XVI The Tower

by TrixyBobbitt

Summary:

Professional layabout Prince Ethan has been captured by a mysterious and seemingly all-powerful sorceress. Past experience with ransomers tells him he can charm his way into more comfortable accommodations. Little does he know, the Sorceress has a plan which involves grinding every bit of misogyny out of her new pet, and she's on a strict schedule.

Notes:

Seven chapters totally 8k words written as of initial post.

Chapter 1: Night 1

The moonlight plays across the clay tiled roofs, and Ethan tries to fool himself into thinking he could safely drop the distance to the cobble road below. Knotting his bedspread had left a considerable gap between himself and freedom. It was enough of a gap that he would be lucky if he could limp away. He wasn’t a master of visual calculus. The tower was just painfully, obviously, toweringly too tall.

A lady on the street, carrying a basket of groceries under her arm, spots Ethan in the window and waves. “Fair lady!” Ethan shouts, “I beg of you, alert the guards!” He braces himself, but watching the woman lose interest in the chance encounter drains the life from Ethan’s knees, and he collapses against the window ledge, feeling the stones grind against his silken tunic, causing irreparable damage.

Ethan feels the dense welling from his core threaten to spill his despair out on the uncaring stone, but the numbness wins out. He’s not about to cry. He’s empty. He’s as hard as the stone under him. Empty, hard, and heartless.

A sultry, throaty voice breaks Ethan from his stoic solitude. “What a pathetic display.” Ethan hadn’t heard the sorceress enter. In fact, aside from the window where he currently lay, the room had no entryway. There was no telling how much she had seen. Pathetic display indeed.

Ethan glances up through his stringy brown hair. The bed, which he had tossed against the wall to shuck off its sheets, was now perfectly made and set neatly against the center of the unblemished wall. The sorceress now sits on the corner facing Ethan, her legs crossed and the pointed toe of her ludicrous boot bobbing in a metronomic indication of her impatience. Ethan watched the boot, because he knew he couldn’t maintain himself if he looked into her bewitching eyes. “Why am I here?”

The sorceress makes a disgusted sound. “Well, if you were a good little dog, I might have had the patience to tell you a bedtime story, but since you insist on being such a pest…” The hand resting on her knee, slender fingers terminating in pointed nails like a harpy’s talons, disappears into the voluminous sleeve of her robe, and returns with a silver pocket watch which she casually opens and reads. “We haven’t the time for such pleasantries. So, tell me, princling, will you take your medicine quietly, or must I chain you to the floor like the disgusting beast you still are?”

Ethan pushes off from the window and is on his feet in a moment. “Now see here, you hopped up trollop!” No sooner had the words left his mouth than the air was driven from his lungs. His limbs grow leaden, and he feels his stockinged feet leave the stonework floor. Ethan is suddenly struggling to breath. Gagging at the edge of panic, he searches the sorceress’ expression.

The muscles of her jaw flexes under her cheekbones, her lips press into a fine line, and she lowers her gaze. Ethan’s lungs burn as she lifts and adjusts a fold in her black satin skirts. “This is just what I’m saying. It’s impossible to hold a sensible conversation with a man without him resorting to violence.” She looks up from her skirt and lifts one clawed finger.

Ethan gulps in the air like a grounded fish.

The sorceress purses her lips and speaks to Ethan as if he were a child. “I do need you to be conscious. How is that, scum?” Her eyes are like dark pits at the center of brilliant citrine rings, or geodes set in a perfect mask of soft skin and pert lips. Disappointment twists those features into something painful, and for a fleeting moment, Ethan wanted nothing more than to bring back the light of her approval.

There is a bright flash of light, a crackling snap, and the smell of ozone, and Ethan returns to himself. This must have been more of the sorceress’ magic. There was no other source of light in the room. Based on the scintillating point of green burned into his vision, the light came from just above and behind her shoulder. He isn’t given enough time to consider the meaning.

“Please try to pay attention. Truly the gods gave me dregs to work with.” The sorceress crosses her arms under her weighty breasts, and Ethan bravely resists the urge to glance at the motion. He hasn’t finished congratulating himself on being decent before the sorceress has produced a thin phial of blue liquid from another sleeve. “Just drink this so I can get back to work.”

His mouth is dry, so when he makes a show of spitting, he produces nothing but a symbolic gesture.

“Now see here, pig.” She is off the bed and pressing herself against him in a moment. “I’ve killed you once before, and I’ll do it again.” One arm slides up Ethan’s tunic, across his collar bone, and up to lace her dagger-like fingers into his rats’ nest of hair. “If I have to pour this potion down your throat and leave you in stocks for my convenience, I will, but I know we both would prefer to inflict less trauma while I make of you something…” Her other hand slides down the end of his silken tunic and her long nails trace back up his stockings to his groin, pressing five painful points through the thin stocking material, and Ethan’s mind is no longer his own.

He grits his teeth and grunts, expelling a shudder without showing weakness, but any protestation goes unvoiced.

“Something else.” The sorceress releases Ethan, who collapses to the floor, and she crosses the room to the tin bowls left on the floor at the foot of the bed. She cracks the vial and pours the blue liquid into the untouched water. “Try to stay hydrated, pest. For our sake.” She turns on her stiletto heels and walks through the wall, leaving behind her a sulfuric mist.

Shaken, but unharmed, Ethan crawls to the bowls to appraise the offerings: blue-tinged water and a handful of hard pellets that smelled of peanuts. He had kicked the bowls over before he accosted the bedding. Now, his mouth was like sandpaper. She called him vermin, left him bowls of water on the floor, threatened to chain him to the floor, stripped him down to tunic and stockings, and yet in the center of the otherwise undecorated room sequestered at the top of a tower...

That bed wasn’t for him.

Chapter 2: Night 3

Ethan wasn’t sure if he preferred the windows. As the prince of a wealthy kingdom, especially as a prince in absentia, he had been kidnapped and ransomed more than once. Even if he knew that no holding room he had ever visited had been that castle’s dungeon, those rooms never had windows to mark the passage of time. They also had much better food.

The pellets were pleasant, crunchy, sweet, and delivered in portions that left him constantly mindful of his usual diet of steak and pheasant. The water continued to be delivered throughout the day, refilling any time his attention wandered, but he only ever got three small handfuls of the brown and tan pellets.

Ethan might have avoided the provisions, but he didn’t like the way the sorceress painted him for a brute. If what she wanted was a soft touch and those services best rendered on an ornate bed, then he could treat this kidnapping like he did the Comptessa of Burgundy and mind his manners until the ransom arrives. Maybe, as had happened with the Comptessa, he’d get a cut of the profits.

“Get down from there before you fall, scum” Once again, the sorceress arrives while Ethan is looking out the window. She stands casually between the wall and the bed, two long strides from Ethan.

This time, he was sitting casually on the sill. He lets one leg drop inside the room and turns, smiling pleasantly. “Hello again, your grace.”

The sorceress blinks slowly, leaving her eyes closed for a moment as if when she opened them again, Ethan would have the grace to push himself off the windowsill and out of the plane she occupied. Ethan’s eyes take in his host, preparing himself mentally to make a play for a bit more gilding on his cage. She was not wearing her headdress. Her dark brown hair is pinned up in a tight bun that lends a length and severity to her features. There was something familiar about that face, drawn and callus as it was. Her chest was supported up by a basket corset woven from thin slats of what appeared to be bone, and her breasts heave quite pleasantly when she sighs.

Like the previous night, there is a flash of light, a snap, and the smell of ozone.

The sorceress’ gaze is piercing. “As I said, you festering pustule. Get down.” He wasn’t sure what he had been doing before, but he knew he was bent on appeasing his captor, so he slid down from his perch and onto his feet. “No. Down.” Surprised, but still playing along, he knelt as if before a treasured aunt.

Another snap.

Ethan felt a shock of satisfaction. He could play this game and win. The light was some kind of signal. An affirmation of his behavior. The name calling was fine. He wasn’t the kind of prince who clung to that kind of vanity. He keeps his eyes downcast as he listens to the sorceress’ boots click on the stone floor, circling the bed to arrive in front of him. Then a hand appears, palm up. There are symbols traced in black ink along the delicate palm, decreasing in size and increasing in density as they radiate out, terminating in fingers that were blacked out except for one circle on each pad of her long-nailed fingers. This confused him, as he expected knuckles to kiss perhaps, but instead the palm remained.

The silence stretches.

“Uhm, should-”

“Speak when spoken to, scum.” Searing pain accompanies the admonition, and Ethan drops to both knees, eyes pressed shut. When the pain subsides and his eyes reopen, he sees the same slender palm waiting expectantly among the scintillating stars.

The prisoner places his hand on the sorceress’ and is rewarded with a snap and the smell of ozone. He sighs. When she lifts his hand, he follows, legs wooden at first, until she brings him close. Holding their clasped hands out, she laces her hand through his other arm and into the small of his back. Her body is close enough to feel her warmth. “We shall work on your social graces.” She begins to sway to unheard music, and suddenly, he recognizes the position. He had not been led in a dance before. His palm is clammy as he lifts it experimentally to her shoulder. He wanted to explain that he knew how to dance, but he was mindful of the command to silence.

A flash of light; A snap; The smell of ozone, and he relaxes into her arms, letting his hips sway in time with hers.

It is more difficult than he thought to follow. It is not merely a matter of leading but afterward. Even with slow, turning steps, and the metronomic tap of the sorceress’ stiletto heels, he soon finds his stockinged feet clumsily half-stepping to keep up. His calves were burning when he finally eased into the dance enough to appreciate the sorceress’ breasts which occasionally pressed against his chest. Contrary to popular belief, they were warm as well as soft.

His stomach drops out once again when he hears her derisive sneer. “Is that all you can think of?” She presses closer, and Ethan can feel his erection pressed between them. “Is that what you think I’m here for? To push out one of your blue-blooded trolls to claim the crown?” She laughs cruelly and drives her nails into his arse.

