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Astarion’s collar is creased.
He is perched on Patriar Lukas’ lap, poised near-perfectly. Shoulders back, spine curved coyly, slender legs crossed. One arm around the man’s shoulders, the other gesturing with dramatic grace, wine glass tilting precariously. Periwinkle blue trousers, cropped short to reveal the slim white curve of ankle bone; white ruffled shirt cinched with corset boning; silver at his throat and wrists. His hair arranged so as to most pleasantly draw attention to the sharp grace of his features.
And his collar is creased. Folded over in the back, lopsided. It is sloppy. Unbefitting of the Szarr name. A glaring error in what is otherwise so beautiful a picture.
“My most sincere apologies,” Cazador says smoothly. It interrupts Lady Galyra just as she launches into another round of insipid flattery, angling to get his support for a new case she wants resolved quickly and quietly. She’s been getting mouthy, lately. If Astarion can collect himself, he may be sent to her home within the month. “I must attend to my servants.”
She makes to reply, but Cazador is already sweeping away. Astarion catches his eye. The perfect pink of his mouth parts around an interrupted sound—then transitions into a nervous laugh that grates against Cazador’s ears even from across the room. Cazador’s knuckles ache. His face is placid.
Lukas is already drunk, despite the earliness of the hour. There is an open bottle of wine on the table; another, empty, on the floor. One hand on Astarion’s thigh. Another on his waist. He is leaning in, mouthing at Astarion’s ear. Astarion titters. Places his glass down on the side table and leans in. Curls his hand around Lukas’ shoulder, back turning to close the space between their torsos. Displaying his wrinkled collar for all the room to see.
“—of course, darling,” the slovenly boy is murmuring to Patriar Lukas. “You know I can’t get enough of you.”
“Astarion,” Cazador says. He lets his displeasure bleed into the syllables. His ungrateful child’s back stiffens and straightens to attention. That sharp profile turns; his shoulders are slow to follow. Reluctant to face the consequences of his actions.
“Lord Szarr! Such a pleasure to see you tonight,” Lukas says cheerfully. He dips his head into a bow. Even drunk, he knows his station. He knows what respect Cazador is owed. He knows who is allowing him that pretty little thing on his lap and many pleasures beside. Cazador has no qualm with him.
“Lord Szarr,” Astarion echoes quietly. He says it to the ground. The hand on Lukas’ shoulder fidgets.
Astarion knows he loathes fidgeting.
“I have need of my servant,” Cazador tells Lukas pleasantly. “No more than a few minutes, I assure you.”
“Of course, my good ser!” Lukas says. He ushers Astarion to his feet, a little uncoordinated with drink but eager to be helpful. A useful one, this man. “Off you go, then, pet.”
Astarion has rallied himself. “I do so hate to be parted from you,” he sighs, and swoops in to press a kiss to the corner of Lukas’ mouth. “Promise you won’t get bored and wander off, darling?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lukas insists, eyes cloudy with fervent lovesick lust. For a moment, Cazador thinks about crushing his throat. Then he smiles pleasantly and thanks the man. He presses a hand to the small of Astarion’s back to lead him away.
Astarion’s fear is a perfume like no other. Cazador breathes it in, slow and deep, as he brings Astarion to the hallway and shuts the parlor door behind them. Further down the hall, just within earshot of the parlor should he have need of her, Aurelia startles—then, just as quickly, respectfully looks away.
Astarion drops into a low bow. “Have I displeased you, master?” he asks his silk slippers. They, at least, are neatly appointed: the embroidery is flawless, the silk smooth and well-cared for. The boy can be attentive, but flights of rebellion grip him in the most bothersome ways.
“If you need to ask, you already know the answer,” Cazador says coldly. Astarion’s shoulders tremble exquisitely, just for the span of a mortal heartbeat, before they tense into a stiff stillness.
Nearly five decades under Cazador’s ownership, and he is still so undisciplined.
Cazador curls his lip. “Stand up.”
Astarion stands up. His pink mouth, stained with wine and flushed with the blood of the extra rat Cazador had given him in preparation for the night, is quivering but his spine is straight, his shoulders back. And that damned creased collar.
Cazador seizes it and shakes Astarion, just once. His slovenly child stumbles in his grip, that fear scent blossoming like the sweetest chrysanthemum in hot water. “What is this?” Cazador hisses. “Have you no respect for the Szarr name?”
He releases Astarion, who immediately falls to his knees. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, “I—“
“Get up and turn around, you stupid boy.”
Trembling, Astarion does so. Cazador steps close, knocks his staff against Astarion’s shoulders to make him lower them from his ears. He fixes the boy’s collar with two quick jerks of his wrist and the faintest jolt of magic. The cantrip snaps forth from his fingertips and eradicates the crease.
