull away or press closer. Shame curled in his gut, but the tingling refused to ease, growing heavier, deeper, until it dragged sound after sound from him no matter how tightly he clenched his jaw.
In front of him, Varka only rumbled in satisfaction, steady hands working with a rhythm that left Flins caught between humiliation and reluctant, burning relief.
The steady rhythm of Varka’s hands didn’t falter. Milk spilled freely now, streams pattering into the bucket with each pull, froth rising higher with every squeeze.
The Grandmaster watched, satisfied, eyes drinking in the sight of him swaying under the strain. Then his grin deepened, a thought sparking wicked in his gaze.
“Maybe I should use the mouth of yours for a better purpose,” he muttered, rough voice curling low, like a man speaking to himself—but the words were aimed at Flins.
Flins jerked his head up, startled, lips parting just enough to protest. That was all Varka needed.
The sound of a zipper cut through the chamber. Varka freed himself in one sharp motion, thick cock springing heavy into his grip. He reached with his other hand, thumb prying at Flins’ jaw.
The size of it made the air shift, weighty and veined, already slick with precum that gathered at the head and dripped down his fist.
He leaned closer, looming over Flins, and with his free hand pried a thumb against the smaller man’s jaw. “Open,” he ordered, voice like gravel.
Flins tried to shake his head, tried to summon the bite of resistance—but the moan betrayed him, spilling out as another gush left his chest and splattered warm into the bucket below. The pain and the strange relief twisted through him, leaving his lips slack, mouth parted before he realized what he was doing.
Varka didn’t waste the chance. The thick head pressed against his cheek first, dragging wet heat across skin. Precum smeared in messy streaks, sliding down to his chin, glistening in the lantern light. The weight of it alone was enough to make Flins’ breath stutter—so massive, so heavy it felt like his face itself bowed beneath it.
Another pulse from his chest jolted a sound out of him and Varka’s grin sharpened. He ground his cock against Flins’ mouth, precum wetting his lips, sliding down to the corners until the taste of salt and heat clung to his tongue even without swallowing.
“I said open,” he ordered. Final.
Varka decided he didn’t wait for permission anymore. He shoved forward, sliding himself between those lips in one brutal push. Even only half of him fit inside thick. The sudden intrusion forced Flins’ jaw wide, his throat straining as the heavy length drove in too fast.
Flins gagged hard, a wet, broken sound. “—khh—hhk!” His chest heaved as he lurched against the restraints, knuckles white where his hands clawed at the bedding. Milk spattered in messy bursts into the bucket below as his nipples convulsed under Varka’s grip, nerves lit raw.
“Fuck, you know?” Varka groaned, hips grinding deeper, savoring the tight choke around him. “Your throat takes me just fine.”
Another thrust dragged a ragged moan out of Flins, muffled and warbling around the girth stuffed in his mouth. “Nn—ghhh—mmhh!” His throat tightened helplessly, each gag wet and desperate, spit already slicking down his chin. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, spilling hot down flushed cheeks as he coughed against the intrusion.
Varka only grinned wider, one hand braced at the back of Flins' head to hold him steady. “That’s it. Cry on me. Milk in the bucket, cock down your throat—your body knows exactly what it’s for.”
Flins moaned as response again, shuddering, the sound caught between protest and surrender, raw and vibrating along the thick length buried in his mouth.
Varka growled low, hips starts rolling shallowly as he pressed deeper, one hand cupping the back of Flins’ head to hold him in place. The other never stopped milking, working both Flins’ chest with practiced pulls that wrung every drop from him.
“Good,” Varka rasped, voice thick with heat. “Choke on it. Spill for me while your mouth’s put to use.”
The bucket filled louder now, the rhythm of his milking in time with the shallow thrusts into Flins’ mouth. Every sound in the chamber was obscene—the wet patter of milk, the gagged gasps around Varka’s cock, the rumble of his breath heavy above it all.
