Chapter Text
“Sometimes, my dear, I think you indulge me.”
Then, an audacious chuckle. A throated gravelly rumble not unlike the distant thunderclap of an impending storm approaching. The kind of storm that begins as a cloudless, scorching summer day at the beach and ends with ripped rooves and floods. Rook cannot recall ever before eliciting such a gloriously filthy sound from a man. She is accustomed to the tedious grunts of dim muscle-bound swordsmen stumbling out of taverns and the self-indulgent whimpers of neurotic pretty-boy assassins skulking around in alleys. This, though. This sound is dark, elegant, decadent. It has weight and substance. She wants to dip it in melted chocolate and devour it, lapping up every last smear. She is ravenous. Her stomach tightens and blood tumbles downward out of her heart, pooling quickly in her core and making the lips of her cunt flutter and ache.
She draws a deep breath in an attempt to tether herself. “I could never bear to disappoint you,” she replies coolly, with a wry smile and significant effort to keep her voice measured. Her languid tone belies the quickened pace of her pulse and the warm steady thrum spreading between her legs.
Emmrich peers up from behind the top edge of the easel he's set up for their plans this evening as he takes in the sight of her. His eyes, she thinks as they rove over the dips and dives of her silhouette, are the colour of smoky brown liquor. Not the cheap cloudy swill she sometimes buys off the end of a dock that fucks her up quickly and leaves her wishing for swift death the following morning. More like the spendy stuff she can't afford from Starkhaven in the squat, heavy bottles, procured from that pretentious merchant at the north end of Treviso market, imbibed only on the most rare and special of celebratory occasions. Unmarred and translucent like toasted honey.
Three nights ago, Emmrich kissed her in the Memorial Gardens. The only thing thwarting her from ripping his clothes off and swallowing him whole right then was the nagging sense that doing so atop his parents’ final resting place was just a touch too depraved for her taste. It has been ages since she was well and thoroughly fucked, and she has never before been fucked by a man this beautiful, this finely formed, this pointedly exquisite. She desperately wants this man to fuck her, has wanted it since the very first moment he entered her view. She wants his delicate spindly bejeweled fingers plunging wantonly in and out of her. She wants to writhe underneath the welcome weight of his lean frame, cut with ropes of wiry muscle. She wants to palm the mounds of his pert, perfect ass with both hands while he sheaths his magnificent cock into the warm envelope of her dripping slit. She has been imagining these things while furiously rubbing her clit to completion alone in the dark, screaming silently into her pillow every night for weeks.
Tonight, Emmrich has again invited her to join him at the Necropolis. This time, they exchange the quiet serenity of the Memorial Gardens for a more intimate setting away from roaming ears and prying eyes. A place with privacy. His personal apartment in the upper chambers. He has something particular in mind. He wants to sketch her.
She knows him to be capable, having seen the illustrations of various flowers he creates for his herbarium and the anatomical diagrams he adds to the academic texts he's preparing for publication. His work is detailed, polished, exacting, a fitting reflection of him. She hasn't told him she's never been sketched before. Hasn't told him he's the first person ever to deem her worthy of wanting to procure and possess her likeness.
Rook shivers in the stony air, which retains a misty chill in spite of the fire Emmrich conjured in the hearth when they first arrived. He's been away from here awhile now, and without regular flame, cold has taken root in the walls and furniture. She feels her nipples stiffen as gooseflesh bristles across her arms and legs. The robe she wears is thin and sheer, gauzy black silk organza trimmed with delicate plum-coloured feathers. Other than the heavy-handed layer of kohl lining her eyes and reddish pink pigment on her lips, it's all she’s wearing. She knows full well that Emmrich can see through the fabric, see the outline of her thicket set against her creamy skin, see the muddy border between the soft pale of her breasts’ rounds and the rosy puff of her nipples. He is a man appreciative of intricacies. She knows he is mentally tracing the finely drawn lines of the botanical tattoos covering her lower left forearm and outer right thigh, perhaps planning how he will soon render them to parchment.
“Do you like your gift, darling?” he asks, extending his hand, beckoning her to draw closer.
She’s known since she first entered this room and saw the shiny black box adorned with an elaborate purple and silver ribbon waiting there for her on his desk that he intends, at last, to fuck her. There is only one shop in Treviso that wraps their wares this way, and she knows exactly what sort of wares it deals in. The coin required to entertain their purchase.