The shock of pain douses his arousal, as does being shoved to the ground, but no anger wells up.

“You disgust me. If I wanted the crown I would have taken it long ago.” Her voice grows cold. “What, did you expect to bugger your way out of this predicament? That once you could get your sweaty hams under my skirt I’d let you free?” Her heels click against the ground, and suddenly the weight of a boot is pressing down on Ethan’s shoulder. “I knew you were worthless, but I forgot how foul and base you truly were.”

The weight lifts, and Ethan is left sprawled on the floor. No magic holds him, but he can’t seem to lift himself off the ground. The despair wells up again from the depths, and this time no numbness comes. He starts to cry. Strength enough returns to his limbs so that he can rub away the useless tears, but like a faithful water bearer at a well, the water continues to be drawn, and he begins to sob openly. Why in all earthly reason had he been aroused? Why, when stripped of everything, did he think he was superior? What did he even have to return to?

Thankfully, the sorceress is gone, leaving only yellow smoke.

Chapter 3: Night 8

He had stopped eating. Not out of any protest, but out of a deepening bout of melancholy. He still found his way to the potion-tinted water when he was thirsty, but the twisting knot in his stomach–that representation of the existential dread initiated by his own shaming at the hand of the sorceress and sustained, like knitting being pulled apart from a rogue thread, by reflections on a misspent youth–prevented him from stomaching even the paltry handful of dog kibble.

That was what he was, in essence. A dog. Surely one dressed in silks and paraded from one card game to the next on the favors of doting relatives, but a dog nonetheless, driven by as base drives as good food, mediocre sex, and delivering hot slavering retribution on those who would slight him. His chest ached like nothing he had experienced before. The sorceress was right. She who could end him with a thought, and professed no great envy of the crown which defined his world as a fence defines that of a dog. At least she needed him. Gods know what for.

He was wasting away. With nothing more than a ten foot circle of stone to stretch out in, and paltry nutrition, his body had already grown soft. Now, he lacked the motivation to maintain any regimen of push ups or sit ups. Four days alone and he hadn’t even exerted himself to sate the lust he tortured himself over. Perhaps he would simply puddle and seep away through the cracks in the floor. There would be a fitting end for scum.

“You poor thing.” The sorceress’ voice was like a songbirds’ in that it roused the prisoner from a liminal space adjacent to consciousness. This was much more grandiose than a songbird, however. Like a great owl, come to impart harsh wisdom on the hero, else swallow him whole should she find him wanting. There was something else. A scent on the air which galvanized him. Nonetheless, when she spoke he heard her. “If I had known, I would have been back sooner.” He was having trouble reading her tone.

He was in the bed. He didn’t remember crawling back under the covers, but they are on him now. Starting with the black silk which matched the fitted sheet, followed by a firm quilt, and topped with a down comforter, it was much more than he would usually have when sleeping, but along with everything else going on he had been feeling much colder.

The sorceress sits on top of the covers to his left, her legs dangling off the bed, and one hand planted just above his right hip, pinning his arms beneath the covers. This left her right hand free, which she reached out with to touch the back of her fingers to his forehead. “Are you sick?” He wasn’t sure whether to take that as another insult, but the touch of cool skin against his, and the all-encompassing view of the sorceress’ cleavage made him rather forgetful of what actually did ail him. Her dress was different. No bone corset like before, no patterned tule and headdress like the first night. This outfit had high waisted leather pants and a voluminous top that clung precariously to her rune-inked shoulders. Her free-hanging breasts rested softly against his stomach like a gift.

He felt his filthy flesh betray him, but pinned as he was, there wasn’t anything for him to do but enjoy the view and hope she didn’t feel him press against her.

“Answer me. Speak.”

“I was just a bit sad, but now you’re here.” Flash. The words tumble out. Snap. Immediately, he feels awash with relief. The scent of her causes his skin to prickle.

He catches sight of her expression. Her brow was knit, but raised. Concerned. “You really are pathetic if you’re that happy to see me.” He can feel the stupidest grin he’s ever had spread across his face. He certainly was happy to see her. He inhaled to speak, but then remembered, and stopped himself. She smiled, and it was like the room lit up. Snap. “What is it?”

“What do you want me for?” There was something not quite right about the way he said it, but he was so excited to be playing the game and winning that he didn’t dwell on it.

“I know this is going to be hard for you to hear, Ethan.” What was Ethan? He took a moment to recall that of course, that was his name. The Sorceress was still speaking, so he quickly discarded the thought. “-so it is of paramount importance that we keep you alive.” He wasn’t sure he remembered being at risk of dying, but he was sure he wanted to do everything he could to help. “Do you understand?”

This was a prompt, he could respond. He might not get another question, so he knows he’s got to get it right. “What do I need to do?”

“You need to eat. That and keep hydrated, which you’re good at.” Snap.

This caused him to shudder, and it’s not hard to tell why. This demigod made flesh, who had nothing but criticism for all he stood for, was praising him.

“You’ve been so good about taking your medicine too.” Snap.

It was all too much. He arched his back against the weight of the sorceress, and he felt himself empty out through his thinning stockings and into the sheets, muscles tensing beneath the silk as he bucked weakly into the soft press of her breasts. This was like no climax he had ever felt. Not a few brief, staggering pulses, but a constant flow of sensation as he squirmed against the silk.

“What was that about?” The sorceress sits back, releasing him from being pinned, and ending the waves of pleasure before emptying his entire soul out onto his stomach.

He tries to respond, but all he lets out is a whimper. He could move now, but every ounce of his strength has just painted his stomach. He waits in his shame.

The weight of the bed shifts and he listens to her heels tap across the room to where his bowls were at the foot of the bed. “I'm going to need you to eat your food, can you manage that? You can just nod or shake.”

The silence stretches.

He nods, voicelessly. He barely registers the snap of approval.

The sorceress’ heels return to the side of the bed, as does her weight. He opens his eyes slowly, and meets her gaze. Her golden eyes look put-upon, but humoring. Her gaze directs him to a spoon in her hand. She was going to hand feed him. Surely he’d be found out.

Shocked, he speaks out of turn. “You don't have to-”

The sorceress leans back and drops the spoon into the bowl, and the bowl into his lap quite forcefully. He winces out of reflex, but surprisingly, the strike to his fruits didn’t hurt. “You're certainly right.” He can't see her eyes, and it makes him nervous. The warmth in her tone is gone so quickly, he's half sure he imagined there had been any warmth.

He props himself up on his elbow to show her he will eat, but she's halfway to the wall opposite the window.

“I'll be back more often, just take care of yourself.” And she's gone in a cloud of sulfur.

Chapter 4: Night 21

She had been good to her word, the sorceress. It wasn’t every night, but most nights after the first week, she visited him under the pretense of teaching him something or other. Dancing, calligraphy, even a few more challenging topics such as geometry. He stopped asking why. He didn’t have anything pressing to get back to.

He was carrying his end of their bargain. He was certain it was a bargain. He ate as soon as he heard the pellets arrive, and was drinking so much his urine ran clear. Other things were running clear as well, and rather too often to keep his stockings clean, but he couldn’t help himself. The sorceress would help him overcome his bestial nature. For now it seemed enough to keep his legs crossed, another thing the sorceress had schooled him in. New clothes arrived in the mornings along with the food. Fresh white hosiery and a linen tunic that fell to his knees. They seemed to him to be duplicates of the clothes he arrived in. He certainly didn’t notice any difference between the fresh set and his soiled clothes.

Tonight he was feeling especially content in his present situation. He had spent the evening admiring the slender form of his down turned ankle in the stockings as he lifted his leg to stretch against the wall. He had trained as a page when he was younger. That was where he had learned his former routine of pushups and sit ups, but this was something else altogether. The lunges and leg extensions made him feel weightless by comparison.

This time he sees the sorceress enter. Probably because he wasn’t wasting the day looking out the window. He smiles and quietly watched her close her pocket watch and secret it away in the folds of her dress. He likes this one more than the others. Over time he had come to recognize her outfits. This dress is knit from what looked like black vines. The top takes the form of a patterned shawl with a fringe of silver tassels, secured at the navel to a long matching skirt with the fringe along the hips. The gap this leaves helps to round out her narrow hips. He had initially thought she could do without the dazzling necklace, but the fringe of silver matched the dress, the dangling citrine brought out the color of her eyes. In any case, it served as a pleasant distraction from how the shawl did not consistently cover a sensible portion of her chest.

When the sorceress looks up, their eyes meet. He’d probably look into those eyes all day if she’d let him. A slight draw to the corners hints at a smile, even though it doesn’t reach her lips. “I have a very special trick to teach you today, pet.” She puts out her hand and a red silken rope materializes in the air to meet her grasp. “First, I will need to make sure to tie down anything that might distract you. Kneel like we practiced during calligraphy, but with your arms behind you like we practiced for your posture. This will be what I mean when I ask you to kneel from now on, do you understand?”

A command followed by a prompt. He could answer best by following through, so he takes a half step forward with his left foot and lowers himself onto his right shin, withdrawing his left leg as he settles his weight onto his right knee, and slides his left toe along his calf until the two are parallel, resting on his rear on his heels. Then, he rolled his hips forward and arched his back slightly, folding his arms behind him and grasping both forearms. He took one deep breath to adjust his weight and posture, imagining a thread pulling his spine up until he inclined his head and opened his eyes slowly to gaze up at the sorceress and accept her assessment of his understanding.

He felt the snap in his shoulders more than he heard it, and he felt blood rushing into his cheeks and pricking his lungs. It suddenly feels like he was out of breath. The sorceress walks a slow circle around him, then stops behind him to crouch. “I'm just going to tie your wrists and ankles together. You won't need them, and it will be best if they don't make any involuntary movements.”