There. Smooth, crisp. Unblemished.
Cazador curls his hand loosely around Astarion’s neck and strokes his nape with his thumb. Astarion is utterly still beneath his palm. The boy can, on occasion, be obedient.
He slips his fingers under the collar, under the delicate silver filigree choker, and finds the scarring that marks the second life he gave Astarion. Smooth skin interrupted by the jagged raised edges of his gift.
Very gently, Cazador tightens his hold. The points of his nails settle perfectly into the deepest puncture marks. He does not break skin, but he squeezes, just so.
A tremor, caught in Astarion’s throat and cradled in Cazador’s palm.
“You will not disappoint me again tonight,” Cazador says quietly against Astarion’s ear. “Do you understand?”
That delicate throat bobs as Astarion swallows. “Yes, master,” he whispers.
“Good boy.”
He thinks about tightening his hand until his claws break through skin, through Astarion’s pharynx, until Astarion is choking around his fingers. Instead, he strokes his mark of ownership just once before slipping his hand out of Astarion’s collar and smoothing it one last time. He steps back to cast a critical eye over the line of the boy’s spine.
Astarion stays where he is, utterly still. Cazador’s breath very nearly leaves him in a pleased sigh.
“Face me,” Cazador says, and Astarion turns at once. Cazador looks him over again: the sensual shape of his shoulders, the curve of his cinched waist, the lean musculature of his thighs. The crispness of his collar.
“Patriar Lukas is enjoying your company tonight,” Cazador says.
“Yes, master.”
“See that you keep him happy. He can be very useful to me.”
“Yes, master.”
Cazador studies his face and finds no lie. Only a desperate eagerness to please and that fragrant perfume of fear. It settles in Cazador’s stomach like the richest wine.
“Good,” he says. “You are dismissed.”
Astarion bows low and leaves to make way for the lounge.
Cazador closes his eyes and breathes in deep. Astarion’s lingering scent fills him to the very brim with something almost like the pleasure of a deep hunger, satisfied.
Cazador keeps an eye on Astarion for the rest of the night. He’s well-behaved—attentive to Patriar Lukas’ needs, but gracious to those who seek his attention. Lukas is more than happy to share. He is a relatively new addition to these more intimate dinner parties, tonight only being his fifth attendance, but he has proven himself to be an enthusiastic participant.
Tonight is no different. Lukas seems to enjoy watching other people use the boy as much as he enjoys having Astarion choke on his cock, and is quick to urge others to enjoy his talents—if being fucked can truly be considered a talent. As Cazador prowls through the room, checking in with his guests and nudging conversations one way or the other, he amuses himself by taking guesses as to who shall be the next to enjoy Astarion’s body. With the exception of Lukas, this particular crowd has been attending his soirees for years now, and they have settled into a rhythm.
The Brightwings—Madame Elasha and her husband, Tanseril, wealthy merchants with ties to the nobility of Athkatla—are usually the first to get Astarion’s clothes off. She is a bold woman, innovative and cunning; the husband is largely useless but for the longevity of his bloodline. Elasha likes to make the first mark of the night. If Cazador hadn’t assigned Astarion to Lukas before the night began, she would have been the first to touch him, have him lay across her lap so she could stroke his hair and grind against his mouth while her husband fucked him. As it is, she and Lukas seem to get along quite well. They chat as their hands roam Astarion’s body, squeezing at his chest and dipping beneath the band of his trousers, until he’s squirming between the two of them. Tanseril watches, kneading at his own cock through his robes.
Magistrate Solomir surprises him by going to Astarion before his third drink. It usually takes a few more, and an indulgence in some of the other vices Cazador has on display, before he gets his cock out. The man is as stoic as they come, frustratingly taciturn even after a good orgasm with the best narcotics from the Underdark in his system, but Cazador knows he’s overseeing the Dilliard case. Some of the most powerful families in the Gate are implicated in the embezzling scheme, and they are rushing to cover their tracks. Cazador has graciously extended his own assistance in the matter. The case doesn’t seem to be progressing well, given how brutally Solomir uses the boy.
After him, Patriars Annik, Danor, and Mandruud—in turn, a naval captain, a Watch Highsword, and the masonry guildmaster—whose competitive natures play out on the battleground of Astarion’s ravaged body. They are with Astarion for nearly an hour, wringing screaming sobs from him that make Cazador’s teeth ache. When last Cazador sees them with him, Astarion is on all fours with Danor’s cock down his throat and Annik and Mandruud working their fists into his cunt and arse. Lukas watches raptly, shoulders tense, one hand squeezing at his cock as if he is using every ounce of wine-sodden willpower to hold back his orgasm.
