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The chamber is dim, with the twilight only castles and palaces seem to produce. A heavy oak in the centre is cluttered with wine goblets and half-eaten plates of delicacies. Gortash stands in the centre. His shirt is unbuttoned to the navel, and he can feel how Tav’s gaze flickers to the black trousers that are tight against his thighs. What he holds before him, like an unholy crown, is a black leather collar with silver studs and grey, steely buckle.
Tav stands before him, barefoot on the stone floor. Her dark hair is loose now, flirtatiously brushing her shoulders, and her skin is flushed from the wine they shared earlier. She’s comely in an evasive way so common in half-elves. Her lips, full and slightly parted, curve as she watches him with intent, and he feels scrutinised.
“Kneel,” Gortash demands. He will not feel threatened by her. Tav tilts her head, arching an eyebrow, but she lets him to be in charge. She lowers herself, knees pressing into the cold stone, and places her hands on her knees, like a Good Girl. But her nails are painted in chipped red, and Gortash has a feeling that she’s mocking him.
He steps forward and leans down to her. The collar’s leather is stiff with soft hemming, and he wraps it around her neck, adjusting the suede lining against her skin. His fingers brush her throat, feeling the quick pulse beneath, and he fastens the buckle with a click that gives it all the air of finality. The silver studs press lightly into her collarbone. Overall, the collar sits snug, a half-inch wide, hugging her neck like a choker. She swallows, making the leather shift slightly, and looks up at him, lips twitching.
Gortash straightens, expecting her to lower her eyes, to tremble, to feel his presence properly. Instead, Tav moves forward and presses her face against the front of his trousers, cheek brushing right at his crotch. Her nose nudges the hard line beneath, and her lips, warm and soft, graze the outline through the cloth. His thighs tense, and his left hand clenches into a fist, taking in her hair.
“Enough,” he snaps. His fingers are tangling in the dark strands, pulling her head back. Her neck arches, the collar gleaming, and her lips part, showing a flash of teeth. Her eyes, wide and wild, hold his, and she is hungry like a wolf. He feels her heated breath, only the slight tremor in her shoulders betraying her excitement, and he can feel his own pulse hammer. That woman!
His left hand moves down, he fumbles at the steel buttons of his trousers, popping them open one by one. The fabric parts, revealing dark hair and the hard length of him, freed from constraint. Tav’s looks down, then back up, her lips parting. He tightens his grip on her hair, guiding her forward, and she opens her mouth, taking him in with a slow, greedy slide. Her lips close around him, warm and wet, her tongue flat against the underside, pressing firmly.
Gortash his out a sigh. He stands firm, but his knees weaken as she works him, and she presses on, grips his thighs, digs her fingers into the muscle. The collar shifts with her every motion, the silver studs catching the light; he finds himself hypnotised. She does that damn thing with her tongue and he tightens the grip on her hair, pulling just enough to make her gasp. The spasms in her throat send jolts up his spine.
He braces the stone wall behind him with his back, feeling the hard surface through his shirt. He involuntarily buckles his hips, meeting her mouth, and Tav matches the rhythm, her lips sliding back and forth, cheeks hollowing. The wetness of her mouth, the warm pressure of her tongue, the light scrape of her teeth—it’s relentless. His knees buckle, and he catches himself. A groan he didn’t plan for escapes, and he’s irritated as if he’s losing a game.
She pulls back. Her lips are lewd, wet, he collar hugs her throat like a noose, but she is not even close to surrendering properly. Her chest rises and falls, offering him a view of the point where her breasts meet, dress clinging to her sweat-damp skin. “Good enough, my lord?” she asks, licking her lips.
Gortash drops to one knee and grabs her shift’s hem, yanking hard. The fabric tears with a sharp rip, splitting up the side to her waist. The torn cloth falls, baring her hips. Tav gasps, a quick intake of breath, but her smirk holds, daring him. His left hand finds her throat, fingers wrapping just below the collar, thumb pressing the pulse hammering there, not choking yet, but showing her who is in charge. His right hand grips her hip and he pulls her forward, her ass scraping the stone.
“Spread,” he demands, suppressing his impatience. Tav obeys, thighs parting, her knees sliding wider on the floor, exposing herself fully. Her cunt is pink, wet, lips parted, and she tilts her hips up in a silent taunt. Gortash’s cock twitches, hard and heavy, the tip leaking as he positions himself, kneeling between her legs. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t tease—he thrusts in, hard, filling her in one stroke. Tav’s head tips back. A moan tears from her throat, her walls clenching tight around him, hot and slick.