This reassures him. Fewer things to concentrate on. This pose was practiced, in parts, so it is becoming comfortable, but he is sure if he got much more praise he would start having trouble maintaining the position. The sorceress was so thoughtful and kind. He was glad he was hers. The rope is soft, and doesn't rub at all if he twists or tugs against it, but repeated loops he can't see bind his forearms together with a few inches of slack between them and a similar binding on his ankles.

Slowly, arrhythmically, the sorceress walks around him to the front of the bed. She holds on to the bedpost and pivots on her right heel to face him, stretching out her left heel to straddle his water bowl before she leans her back against the footboard, nails clattering against the carved details of the bedpost as her grip slides down to rest her shoulders on the footboard. A sigh sends fluid relaxation through her pose. The thick knit skirt hangs like a fishing net across her legs, splayed from the knees, framing her rump, now suspended over his water bowl. “You'll need to come closer, here, like you're taking a drink.”

She just tied him up. Did she think he drank off the floor? Should he have been drinking off the floor? No that's preposterous. His eyes race around the room while he considers the diagonal two foot discrepancy between his current bound position and where he would have to be kneeling to drink.

He could try at least.

He could deal with alignment with his knees. The binding of his ankles still allowed him to spread them a few inches at a time and if he sat up on his knees, pulling the slack between his bonds tight, he could crab walk his feet to follow. Getting closer was going to be a trick, however.

“That's it, pet. Just a touch closer. Mind the bowl, you don't need mess to clean up.” She stretches, raising her rear and spreading her knees behind the stationary grid of her skirt. He can only see her thighs in the moonlight. Snap.

He can hop.

It's stupid. He'll look stupid. He's going to do it anyway. He crouches down to give himself momentum, then springs up. His ankles hit the end of the tether and he tucks his knees in mid air, coming back down on his shins.

He wobbles with excess momentum, but the sorceress' knees steady him. The black vine knit skirt has gathered across his chest. “There you are, just where I need you.” She shifts her weight onto one heel and hooks her other knee over his shoulder. “You've been very patient, pet. I thought that you could use a treat. If you can do a good job of getting me ready, I just might see fit to put you through your paces.”

He's good at this. He waits for more explicit instructions.

“Be a dear and use your mouth to get under my skirts and demonstrate what a royal education teaches young men about pleasing a woman.”

He's already pulling the thick knitting aside. In moments his cheek touches her thigh and he stops to press his lips against them, treasuring the soft skin.

She shifts her weight again and twists, resting her calf across his back, using gentle pressure with her heel and knee to guide him on.

As he proceeds his exploring lips find where the thigh meets sorceress' mons, and she rocks her hips slowly, dragging him down. His nose is thusly pressed against her pelvic bone as the sorceress deftly grinds against his chin, temporarily sealing his airways, but ultimately preventing him from clumsily asphyxiate himself while he oriented himself.

More of her weight comes down on her shoulder as the two form a bridge with the bed. She is keeping them both balanced with the subtlest pressure from one grounded heel. He glances up as he drags in breath through his nose to see she has summoned a glass of deep red wine which she seems far more concerned with.

Hands tied behind his back, eyes peering up the sorceress' stomach under the dress-fractured light of a full moon, his lips felt a subtle pulse. He probed, spread his lips, and carefully exposed her to the air.

He felt her tense, subtly.

Slowly, he reaches out with the tip of his tongue and traces along the hood.

She flexes her calf against his back, and he yields. “No…”

He pauses, and twists back into position. It takes him a moment to relocate her. It's easier now, it's a firm button of flesh under a convenient hood. This time he presses through the hood, up, down, across. Surely a woman of sophistication would appreciate a calligraphy demonstration.

She lifts her other heel to bring it to his other shoulder. She crosses her ankles and doesn't say anything. Her breathing is hitched. In time with the erratic but restrained flexing of her abs as he completes a haiku.

The twitching and hitching give way to heavy breathing. He's located the most sensitive strokes. His face is slick with mixed fluids running down into his drinking bowl.

She'd asked him not to leave a mess.

She starts to hold her breath and tense intermittently, and he twists to accommodate, having become their sole contact with the ground. He also continues the exact flexing of his neck and jaw along with tongue motions that were beginning to cramp. He felt, with the ropes and distorted posture and repetitive motions, like an efficient machine, or appliance.

When her thighs tightened around his head he was ready to give her time, and to let her ride it out.

He smelled ozone.

His mind starts, as gravity seems to be behind him now. Sense returns to his limbs and he can feel the silk rope hanging from them loosely. His vision resolves from blackness to reveal the sorceress, looming over him with a look of hunger.

“There you are, pet. Just getting you comfortable.” She had cut the rope and drawn him onto the bed. He is laying supine on the bed, on top of the sheets, and once she’s confirmed he’s returned to consciousness, she turns, pushing the footboard with her arms to slide her boots under his knees until she’s resting her calves against either side of his arse. She lifts the back of her skirt like a pianist, and rests her slick nethers in his lap.

His member pulses, and taps the base of her spine.

She shudders, pauses, takes a deep breath, and arches her back, rotating her hips, and sliding herself back. “O~oh, fuck you.” Despite her voiced scorn, he could feel he quiver against his length.

He pressed against her without moving. He wasn’t sure, and his mind hadn’t cleared enough to put two thoughts together, but any control he had left said he should trust the lingering sensation of his bonds and let her reward him.

-and what a reward.

She vocalizes behind lips pressed shut as she orients her warm depths on the head of his rod. The kissing pulse he felt against his root told him that while he was receiving a treat, she deemed him only worthy of her gutter. She lowers herself, clenches firmly, then exhales, broaching her servant’s entrance. He did his work well, but he was still dry, so friction won out before he bottomed out, but nonetheless she crumples forward, wringing the bed sheets with her hands. “How does that feel so-” She clenches and a tremor punctuates her inquiry and draws out her terminating vowel.

He lays still, pulsing back and feeling her shudder around him.

“Patience, pet.” She scolds. Her imperious tone is back, as though she was just reminded he was in the room. She draws back, and presses again, and again with gentle pressure, each time pushing him deeper. As things begin to slide freely against each other, she begins to rolls her hips in time with her thrusts, dragging his length against her walls.

He was starting to lose his grip on reality again. How he had held on this long, he had no idea, but he knew he was close. He vaguely feels her press his knees into his chest. This allows her to get him deeper. He’d go deeper if he could. Enter her entirely and dissolve. Elegance had fled. The rhythmic wet slapping was both horrific and mesmerizing. The sensation of a building climax is paired with immediate release, and any remaining awareness of the world poured out of him in the rise and fall of incremental waves. The prisoner’s identity springs a leak and deflates for a moment before vanishing.

Chapter 5: Night 62

While preparing to bathe, the prisoner is shocked into introspection by a scent. It’s the scent of the sorceress, but not her hibiscus or citrine perfumes. This is the scent of heat that rose from her thighs when the lesson plan was canceled.

She wasn’t in the room. It was daylight.

Curiosity brought the prisoner to stand and stretch, finding an angle to inspect the changes in the reflection in the bath, which was a tiled pool of clear water that occasionally replaced the bed. Smooth lines, slender limbs, fine, soft body hair, soft, protruding nipples, hair that brushes the shoulders, confounding odor. This was surely more than a change in diet and exercise.

Soap dispelled the scent and the uncomfortable firmness it provoked.

There were more treats when everything was clean. The care and maintenance of this body is the only concern. Time fills infinitely with practicing, exercising, bathing, trimming, pumicing, and an alchemy of creams.

She arrives to find her treasure with a bedgown draped playfully across lace-stockinged feet. “You’re looking especially cute tonight, my pet.” She is wearing her ceremonial outfit, the sweeping robes with the headdress. Tonight they will do something special. “Tonight we will do something special. Your first spellscar.” She brandishes her inked fingers.

Sliding into a kneel is natural.

The sorceress’ laughter is accompanied with a lightshow of ball lighting behind her. “Eager, are we? Since you’ve been such a good pet, I’ll let you choose.” As she crosses the room to sit on the side of the bed, she withdraws a small book from one sleeve and turns to an early page. Adjusting to hold the pages with thumb and pinky, she points to the symbol for iron, or Mars, with a diagonal slash through the circle. “This is the first binding. This will cage your inner beast for good. Take him to a nice farm where he can run free. It will also open your eyes to magic.” She drags her nail across the page to an intricate heart shape. “This is the vessel. This will open a great capacity for magic within you. While this,” she indicates a pair of waxing crescents strung end to end, “will allow you to cast minor evocations. It will also accelerate your breast growth.”

She must notice a look of confusion, so she scoots over in the bed to wrap an arm around the prisoner’s back and clasp one soft nipple between middle and ring finger. The contact is like lightning. “Yes, receiving any one of these gifts means leaving your manhood behind in one form or another, but it’s for the best, trust me. Before long you will have all three of these, and many,” her palm clasps around soft flesh, “many more. Trust me.”

“That one. The evocations. Please.” The words are soft and breathy. Her nails drag against its skin as they withdraw.

“Alright, pet. This is going to hurt, but I’ll be here to dry your tears.” The book disappears, and the sorceress swoops in a flurry of flapping robes, pressing the prisoner’s body to the bed, tearing down the front of the thin bedgown. She gathers limp wrists in one hand, straddles narrow hips, and brandishes a wand, held between her fingers as more of a stylus than a baton, and when the tip touches the soft flesh at the tip of the sternum there is an exquisite, burning pain accompanied with sparks of light.

The wand is dragged slowly across the bare chest, tracing the first of four sweeping lines, and for the moment the sorceress’ pet is plunged into the cold-sweat awareness of adrenaline. It only needed to look up into the sorceress’ eyes to be reassured. Her eyes gleamed as the bloody work continued. It had experienced an entire hell of pain before the first line was finished, and had only a fresh hell of waiting ahead of it.