Varka’s rhythm grew merciless. Both hands clamped around Flins’ nipple, palms squeezing the heavy swells together, fingers digging in hard enough to leave deep red marks. He worked him like the one he's actually prevent, a livestock, milking him dry with rough, practiced pulls.
Milk gushed in steady streams, splashing frothy against the bucket, the sound mixing with Flins’ gagged cries around the thickness stuffed down his throat. His body was shaking apart—knees barely holding, arms trembling as he tried to brace himself against the restraint, every nerve on fire.
Varka’s thumbs keep rolled over the swollen nipples, thick pads grinding down until Flins whimpered around his cock. Then his fingers pinched—hard.
The reaction was instant. Milk spurted out in sudden jets, spraying against the bucket’s sides, droplets running down Varka’s hands.
Flins cried out, muffled by the cock in his mouth, throat vibrating around it as his whole body jolted. Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes, dripping down his flushed cheeks.
“Ha,” Varka grunted, his grin feral as he pinched again, crueler, twisting the tender buds between calloused fingers. “Look at you squirt. Just needed me to play a little rough, eh?”
Each savage pinch drew another spurt, milk streaming freely now, running down pale skin in messy rivulets when the bucket couldn’t catch it all. His chest ached with the force of it, swollen nipples rubbed raw under Varka’s relentless grip.
And still the knight kept thrusting shallowly into his mouth, each movement timed with a squeeze, choking him on one end while wringing him dry on the other.
“Can’t even breathe without leaking for me,” he growled, voice thick, once again pressing deeper into Flins’ throat until he gagged hard, his body arching helplessly. “Good pet. Take it all."
The chamber was filled with the obscene rhythm—the slap of Varka’s hips, the wet gagging chokes, the harsh squirt, squirt, squirt of milk spurting into the bucket with every squeeze and pinch.
Varka bent over him, his scar catching the lamplight as his teeth bared in a grin, his fingers twisting Flins’ raw nipples until more spurts sprayed hot into his palms.
“Gonna dry you out good tonight,” he murmured, breath hot and ragged. “Every last drop.”
Flins finally gave out, knees buckling, his weight sagging down between Varka’s legs. His body was still twitching, chest heaving with sharp gasps, every squeeze and twist of his raw nipples forcing another weak spurt of milk out of him, dribbling uselessly down the cold floor. The bucket beneath them had overflowed long ago, puddles spreading beneath his thighs, soaking him in his own mess.
Varka didn’t let up. His hand stayed clamped over Flins’ chest, thumb and forefinger cruelly pinching at one stiffened peak, rolling it hard until Flins whined brokenly around the cock still stretching his throat. He could hardly breathe, drool sliding down his chin, throat battered with every deep thrust that pushed him down further.
“Pathetic little cow,” Varka grunted through clenched teeth, his chest heaving with the effort of rutting into him. “Spilling yourself empty, and still you squirt the moment I squeeze you. Don’t tell me this is what you were made for.” He gave another brutal tug, and Flins’ back arched despite himself, another gush painting Varka’s wrist, milky droplets spattering over the ruined floor.
When the inevitable came, it was all at once—Flins collapsed, body twitching violently as his last reserves spilled out, milk pouring in frantic spurts over Varka’s hand. His arms were limp, shoulders shaking, head sagging forward until he was pressed nose-first against Varka’s pelvis, gagging around the thickness still holding his mouth open.
Varka’s climax hit just as Flins broke, hot and heavy spurts flooding his throat. He groaned deep, shoving him down until there was nowhere left to go, forcing every drop of seed down his gullet. The weight of it made Flins choke and shudder, belly swelling with the mix of milk he had lost and the spend now being pumped into him.
Varka shifted back, chest still heaving, his cock sliding free of Flins’ bruised mouth with a slick, wet pop. He looked down at him—at the mess he’d made of the floor, of the bucket, of himself—and the smug grin on his face only widened when he noticed the spreading dampness between Flins’ thighs.