He moves, fast, brutal, his hips slamming against hers, the wet slap of skin echoing in the chamber. His hand on her throat tightens, fingers flexing, the collar’s edge bites into his palm. Tav yields, her body softening under him, thighs trembling as she takes every inch, her hands clawing at the stone, nails scraping. “Say it,” he demands, slowing his thrusts, each one deliberate, dragging his cock along her walls. He’s going to make her say it. He’s going to win this round. “Tell me you love it. Tell me you want to be my slut”
Her eyes flutter, lips parting. “I love your cock,” she says, words trembling, her cheeks flushed red, and he internally moans from the sheer pleasure of her submission. “I want to be your slut.” The lewdness spills from her, fuelled by desire, her voice cracking as she says it again, louder, “I’m your slut, Gortash.” His cock throbs inside her, her words a lash to his restraint, and he finally groans aloud. The sound is low and guttural, as if coming from a werewolf’s throat.
But he doesn’t lose the grip. He edges her, slowing further, his thrusts shallow, just enough to keep her reeling. Her hips buck, chasing release, but he pins her with his weight, his hand on her throat holding her still. “Please,” she whimpers, voice breaking, “let me come.” Her cunt clenches, desperate, sweat beading on her skin. He pulls out, sudden, leaving her empty, and she whines—a high, needy sound—her hips twitching, seeking him.
“For your bratty mouth,” he says, voice strained, his own control fraying. His hand leaves her throat, grabbing her wrist, pulling her up. “You don’t get to come yet.” His cock is slick, leaking, the tip brushing her thigh as he shifts her. He wants to fuck her raw, to lose himself in her heat, but he forces discipline—for her, for himself. His hand cracks against her ass, sharp, the sound ringing out. Her skin reddens, a faint handprint blooming, and she gasps, half-pain, half-want.
“On your knees,” he orders, and Tav moves, clumsy, eager, turning to face away. She lowers her chest to the stone, ass up, thighs spread wide, her cunt and ass exposed, glistening with her arousal. The torn dress hangs off one shoulder, the collar stark against her neck. Gortash kneels behind her, his cock aching, leaking, as he fights to hold back. His fingers, thick and rough, find her cunt first, two sliding in, curling, stroking. His thumb brushes her clit, slow, keeping her on edge.
“Call me Master,” he says, voice tight, his free hand spreading her ass, exposing the tight ring of muscle. His index finger circles her asshole, pressing in slow, just the tip. Tav shudders, her hips pushing back, taking his fingers deeper in both holes. “Master,” she gasps, voice raw, trembling, “please, Master, fuck me.”
His fingers work her, thrusting in her cunt, stretching her ass, his thumb circling her clit but never enough to let her tip over. Her moans are frantic, the stone scraping her knees red. Gortash’s cock leaks steadily now, a bead of pre-cum dripping onto her thigh, his own edge dangerously close.
Tav’s moans are high-pitched, her hips jerking, chasing release he’s denied her. “Master, please,” she gasps, voice trembling. Her body shakes, thighs quivering, toes curling against the cold floor.
He decides it’s time. “Come,” he commands, his thumb pressing harder on her clit, rubbing fast. His fingers in her cunt thrust deeper, stroking the spot that makes her sob. The finger in her ass pushes in, slow, steady, filling her. Tav’s body tenses, every muscle locking, then shatters. Her cunt clenches, spasming around his fingers, a gush of wetness coating his hand, dripping to the stone. Her ass tightens, gripping his finger, and her hips buck, uncontrolled, grinding against his hand.
She trembles, shuddering, her whole body convulsing, knees slipping on the slick floor. Her moans turn to whimpers, soft, desperate, as waves of pleasure rip through her. Her arms give out, chest dropping to the stone, nipples brushing the surface through the torn dress. Her face presses to the floor, cheek smeared with sweat and dust, lips trembling, eyes squeezed shut. Her thighs shake violently, spreading wider as she rides the aftershocks, her cunt pulsing, clit throbbing under his slowing thumb.