When the spellscar is finished, the sorceress leans back to admire her work, and presses into a waiting erection. “Aww, did the thought of your treats carry you through the pain, pet?” It wasn’t aware of the erection. It was barely aware. “I’ll admit, it’s been on my mind. I’ve grown so fond of you as you have progressed.” She adjusts her knees by putting weight on her palms against the banister, then lets go of its hands to slide herself into position. “You’re one of us now, pet.” The warmth of her is different. There’s no aperture pulsing. She slides in its length with minimal resistance. Her vocalizations are no longer coherent. She lays on it, vamping warmth and quivering in inarticulate need. It feels her thighs and calves clench, quaiver, and surrender. She turns her hip once, withdrawing a single finger’s width, and her whole body quivers with such intensity that it forms its first thought wondering if she will discorporate like a burst bladder and leave a mess.

This would take longer than the tattoo if left to her, so it slides its feet to a more anchored position, knees aloft, in order to thrust.

She clutches at the prisoner’s body, hiding her face in its hair and moaning directly into its ear, and showering her own back with sparks.

It continued, slowly at first, but with increasing force and pace, adjusting stockinged feet and the hobble of the stocking’s gusset as needed. Time stretched on in monotony until it felt waves of tension overtake the sorceress’s hallowed passage, causing her to hold her breath as she rode out spasms of climax. If it were capable of thought, it might have registered the autonomic release of its own climax under the massage of hers.

The room grew cold, as the sorcerer bolted from the bed. “Oh no, no, no nononono.” She looks at her hand, slick with mixed lust. “It’s too early! Why the fuck-” She whorls on it, storm of oblivion behind her citrine eyes, but she thinks better of it. “I’m so stupid!” She announces, before vanishing.

Chapter 6: Night 76

Two weeks pass without a visit from the sorceress. The prisoner is now one of them whatever that means. The thick black lines of the half moons have healed, and cradled above them are two barely perceptible mounds centered on soft, protruding areola. They ache, and when they ached only a rough squeeze would quash the sensation, and only for a short time. Prolonged manualization of the mounds provokes a distasteful firmness elsewhere.

The sorceress blamed herself, but she hadn’t been the one thrusting, and wasn’t the one to… make a mess. As the nights stretch on without any sign of her, the desire to foster that swelling firmness and seek release dwindled. A second thought surfaces from the prisoner’s dulled mind, more dire than the possibility of leaving a mess in the sheets. Maybe if it stops encouraging such responses, the sorceress will return. It’s on the fifth day of such prohibition that someone enters through the blank wall opposite the window.

She looks apprehensive for the briefest moment, then a self-satisfied scowl freezes itself in her angular features. She has the high cheekbones and button nose of nobility. Her bangs are cut unevenly to frame her face, and the rest of her hair is drawn up into a bun with a pair of crossed pins holding it in place. She’s wearing a floor length puffed sleeve white dress made from sheer organza, and full body hosiery with a frilled collar that lays flat against her shoulders. She’s holding a silver pocket watch, which she scowls at for a moment before closing. “As her most advanced apprentice, the sorceress has instructed me to continue your training, neophyte. I understand you have the runescar of evocation. A common choice you’ll learn to regret, as I have.” Her voice has a reedy high quality. “Kneel, pig.”

The motions are rote, but the absence of reward is felt.

“Without a reservoir of magic, you’ll be dependent on a focus for even the most minor evocation. I’m meant to give you one, but I don't think you deserve it.” She paces around the room to the window, moving out of sight. Her red stockinged feet don't make the crisp click against the stone floor. In fact, by moving on the balls of her feet, her position is completely lost until the warmth of her cheek settles in just over the neophyte’s shoulder.

“I can smell the repressed need on you.” Her voice is a whisper, her breath raises the hair on the back of its neck. “Did you blame yourself for that witch’s mistake?” The sound of her tongue moving in her mouth sends a chill down its spine, and when the acolyte’s lips close on the neophyte’s earlobe it moans involuntarily.

She laughs wickedly as it leans back and falls sprawled on the floor. “That was for free. Anything else you get from me you'll have to take, like the sorceress' virginity.” this time her mirth is more subdued, as if she's getting away with something. “She's broken you down into a fine clay, but now that you're one of us, it will be my job to squeeze some semblance of willpower out of you.”

The neophyte remains on the floor watching the apprentice hop up onto the window sill. She lays down flat, sliding her legs up the side of the sill so her skirts fall and gather at her waist. The backlit hose stretched across her calves reveals the faint lines of spellscars. With the moonlight behind her, the neophyte can't make out her expression.

“Well?” She asks, “How are you getting your focus from me?”

Thought is difficult. The neophyte had spent a blessed month with cognitive serenity, and even responding to an implicit prompt felt dirty. She wants the neophyte to take something. They gather themself off the floor.

“There you go.”

Apart from her clothes, they only saw the watch, now tucked into a sash cinching her dress, and the pair of hairpins. If the intended focus was the watch, she would be left without it if the neophyte took it. Approaching timidly, they reach out to take one of her hairpins as implicitly ordered.

She grabs their wrist and pulls, twisting to press her knees against the neophyte's hips. “I should defenestrate you for your hubris.” It would only take her leaning back to lift them off their feet.

They strain, attempting to overpower her, but only manage to provoke more wicked laughter. “You can't depend on brute force anymore.” She reaches out with a free hand and touches them in the sternum.

The air is driven from their lungs, and they're sent back into the bed. They're on their hands and knees, coughing and gasping for air, so they don't see the apprentice follow them onto the bed.

She grabs him by the throat and leads him up onto his knees, delighting in the way they yield to her slightest touch.

The silken glove feels good against their throat. They can feel her thumb probe for their carotid artery. They shiver and slacken their shoulders.

“You pathetic thing. She's really molded you into a sexual object. Your disgusting needs haven't dulled, they've only softened to passivity.” She reaches out with a free hand and probes through their gown for their nipple, already hard. Her ring and middle finger rest on either side of the little budding breast and she squeezes gently.

They moan again. Their body quivers under her touch, but their mind is racing. She's distracted, and she's enjoying this more than she's admitting. They reach out and cup her hip, sliding their fingers around the curve of her arse.

The two of them slide their stockinged knees over the silken sheets to align themselves.

She pulls them close. They smell clove and anise on her breath, slow and steady, a perfect doubling of their quickened panting.
Her grip loosens, and they see stars.

“You’ll need to find other ways of getting what you want.” She catches their hand reaching for her hairpin, thrusts their clasped wrist up, and turns, preparing to pull their arm down over her shoulder to lever them off the bed.

However, they had gathered the organza dress with the decoy hand at her waist, and they use this anchor to wrest the center of gravity out of her planted knees.
She plants her hands to avoid getting a face full of silk sheets.

They grasp her body stocking with both hands and tear an opening. Her knees give out as she struggles to find purchase. They lean in and grasp her hair bun. One more skirt to gather. Stockings to lower. A pang of guilt guides their already dripping sex to the entry with a gate, but her ass is not prepared. They clench to pulse against her sphincter. She reciprocates, but there is too much resistance to pass. Their chest presses against her back, and they take one pin out of her hair. Her hand fumbles with theirs, and she giggles.

“This certainly would be a pain without a little water magic.” She lets them take the wand. “Just visualize more of what's already there. Couldn't be a simpler cantrip.” She's practically purring. Someone had impure needs of her own.

They withdraw for a moment, their foreskin taut around the middle of their glans. They touch the want to the slick pre that remains, and return to her entry with an adequate hostess gift to see them through the door. Their rod aches as if stretching beyond its capacity for firmness. They grasp a handful of hair with one hand, and loop the other around to grasp her breast. Hers weren't the full, weighty breasts of the sorceress, but she filled the hand nicely. They hardly feel anything other than the warmth, and their own aching firmness as they begin to settle into a rhythm. They find their chest brushing against her back more stimulating, but her mewling suggested she was enjoying their efforts for both of them.

Somewhere buried in the organza, the silver watch sounds an alarm like the trill of silver bells. The apprentice quickly sweeps the neophyte's legs and brandishes her own wand. “Smooth moves newbie. I gotta keep to the schedule, or Elspeth will be further up my ass than you got.” She traces a series of runes with her wand to repair and clean her clothes.

The neophyte pops up from their sprawled state beside the bed in time to watch her extend her pocket watch to the wall before disappearing though it in a puff of yellow smoke.

Notes:

I'm about three chapters ahead, and I'm excited to start writing repeated scenes from the other perspective, but I'm curious if that sort of thing interests my readers. Any comments would sway the direction of this fic dramatically. Are we all eager to see the same scenes with the benefit of foresight and the dominant perspective? Should I skip over some or all but the most plot relevant crossovers? Is there an aspect of the story you wish to see more of? The setting? The kink activities? The graphic descriptions of coitus?

Chapter 7: Night 90

It was strange occasionally waking up to someone else in the room. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes when they were studying, the apprentice would fall asleep and her pocket watch wouldn’t wake her. The neophyte, having spent something like three months alone, did their best not to interrupt her. She had fallen asleep on top of the sheets, so when the neophyte got up to drink some water, they folded the top sheet over on top of her; however, evidently it was a bit too warm for her, and now they found themselves quietly being spooned, afraid to breathe too hard, lest her hand move from their waist.

Night is approaching. Soon the sun will disappear behind the clay tile roofs, and the apprentice would receive her next assignment from the watch.

The changes had accelerated since the neophyte had started taking spellscars. Laying on their side, their breasts now pressed against each other, a conspicuous mass which now required careful positioning of a pillow to comfortably lay face down. On the other hand, they had noticed that, even with a significantly reduced schedule of maintenance, there was never any ache or acute pain from their testes. In fact, they found that their organ lacked the passive firmness that they had only previously made note of when they carelessly crossed their legs. They recalled, distantly, their recent distress about their foreskin, but can’t think of a time recently that they had been erect in a private moment in order to investigate the constriction.