Varka laughed low, breathless, the sound rough in his chest. He pulled back just enough to see Flins’ ruined face—tears streaming down, lips swollen, drool and milk smeared at the corners of his mouth. “Hah… you needed some milk yourself, after all.” His chuckle was cruel, taunting, as he gave one last vicious pinch that made another thin bead leak from Flins’ sore, reddish nipple, rolling over his hand like he still owned every drop.
Flins whimpered weakly, body trembling against him, too spent to fight or even raise his head. He was left kneeling in the puddle, chest red and aching, the overflowing bucket beside him a humiliating reminder of how completely he’d been drained. Varka pulled back with a smug grin, watching him collapse into the mess. “Look at you. Broken open, emptied out, dripping all over like a beast in heat.” He reached down, spreading the wetness across Flins’ chest with his palm, grinding the humiliation deeper. “And you’ll do it again when I tell you to.”
“Well, well,” he drawled, crouching down to grab Flins’ chin and force his tear-soaked face upward. “What’s this then?” His gaze flicked lower, pointed and cruel. “You couldn’t even keep your pussy dry? Pissing yourself while I worked you?” He gave a harsh laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Gods, you really are something rare.”
Flins squeezed his eyes shut, shame burning across his cheeks, but the evidence was plain.
Varka shifted his weight forward, a liberate bend at the waist until his broad frame blocked out everything else. He lowered himself just enough that their eyes met, no distance left for Flins to hide behind. The restraint on Flins' wrist pulled his shoulders taut, leaving him half-bowed already, and Varka leaned in to claim the rest of the space. His breath brushed Flins' cheek as he spoke, voice pitched low, meant only for him.
“Your body is so damn interesting. A pair of tits like a milk cow, soft cunt and leaking without a touch, mouth made to be filled. No wonder I’m keeping you all to myself.” He chuckled again, the sound cruelly satisfied, fingers pinching his chin until Flins whimpered.
“You break down so easy. Don’t even need me to fuck you down there for you to soak yourself.” Varka’s other hand clamped down over his chest again, thumb pressing into the tender peak until another reluctant droplet slid free, spilling down his skin. “See? Your body knows who owns it. You spurt when I touch, you soak yourself when I take."
Flins trembled under the weight of the words, body sagging further into the puddle beneath him, too humiliated to speak, too emptied to move.
Varka tilted his head, studying him like a proud hunter admiring the catch. “You’ll remember this every next time I come down here,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “That every drop of you—milk, seed, even that shame dripping between your thighs—it all belongs to me.”
“Well, now…” Varka’s grin spread slow and wolfish as his gaze dropped between Flins’ thighs. He didn't even need to touch him to see how far gone he was. From where he stood in front, Flins' thighs trembled around nothing, the slick heat between them already spilling down in slow trails. His pussy certain was flushed, wet to the point of leaking, glistening in the low light—and the sight dragged something rough and hungry out of his chest.
A sharp laugh tore out of him. “Don’t tell me—did my little cow soak herself?”
Flins flinched, eyes screwing shut, but the evidence was too plain. His cunt had gushed without a touch, dampness spreading down his thighs, dripping into the same puddle as his spilled milk.
Varka crouched low, one hand gripping Flins’ jaw to force his tear-smeared face up. His voice was a rough purr, mocking and intimate. “You just squirted, didn’t you? While I was milking you. While I stuffed your mouth until you choked. You couldn’t even hold yourself back?"
Flins tried to twist his head away, shame burning him red, but Varka held his chin firm. He dragged his thumb across Flins’ trembling lower lip, smearing spit, sperm and milk together.
Then, Varka moved behind him, didn’t waste time. broad hands spreading over Flins' hips as if to stake his claim. From here the view was even filthier—his pussy already dripping, tighs tense as though begging for more. Varka let his fingers drag slowover the swollen heat, grinding into the mess just to feel how wet he was, smearing it across his knuckles. The slick gave way easily when he finally pressed two fingers inside, burying them deep in one steady push, groaning low at how tight Flins clenched down around him.