Gortash watches, pupils blown, his cock throbbing, leaking steadily now. Her shuddering, whimpering form—sprawled, trembling, convulsing—ignites him. He pulls his fingers free, her cunt and ass releasing him with a wet sound. He grips his cock, slick with pre-cum, and strokes once, twice, hard and fast; it doesn’t take long. His release hits, hot and sudden, spilling across her lower back, thick ropes of cum painting her skin, dripping down the curve of her ass.
He leans back, chest heaving, watching her. Tav’s still trembling, her breath hitching in soft, broken sobs. The collar sits proud on her neck, the silver buckle glinting, a mark of the game. Her cunt glistens, lips swollen, still pulsing faintly, her ass red from his earlier spanks, cum streaking her skin.
He outstretches his hand, brushing her hip, smearing his cum across her skin. Tav shifts, slow, lifting her head, a faint smirk curling her lips.
“Is it what you wanted?” he asks, and she whispers, out of breath, “Yes.”
A copper tub sits near the far wall, steaming with hot water, its surface rippling under a single candle’s flicker. Tav slumps on a low stool, the black leather collar still around her neck. Her torn dress is gone, leaving her naked, skin flushed and marked—red crescents on her hips from his nails, a faint handprint on her ass, cum drying in streaks across her lower back and thighs. Her dark hair is matted, sticking to her sweat-damp shoulders.
“Hard to sit,” she murmurs, her eyes half-lidded as she looks at him. “Gonna be sore for days.” Her admission is almost proud, and she spreads her thighs slightly, knowing it’ll stoke him.
Gortash’s eyes narrow, his cock stirring fully now, a heat he thought he’d buried long ago. In his youth, he’d fucked wealthy matrons for coin, their perfumed flesh and grasping hands dulling his hunger, leaving him numb to desire. But Tav makes him ache like a boy again, horny and ravenous. He doesn’t trust her, not a whit, yet he’s drawn to her, undeniably.
“Up,” he says, gesturing to the tub. Tav rises, her legs shaky, a faint groan escaping as her sore muscles protest. She steps into the tub, the hot water lapping her calves, then sinks down, hissing as it stings her scraped knees and tender cunt. The water clouds slightly, sweat and cum dissolving, and she leans back, the collar’s buckle clinking against the tub’s rim.
Gortash kneels beside her, dipping the cloth into the water, the heat biting his fingers. He lathers the soap, and starts at her shoulders, scrubbing firm but slow. The cloth rasps over her skin, leaving it pink, washing away sweat and dust. Her shoulders relax, head lolling and he moves to her chest, the cloth gliding over her breasts, nipples hardening under the rough texture.
His hand dips lower, cleaning her stomach, then her thighs, spreading them gently. The water laps at her cunt, and he parts her lips with two fingers, careful, inspecting the swollen flesh. She’s wet, not just from the water: a faint slickness coats his fingers, and she shifts, wincing but arching into his touch. “Still want me,” he mutters, half-accusing, his cock throbbing. He doesn’t trust this need, but he can’t stop.
He washes her cunt, slow, the cloth soft now, soaked, easing the soreness. Tav’s breath hitching, and she grips the tub’s edge. “Careful,” she winces, voice weak but cheeky, “or I’ll be too sore to kneel for you tomorrow.” He chuckles and moves to her back, the cloth catching on the faint ridges of his nail marks.
The water cools and Gortash drops the cloth, hands lingering on her hips. She’s weak, content, her body aching but sated, and he’s hard, aching, driven by a hunger he can’t quell. He leans closer, lips near her ear, the collar’s leather warm under his fingers.
“You’ll kneel again,” he promises. “For me.”
The air is thick with the musk of sweat and the faint char of brazier coals. A heavy oak chair, carved with grape vines, stands in the centre of the bedroom with royal arrogance. Gortash sprawls in it, parting his thighs to demonstrate to Tav the very object of her desire: his jutting cock, its tip slick with pre-cum. His boots are off, and he touches himself lazily, just for her to remember there’s nothing she can do without his command, let alone touch him.
Tav stands before him, naked. The steel buckle of the collar is warm from her heat, and Gortash tries not to think much about it to avoid releasing too hard and too fast. Her dark hair is tangled, still unbrushed after bathing, and her thighs are marked by his nails, a faint bruise blooming on one hip. He knows that her bladder is full and deduces that the tight, aching pressure in her lower belly makes her shift, thighs pressing together. She attempts to look bratty, but her eyes are glassy, arousal and discomfort warring.