It just wasn’t on their mind.

The apprentice yawns, pulling the neophyte closer, and they luxuriate in the welling warmth and their own fluttering heart. It was easy now to loosen their grip on thought and spread their consciousness over their sensations. The apprentice’s breath across the hairs on the back of her neck; The gentle caress of her oval nails on their bare stomach as their irregular breath causes her arm to rise and fall; The warmth of her left thigh on their right as it nestles closer to their left knee; Her breath stops, her lips part, and close on the soft skin below their earlobe, and a chill runs down their body. She groans, like a soft pur against their neck, and they feel their body relax in her hands as if they might discorporate and melt into the sheets.

“Well hello there.” Her hand traces their hip and slides forcefully between their legs. A lump forms in their throat as she splays her fingers on either side of their root. “Aww, all mess and no plaything.” She retracts her hand, shifting onto her elbow and cleaning her fingers with her tongue. “That’s alright, pet.” Her lips smack. “It’s not broken, it’s just been altered.” She buries her face in their hair and they can feel the warmth radiating from her cheeks. “I can show you.”

The apprentice gathers her legs under her and drags her fingers through her disheveled curls, looking around the room for her wand. The neophyte only turns to watch her, letting their legs get tangled in the cast-aside sheets. The apprentice had many more spellscars than the neophyte: the ribbons of control tracing from her slender fingers and up her arm, the poison dagger on her shoulder that protected her from disease, the luna moth on her chest, the effect of which they did not know.

She cups her breasts and turns, an eyebrow raised. “Do I need to put away any distractions for you?”

They blinked. “Oh, mistress, I was only admiring your spellscars.” They cast down their gaze and felt their face warm with blush.
“Oh.” She sounded… disappointed.

A moment stretches, and the neophyte fills it with their unfamiliar voice. “I am not sure what to have next, only that I… want more.” They close their eyes and reach up to cover their mouth, voice trailing in mirth.

The apprentice has collected her wand, and she uses it to move the neophyte's hand to the side by the wrist. “You've got no reason to hide, pet.” Once one hand was bound by magic and floating toward one end of the headboard, she moved her wand like a baton to touch their other wrist and draw it with the covers away from their chest. “You have developed beautifully.”

The gaze of the apprentice hit their breasts like a heat lamp, and reflexively, they pulled against their magical restraints. As the apprentice kicked her leg over to pin theirs, the neophyte tensed, then whimpered, turning their head away. Gooseflesh pricks across their chest. They felt her weight shift forward, and the bed beside them depress under her hand. Her soft breasts brushed their stomach.

A nail grazes their chest, sending a cascade of chills through the neophyte, an auspicious pressure builds within the breast until the nail passes over the soft, almost numb areola to the nipple.

Their nerves snapped, resonating for a moment thereafter like a struck tuning fork.

Her other fingers closed around their breast, cupping the soft flesh and gathering it around the nipple.

The neophyte felt hot breath before the tongue touched their free nipple.

They felt the apprentice sit up to steady herself. They were going mad with sensation. She had started flicking her finger across their nipple, softly drumming on the snare tight flesh of her mind. When the ice-cold column of air hits their exposed, tongue-dampened nipple all the noise flattens out, they relax into their restraints, and they let out a shuddering moan. Her lips close around their areola, and her tongue touches their hardened nipple. They feel something drip between their thighs. The apprentice practices her calligraphy. They try and fail to read her love letter. Constructive thoughts drown in observation.

“That should be enough warm up.”

“W-warm up?” They glance down. Saliva strings from her mouth to their breast and trails under it and around their chest to the bed sheets. Even under the press of her panties and knees, they could slide their legs against each other. They hadn’t felt much more than a distant welling, but surely with what had leaked out of them, they were spent.

She uses her knees to spread their legs, lacing her arms under them and sliding them over her shoulders. “What’s it been, one week? Two?” She reaches around their leg and over their hip, settling her weight on that shoulder, and gathering their soft fruits from above; however, she does not begin attempting to milk some semblance of an erection out of them, Instead, she presses her thumb firmly into the hollow just above the shelf of flesh over their anus, brushing the deep seated flesh of their shaft. Between her hands stretched their perineum, and while she began slow circles at the base, she closed in to place her lips against their buried length.

Even those thoughts devoted to observing sensations melt and sag against these ministrations. What is she even doing? A sweet ache confirms that it is working, and they feel her thumb press against the glans as it firms in her hand. Her other hand switches from massaging thrusts of a thumb to quick, flicking swipes of pointer and middle fingers. She continues to lick and suck, and they want something nameless.

They strain against their restraints and squeeze their thighs against her temples. She jerks downward gasping for air as they lift themselves off the bed. They live within this culmination long enough to contemplate its breadth. With everything else coming out of them, they imagined thin clear fluid spilling out over the edge of the bed and onto the stone floor.

When the spots clear from their vision, they see the apprentice cackling wickedly at her achievement, and a single clear drop trailing from their still-erect penis. They sit for a moment, thighs and tit tacky mostly with saliva, and catch their breath before speaking. “What about you?”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I’m not getting caught up like Elspeth. I don’t care how far along you are.”

“Oral then,” they say, fumbling through the silk sheets to reach for her panties.

She walks backwards on her knees. “Uh, no. You’re sweet. I probably need to go anyway. You should practice those cleaning cantrips and get some sleep.”

“You didn’t even check your watch.” They pick it up off the bed and dangle it on the end of its chain.

She snatches it out of their hand with a flick of her wand. “Shut up. Don’t play with that.”

“Yes, mistress.” They watch her leave, still basking in the afterglow.

Chapter 8: Night 104

“You’re sure?” The sorceress had returned, and the neophyte was so happy to see her they threw themselves at her feet in front of the bed to clutch her leg and weep with relief. In a rush of words, they apologized and begged for the first binding. “Nothing is impossible, pet, but the price for reversing the first binding is terrible.” She is wearing the long, flowing robes, but once they are held in their folds, they can see the robes cover a skin tight full body leather outfit.

The neophyte looks down at the sorceress’ heel. A pair of forked stilettos and a platform stylized to resemble cloven hooves. “They’re only a liability. I’m happier without them. No matter how long they are suppressed, I won’t be certain until I’m free of them.”

A pause draws the neophyte’s gaze up to read the sorceress’ pursed lips. She is looking out the window. “You have certainly learned your lines.” She gathers her robes and stoops, belts and leathers creak as her knees spread and her rump settles a hand span from the floor. She gathers the neophyte’s face in one hand. “You’ve come a long way while I was gone. I’m sure you blame yourself, but I made my own choices. I want to make sure you are choosing this.”

They press their cheek into her palm, closing their eyes. “I am. Even this cramped tower has been more fulfilling while your magic suppresses their hold on me, and as long as all we do is suppress them, I’ll never truly be one of the sisterhood.”

When they reopen their eyes, the sorceress looks to be suppressing frustration. “You were always a part of this so-called sisterhood. You became one of us when you made your choice, but it was never important which you chose. More spellscars won’t make you more of a woman.”

A veil of thought dissolves at the sorceress’ last statement. They had been speaking around it by talking about sisterhoods and spellscars, but she had just cut to the root of it.

“Your instructor should never have implied you were lacking in anything other than discipline and insight.” The sorceress stands, bringing the neophyte up with her. “I should never have left you to doubt yourself. You are precious to me. I would sooner harm myself than you.” This seemed more sentiment than fact, but they weren’t given time to dwell. “I’ll give you the spellscar you’re asking for, but first I have another lesson I need to deliver.” The sorceress raises a hand, and snatches a pocket watch out of the air.

The apprentice gasps, looking down into empty hands. The neophyte would have admired her outfit, except it is unraveling as they watch. The threads re-weave into silken rope. The apprentice pinwheels and turns toward the empty wall in time to catch her weight on one cheek. The rope is already binding her arms and pulling them upwards to drag her face against the stones. She makes a few unintelligible sounds of protest before she’s lifted off her feet by a rope trailing up from a knot above her tailbone. She turns slowly in the air until she is brought eye to eye with the sorceress.

“A little birdy told me you were interested in a new spellscar.” The sorceress watches the apprentice’s eyes dart to the neophyte and grow wide. “The poppet I expect this from, but how have you not learned?” The sorceress punctuates her sentence with a thrust of her hand, pointed nails clutched in the air, fingers closing as she controls the rope with her magic. The apprentice squeals and flails against her tightening restraints. Her knees press tightly against her chest, and her arms pull at the natural limit of her shoulders. The sorceress opens her hand and thrusts it again, pressing the apprentice flat against the wall.

The ropes crisscrossing the apprentice’s soft skin are tight, letting plump diamonds of flesh spill out like upholstery diamond tufting. Still standing obediently behind the sorceress, the neophyte’s eyes are drawn from the apprentice’s rope-framed breasts down to where her shaft lay in empty folds of skin. They were confused until they noted the first binding. These were the physical results of the spellscar they requested, but on the apprentice. They aren’t sure why they had assumed the apprentice was born with a vulva. It seems a trivial correction, and much less important than examining features that would soon be theirs. They felt a tinge of jealousy realizing she had kept this from them. So much of their bodies they had explored together, but this she had kept to herself.

The sorceress scowls down at her apprentice. “Three times I have asked, three times you have lied. I know your heart. You will receive what you have so ignorantly begged for, and you will bear the cost.” She draws her wand from a sleeve and closes the distance between them. The apprentice begins to beg, but the sorceress ignores her. She turns back to the neophyte with a soft smile, reassuring them that they need not be fearful of her wrath. “This is going to take some time, pet. Would you be a dear and tend under my robes.” She manifests a footstool and puts one heel up, using her free hand to draw her robes aside along her leather clad thigh. “Take your time.”