The knights workedhis fingers in steady, relentless strokes, curling and spreading them until every squeeze of Flins' cunt loosened a little more around him. The slick sound filled the room, each thrust of his hand pulling another shiver from Flins' body. He kept at it until the tightness gave to a wet, yielding heat that clung to his fingers instead of fighting them.
When he finally drew his fingers out, they left a glossy mess in their wake. Varka wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, stroking once as he lined himself up.
“Bucket’s waiting,” he muttered with a cruel grin, lining his cock against that dripping hole. “Let’s see how much you can give me before you break completely.”
Then he pressed the thick head against Flins' swollen entrance, smearing the leak of arousal over himself.
"Nghaaahh!!"
With one brutal thrust, he shoved himself inside, the sudden stretch ripping a sharp cry out of Flins’ throat. His knees buckled, tits swinging forward, nipples dragging against the rim of the bucket as another gush of milk spilled from them at the shock.
Varka caught him by the waist and slammed in again, setting a ruthless pace. Each thrust drove him down, body jolting, tits bouncing wildly, the swollen peaks leaking in frantic spurts that pattered into the bucket below. Every hard snap of Varka’s hips milked him top and bottom—pussy clenching helplessly around the thick intrusion while his chest dripped like a beast in heat.
“Listen to you,” Varka growled, panting hard, his hands pawing rough at Flins’ breast. He pinched a nipple between his fingers over and over, twisting cruelly until Flins screamed, and a hot stream of milk squirted down fror the hundred time, splattering across his arm. “Gods, you gush like a fountain. Milk, cunt, everything spilling the second I touch you.”
He leaned forward, teeth grazing Flins’ ear as he fucked him harder, cock pistoning with brutal force. “That’s it, pet. Empty yourself for me. You’re nothing but a body to drain, and I’ll wring every drop out of you.”
Flins’ arms gave out, collapsing forward onto nothing, still on restraint that will leaving a reddish mark on his wrist later. His body shook with every thrust, drool slipping from his open mouth, the bucket beneath him quickly filling with a mixture of milk and slick dripping.
Varka groaned deep, rutting harder, both hands clamped tight on Flins’ tits, squeezing, kneading, pinching until fresh jets sprayed violently into the bucket. The sight only spurred him further—watching Flins break down, body convulsing, tits and pussy spurting uncontrollably as if he had no say in the matter.
He didn't stop once he was buried inside him, if anything, he grew greedier. His cock drove deep into Flins' soaked womb, hips pounding out a steady rhthm that left no space for breath. One big hand came up to playing at Flins' chest, thumb and fore finger teasing the nipple until it peaked, sollen and red from the constant pull. It grew harder under every twist, puffed and tender, standing out like it was begging for more abuse.
The other hand slid lower, pressing between his cheeks, smearing wetness before forcing his thumb past the tight ring of hiss ass. Flins jolted atthe intrusion, body caught between the relentless piston of Varka's massive cock and the steady grind of his thumb stretching him wider. Varka only laughed under his breath, he had him filled in every way he could manage—wrecking him from every hole.
“Pathetic little cow,” Varka spat, breath ragged, pounding into him without mercy. “Even your pussy’s milking me now, clenching like it’s desperate to drink. You’ll drain me dry while I drain you.”
The overstimulation shattered Flins completely—his body convulsed around the cock buried inside him, cunt gushing in a wet spray that splattered against the rim of the bucket, mingling with the milk streaming down from above. His scream broke into sobs, his body collapsing fully as his tits poured helplessly, nipples still spurting under Varka’s relentless grip.
"Grand... nhh... Master...V-Varka...!"
Varka snarled as he slammed in deep, his climax ripping through him. He filled Flins’ spasming cunt with hot seed, grinding against him until every drop was buried inside. His hand gave one last cruel squeeze to a nipple, milking another weak gush down into the bucket already overflowing with their mess.
When it was over, Flins was ruined—trembling, leaking from every hole, puddled in milk and slick. Varka pulled out slowly, watching the seed trickle down from that ruined pussy into the bucket. His laugh came low and satisfied. “You’re perfect... Flins."