“The better question is, do you like my gift?” She eases toward him and wriggles into his lap, making sure to grind against him a bit as she settles. He plants his hands firmly on her fleshy, generous hips and begins sliding them slowly up and into the curve of her waist with just enough pressure to emphasize the luxurious texture of the garment. She senses his cock stir beneath her. “It certainly feels as though you do,” she smirks.
He presses his mouth to her ear, his breath warm and inviting, and she feels his lips skiff lightly against her skin. “Mmm,” he murmurs and there is that wicked throaty rumble again. She feels the flow of her juices surge once more as a fresh wave of arousal courses through her. “You look delicious, dearest.” He darts his tongue out briefly to taste her neck and a thin moan escapes from the depth of her chest. She’s trying valiantly to retain her composure but it would be perfectly acceptable to her if they dispense with the sketching portion of the evening entirely and he throws her over his desk right now, yanks her robe up and buries his cock deep inside her from behind. Her cunt is throbbing.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, my dear. We have the entirety of the evening in front of us, and trust me when I tell you that I plan on sleeping very little of that time. I promise I'll take care of you. And then I'll take care of you again. But first, might I offer you some refreshment?” Emmrich gestures toward a low wooden table tucked into the corner of the room. “I’ve managed to obtain a few treats I think might be to your liking. Care to indulge?”
He gently nudges her up off his lap and rises to his feet, leading her by the hand to where he has laid out a spread of visceral pleasures. She sees a tray of fresh fruit, cheeses, nuts, and chocolate confections. Several bottles of pricey-looking Antivan wine with ostentatious cursive lettering on their labels. A crystal decanter full of the clearest, most pristine whisky she’s ever seen. And four neatly rolled herbal cigarettes of some kind.
“Elfroot?” she asks, pointing.
“Honestly, darling, you’ll have to ask Neve. Some Tevinter concoction. I told her of the effects I desired and she delivered these. Their scent reminds me of something I'm familiar with from the salons I often attended as a senior apprentice. She knows I planned to share them with you, so I’ve only the utmost confidence in their safety and efficacy.”
Rook pours an ample serving of wine into a glass. It is deep burgundy in colour and when she sniffs it, she detects notes of ripe berries, liquorice root and the faintest hint of moist tobacco. She plucks a plump strawberry from the tray, popping it in her mouth before lifting one of the mysterious Tevinter joints to her nose. It smells pungent, slightly floral. She places it between her lips. Emmrich lifts his finger to the tip of it, conjuring a small flicker of veilfire. Rook draws deeply as the joint ignites and the fragrant, herbaceous smoke fills her lungs. Almost immediately, her head is swimming. She blinks a few times and hands it off to Emmrich.
He takes it and draws as well, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke for several beats before wrapping his arm around her waist, drawing her body flush against his, and placing his mouth on hers, exhaling. Instinctively she breathes in, pulling his offering of sifted pleasure and used breath into her own chest. She lets go after a moment, a thin plume stripped of its potency drifting from her lips. She chases it with a large mouthful of wine. Emmrich smiles.
“How do you feel, darling? Still willing to pose for me?” He passes the joint back to her.
“Of course. Where do you want me?”
“Right over there on the sofa, please, in front of the easel. Bring your libations with you. Relax and make yourself comfortable.”
She does as he instructs, drifting over to the plush black sofa with her glass of wine in one hand and her joint in the other, curlicues of smoke rising lazily toward the ceiling. She pulls another shallow drag and holds it for three count before releasing. Across the room, Emmrich is pouring out two fingers’ worth of the whisky into a glass and he picks up a joint of his own, lighting it as he makes his way back to his easel and sinks down on his stool.
On the desk next to him sits a neat sheaf of parchment pages and a small pile of charcoal crayons. He rests his joint on the lip of a clay dish and takes a long swallow of his liquor as he reaches for one of each, securing the parchment to his easel with forged metal clips.
“What would you like me to do, Professor?”
Mild amusement flits about the corners of his mouth at her use of his title. “Talking with me while I limber up my hands would be a wonderful place to start, and we shall go from there. Perhaps you could tell me a story. Something interesting about yourself.”
She draws on her joint again and hums agreeably. She undoubtedly wants his hands to be nice and limber. “Can I ask you questions instead?”