Cazador gets caught up in a conversation regarding the tariff bill being heard by the Council, and when he next gets the chance to check on Astarion, his lip curls. It is no surprise to see Semaj, whose gentle hand on Astarion Cazador only tolerates because their family is among the richest in the city. Much as Cazador is loath to admit it, their financial support is, as yet, too important to directly offend them. Still, it is difficult to suppress the urge to bare his teeth and snarl when he sees them cradle Astarion on their lap, stroking his hair and giving him careful sips of water in between wiping the spit and semen off his face. They have requested a private attendance by Astarion only once. Cazador had blandly responded that Astarion’s time was accounted for, but they were welcome to enjoy his attention at any of Cazador’s soirees. Perhaps they knew that Cazador would not abide them sweeping Astarion away for a day or more of tender treatment. The boy is spoiled enough as it is.
Semaj catches him watching and meets his gaze with a wary crease of the brow. Cazador smiles and lets the flat, dead cold of his eyes sink into Semaj’s bones. It takes them only a few minutes longer to depart, taking their gentle touches with them.
The crowd thins out. Fewer than twenty guests left now, primarily those who had been slower to indulge in drink or who had been more interested in conversation. Lady Galyra keeps casting meaningful looks in his direction, but he keeps himself busy with the pair of tax officials who are just drunk enough now to be gossiping about Duke Rumand’s recalcitrance to support the tariff bill. One of them muses on the rumor of Rumand’s Amnian lover, who may be a merchant in the trade pressuring the Duke to deny the bill; the other insists that the Duke is delaying the bill to rush his own imports before the taxes can go into effect.
Cazador sips his wine and bears the ashen taste with the barest grimace. The inane prattle over the haphazard ‘evidence’ of Duke Rumand’s lover even existing is giving him a headache. He could tell them that the Amnian the Duke was sighted with while vacationing was an illegitimate sister, but their endless jabbering has already let slip a new name he will need to pay close attention to as the market shifts.
His attention drifts. As it so often does, it drifts to Astarion.
He is sat, once again, on Patriar Lukas’ lap. Splayed over it, more aptly, his back to Lukas’ chest and his legs spread wide around his thighs. He is debauched. Stripped of his trousers and underthings, his corset lost to wandering hands. His shirt is partially unbuttoned, rumpled. There are bite marks on Astarion’s chest.
Lukas is lounging back against the arm of the sofa, one hand lazily playing with Astarion’s bare cunt. His own trousers are unlaced, his cock shoved up inside Astarion. They are sharing a glass of wine as Lukas laughs with half a dozen others deep in their cups. Astarion makes a remark that Cazador can’t quite hear—something about a tavern wench?—and his audience roars with laughter. The self-satisfied curl of Astarion’s smile in its aftermath makes Cazador’s hand tighten on his own glass. Such a vapid boy. So easily amused by his own idiotic babblings.
As Astarion tilts his head back to take a careful sip of his wine, his eyes catch Cazador’s. A flicker of concern.
Cazador maintains eye contact just to watch the concern blossom into fear. Lukas bounces Astarion on his lap, just once, and wine sloshes over the rim of his goblet as Astarion’s head lolls to the side in a wanton display of affected pleasure—but those worried ruby eyes stay on Cazador’s, as they should. He nods at Astarion, a small motion.
The relief on Astarion’s face is almost intoxicating. Almost as sweet as the fear itself had been.
“Lord Szarr,” Lady Galyria says, sounding rather frazzled. His spine stiffens at the sound, almost a flinch. He hadn’t realized she had approached him.
Remarkable. Of late, Galyria has been managing to test his composure merely by saying his name—an honor previously reserved only for Astarion.
“Lady Galyria,” Cazador says with a shallow incline of his head. Her heartbeat is birdlike, her eyes slightly glassy. She had clearly availed herself of some of his more exotic offerings after being unable to speak with him earlier. “I trust you’ve been well attended-to tonight?”
“Oh, yes,” Galyria says. “Very well attended to, my Lord—you are as ever so, so gracious with your … and of course, the entertainment, not to mention …! But, yes, I only wished to perhaps catch your ear—a few minutes of your time—the matter of which we spoke before—”
“Of course,” Cazador says. Relief blooms on her haggard features. Pleasure curls along Cazador’s spine as he says, “But the night grows late, and the matter deserves my attention unclouded by wine. Consult with my servant Aurelia. She will be at the door as you leave; you may request a meeting be scheduled. I believe I may have some availability at the end of the month.”