The overstimulation shattered Flins completely. His body convulsed around the cock buried inside him, cunt gushing in a wet spray that splattered against the rim of the bucket. His scream cracked into a sob, high and ragged.
"W—why... you're not stopping.... ??!"
“—nnnhh, ahh, p-please—! It’s too— it’s too much!” His voice shook, words breaking apart as Varka’s didn't even stop but instead thrusts only grew rougher. “I… I can’t— nghh, I c-can’t—!”
Milk sprayed in sharp jets when Varka pinched down on his nipples again. “Haa-ahhhnn! D-don’t— it’s spilling—! I’m spilling everywhere!” His sobs melted into choked whimpers.
“Little cow,” Varka snarled above him, rutting into him with merciless rhythm. “Not yet. I still want to make sure your womb... is full of me."
“P-please… please, no more—” Flins’ voice came out in a broken cry, his body jerking helplessly with every thrust. “I’ll—ahhhhnnn—I’ll break—! I’m breaking—!”
And then he did—his cunt spasming violently, spraying in helpless gushes into the bucket while his tits poured down more milk in thick streams. His cry ripped raw from his throat, echoing off the stone walls before it dissolved into sobs, his body writhing in ruin.
Varka groaned deep, grinding down into him, fucking him through the collapse. “That’s it, pour it all out for me,” he growled, voice thick with satisfaction. “Break for me. Drain yourself for me.”
Flins could only sob into the puddle beneath him, hiccupping, voice ruined. “Nnnhhh… hhhhnnnn… d-don’t— I… I can’t…” The words dissolved into incoherent cries as Varka slammed deep, spilling inside him with a snarl.
With a guttural groan he buried himself to the hilt again, holding Flins pinned while his cock throbbed deep inside. The second climax hit harder—thick, hot spurts spillling into his narrow womb until the mess overflowed, sliding down his thighs.
Hot seed gushed into Flins’ spasming cunt, overflowing, trickling down into the already brimming bucket below. Varka gave one last cruel squeeze to his raw nipple, milking another weak spurt down to join the mess. While stayed pressed close, grinding through every pulse of it, unwilling to let even a drop escape. His chest heaved against Flins' back.
When it was over, Flins lay trembling, whimpering softly through tears, every hole leaking. Varka pulled back slowly, admiring the broken sounds still spilling from him, low and pitiful. His laugh came dark, satisfied. “Hah… you even sound perfect when you break.”
“A-ahhhhnnn! N-no—d-don’t—!” Flins’ sob cracked, back arching violently under the double assault. His pussy clenched down around Varka’s cock as if to push him out, but the opposite happened—milk gushed in violent spurts, splattering fresh into the bucket below.
Varka groaned darkly, leaning over him, chest pressed to his trembling back as his fingers twisted mercilessly. “Hah… I knew it. You’re still pouring. You just needed me to be rougher.” He gave another savage pinch, earning another sharp scream, another hot stream spilling down. “See? You never run dry—you just needed my hands to squeeze it out of you.”
Flins was sobbing, words tumbling out between gasps. “Nnnhhh! It—ahhhhnnn! It hurts! I-I can’t stop it! P-please, it’s too much, I’m… I’m spilling—!” His whole body jolted with each ruthless tug, tits bouncing, nipples spurting like open taps.
Varka’s thrusts didn’t falter—he still fucked him harder, deeper, grinding against the swollen, overstimulated folds while his fingers tormented his chest. His chuckle came low and rough, biting against Flins’ ear as his cock twitched inside him. “And when I finally fill this hole full, you’ll be overflowing everywhere.”
Flins’ cries broke into a hoarse scream as another gush sprayed into the bucket, milk streaming while his cunt spasmed helplessly around Varka’s cock. His body convulsed, his sobs shaking into incoherence, and still Varka’s hands kept working him, forcing more from him even as he collapsed.
By the time, Varka drove toward his third cum, Flins' body was already a mess, his cunt loose and dripping from the sheer weight of seed stuffed inside him. Every thrust forced another squirt to spill out, even slicking into the knight's thighs, but he only pushed harder, groaning like a beast as if he could drive it all back where it belonged.