“As you wish, dearest. With just one small caveat. Inconsequential, really.”
“Oh? And what's that?”
“I shall only respond to questions for which you too will provide answers. So be mindful of what you ask.”
Rook finds herself rather taken with this idea. She wants to tease him with her questions and need him more for his response. She wants to be gushing by the time he finally fucks her, her weeping pussy begging for the blessed relief of his fingers, tongue, cock. She pulls on the joint one last time before snuffing it and setting it aside in a dish next to the sofa. She lounges back against the large, soft pillows propped up on its arm and extends her feet, bending one knee to show her thigh tattoo.
“That's lovely, Rook,” Emmrich purrs. “Might you adjust your robe slightly to reveal your breast fully as well, please? And you may ask your first question.”
Rook slides her hand down and pushes the collar of her robe aside to expose her breast. She traces her finger lightly in a ring around her nipple, the delicate skin there puckering under her touch. She palms its rotund swell and squeezes firmly, kneading it a few times, then takes her nipple between her fingers, pinching and rolling until it stiffens into a taut nub. “How old were you when you first had sex?”
She can hear a faint scratching as he works the charcoal on the parchment, accompanied by the soft, melodious chime of his gold bangles clinking. She can't see his face save for his eyes staring at her intently at intervals over the top of the easel, committing the different parts of her form to his mind before turning them to the page. She can, however, see straight into his lap from this vantage point, including the substantial bulge straining at his trousers. It pleases her that his cock appears exactly as robust as she’d hoped, and that he’s clearly enjoying watching her grope herself.
“I was sixteen. And you, darling?”
“Eighteen.”
“Very well. Next question.” He pauses sketching for a moment to sip on his glass of whisky.
“When did you first realize you wanted to see me naked?”
He stops briefly, smudging the page in front of him with his thumb, blending the lines of his sketch. “It was when you and Bellara came to the Necropolis and asked me if I'd like to help the both of you save Thedas from deranged elven gods.”
She giggles. This is definitely the work of the Tevinter herb because she doesn't giggle by nature. She’s more the type of brash to throw her head back and cackle. “Emmrich, that was the first time we met.”
“Yes, dearest, I do recall. I might also point out that I have yet to experience the privilege of bearing witness to your body fully disrobed. Though I hope to change that circumstance rather imminently. And when did you decide you'd be willing to disrobe for me?”
Rook lifts her glass of wine and drains the last sip before setting it down empty on the floor. “The day Bellara and I came to the Necropolis and talked you into saving the world with us.”
“Rook?”
“Yes, Emmrich?”
“Will you remove your robe for me now, please?”
She shifts to a seated position and unties her robe, pulling the front panels apart and shrugging it from her shoulders, letting it slip off and pool around her legs, enjoying the slippery feel of the lux silk against the smooth skin of her back. She hears Emmrich suck in a stilted breath between his teeth at the sight of her completely bare.
His charcoal presses to the parchment with greater insistence. He has reached a flow state where he sketches furiously, then drops a finished sketch to a pile by his feet while almost simultaneously replenishing his easel with a fresh sheet. She is mesmerized by his concentration, the intensity of his focus.
“Rook, I'd like for you to bring your feet up onto the sofa with your knees bent. Spread your legs apart for me, darling. Let me have a look at your lovely petals.” She complies with his request. He hums his approval, thick and low. “Yes, that is perfect, darling. Now, will you reach down and pull them apart with your fingers? Let me see how you glisten.”
Her hand ghosts over her soft, pillowy belly and then down, down through the tidy thatch of dark coarse hair, down further to the drenched mess below. She uses her middle and index fingers to massage the swollen, yearning outer lips of her cunt, spreading them gently, her slick beginning to trickle out of her hole and into the crack of her ass. She can’t help but gasp and whimper at her own touch. Her clit is pulsing, begging for attention.
“Close your eyes, Rook. Touch yourself. Show me what feels good. How you like to take your pleasure.”
She is more than ready. She begins to flick her clit lightly with the tip of her index finger, then presses down with its pad to grind circles for a few strokes, before shifting again to flicking, alternating back and forth. Her hips roll of their own volition. She emits a broken moan and pulls back, moving her hand downward to gather more slick, dragging her finger up and down her seam, letting the crest of sensation wane a little before she continues. She doesn’t want to reach the point of no return too soon. She wants this to last. When she comes, she wants it to be on whatever part of him happens to be in her at the time. She has been on the brink for what feels like an eternity and she’s near feral for his hands on her.