The souring of her relief into something almost like despair is a balm. He can smell it on her, the acrid perfume of anxious fear. It is a simple pleasure—not nearly so sweet as Astarion’s, but a pleasure nonetheless.
“But it’s only the third,” Galyria says stupidly. “That’s—surely I’ve impressed upon you the urgency—”
Cazador looks pointedly at the grandfather clock nearby. “Perhaps if you had requested my audience earlier,” he muses, “but the night has ticked over to the morrow and, at the expense of being untoward, my dear, you are looking rather unwell. Please, allow my servants to escort you to your carriage. We shall talk when we are both better-rested and less inebriated, hm?”
Galyria’s jaw works. Her cheeks, her ears, are flushing red as her capillaries expand, blood rushing to her face, a sweet dilation of veins that makes the ever-present hunger stir in his belly.
Across the room, Astarion’s audience laughs, and he laughs with it, high and clear like a bell. Cazador’s fangs itch.
“By the gods, is it past midnight already?” one of the officials, Registrar Izaak Welles, says, wobbling as he leans past Cazador to squint at the clock. He stinks of wine and nose powder. “Really, Cazador, dear fellow, you’ve let an old man prattle on far too long—”
“Ah, but there is wisdom in an old man’s prattle, if one listens carefully,” Cazador says pleasantly, tongue sour with hunger and the sudden furious need to throw the man away from him. He gestures towards the parlor door, taking a step back to create distance between their bodies. “Your company, as always, is most welcome—but I have kept you for too long. Allow me to escort you to Aurelia; she shall attend you.”
“Oh, yes, I do like that Aurelia—bold of you, you know, keeping someone of her kind on your staff like that—but she does rather grow on you …”
Cazador nods along to his prattle as he walks his guests to the door, where Aurelia is waiting just out of sight in the hallway. She takes them from his hands with great poise. A shame, that her brother cannot learn to adopt her same bland competency.
Only Astarion and his onlookers, now, grown to near a dozen—all men save for Lady Brightwing, all drunk. Lukas is mouthing at Astarion’s neck and petting clumsily at his clit while Astarion giggles at the story Patriar Evrart, retired Marshall of the Fist, is sharing of his youthful indiscretions.
“—and there I was, no ass, no gold, and no girl—”
“Lost the ass and the ass, he did,” another says solemnly into his beer, and there is another surge of drunken guffawing.
“Ah, hardly the worst way I’ve lost a piece of ass,” Evrart says, swaying gently where he sits. “There’s one time, I was, oh—not yet a man, a lad of only 16—”
There’s a collective groan. “You tell this story every time, old man,” Iaim Marin (purveyor of magical items, curiously familiar with the Feywilds) says. “No, no, I’ve got—listen, listen! This is a good one, you’ll like this—I make a mighty fool of myself in it, and I shall mourn the choices I made that lost me the honor of the beautiful Loren forever after! Face like the moon! Eyes like—like pools that reflect the sky! A mouth as precious as … as …”
“Ah, so it was your poetry that drove him off, was it?” Astarion says with a slow smirk. Marin sputters as the others guffaw; Lukas almost unseats Astarion from his cock with the force of his laughter. There is the flicker of a grimace on Astarion’s face. Cazador narrows his eyes.
“I—that’s not—cheeky little whore!” Marin says, but he’s grinning as he says it. He has always had a simple mind, that one, and the drink has not assisted matters in the slightest. “I’m quite good at the, you know, words and the, the like—it’s, I’ve—never mind that,” Marin finally manages as the others’ amusement fades into quiet chuckles. “The tale of my woe begins with a night out at the Seabird’s Wing—”
“Well, there’s your first mistake,” Astarion drawls, leaning back against Lukas’ chest. “You’re not going to impress anyone with an untuned pianoforte and overpriced beer that tastes like piss.”
Marin laughs. Lady Brightwing titters, a sharp gleam in her eye. The others shift uncomfortably in their seats.
Cazador’s claws dig into the palm of his curled fist. His knuckles creak on his staff.
The self-satisfied smirk on Astarion’s swollen mouth wavers. His wide eyes find Cazador’s.
Cazador watches that rising panic and lets him see nothing in return but flat contempt.
“The Seabird’s Wing is my sister’s tavern,” Lukas says. His voice is colder than Cazador has ever heard it. Sharp, even through the drink. “She brews the beer herself.”
Astarion’s mouth opens. Closes again. His chest hitches with an undisciplined breath. His eyes do not leave Cazador’s. The seconds stretch into an interminable stillness. And then Patriar Lukas staggers to his feet, not even bothering to steady Astarion as the boy tumbles abruptly, unsupported, to the ground.