“Ride me,” Gortash commands. Tav steps forward and straddles him, her bare feet brushing the cold stone. She grabs his shoulders, hands unsteady, and lowers herself, guiding his cock to her cunt with her free hand. The head presses in, and she gasps as he stretches her walls, slick but sore from the earlier fucking. She lowers herself, taking him fully, and he sees that she winces: the pressure in her bladder must be sharpening as his cock fills her.
He grabs her hips and pushes her up, and then pulls her down, setting a pace. Tav rides him, thighs flexing, her ass slapping his thighs with each bounce, the wet squelch of her cunt loud, echoing. His cock hits deep, pushing between her inner walls, and she opens her mouth in a heat, in a haze. Drool seeps from the corner, dripping onto her chin, then her chest, gathering between her breasts, as she jumps on his cock, and she yelps, and she trembles.
Gortash knows it’s not just pleasure, that the pressure in her bladder builds, each thrust forcing it to open, making her squirm on his lap. “Please,” she whimpers, voice slurred, her hips faltering. “I need to—need to pee, Gortash, let me go.” She is clenching and unclenching her thighs, cunt clamping around his cock. He loves to watch her writhe, torn between the pleasure and the urgent need to relieve herself. “Please, I can’t hold it.”
Gortash’s grip tightens, his cock throbbing inside her. “No,” he says, voice thick, his own arousal spiking at her desperation. “You stay. You come like this.” He thrusts up, hard, meeting her downward motion, his balls slapping her ass, her clit grinding against his pubic bone. Tav sobs, a mix of pleasure and panic. She rides faster, driven by his hands, and her cunt spasms, the edge of climax building, but the pressure in her bladder makes her whimper.
“Please, I’m gonna—” Her words cut off, a high, keening moan as her orgasm hits. Her cunt clamps down, milking his cock, a gush of wetness flooding around him, but it’s not just her climax. Her bladder releases, a hot, uncontrolled stream of piss spurting out, soaking his cock, his thighs, the chair, pooling on the stone below. Her body convulses, thighs shaking, her moans turning to broken whimpers.
Gortash groans, the heat and wetness pushing him over. His cock pulses, spilling inside her, thick spurts mixing with her piss and arousal, dripping down his balls. His hips jerk, once, twice, holding her down as he empties. Tav collapses against him, trembling, her cheek pressed to his chest, her cunt still twitching, piss and cum a slick mess between them.
“You’re filthy,” she mumbles, taunting despite her exhaustion. Gortash’s hand slides to her neck, thumb brushing the collar, his own breath ragged. He doesn’t answer, but his cock twitches, still inside her; the sight of her—soaked, trembling, marked—makes him want to do this all over again, making him hard again.
“Position,” he commands, pushing her off his knees. Tav obeys, awkwardly walking to the table, hands slapping the stone. Her face presses to the table, cheek against the polished, hair fanning out. Her ass lifts high, thighs spread wide, exposing her cunt, still soaking piss and sperm and the tight pucker of her ass. The collar shifts, studs glinting, as her neck arches, her breath shallow.
Gortash kneels behind her, one hand gripping her hip. His other hand guides his cock, rubbing the head along her cunt, coating himself in her wetness. Tav moans, her hips pushing back, but he holds her still, controlling the pace.
He thrusts in, raw, burying himself to the hilt. Her cunt is wet, hot, gripping him tight, stretched enough to take him whole. His slams against her ass, the slap of skin echoing off the stone walls. He fucks her hard and she fights to stay in place, to stop the slide forward, pressing her palms into the table. The collar bounces, buckle clinking, as her body rocks under him.
Tav’s moans are loud, she claws at the table, and Gortash can swear he hears her nails scraping. That’s how he loves it. That’s how he wants her to be for him. Her cunt pulses, gripping him, her arousal dripping down her thighs, pooling beneath her. “More,” she chokes out, but her voice is muffled against the table. Gortash leaves her hip, hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back, the collar biting into her neck. “You take what I give,” he growls, but his cock throbs. Her defiance only stokes his appetite.