“Emmrich…”
“I’m here, darling.”
His voice is suddenly close. Her eyes fly open to find him standing over her, watching her rub herself, wearing a look of what could only be described as reverent thirst, his whisky glass balanced loosely in his curled fingertips. He has, at some point while her eyes are closed and she’s focused on the swelling tingle emanating from her clit, left his seat and made his way over to her. He lowers himself to his knees and sinks his chest down on top of hers, his mouth at her ear. “Would you like me to touch you now, Rook?”
“Fucking finally.”
His hand reaches down between her legs to cover hers for a brief moment, then delicately manoeuvers it aside as he takes over. “I’ve been wanting to know what you feel like inside, what you taste like, for ever such a long time now, Rook.” He teases her opening with the tip of his finger, gently working just the first delicious inch of it inside her. He swirls it around a little, exploring her texture. “It is such a gift to feel you so wet. So eager for me.” He smoothly slides the rest of his finger all the way in, slowly, inch by excruciating inch. Her inner walls are grasping and molding to the hard metal of the rings he hasn’t removed. Once his finger is fully inserted, the tip of it pressed as far up into her cunt as it can go, he probes and swirls for a few seconds, testing how malleable she is. Then, maddeningly, he begins to withdraw it again almost immediately at the same tempered pace, sliding out of her. When only the very tip of his finger remains sheathed within her, he pauses before pushing it methodically back up inside, a little less leisurely than before, but still patient and drawing out her pleasure. He does this several more times, each time quickening his pace by an increment or two, until she is squirming and groaning in earnest, thrusting her pelvis, seeking release.
“Stop teasing me,” she pleads. “I can't take it anymore.”
“As you wish, darling. Always as you wish.” This time, he pushes two fingers in and when they are fully deep within her, he doesn't withdraw. Instead, he begins to rock his hand back and forth, pressing the heel of it against her mound, mashing her clit gently and creating a friction that has her digging her nails into his forearm, grinding her hips up to increase the pressure.
“Emmrich, I can’t hold on much longer. I’m going to come,” she growls into his neck.
“Then come, dearest. Come all over my hand. And after you do, I’ll make you come again in my mouth.”
This is all it takes to push her over the edge. The wave that’s been cresting deep inside her breaks as she screams into his shoulder, a splintered guttural shriek, and she fucks herself frantically onto his hand, hips in a thrashing frenzy as her climax overtakes her, riding it all the way through until the tremors finally subside and her screams retreat into stuttering muted sighs. When at last they do, he withdraws his fingers carefully and places the full length of them into his mouth, where a small smile plays at his lips, sucking on the remnants of her release. “You taste divine, darling. I look forward to enjoying your flavour again shortly, once you have recovered enough for more of my attention. Care for another glass of wine?”
Rook flops back in mild exhaustion, nodding. A sheen of sweat clings to her brow and her eyes hold the lazy, glassy glow of well-earned satisfaction. Emmrich places a solemn, tender kiss to her lips, then rises and crosses the room to retrieve the open bottle of Antivan red. As he returns to her, he pauses at his easel and stoops down to gather his sketches. He settles himself next to her as she bends at the waist to grab her wine glass and the other half of her joint. Emmrich helps her relight the joint as she settles back onto the sofa and then pours wine into her glass for her before setting the bottle to one side. She gestures to the sheets of parchment in his hand.
“Can I see?”
He hands her the pages. There are three complete sketches, each one spanning a full page of parchment. The first one depicts her lying on her back, her eyes half-lidded, a joint pinched between her fingers, poised at her lips. Her leg is tented out of the robe covering most of her body, the tattoo on her thigh visible. He has replicated it near perfectly, line for line. Her breast is drawn falling casually out of the collar of her robe, the rendering of her puckered nipple awash with detail, his shading playing with shadows and light. Her waist-length dark hair floats in a heavy halo around her head, drawn to make her look almost as if she is suspended underwater. At the bottom of the sketch, he has scrawled two words in tight, elegant cursive script: Reclining Beauty.