Cazador crosses to their side. “My deepest apologies, Patriar Lukas,” he says. He bends his spine into a bow, deferential, and lets Astarion catch sight of his glare through the curtain of his hair. “The boy has had too much to drink. He forgets himself.”
“Whores are like children,” Lady Brightwing says, leaning back to drape herself against her husband’s shoulder. “They should be seen, not heard.”
“I quite agree,” Cazador says, straightening up, even as fury builds in his chest. “It is a lesson the boy has yet to internalize, unfortunately. No matter how I discipline him, his spirit remains willful.”
Astarion collapses into a prostrate position, arms outstretched, facing the ground like the worm he is. “I apologize, my Lord,” he says, silver tongue failing him. “Such an insult, I cannot—I beg your forgiveness, my Lord, that my inadequacy doesn’t, does not—that I do not unduly affect your opinion of my good Master—”
“Did you not hear the Lady Brightwing?” Cazador fights not to bare his teeth at his prostrate son. “Cease your prattle.”
The boy’s teeth click as his mouth shuts.
Lukas is red-cheeked, the scent of his blood rising up, wine-sodden and achingly saccharine, simmering. His crumpled shirt is the only thing hiding his softening cock from view. Impotent little man. “I won’t abide an insult to my family,” he says, the words tumbling over one another. “I understand a jest, good ser, but your servant doesn’t know his place!” He gathers up moisture and spits. Astarion flinches as the spittle lands on the nape of his neck. “Tastes like piss—what would a servant know about a good drink, anyway!”
Cazador inclines his head—not a bow, now, but a deferential nod. “The boy’s tongue is uneducated. Perhaps you should ensure he will know the difference in the future.
The words hang in the air. Lady Brightwing’s eyes go sharp and delighted to match the unabashed bare-toothed grin on her face. Lukas stares down at Astarion’s prostrate form, breathing hard. The onlookers are quiet. Until—
“That’s right, teach the boy a thing or two, Lukas,” Evrart says loudly, raising his drink in a toast. “What’s his tongue good for but sucking cock anyways? Not to diminish his skill in the field, of course,” he adds as a hurried aside, shooting Cazador a worried glance. “I’ve had the great pleasure of the boy’s time at my manor—which I am thankful for, of course!—but no matter how skilled, a whore’s a whore, eh?”
“Go on, then,” Marin urges, clearly eager for Lukas to forget his own amusement.
“I would be most thankful for your assistance in ensuring the boy won’t make this mistake again,” Cazador says smoothly.
Lukas’ breathing is fast. His cock is very nearly hard again.
“Of course,” Lukas whispers. “Of course, good ser, I would be pleased to.” He fumbles with his cock, holds it before him. “Look at me, boy.”
Astarion, shoulders stiff, sits back on his haunches and looks up. His pink mouth is a trembling line.
“Well, boy?” Cazador says. “Open up.”
His swollen lips part.
It takes a few seconds. The moment stretches on in anticipation. Lady Brightwing leans forward, grin settling into a small, predatory smirk. Cazador presses his tongue to the back of his teeth to soothe the ache.
The first spurt catches Astarion on the temple, at the hairline. The boy flinches, half-turns away—Cazador’s fingers curl tighter around his staff—and then his shoulders firm and he straightens. His chest shudders and he squeezes his eyes shut, but he keeps his mouth open, waiting.
The second comes out as a dribble—and then the stream catches Astarion’s cheekbone, his brow, and then the boy gurgles as the piss soaks his mouth, floods over his lips. His throat works around an aborted gag, his shoulders flinch as if to curl in on himself—but he holds steady. The piss streams down his chin, drips onto his chest, and Lukas rearranges himself, catches the hollow of Astarion’s throat, the curve of his collarbone.
The man has been drinking all night. His lesson is pungent, and thorough.
The final few drops splatter onto Astarion’s knees. His mouth is still open. He holds the rank offering on his tongue even as it threatens to spill over.
“Go on, then,” Cazador says. “Swallow.”
Obedient at last, the boy does so. He cannot prevent the gag this time, and it convulses through him as his body threatens to retch—but he swallows it down, choking around it, making soft wretched sounds that settle deep in Cazador’s bones with the sweetest ache.
“Gods,” Lukas breathes. He fumbles with himself, hands shaking as he tries to stuff his cock back in his trousers.
Lady Brightwing laughs, bright and pearlescent. Evrart reaches over from his chair and claps Lukas’s arm. “That’s a good lad,” he says, chuckling. “Who’d have thought you’d have it in you—ha! In more ways than one, son!”
The tension breaks. The others begin to laugh.
Astarion is staring at the ground, unmoving. Statue-like.