So much of what was going on was going over the neophyte’s head, but when they duck their head in a nod of affirmation, the sorceress’ firecracker snap dashed those thoughts and replaced them with obedience. It had been so long. It made them giddy and a little dizzy. They hold apart her black robes and return to their knees, braced against her boot, before the robes steal away the light behind them.

Above her folded boot top, the sorceress’ knee and thigh are encased in tight leather. They explore further, gently, with the tips of their fingers. They trace a belt around her thigh to find another strap leading up above her hips to another belt. They let one hand slide down to the sorceress’ arse as they lean in, rump rising off of their heels, to begin working the belt’s tongue out of the buckle with their teeth.
The apprentice began to shriek in pain.

The neophyte works the belt open, and lets the harness slide down. Basking in the early success, they press their cheek against the sorceress’ leather clad belly. Their caresses in the rear have discovered a hidden row of hooks at the base of the sorceress’ spine. Keeping their instruction in mind, they pause to trace their fingers along the panel as it descends and gathers. They slide one hand back around her hip to find the panel as it wraps around to the front. They feel the sorceress lean into their touch, and they eagerly return to the row of hooks, nuzzling the valley between her stomach and hip as they work each hook out of its eyelet. The panel wins free, and they reach under her to pull it down from her arse and draw it up over their head. They nestle their face into the soft skin of her uplifted thigh, kissing the intersection of creases. Their hand comes to rest on the other side of her yonic mound, petting and spreading her labia. A string of lubricant distends from the parting folds, and they catch it on their tongue.

The neophyte could surrender to the moment and bury their face in her folds, but they wanted more than anything to show the sorceress the discipline they had learned, so they incline their chin, and blow softly on the hood of her clitoris. They let her spread flesh settle, and slide their fingers down to the narrow inch of skin between her passages.

The lessons the apprentice taught them made more sense now. Their fertile lands had been remapped for this configuration of organs. They start with quick lashing and gentle sucking of her clitoris through the hood. Where the sorceress has her heel planted on the floor, they massage along the subcutaneous firmness on either side of her vulva, and with her cheeks cupped in their other hand, arm tucked under her raised knee, they pressed gentle circles into her perineum.

The sorceress starts to hum as she continues to elicit yelps from her subject.

The neophyte adjusts their knees, and reaches up beneath the sorceress’ robes to squeeze her breast. She lets slip a curt moan, almost a grunt, then leans back out of reach for a moment, fumbling with the front of her outfit. Just when the neophyte started to wonder if they had done something wrong, she leans forward to continue the spellscar. When the neophyte reaches up again, the front of her leather outfit is undone, and they can barely get their love-slick fingers around one breast.
They are spread too thin, and too caught up in the moment to attempt to compose a letter with their tongue, but their fingers slip on her perineum, and slide up into her. They keep their hand palm-up, practically cupping their own chin as they continue to lick and suck at her clit, then they roll their wrist, pressing the tips of their middle and ring fingers against her walls, searching for something else that might break her composure.

They feel stiletto nails lace through their hair and dig into their scalp. The sorceress dismounts the footstool, backing away and lifting the neophyte onto their feet. Her robes billow open behind her, as if in a squall gentled by the honeyed passage of time. “Alright, pet. Your turn now. Go lay down on the bed, you remember star position. If you’re good and hold position without any rope, I have a treat for you.” They preen as they cross the floor to the bed, cleaning their face and hands and turning their dress into flower petals with their own weak magic. They slide onto the bed, supine, arms and legs spread as if bound.

The apprentice remains suspended, and the sorceress holds out a hand as if holding the strings of a marionette, and with a gesture she turns her apprentice in the air. The ropes holding her legs apart lift up as those still binding her arms behind her back slacken. Soon her limp form has been folded, her knees on either side of her breasts. The sorceress then moves her pretzeled apprentice to the bed to hover over the neophyte’s head. “While I grant your new spellscar, show your sister my favorite technique of yours. She’ll want to be ready for your treat as soon as you’re up to her exacting standards.”

Below the apprentice’s naval was the fresh heart-shaped spellscar of the vessel, and below that, spread eagle, was a vulva as if by Eve borne. The first things that become clear are the neophyte’s instructions: cunnilingus sans les mains.

The apprentice flinches at the neophyte’s first grazing touch of tongue to clit, pulling away. They barely registered the weight of the sorceress at the end of the bed as they craned gently off the pillow and kissed her inner thigh, leaning their cheek into her vulnerable skin, and letting their breath paint sensation over her fresh topography. She had taught them their new sensuality. They could patiently introduce her to this gift.
The sorceress’ wand arcs, and they are painfully erect.

They clench their fists and curl their toes, but the neophyte remains in position long enough to realize they’re holding their breath. Every stroke of the wand against their stomach makes their body flinch, but it’s no mortal injury, and they have instructions. They laugh, a short bark of determination and mania, and the next stroke only focuses their attention on the task. Their body is stone. Their mouth is an articulated tool of fine calligraphy. They open with a formal but impassioned greeting.

The apprentice squeals, then dissolves into a fit of mad giggling.

When the composition is done, the neophyte notices the wand has stopped biting into their skin. The sorceress, looming over the end of the bed, hands clutching the meat of their thighs with enough force to draw blood. She has been sucking quite hungrily at the neophyte’s member, and rolls her tongue over the head as she withdraws, then leans back, coaxing the apprentice down the length of the bed as if pulling her along on an invisible rope. The sorceress stands her full height in front of the bed, naked except for the spellscars that trace her skin. In that brief glimpse the neophyte could not tell where one ended and another began, only the pale moon of her face, citrine eyes sparkling.

The apprentice’s rope bonds slip, then snake away, depositing her on top of the neophyte. Their fits of wicked laughter have bubbled and burst, and for a moment she just lays between their breasts, wetly nestled on top of the only erection in the room.

She pulls herself up onto her knees, gathering the neophyte’s breasts in her hands and letting their length slide past her paired holes to press against the base of her spine as she whispers: “It’d be a shame to waste it, yeah?”

She steadies herself on her shins, pulls her sweaty hair back out of her eyes, then clumsily orients herself. Sweat drips from her and pools in their naval. They see concentration in her eyes. Concentration and disbelief. Then she settles down onto them, letting her breath out in a long shudder. She pauses as if she expected to be able to feel her progress, but then gropes below herself with her fingers only to discover she has hardly crowned the tip. She bites her lip and tries again, lifting one knee slightly and bearing down. Her breath comes out slowly as she sheathes their length, vocalizing as they feel themself bottom out. She pauses there, catching her breath.

They set off another bubble of laughter by pulsing within her.

She begins bucking her hips and moving her legs, the change of angle is slight, but she’s demonstrating a complete lack of facility. She slowly reaches a rhythm that feels good. Once there is a rhythm, they can follow it, and when she stops focusing on maintaining the rhythm, they pick it up and keep it going until she’s clutching them and burying her face in their hair. The entire process is unremarkable to the neophyte. The only thrill is feeling the apprentice slowly lose what remained of her composure.

When the apprentice rolls off of them, the neophyte notes that the sorceress is gone, and they wonder if they will ever fully understand what happened that night.

Chapter 9: Night 105

The apprentice left for a few hours that morning, but otherwise spent the day with the neophyte. She didn’t say anything about the previous night. With the use of magic, cleaning and primping takes much less of the day, and now that the neophyte can see the weaving of aer and aether, they are able to weave their own clothes, and therefore introduce some color into their wardrobe. While the apprentice wove herself an intricate, black leather and red lace outfit of pants and belts and a jerkin that pressed her breasts up into a luscious mound, the neophyte contents themself with a gossamer white brassiere and pant with a fringe of ruching and an embedded red ribbon. It was far more revealing than anything any of them had worn, and the red ribbon is evocative of the red silk rope the sorceress favored.

The apprentice has been watching the sun set and contemplating her silver pocket watch while the neophyte finishes their stretches, summoning a rudimentary barre and making a mirror of the wall opposite the bed. “When are you making the big switch?”

The neophyte massages their thigh through a standing hamstring stretch. The muscles ached with memories of the previous night. “What big switch?”

“To being a girl.” The apprentice says this with a transparently forced smile.

The neophyte isn’t shocked at the question. It was the topic of most of their thoughts. Their mind has been abuzz with such things since last night, but they prefer the serenity, so they have let the thoughts come and go without examining them. “I suppose I’ll be a woman when I have all the spellscars.” They immediately recall the sorceress’ words: ‘more spellscars won’t make you more of a woman,’ they pause, “Maybe sooner. I’m comfortable enough as your pet.” They meant this to be inclusive of the sorceress, but language is a tricky thing.

The apprentice’s eyes gleam. “Have you seen the timepiece yet, pet?”

This sudden change in topic would confuse the neophyte if they put any stock in the continuity of thought. As they were, one topic of conversation was as good as the next. “I have not, mistress. I imagine it is a focus that allows one to leave this room.” They point to the blank wall opposite the window. “I have not seen what lies beyond.”

The apprentice’s honeyed eyes intensify, and a mischievous smile spreads. “Why don’t I show you?” She stands, tugging on her jerkin to seat the fit of the studded shoulders. She walks to the neophyte’s side and proffers the watch. The chain still leads to a button hole on her jerkin, but when the neophyte reaches out, the apprentice drops it in their hand.

They turn the closed device over in their hand. The cover is embossed with a ram’s head with four curved horns. The back has two words etched in a dead language the neophyte had been learning during daily practice. Creation and destruction, or something close. They press the winding knob at the top, and the cover opens. Inside is a ring shaped dial with the usual black hands such devices have, marking out the hours and minutes on an unusual twenty four hour display. The hour hand is presently crossing into the night time. Tiny silver script circumscribes this ring which reads ‘retrieve a fresh timepiece’.

There is a third hand in gold nearing 9 o’clock.

The neophyte thinks back to dusk and the times they have seen the others glancing down at their watches. “This is your assignment for tonight?”