Unbidden emotion chokes its way into her throat, seeing herself through his eyes like this. It threatens precariously to spill over as it occurs to her there is a very real possibility he could love her someday, if indeed he doesn't already. This is evident in every sweep and stroke of how she’s etched. She blinks it back, tries to swallow it, dampen it with wine. She pulls on her joint again, flipping to the next sketch.
This one captures a scene of her self-pleasure, eyes closed, loose-jawed and chin upturned, throat exposed, knees propped up, legs apart, back arched, toes curled, fingers sunk into herself. The caption reads: Beauty’s Release. Rook feels Emmrich caress the base of her neck, weaving his fingers into her hair. “You don't know how stunning you are, do you?” he muses idly. “How radiant, captivating.”
“Emmrich,” she starts, but doesn't know what she's going to say. Mercifully, he stays her with a deep, penetrating kiss full of tinder and longing. His tongue parts her lips and ventures into her mouth, twisting in rhythm with her own tongue. When he pulls away, he catches her lower lip between his teeth and nibbles gently before releasing her.
“Look at the final sketch, darling.”
She flips the page again. When she sees what he's drawn, she forgets to breathe. The angle of the image is as though he is standing above her looking down as she's splayed out on her back. Her naked body is wrapped ornately from head to toe in what appears to be lengths of corded rope tied in a deliberate spiderweb of knots and lines, pulled taut across her body, exaggerating the curve of her hips, making her waist look impossibly small. Her breasts bulge out from between braided cords, full and plump, a pair of ripe juicy peaches ready to be suckled and slurped. Her arms are positioned above her head, tied at the wrists, twists of rope wound around them, snaking up and down. Her legs are similarly adorned, trussed in a decorative pattern, but not bound together. They are parted slightly, with only a hint of what’s between them present in the sketch. He has titled it Beauty Indomitable.
This is not an image of her he has seen and committed to paper. This is an image he has conjured wholly from fantasy. It intrigues her. Makes her feel lustful. Powerful.
“Maker, Emmrich,” she says at last, once she's fully absorbed it. “What is this?”
“It’s termed cordes érotiques in Orlais, though I don't believe the practice originates there. A few years ago, I used to… see… an Orlesian woman…” He trails off.
“Used to fuck, you mean.”
“Something like that. I accompanied her to erotic soirées upon occasion.”
“You mean sex parties?”
“Oh Rook, do indulge me my genteel euphemisms, won't you? But yes. Guests were known to engage with one another publicly and place their proclivities on display.”
“I'd like to hear more about that sometime.”
“And I'd like to share more about it with you. But not today. Today I am interested only in pursuing pleasures available to me in the present.”
“So you learned about art bondage at an Orlesian sex party?”
“I learned of the practice there, yes. But cordes érotiques is so much more than ‘bondage,’ as you put it.” He sounds as though the word tastes sour in his mouth. “It is a sensual form of artistic expression borne from aesthetics, intimacy, and trust. It is less about any sort of submission or control, and more about an exchange of beauty, artistry, and connection between an attacheur and their attachée.”
The thrum between Rook’s legs surges again. Her nipples sting. “Is this something you know how to do? Or just something you enjoy looking at and remember well enough to sketch?”
Emmrich holds up his hand, his index finger extended, in the universal gesture for “one moment please.” He leans across her to a small side table positioned next to the sofa and pulls open its little drawer, from which he extracts a lengthy bundle of finely braided corded silk, dyed black and shot through with delicate gold threads. He unravels it and runs the entire length of it through one closed fist and then the other, working out any twists and kinks, then looks at her and arches an eyebrow. “I do know how, yes.”
He hands her the cord, offering it up for her consideration. She trails her fingertips along its lux, inviting texture, admiring the workmanship. “Did you buy this in Orlais?”
“No. It's inspired by the ones made there, but I had this one specially commissioned from a discreet artisan in Nevarra City. There is genuine spun gold folded into the accent threading. It's a recent acquisition.” His voice is full of implication.
“Does that mean you haven't used it on anyone yet?”
“I have not.”
A loaded silence passes between them. It feels ancient and endless. Finally, she speaks. “Would you like to use it on me?”
He pauses and she sees something hungry and unknowable flicker across his eyes. “I would, darling,” he says. “I would like that very much. But I don't wish for you to feel obliged …”
She cuts him off by placing her finger to his lips. “I would like that too. With just one simple caveat. Inconsequential, really.”
“Oh, and what might that be?”