“Have you nothing to say to Patriar Lukas?” Cazador asks mildly.
Astarion’s hands, curled loosely in his lap, twitch. He looks up at Lukas. His damp eyelids quiver. “Thank you, my Lord,” he says in a low, wet voice. “For the lesson.”
“See that it sticks this time,” Lukas says, breathless.
Cazador smiles, very small.
“And now, perhaps it is time to retire for the night,” he says. “It has, as always, been a pleasure to host you. I shall escort you to Aurelia.
“Astarion,” he adds, and he waits until Astarion’s eyes meet his. His mouth is glistening. “You shall stay here until I return.”
His guests begin to haul themselves to their feet, still chuckling amongst themselves. “Quite the show,” Evrart says as he passes Cazador, and, “You never really know what to expect at these revelries of yours, do you,” Lady Brightwing laughs, and Lukas says something unintelligible, face still red, eyes dazed. Astarion is a focal point of stillness amidst the sudden flurry of movement. Achingly vulnerable.
Cazador allows himself a moment to taste Astarion’s bleak humiliation, his trembling fear. Even through the pungent filth, their sweetness is impossible to deny.
And then Cazador turns to escort his guests away.
Astarion is where Cazador left him when he returns. Kneeling, his face and throat wet, his shirt soaked. There is urine in his hair, clumping the starlight curls into a rank mess. Small droplets cling to his eyelashes and track down his cheeks like tears. He is looking straight ahead, hands resting on his thighs. Not breathing. Utterly still.
“You haven’t got an ounce of sense in that thick skull of yours,” Cazador says. “You just can’t help yourself, can you.” His wretched child’s mouth twitches into a grimace. His eyelashes quiver. “Answer me, boy.”
Astarion swallows hard. His hands twitch and then lie still. “No, master,” he whispers.
Cazador curls his lip. He steps closer, the tips of his shoes a bare inch from the puddle Astarion is knelt in. “Such a mess you’ve made of yourself,” he murmurs. He nudges the inside of Astarion’s thigh with the toe of one boot. Obedient, his son parts his thighs. His shirt is nearly translucent, soaked as it is, and it drapes coyly over the soft curve of his pubic mound. Not so coy is the semen that has dripped from him, coating his inner thighs and mixing in the filth beneath him. Cazador slides one leg forward and presses his boot against the boy’s cunt.
“I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to have learned your lesson,” Cazador says. He presses his boot deeper, until Astarion flinches in pleasure, a shiver starting in his hips and making its way to his shoulders. “Covered in another man’s piss, filled with the spend of our evening’s visitors, and you’re still desperate for it, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry,” Astarion whimpers.
Cazador lifts an eyebrow. “And what are you sorry for, boy?”
“For—for not thinking before I speak, master.”
“And?”
Cazador presses the tip of his boot up. Astarion’s hips jerk as he finds the slight bulge of his clit. The boy’s breath rattles out of him as a gasp. His eyes are wide and wet. Cazador thinks about tasting the tears clinging to his eyelashes—but even that fantasy is ruined by the mess the boy has made of himself, the taste of urine soaking into the vision.
“And for being a filthy whore, master.” His voice is barely a whisper.
“To think I had such high hopes for you, once upon a time,” Cazador muses. He rubs his boot gently against Astarion’s cunt, still hidden under the wet drape of his shirt, and keeps it rocking there as he continues to speak. “I have given you everything—a home, a family—and you have turned out to be nothing but an empty-headed whore. Perhaps the next time we entertain our guests, I should have you gagged so you can’t accidentally insult anyone else. Or perhaps I shall relieve you of your tongue entirely. Though we do have other uses for your tongue, don’t we, pet?”
Astarion is shivering in earnest now, little tremors running through the wiry muscle of his thighs. His hands are tensed, fingernails digging into skin. He is holding very still.
Cazador fights back a snarl. He seizes the boy’s wet hair, nose wrinkling at the cold urine, and drags him forward until his face is pressed up against his groin. He’s already hard; he has been most of the night. It infuriates him, how easily this ridiculous boy gets under his skin.
Astarion is already lifting his hands, seeking the buttons and laces of Cazador’s robes to bare his cock. “Idiot boy,” Cazador snarls, and Astarion stills. “You dare put your filthy hands on me? You should be thanking me for the opportunity to pleasure me while you are in such a state!”
“Thank you, master,” Astarion says, all in a rush. “Thank you for using me. Thank you for fucking my mouth.”
“Presumptuous thing,” Cazador says coldly, but his hand is already parting his robes and unlacing his trousers without his conscious direction. “So desperate for my cock, even after all the ways you’ve been fucked tonight?” He shoves his leg forward, knee bracing against Astarion’s chest, as he gets his cock out.