The apprentice nods. “Just came in. Just hope I can remember where Elspeth got mine.”

“Who is Elspeth?” The question is voiced without thought.

“Your sorceress. She’s not all she says she is. She didn’t exactly tell me her name, but I got it from… other sources.”

The neophyte returns the timepiece and stands aside, letting the apprentice pass the barre and their feeding bowls. She continues across the room, and the neophyte notes that she’s wearing boots. The short few inches of heel don’t strike the stone with the clear click of the sorceress’ heels, but she is evidently working her way up to them. Her pace is not even either. She isn’t unsteady, just lacking practice in sticking each footfall at the precise angle. They follow in the apprentice’s footsteps to the bricked up archway.

The apprentice holds out her free hand. “Try not to hold your breath.” When they reach out to clasp her hand, the apprentice steps briskly toward the wall, and they are both swallowed in yellow smoke.

It’s morning on this side.

The bed is unmade, and against the wrong wall.

The floor is littered with tools and stacks of books. There is a bowl sitting in the bed, filled with stale kibble. The water bowl is on a sturdy stack of tomes beside the bed, below a mirror.

The apprentice leaves the neophyte standing in the small clear space on the floor as she picks her way through the mess, grabbing a handful of kibble as she passes, to reach the window. “Look, the hardest part to remember is that it’s all backwards on the other side.”

Backwards on the other side.

“You’ll need to remember all this for when you go out on your side.”

“Go out?” The neophyte squeaked in shock. Their eyes flick to the door, and it sinks in. This is not just another room set up like theirs, but the same room, with the same clay tiled roofs outside.

“Yeah,” they glance back to the apprentice in time to see her observing their reaction, “we gotta get you a watch and me a prince. Three is all we need.” She’s lost them, and doesn’t seem terribly interested in explaining it to them. This sounds to the neophyte more like she’s coming to this conclusion after a long morning of consideration.

They scan the floor, dumbly tiptoeing around the bed to the window. They watch her grab a knobby branch broom of tightly bound hair ranging in colors from blond to black. The neophyte is struck by the thought that it looks rather like a calligraphy brush.

“Come along, pet. Sit as you like, just sit, and hold on. I won’t be able to catch you when you fall, so the closer we can get the better.” She places the bristles of the broom against the floor and hops up onto it side-saddle. As the handle of the broom barely shifts under her weight, she extends an arm for the neophyte to steady themselves as they consider how they would like to sit on a levitating broom. Sweating in the cool morning air, they focus on getting a good grip, and throw one leg over the broom handle and settle their arse against the shoulder of the broom.

She slides back against them, and draw their hand around her waist as the broom lifts off and darts out of the window.

They zip away from the tower and the tiled roofs across a forest that hemmed a mountain peak, down a river to a shore where a great fortress overlooks a port. They land on a balcony, and the neophyte stumbles to the ground, fingers aching, knees quaking. “I didn’t fall.”

“I thought you were used to being told what you need to hear.” Her tone is hurt. The apprentice sets the broom against the large double window and takes her wand out of her hair. “You get ready on the bed.” The windows open, and she walks into a lavish bedroom.

The smell washes over the neophyte, and they shudder. “Wait for what?”

“For sex after I steal you this magic watch.” The apprentice makes a beeline through lounge furniture, bottles, and piles of clothes. There is a woman sleeping in a chair in the corner. Her hand supports a bottle that is about to spill its meager contents on the ground.

The neophyte’s head feels cloudy. “For real this time?”

“Attagirl. Doubt, suspect, backstab.” She ducks through a door inside, and disappears.

This room is more alien than the last. There is a wild heat to the air as the neophyte enters the bedroom and makes their way to the bed. It is a much bigger bed than what they had grown used to in the tower. Three or four people could sleep abreast. They sink into the sweaty down, and lift their feet off the carpeted floor. They felt warm despite the brisk flight, and still dizzy, and quite disoriented. They roll into the middle of the heady bedding and inhale deeply. Didn’t the apprentice say they were going to have sex. That sounded terribly, achingly important.

The apprentice returns through the door, a man in tow. His blond hair is thick and swept back in the oils of several sweaty nights. He is preoccupied with the front of his leggings, under his tunic, letting the apprentice lead him to the bed where they both tumble onto their knees. “That friend of mine I mentioned,” she giggles by way of introduction, “she’s shy.”

The man glances up at the neophyte as he wins free his codpiece. The neophyte can’t tear their eyes away. The unfamiliar length protrudes from a crop of unruly hair. The vein stands out over the slight ridge where turgid flesh gives way to the soft underside. It strains against the frenulum of a foreskin he fumbles at blindly. The head is glistening.

The musk is overwhelming, and mixed with wine.

“Come, pet. It won’t bite you.” The sorceress backs away from the two of them and works her way behind the man, looping her hands around his waist and settling her chin into the crook of his neck. “And you won’t bite it if you know what’s good for you.”

They filled in the implied command rather than deal with the knot in their throat. It was easier to assume she was commanding them to suck this man’s dick than to address the desire to do so on a cognitive level. They lean down and crawl with their hands toward him, arching their back and squeezing their small tits between their arms. They couldn't look into his eyes. They couldn’t look away from the member slowly tapping an iambic beat against his exposed navel.

They reach up and use two fingers to part his pubes and expose the full length of his shaft. The slight pressure lets them control the swaying of the head as they approach for a tentative flick of their tongue.

Salt, musk, and the flash of silver in the corner of their eye.
The sorceress drops the silver timepiece onto the sheets, and it slides into the crook of their planted thumb and index finger.

They begin to blow gently on the wetted skin, and the man’s left hand grasps their loose hair and drives his dick into their mouth. It hits the back of their throat and encloses their airway. They feel it bend slightly and stretch their throat. He backs up just enough for them to cough through their nose and gag. Lungs burning, they can feel his hot seed rush warm through his soft length against their tongue, and spill into their stomach.

They cough and retch and scramble away on the bed. Hot seed paints the back of their nose.

He laughs, rolls over and passes out.

The apprentice reweaves the bed sheets into rope and begins tying him up. “Get yourself together, you’ve got to help me get him home.”

“You bitch! How much did you know about what just happened?” They felt sick.

Once the man is bound, the sorceress bounds over to the window to retrieve her broom. “Oh, bits here and there. She did a number on me, but I’m on to her. Do you think you can hold on again?” She trusts the broom handle through the man’s bonds and mounts side-saddle.

They don’t know how else they will get home. The neophyte gathers themself off the bed and joins the apprentice on the broom.

Chapter 10: Day 106

“The dawn is almost here, are you ready for your first training session?” A woman sits on the corner of their bed, lacing a pair of knee high heels. She wasn't the apprentice anymore. They didn't know how to refer to them. They looked harder. From one moment to the next, the conniving, leather-clad apprentice had left through the threshold, and this woman had returned.

Things had changed, and somehow they were more the same than ever. They weren't the neophyte anymore either. They adjusted the pair of wands in their hair. This Mistress had handed them hers. “So this isn't the guy from a minute ago?” No longer comfortable with near-nudity, they're wearing full body hosiery with a frilled collar that lays flat against her shoulders. A floor length puffed sleeve white dress made from sheer organza restricts the hose collar and prevents any unwanted touching.

“No,” her voice is cold, “I have taken the time to break him in, but don't let him violate your vessel. His seed still has potential.”

They cock their head to the side. “Mistress, I have not taken the spellscar of the vessel.” Not wanting to look her in the eye as she was corrected, they check the face of the watch, but there is no assignment. The gold hand is at 7am. They were so close behind the apprentice before. They were sisters. This woman looked stronger, harder, and it hurt to think it might not be an act.

“You’ll get your assignment when you cross.”

The new apprentice takes the hint, and uses the timepiece to cross the threshold. When the smoke clears, they read the silver script. Make the pig pay. The new sorceress had broken him. They… she, would make sure he- it had earned the right to be built up. It is sitting on the floor, it's knees pressed tightly against it's chest. It looks up from its feeding bowls with dull brown eyes full of hope. “As her most advanced apprentice, the sorceress has instructed me to continue your training, neophyte. I understand you have the runescar of evocation.” She thinks about what could have been if she had chosen either of the other scars. “A common choice you’ll learn to regret, as I have. Kneel, pig.”

It jolted into motion, devoted soul and sinew to fulfilling her instructions.

“Without a reservoir of magic, you’ll be dependent on a focus for even the most minor evocation. I’m meant to give you one, but I don't think you deserve it.” She paces around the room to the window. It still gave her chills seeing the roofs as if through a mirror. She circles back, stooping to plant her head over the neophyte’s shoulder. His musk was gone, but she could smell something else that made her gorge rise.

“I can smell the repressed need on you.” Her voice is a whisper, her breath raises the hair on the back of its neck. She recalls the unnecessary warning. She connects the dots. “Did you blame yourself for that witch’s mistake?” The apprentice smells the warmth of its neck, and reaches out to close her lips around the neophyte’s earlobe, and it moans desperately. A chill runs down her back, and she laughs, straightening.

It falls back onto the floor.

“That was for free. Anything else you get from me you'll have to take, like the sorceress' virginity.” It pleased her to know that her mistress had gotten her just deserts for forcing that awful man on her. “She's broken you down into a fine clay, but now that you're one of us, it will be my job to squeeze some semblance of willpower out of you.” The apprentice hops up onto the window sill. She lays down flat, sliding her legs up the side of the sill so her skirts fall and gather at her waist. She looks down at the neophyte, its so thin and narrow that at this angle, it looks more spider than human. The pair of half moons are visible under its gown. Its stockings are already soaked through. The trifold mound of their fruits distends the thin hose. “Well? How are you getting your focus from me?”

They gather themself off the floor.

Mistress had left her something after all. “There you go.”

They take one step, then two, approaching like a rabbit, dull, placid eyes searching in slow circles. They reach out to touch her hair.