“That once you have me all tied up exactly the way you like, you'll fuck me so hard I can't remember my name.”
He smirks and the way his mouth quirks at the corner sets her thighs on fire. “That can be arranged. But I plan to make you come in my mouth first, dearest, if you don't mind. Now, can you stand up for me, please, Rook?” He rises first and offers his arm to help her up.
He's tall, a head taller than she is at least and it gives him excellent leverage. He works quickly and with precision. Having watched him wield his magic on missions and in battle, Rook can plainly detect a parallel. He approaches this in a similar manner, with skill and flair and a swift, commanding confidence earned through practice and discipline and dedication to his craft. He pauses occasionally to place a kiss at the base of her ear, or dance his tongue across her collarbone, or take one of her breasts firmly in the grasp of his long palm and work her nipple between his thumb and finger. When he crouches down and winds the cord around her thighs, he leans in so close to her pussy that she can feel the rush of his hot breath whispering over her clit. Soon, he completes his work by wrapping her arms and binding her wrists together, positioned comfortably in front of her. At last, his hands fall still.
“Come with me, dearest, if you would.” He guides her forward by her shoulders, dipping his head to lick and nip her neck as they walk. She can feel his erection straining forth and pressing into her back. Although her legs are intricately adorned, knotted and wrapped with cord from the tops of her thighs down to her ankles, they remain unbound and she can move freely. He leads her around the corner and down the adjacent hallway into his private bedroom, stopping in front of a large floor-to-ceiling mirror mounted to the wall across from the bed. The room is lit only with the green glow of veilfire, producing an ethereal cast to her milky skin.
Rook regards her reflection carefully. He has tied her exactly as he sketched her, down to the tiniest detail. Her waist is snatched in with tight coils of knotted cord, forming a sort of corset. The curve of it into her broad hips is even more exaggerated. He has wrapped cord tightly around each breast but not pulled across them, and looped it over her shoulders for support. The technique with which he's tied her squeezes them and makes them look swollen and feel hard like underripe melons, her nipples unusually large on account of being so engorged.
He leans over and covers both of her breasts with his hands. He bears down hard and the pain is exquisite on account of the added pressure from the cords. She inhales sharply. He presses his mouth to her ear again and this time she can watch him murmur into it. “If anything feels too much for you, darling, you need only say the word and I will pull back. Tell me it’s too much. Do you follow?”
“Yes, Professor. I follow. Now, I believe we made a deal?”
“So we did. And I fully intend to honour it. But first I want you to look at yourself, Rook. See the power and strength you possess. You’re a warrior, my darling, a queen. You have me at your command.”
He stands behind her in the mirror, caressing his hands down her sides. Her entire body is burning.
“Would you lie down on the bed now, please? I'd like for you to be comfortable.” He turns her and guides her backward until she feels the edge of the high mattress against her ass, and he helps hitch her up onto it. She lies back. “Slide up, and raise your arms above your head for me.”
She does as he asks and tilts her head back a little to examine the bed. It has two tall posts at the top corners, with a thick solid wood bar connecting them. Emmrich walks around to the foot of the bed and stands in front of her. “I'd like to undress. Would that be alright with you?”
“Yes. Please.”
He begins peeling off layers. First he unlaces his boots and removes them, along with his stockings. Then come his vest and the sash around his waist, his shirt with dozens and dozens of too many buttons. Naked from the waist up, he strips off his belt and removes all of the pouches, runes and charms he keeps affixed to it. It is a thick, heavy canvas weave with a gold tone buckle. Rook admires his lithe lines, the way his hip bones cut down into his waistband, the smattering of steel-coloured hair on his chest and trailing down his firm stomach. He is so lean, so sinewy, so sharp and narrow and tightly hinged together.
“I’d like to put my head between your legs now, Rook, so I might lick your clit and explore inside you with my tongue. Drink every last drop of your nectar. But before I begin, I'd like to fasten your hands to the bed above you with this.” He holds up his belt. “Just to ensure that I'm able to devour you the way I want to without any unintended interference. I don't want to stop until I believe I've wrung every last shriek and shudder out of you. But you are always free to request I release you at any time. Do you have any objection, darling?”