“They mean nothing, master. It’s only you. I swear, I only want you—”
The boy’s eyes are enormous. Pleading. So very pretty, framed by thick lashes clumped by tears and urine.
“Prove it,” Cazador orders. He presses his cock against the boy’s face, rubs the head along his bottom lip. “Hands behind your back. Get yourself off against my leg.”
His boy does as he’s told. On his knees, arms folded behind his back, eyes wet, Cazador’s cock smearing along his mouth, he is almost worth the trouble he has caused all these years. He presses his cunt forward, slipping slick and wet along the curve of Cazador’s boot and ankle. Cazador’s clothes will need to be burned after this. But for now, the boy’s desperation to please is worth the expense.
“Good,” Cazador murmurs as Astarion builds up to a steady pace, hips rolling against Cazador’s shin. He softens his grip in the boy’s hair and cups the back of his skull as he begins to stroke his cock with the other, rubbing the head along Astarion’s cheek and lips. Such fragile bone beneath the curls of his moonlit hair. Cazador knows exactly how little effort it takes to shatter his skull and sink claws into the soft tissue of what little brains the boy has.
Astarion’s eyes flutter closed as Cazador scratches gently at his scalp. He is always so afraid when Cazador is gentle. The scent is so strong that Cazador can taste it at the back of his tongue, can feel it thick and cloying in his throat. “Good boy,” Cazador says again, just to see Astarion tremble with something that is as much pleasure as it is fear.
He feeds his cock into Astarion’s mouth, pressing down on the boy’s tongue with his thumb to make him open wider. He rubs his cockhead against that cool tongue as Astarion pants, hips trembling as he works himself against Cazador’s leg. Such a base, honest degeneracy about his movements. No better than a bitch in heat, whining for a cock to fill it.
Cazador thinks idly about the kennels. About teaching Astarion his place by lashing him to a breeding bench and letting the hounds use him.
His hips jerk forward. He tightens his grip on Astarion’s skull, claws digging into his sensitive scalp, and he fills the boy’s throat with his cock.
Astarion whines, the vibrations around his cock making Cazador sigh in pleasure. Astarion’s hips are faster now, stuttering, his breathing loud and shaky. Dead a half-century and still clinging onto the comforts of pretending at life. Cazador has been too indulgent with him.
“Filthy little thing,” Cazador whispers raggedly. He draws back slowly and then fucks forward hard enough for Astarion to gag, throat convulsing around him. “You’re nearly there, aren’t you? Just from rubbing yourself against me?”
Those beautiful eyes squeeze shut. Liquid drips from thick lashes and traces a path down his cheek. His shoulders are tense, shivering with the effort to hold his arms folded behind his back. Cazador can feel every whimper, every shaking breath, around his cock as he holds Astarion’s head in place and uses his mouth for the only good thing it offers him. Ratblood fills his senses as his claws break skin and Astarion’s scalp begins to bleed. The sweetness of the rot sinks into the roots of his teeth and pulses there.
“Look at me,” Cazador snarls, and Astarion’s eyes snap open. Pleasure is coiling at the base of his spine. He yanks Astarion off his cock by the hair and the boy chokes, coughs wetly. Another tear drips down his cheek. “Do you want to come, boy? Tell me the truth.”
His hips are still moving, still riding against the curve of Cazador’s boot and shin. Cazador’s compulsion unfurls within Astarion’s chest and yanks out his answer. “No,” the wretch whimpers, “no, please don’t make me—”
Cazador’s ears ring with fury.
The boy’s skull hits the ground with a crack that Cazador feels all the way down to his marrow. Astarion moans into the floor, eyelashes flickering. Dead blood is already seeping from the gash on his temple.
His arms, at least, are still crossed behind his back.
“Ungrateful child,” Cazador hisses. He grinds the heel of his boot into Astarion’s cunt and the boy cries out, convulsing with pleasure. “You deny me? Your master? Your father?”
“Sorry,” Astarion slurs, “I’m sorry—sorry—”
“Come on my boot like the dog you are, cur,” Cazador spits, and Astarion wails as his father’s command rips through his body. His pleasure is tremendous to behold. Graceful alabaster limbs seizing under the force of his orgasm. Hazy red eyes rolling back in his head. Abused, swollen mouth parting around the voiceless sob that has tears rolling down his cheeks.
Cazador presses down harder and Astarion spasms, flinching away from the pleasure of his father’s gift. “Ungrateful,” Cazador says again. “Petulant, disobedient, wretched child.” Suddenly overcome with disgust, he wrenches his boot away. The leather, which Astarion himself had diligently polished to a perfect shine before the soiree, is slick with fluids—piss and cum and his child’s own arousal. Ruined.