“Perfect,” he growled, squeezing one last jet of milk from a tortured nipple. “Every drop out of you, and every drop into you."
The thrusts grew frantic, brutal, Varka hammering into him. Every movement punched broken sounds out of Flins’ throat—half sobs, half sharp cries—as his pussy spasmed around the cock rutting him raw. Milk sprayed from his tits in chaotic bursts, his body overwhelmed, every part of him wrung out at once.
Varka snarled and slammed deeper, holding himself there as his cock swelled and jerked inside him. He emptied hard, flooding Flins’ pussy with thick ropes of seed until it spilled back out around the base of his cock, another flood poured into Flins' womb. The pressure had nowhere left to go—hot, thick cum packed him so full that his lower belly gave the faintest swell beneath the strain, taut and obscene under Varka's palm when he pressed down to feel it.
“Hold it,” Varka growled against his ear, one big hand pressing hard against the lower swell of Flins’ belly as if to keep everything trapped inside. “Don’t you dare waste it. You kept your milk for me, now you keep mine.”
Flins shuddered, already overstimulated to the point of tears, his body twitching with aftershocks while his cunt tried and failed to stop the hot flood from leaking out. His sobbing breaths turned to muffled cries when Varka shoved two fingers into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue.
“You hear that?” Varka’s grin was sharp, cruel even in its amusement. “I need my milk too. Mouth full, cunt full—fair trade, hm?” He pulled his cock free only long enough to watch seed dribble out, then pushed it back in with a messy thrust, forcing it deeper again.
“Greedy hole,” he muttered, laughing low as he slapped Flins’ thigh back open. “Can’t hold it all? Guess I’ll just have to keep filling you till you learn.”
Flins could only choke on his own sobs, face wet, mouth full of Varka’s fingers, body clenching instinctively to obey. His tits leaked weak streams that dripped down his sides, his cunt fluttered around the seed stuffed inside, and still Varka leaned over him, sweat and milk and sex clinging to both of them as he whispered hotly against his cheek
At last, the leather around his rist gave away with a sharp tug. Varka had unbuckled him, but not out of mercy. The moment Flins' arms were finally free, Varka's hands were on him again—grabbing, dragging, hauling him back until his body hit the matress back. The sheets caught his sweat, his breath spilling ragged as the knigh pressed him down, broad weight following to keep him there.
Flins was a wreck—face streaked with tears, tits still dripping weak trails of milk, thighs trembling under the weight of everything poured into him. The sheets beneath were ruined, soaked through with milk, sweat, and the thick mess leaking between his legs.
Varka stroked his jaw, thumb brushing over his raw, swollen lips before shoving two fingers into his mouth again, pressing against his tongue like a gag. “Good pet,” he murmured with a low laugh, eyes roaming over every ruined inch of him. “Your body never lies."
Flins whimpered, trying to swallow around the weight in his throat, his belly heavy and aching from being stuffed full. He lay sprawled acrossthe mattress, boneless, his cunt was ruined, stretched open and leaking, cums still spilling in sluggish trails down the inside of his thighs. The mess clung to him, warm and endless, proff of how many times the Grandmaster had used him until there was no tightness left to fight with.
“Remember this for me,” Varka went on, pulling his fingers free with a wet sound, smearing saliva across Flins’ cheek. “You’re mine to drain, mine to fill. And every time you leak, every time you break, I’ll be here to remind you of your place.”
With that, he tucked himself back into his trousers, leaned down, and pressed a mockingly soft kiss against Flins’ damp temple. Then he stood, leaving Flins collapsed on the bed, shivering and clenching as if his body still remembered the command to hold everything in.
“Rest up,” Varka said over his shoulder with a chuckle, already heading for the stairs. “I’ll be back when you need milking again.”
The door shut behind him, and Flins lay there in silence—his body wrecked, his belly full, and his mind caught between shame and the unbearable pull of being wanted.