This man will be the death of her and never before has she wanted anyone to fuck her as badly as she wants this man to fuck her. Never before has she wanted to offer her trust or surrender to anyone. She places her wrists near the bar between the bed’s two posts. He climbs onto the bed and moves himself over her, on his knees with his legs on either side of her body. He leans forward and loops his belt first through her arms and around the cord binding her wrists and then around the bar, securing the heavy buckle carefully. She takes in the scent of him, sage and sandalwood on his hair, moss and citrus on his skin, whisky on his breath.
When he is through securing her wrists, he moves his hands down her arms, over her breasts, along her sides, over her hips, and onto her inner thighs. He kneads and rolls her flesh in urgent, grasping handfuls. He tucks his tongue between the spiderwebs of rope he has tied her with to tease the exposed strips of her skin in between as he works his mouth down her body toward her apex. His hands find their way between her legs and push her thighs apart, opening her cunt to him. She is slathered, sticky with her own juice. She can smell herself, a primal musky odour imbued with aching need.
Emmrich lies on his stomach, head poised between her thighs, mouth inches from her plump, swollen cunt. “You smell so enticing, Rook. So delicious. You’ve no idea how I long to taste you properly. I'm going to begin now. You can watch everything I do to you and every twitch and shiver of your body’s response in the mirror I showed you a moment ago, if that would please you. It is there if you wish.” With that, he covers the entire throbbing, leaking mess between her legs with the flat of his tongue and starts to lap at her with slow, controlled strokes, starting where her body splits open and finishing at the firm, tight little nub of her clit, before running his tongue again back down the other way. Each time he returns to her clit, she gently yet insistently pushes herself harder into his mouth.
She watches herself in the mirror, the way her hips look gyrating and grinding her pussy onto his face. He pulls her clit between his lips and hums. The resulting vibration sends an almost intolerably intense sensation jolting from the depth of her core and cracking through her limbs. She's no longer in control of the sounds she's making, as a slurry of grunts and howls and whimpering pleas not to stop spew out of her. He tenses his tongue and presses it inside her, then withdraws it and licks all the way up her seam, then repeats the motion a second time. And a third. When he reaches her clit on the fourth stroke, he slides a finger into her and begins to work the spongy, ridged spot behind the rim of her pubic bone with its tip. At the same time, he flicks his tongue back and forth and over and around her clit, again and again, relentlessly, until she can hardly catch her breath.
This time when she comes, there is no breaking wave of pleasure awash with relief. Instead, her orgasm clamps down on her like a vice, flattens her, rips her in half, jams its way straight through her center as her arms thrash against their restraints, unable to push him away even though she doesn't think she can take any more of how raw and pure and staggering it feels. She screams until her voice is spent, the buckle of Emmrich’s belt clanking against the bed frame every time her body spasms, her cunt convulsing around his hand, mashing her clit harder into his mouth. One final heaving wail, and her body collapses. It is only then that he releases her from his grip.
There it is again. That rich, filthy, baritone chuckle rumbling from low in his throat. He sounds decidedly pleased with himself. “That was incredible, darling. Superb.”
She needs a moment before she can speak. Or move. Or think. Her limbs are limp and numb, much like after a bruising fight once the adrenaline retreats. She pulls in a few slow centering breaths, filling her lungs with oxygen, until the blood begins to flow and she can feel her face again. No one has ever made her come like that before. She doesn't know if it’s the fierceness of her craving for him, his skill as a lover, the tittering thrill of being restrained, the effects of the joint he gave her, or just all of it roaring together into a perfect storm.
“Rook, are you alright?” Emmrich rises to his knees and lies down next to her, caressing her face softly.
“Mmm hmm,” she mumbles. “I'm more than alright.” He smiles down at her now and his eyes shine with an amber glow of tenderness and ease. She feels safe here with him. She feels seen. He leans in to kiss her, and she can taste herself on his lips, in his mouth, the droplets of her clinging to his moustache. “Emmrich, that was …”
“Exactly what you deserve, dearest.”
“Will you release my hands now, please?”
He reaches up and undoes the belt holding her hands to the headboard, throwing it off the side of the bed and onto the floor, then unbinds the rope holding them together, restoring her full range of motion. She rolls her wrists and flexes her fingers a few times to loosen her joints, then places her hands on his chest and pushes him back onto the bed. His cock is still hard, still straining against his pants, a gift waiting to be unwrapped, one she is eager to receive.
“I thought you said you were getting undressed.”
“I was waylaid, it would seem. Perhaps you can be of assistance?”