“Look at what you’ve done,” he says coldly. Astarion curls in on himself, his hair leaving a red smear on the stone floor. “I said look,” and his boot connects with Astarion’s stomach hard enough for the impact to shiver from foot to knee to hip and up. Astarion moans pitifully and Cazador bends to seize him by his messy hair. He pulls the boy up onto his knees and then forward, until he is toppling over, prevented from falling face-first onto the floor only by Cazador’s hand in his hair. “Do you see the mess you’ve made?”
The boy’s wet panting fills the silence. An aborted whimper. “Y-yes, master,” he says finally, faintly. “Sorry, master. ‘M sorry. Sorry.”
“Clean up your filth, boy.”
The boy leans forward and presses his mouth to Cazador’s boot. Cazador holds him firmly in place as the wet slide of his tongue begins to rasp against the soiled leather. The shoes will need to be burned, too. Disgust shivers down Cazador’s spine. Revolting child.
Astarion’s hair is filthy. Cazador pets through it, curling his lip at the texture. Astarion’s adjusts himself; moves up the boot. His head bobs as he cleans the ankle and calf with his impertinent tongue. He is quiet at long last. The only sound is the tremble of his breathing and the wet, erotic sound of his tongue on leather.
It would almost be pleasant, but for the stink of urine going stale.
“You disgust me,” Cazador says, very quietly.
Astarion moans, low and wretched. Cazador’s cock aches at the sound. It enthralls him. Enrages him. He wants to rip the sound out of Astarion’s lungs and fuck the gaping wound until the boy learns to be silent. To be seen and enjoyed, and not heard.
He tightens his hand in Astarion’s hair and pulls him up. “Open,” he commands, but Astarion’s pink mouth is already ready to accept the push of his cock. In this, at least, he can behave.
It is a repulsive, base thing that grips him when he uses Astarion like this. It is like the hunger living in his teeth, a voracious need that entraps him and compels him, and he hates it. Hates Astarion, for arousing this fervor that makes him gasp and pant for unneeded breath as he fucks his child’s face, chasing a release that only Astarion seems able to provide.
When Cazador commands Astarion to look at him, the boy’s eyes are dazed, hazy. One pupil is blown wide. Cazador presses his thumb into the leaking cut along his temple. The resulting moan of pain draws a groan from Cazador, wrenched out of him like Vellioth’s hand in his chest, twisting, claws raking along the meat of his heart. Astarion’s eyes are pleading—wide and wet, more tears squeezed out with every thrust—Cazador drops one hand, finds the bulge of his cock in Astarion’s throat—the wretched, pitiful child’s sweet whimpering sinking into his chest—
Cazador moans as he comes, long and low and just as wretched as his son’s keening. He fucks his seed into the soft palate of Astarion’s mouth, into the squeezing column of his throat, and his boy’s eyes are on him—deferential, foggy with pain—and Cazador should claw his eyes out for daring to look upon his father’s weakness—
Cazador withdraws, trembling with the aftershocks of his pleasure. His cock pulses as Astarion’s tongue flicks across the head, and his hips jerk forward, smearing cum and saliva across the boy’s cheek. “Clean me off,” he says, voice ragged, and then: “Eyes closed.”
The boy obeys. Head bowed, tongue sweet and soothing against his cock. Such weakness Cazador has for him, despite his ineptitude.
He strokes Astarion’s cheek, and sighs with pleasure at his shiver.
“Enough.”
The boy eases off. He trembles in Cazador’s grip. In the quiet, Cazador can hear his borrowed blood dripping to the floor and the low tremble of his breathing. His own breath is coming sharp and unsteady. He stills his lungs and lets the last of that undisciplined air die in a final exhale.
When Cazador releases Astarion some few minutes later, he slumps to the floor, unable to hold himself upright. He cowers at Cazador’s feet, curled around himself in a puddle of urine and semen and blood.
Cazador closes his eyes. Smooths back his hair; tucks himself away; laces his robes. Runs a hand along the stillness of his chest.
“Aurelia.”
His oldest spawn appears in the doorway almost before the last syllable of her name leaves his lips. She bows low, holds herself there, and waits for him to speak.
“Clean him of his filth,” Cazador says. He nudges at Astarion’s prone form with his spit-slick boot, careful not to step in the puddle of urine. The boy’s limbs are trembling. “Then bring him to the kennels. He and I will need to have a long discussion about his behavior tonight.”
Aurelia holds her bow steady. “Yes, Master.”
“Don’t keep me waiting,” Cazador says, and he sweeps away from the shivering wretch without looking back.