He keeps the pace brutal, his balls slapping her clit with each thrust, her ass jiggling, red from the impact. Her walls flutter, close to breaking, but he doesn’t slow, doesn’t let her tip over yet. His own edge builds, his cock leaking inside her, a faint warmth mixing with her slick. Tav’s body trembles, thighs shaking, her submission complete as she yields, spreading wider, taking him deeper, her moans again turning to whimpers of need.
The chamber reeks of sex. A rumpled blanket lies tangled on the floor, stained with sweat and cum. Tav lies on her back, legs splayed, one knee bent. Her cunt is swollen, glistening with their mingled fluids, cum drying on her inner thigh. Her lips are puffy, spit-shined, and her chest rises slow, nipples hard in the chilly air.
Gortash’s fingers press her thigh, testing the bruise, his touch measured, almost clinical. He slides a hand to her cunt, parting her lips, inspecting the flesh, tender from his cock’s earlier assault. Tav shifts and winces. “Gentle, aren’t you?” she taunts. “Didn’t expect that from a man who fucks like he’s gutting an enemy.”
His hand pauses, and he grips her hip, thumb digging in, just shy of pain. “I prefer my toys unbroken,” he says benevolently. “You’re no use to me shattered.” His touch resumes, lighter now, tracing the curve of her ribs, but his jaw is tight, betraying the wariness. Most of what he says is not true. He doesn’t want to hurt her—at least, no more when their shared appetites require.
Tav yawns, exaggerated, and stretches her arms lazily above her head. Her breasts shift, the collar’s buckle clinking, and she props herself on one elbow, eyes half-lidded. “Well, I prefer my toys well-rested,” she says, dismissive. “Time for me to go back to my chambers, Gortash. You, too, sleep it off.”
Gortash’s hand shoots out fast, grabbing her chin, tilting her face up. His grip is firm, not bruising, but forcing her to meet his eyes—dark, searching. “Who are you?” he asks. “I know everything. You are born here, in Baldur’s Gate. A troublemaker—a bard college dropout, a mediocre tomb-raider, an unlucky sword-for-hire.” His thumb brushes her lower lip. “I knew of you, Tav. A nobody. So, how’s a tadpole in your brain turn you into this? How’s every soul in Baldur’s Gate knows your name?”
Tav doesn’t answer at once. Her chin lowers, eyes locked on his. Then, slow, she smiles. “You want to ask something else, don’t you?” she says, her breath warm against his fingers. “How come you’re striking deals with me? Fucking me in your private chambers like there’s no tomorrow?”
Gortash’s grip tightens, just enough to make her lips part. “Yes,” he shakes his head, “and no.” His mistrust burns, but the sight of her—marked, defiant, untamed—does things to him. He leans in and kisses her, hard, teeth grazing her lower lip, tongue tasting her spit. Her moan is soft, but her tongue is pushing back even in surrender.
Then, cold steel touches his throat. He snaps his eyes open. Tav’s hand presses a thin blade to his skin, its edge glinting. Her lips are parted, slick with their mingled saliva, and her eyes burn with a hunger for his fear. Where did she hide the dagger? In the folds of the rumpled blanket, tangled with sweat and cum? Or is the weapon enchanted, invisible before unsheathed?
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, his hand moves, guiding the blade higher, just under his jaw. “Here,” he murmurs. “Better place to cut. Death’s quicker. Blood flows thicker. No time to scream.” The steel grazes his skin, a faint prick, and he feels the pulse in his neck thud against the edge. Her breath hitches, but her grip doesn’t waver. They lock eyes—his eyes dark; her glass-green, wild. Pain flares, sharp and sudden. Gortash jerks, involuntary, as Tav drags the blade’s tip across his shoulder, carving a thin line. Blood wells, hot, trickling down his collarbone, a red rivulet pooling in the hollow above his chest.
Her eyes follow it, lips parting further. The blade clatters to the floor, ringing on the stone. Tav lunges, her mouth on his shoulder, lips sealing over the cut. She sucks, hard, drawing his blood into her mouth, her tongue lapping the wound. Gortash feels a shudder that’s bone deep, pleasure ripping through him.
Her lips smack as she pulls back, blood smearing her chin, staining her teeth. His hands find her face, fingers digging into her cheeks, thumbs brushing the crimson streaks. “You are so beautiful,” he says. Her face, flushed and smeared, is the face of a goddess. He pulls her closer, his lips grazing hers, tasting his own blood. It’s metallic and warm, mixed with her spit.