She straddles his thighs, undoing his trousers and tugging them down carefully over his hips and off. He wears no under layer, which strikes her as amusing. This man, with nary a hair out of place and never less than perfectly coiffed and adorned except in his most private moments, doesn't wear smallclothes. She drops his pants next to the bed and takes a moment to admire his body. His cock is just as beautiful as the rest of him – long, shapely, curved slightly, substantial but not so thick as to cause discomfort, framed by a neatly groomed patch of wiry steel-coloured hair. A rare gift indeed.
“Emmrich?”
“Yes, Rook?”
“I really want you to fuck me now.”
“It would be my privilege, darling.”
She pivots on her hands and knees, crawling forward toward the foot of the bed, closer to the mirror. She presses her chest to the mattress and raises her lower half up on her knees, spreading her legs apart, readying herself to take him. She likes the way she looks, the way the kohl and pigments she's wearing are smudged and smeared from sweat and exertion, the way her hair is mussed and untamed, the way the black cords he has tied around her offset her pale skin, the way the gold threaded through them glimmers in the low light. She likes the way he looks, up on his knees now, positioning himself behind her, lithe and lean and smoky, eyes heavy with want meeting hers in the mirror.
He takes his cock in his hand and strokes himself a few times, preparing to enter her, then holds the swollen pink head of it up to her cunt and slides it around in small circles, teasing her hole lightly, gathering the lubrication he needs. His gaze is locked to her reflection in the mirror as he starts pushing his cock into her, spreading her apart. She is tight, so tight from having just come in his mouth, that taking him is almost too much. But she wants him, needs him to fill her. “Professor,” she whines urgently, and this is what breaks him.
He thrusts the rest of his length into her, pushing forward against the resistance from the clenched muscles of her spasmed cunt, until he is fully sheathed and covered. He loops an arm around her waist and presses his upper body against her back, moving inside her, finding a rhythm. His mouth is at her ear now, his words coated in thick growls of pleasure. The heat of his breath, the tenor of his voice, dance and crackle along her arms and legs, up and down her spine.
“Rook, your cunt feels beautiful. So warm, so tight, such a perfect home for me. Did you know I think about you when I pleasure myself? Think about how you would feel, exactly like this, with me buried inside you. Bringing you to ecstasy again and again and again. I have to tell you, darling, the reality of it is even more gratifying than I imagined.”
This man and his silver tongue. She feels precariously close to tumbling over the edge again due solely to his damned words. He picks up his pace, penetrating her more urgently now, pumping partway out of her and then all the way in again using smooth, controlled strokes. Each time he’s lodged fully within her, he shimmies his hips in a teasing little circle. She begins fucking herself onto his cock in earnest, pushing her hips back to meet him with each thrust.
She watches him in the mirror. A sheen of perspiration has sprung up on his forehead and his hair is slightly dishevelled, a few stray strands flopping out of place. She can tell by his expression that he's quickly coming undone and probably won't last much longer. He moves the arm he has around her waist lower until his fingers reach her clit and begin tracing it in tight circles. His other hand moves to her breast kneading and pulling it. His rhythm quickens further, his pace near frantic now.
She begins moaning his name, again and again, as she falls off the cliff for the third time, and it is again entirely different for her now than it was in his mouth or earlier on the sofa with his hands. This time, it comes from deep within her center, a rush of warmth spreading from the inside of her cunt out to her extremities, enveloping every part of her in the sweet embrace of surrender to her body's will. She clenches around his cock as she peaks, part of it her involuntary response to her orgasm, part of it just her clamping down as hard as she can, trying to bring him to the brink as well, signalling him to let himself go, and he does. He thrusts into her one final time and stays there, gasping and biting into her neck as he spills himself into her. She continues to work the muscles inside her cunt, squeezing him to milk every last drop, before he stops grunting in a last shaky groan and collapses down on top of her, softening inside her, and she finally relaxes and lets him go. When he withdraws from her, she is ready for rest, but also feels a flutter of emptiness and regret that she is no longer joined to him.
He rolls off of her onto his back and pulls her on top of him, wrapping his arms around her and bringing her nose to nose.
“I hope you know, Rook, just how much I adore you.”
She smiles and kisses him on the nose. “You're a sap, Volkarin. Now how about you untie me, and then we go get some of that fruit. I'm starving.”