She grabs their wrist and pulls, twisting to press her knees against the neophyte's hips. “I should defenestrate you for your hubris.” It would only take her leaning back to lift them off their feet. Her mistress would be livid. She might have to distract another man.

They twitch and grunt, barely able to shift her iron grip. She laughs directly at his pathetic face, or the shadow of it in this empty husk. “You can't depend on brute force anymore.” She reaches out with a free hand and touches them in the sternum, evoking the wind to strike them.

They're flung into the bed, coughing and gasping for air.

She cartwheels off the window sill after them, grabbing him by the throat and leading him up onto his knees, delighting in the way this effigy yields to her slightest touch. She searches with her thumb for their carotid artery. She feels them accept death like any other order. “You pathetic thing. She's really molded you into a sexual object. Your disgusting needs haven't dulled, they've only softened to passivity.” She reaches out with a free hand and probes through their gown for their nipple, already hard. Her ring and middle finger rest on either side of the little budding breast and she squeezes gently.

They moan again. Their body quivers under her touch, and the apprentice watches the dwindling light in their eyes. She can feel his pulse slow. A trembling hand touches her hip, fingers sliding around the curve of her arse. She’s suddenly slightly out of breath herself. She pulls them closer, sliding her stockinged knees over the silken sheets to align with theirs. She concentrates on their breath as it weakens, holding her own between breaths until she’s sure that any more would break it. She lets go in order to catch their hand reaching for her hairpin. “You’ll need to find other ways of getting what you want.” She thrusts their clasped wrist up, and turns, preparing to pull their arm down over her shoulder to toss them out the window.

A forceful jerk at her waistline puts her off balance. She plants her hands to avoid getting a face full of silk sheets, and she’s not even mad when she realizes her mistake.

Her heart skips a beat when they grasp her body stocking with both hands and tear an opening. What if they saw? Her knees give out as she struggles to find purchase. They lean over her and grasp her hair bun. She feels them fumble with their own clothes. She feels their member slide along her taint before pressing against her arsehole. The member pulses against her sphincter, and she responds reflexively. They needed lube. She reaches up to get her wand, she can feel their chest press against her back, and her hand fumbles with theirs.

She can’t help it, she giggles. She is absolutely giddy with disbelief and unnamed longing. “This certainly would be a pain without a little water magic.” She lets them take the wand. “Just visualize more of what's already there. Couldn't be a simpler cantrip.” She bites her lip against the moan that another pulse elicits.

They withdraw for a moment and return, dripping with desire. She feels a momentary spike of discomfort, then their slides in, filling her with their warmth. They grasp a handful of hair with one hand, and loop the other around to grasp her breast. Their fingers squeezed her bouncing breast, making her storm of thoughts dissipate like seafoam. Waves of sensation liquify her bones and have her moaning into the pillows as they begin to settle into a rhythm. They were an indefatigable machine, and she wondered if she could simply remain here, dashing her mind against orgasm after orgasm until the sun rose.

Somewhere buried in the organza, the silver watch sounds an alarm like the trill of silver bells. Through the cloth, the apprentice notices her own unsightly erection. She quickly sweeps the neophyte's legs and brandishes her own wand. “Smooth moves newbie. I gotta keep to the schedule, or-” She remembers to play out their roles, and assigns the sorceress’ name to the mistress, “Elspeth will be further up my ass than you got.” She traces a series of runes with her wand to repair and clean her clothes. She extends her pocket watch to the wall before crossing back to her own room in a puff of yellow smoke.

She fell back against the wall and slid down into a seated position. She had a problem. It wasn’t an act. She wasn’t teetering on some precipice of uncertainty. The road was crossed. She wanted the same sisterhood she had with her mistress, and she couldn’t bear that intimacy while she felt incomplete.

Chapter 11: Day 120

The apprentice yawns, feeling the neophyte’s warmth and pulling them closer. Now she has her own little pet. The way they whined and quivered at her slightest caress thrilled her. The warmth of their bare ass against her knee; She leans in, nuzzling through their golden hair to plant a kiss on their neck, and clutching them against her to feel the shiver run down their body. She croons, her lips brushing their ear, and she feels their body puddle in her arms.

“Well hello there.” It’s taken everything in her to resist the urge to go sniffing for their truffle. Instead she rakes her nails through their thinning happy trail, forcing their legs apart with her knee, and sliding her fingers through copious pre to either side of their soft member. “Aww, all mess and no plaything.” She retracts her hand, shifting onto her elbow and cleaning her fingers with her tongue. She does it to clean herself, but the salty fluid makes the heat rise in her own loins. “That’s alright, pet.” Her lips smack. “It’s not broken, it’s just been altered.” She buries her face in their hair. “I can show you.”

The apprentice gathers her legs under her and drags her fingers through her disheveled curls, looking around the room for her wand. The neophyte’s room looks so barren compared to her own. In the two weeks she had been playing with them, she had been burning the candle at both ends. Researching the arts each night, and instructing the neophyte each morning.

When she finds her wand in the folds of the sheets, she turns to find the neophyte gazing dreamily at her. She cups her breasts and turns away, an eyebrow raised. “Do I need to put away any distractions for you?”

They blink. “Oh, mistress, I was only admiring your spellscars.” They cast down their gaze and blush.

They’re twice the size they were a week ago. What’s his problem? “Oh.” She reminded herself that the neophyte had been broken in by the sorceress, and was taking the blue elixir… and had their first spellscar. She absently checks the fit of her panties.

“I am not sure what to have next, only that I… want more,” the neophyte opines. They close their eyes and reach up to cover their mouth, voice trailing in mirth. They were still enchanted by her sisterhood. That was good. That was what she wanted.

The apprentice uses her wand to bind the neophyte’s wrist and move their hand aside. “You've got no reason to hide, pet.” Once one hand was bound by magic and floating toward one end of the headboard, she moved her wand like a baton to touch their other wrist and draw it with the covers away from their chest. “You have developed beautifully.” She watches their shoulders hitch, and follows their accentuated collar bone with her eyes.

The neophyte pulls against their magical restraints as the apprentice moves to straddle them. The neophyte whimpers, turning their head away. She leans forward, walking up the sides of the bed with her hands, then reaching up to trace one nail through the fading trail of soft hair above their navel. With the neophyte laying down, there’s no topography to impede her fingers as they ascend their chest to flick against their hardened nipple. The gooseflesh ripples across their skin. The tuft of hair above and between their breasts bristles Her other fingers close around their breast, gathering the bit of flesh around the nipple, then she leans in and licks the neophyte’s areola.

Now he’d appreciate this.

She purses her lips and blows against the wetted skin, and the neophyte gasps into a protracted moan. Flicks her finger across their nipple nipple a few times, squeezing her knees to feel them squirm. She leans down once more, and takes their breast in her mouth. She could feel their whole body shaking with every swipe and swirl of her tongue. She thinks of a poem to write.

soft snow on the lake
I sit on the dock and watch
myself growing numb

“That should be enough warm up.” She wasn’t going to do it. She was the mistress. Her little neophyte just needed instructions on the way of things.

“W-warm up?” She feels them slide their knees together experimentally, and closes her eyes to visualize the shaft she could feel against her stomach.

She uses her knees to spread their legs, lacing her arms under them and sliding them over her shoulders. “What’s it been, one week? Two?” She reaches around their leg and over their hip, settling her weight on that shoulder, and gathering their soft fruits from above; she can feel heat coming off their love-slick shaft between her fingers. She swallows as she gathers all the loose skin, looking away from the glistening glans peeking out from their foreskin. She hid the member from herself before she got any ideas. Instead she focuses on pressing her thumb firmly into the hollow where a vulva would have developed, had things gone another way. Through the taut skin of their perineum she could feel the curved base of their shaft. Between her hands stretched smooth skin divided by a dark seam. She visualized coaxing that to open as she descended. She pictures their member straining against its frenulum. She pictures them slowly penetrating her, parting her flesh with his- theirs.

They squeeze their thighs against her temples until her lungs start burning. She jerks downward, gasping for air as they lift themselves off the bed. She rolls out of the way, and they convulse, thrusting madly into the air. It makes her laugh. She was proud then, of herself and of the neophyte. She was proud and she had nothing else on her mind.
“What about you?”

They were still erect. The rapid pulse of their heart slapping against their naval. She bites her cheek, then scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I’m not getting caught up like Elspeth. I don’t care how far along you are.”

“Oral then,” they say, fumbling through the silk sheets to reach for her panties.

Icy panic walks her backwards on the silk sheets. “Uh, no. You’re sweet. I probably need to go anyway. You should practice those cleaning cantrips and get some sleep.”

“You didn’t even check your watch.” They pick it up off the bed and dangle it on the end of its chain.

She snatches it out of their hand with a flick of her wand. “Shut up. Don’t play with that.” She’s on her feet and headed through the threshold before they can respond.

Once on the other side, she gets out of her panties one leg at a time, and dives prone into her bed, pushes up onto her knees, burying her face into her pillows. Her hand finds the back of her thigh and slides up it. She’s still limp, but she couldn’t care less about her useless dick. Gathering fluids onto her fingers, she plunges them into her hungry hole. She holds back a scream as her nail bites into her soft flesh, but she drives them further, grasping her arse cheek with her free hand to help her get deeper. She rolls her head around so she can get her shoulder closer, and withdraws long enough to slide in a third finger, then all of her fingers, clustered like a spear.

Cursing, she lashes out with her wand, cutting the end of the bedpost off into her hand. The tip of this wooden bedpost is carved into a stylized pine cone. She swipes the end twice with her lubricated hand, then presses the tip against her, bracing the severed end against the bed. Her frustration gets the width of the pine cone past her sphincter with a wet pop.

She has a moment of clarity between tides of pleasure and frustration.

She needed to get fucked, and she was tired of anal.