by Nunn, PL
As if she sensed the sudden stiffening of Yhalen’s back, the curling of his fingers in the cloth of his trousers, the lady turned her eyes to him. “And you, have you been taking proper care of master Bloodraven’s needs?”
“He’s not my master,” he ground out and regretted it the moment the lady’s eyes narrowed, flashing briefly with something akin to malice.
She moved towards the pallet and her guards finally protested, their nerves stretched to the breaking point by her boldness. She lifted a hand and snapped at them, warning them back from her.
They reluctantly complied, keeping their weapons and eyes glued to Bloodraven while she daintily crouched next to Yhalen. Her dark eyes caught his gaze and held it in a vise-like grip. There was something in her eyes that was old and arcane, and he thought that this was a woman not to be trifled with.
“But he is,” she said softly. “The brand on your back marks you clearly enough—is that not so, master Bloodraven?”
Bloodraven said nothing, lashes hiding all but thin slits of his golden eyes.
“And it was part of our bargain that he wanted you in return for his cooperation—and I can see why he’d covet you, truly, I can. A woman might find herself jealous of a young man with such a lovely face and such pretty, pretty hair.”
She pushed the hair back from his brow, tucking thick strands of it behind his ear. Yhalen held himself rigidly still while she did it, caught in the snare of her eyes. He thought he heard the vague whisper of speech in the distance, a singsong chant of old and older words.
“You’ll do your duty,” she whispered close to his ear, so softly that her guards couldn’t have heard.
“Or I’ll make it known what you did to those guards. How you stole from them to heal him who is responsible for the taking of so many innocent lives. They’ll stone you in the courtyard or tear you to pieces in a mob frenzy, all those huddled, frightened peasants outside our gates.”
The words she spoke were almost drowned out by the sibilant chant on the other side of his awareness. He’d perceived such a chant before, but never one infused with so much shadow, never one that seemed directed at him personally and seemed to deaden and numb intrinsic instincts. A witch, he thought. She was a witch who trafficked with darker spirits than those that danced in the dappled light of the forest under the guidance of the great Goddess Mother.
A man without the gift might never have been aware of it, of the workings of a witch, or of her invocations to bend a will to her own. Yhalen had the gift, though, and he felt it and heard it. Panicked, he wished the voices out of his head and her hands off of his hair. He didn’t know exactly what charm she was attempting, but he knew without a doubt that she was attempting something. If anyone else noticed anything amiss, they made no mention of it.
Out. Out. Out.
Her eyes widened and her fingers tightened in his hair, nails grazing his neck. He felt a slow trickle of blood, but the voices receded, the chant fading abruptly. The lady Duvera swallowed, some small bit of sweat coating her brow, and sat back. She held out a hand and one of her guards hurried forward to help her to her feet.
“Well,” she said, smoothing her skirts, “You’ve a fine dinner waiting. I’ll see what I can do, master Bloodraven, about your bath.”
She didn’t look at Yhalen again, as she turned on her heel and gracefully swept out of the room. The servants waiting in the hall with their dinner entered with much less aplomb, hastily setting the trays on the table and scurrying back out under the watchful eye of the guard.
When the door was finally shut, Yhalen found breath came easy again. He lifted a trembling hand to the back of his neck and fingertips came away smeared with blood. He stared at it numbly until large fingers encircled his wrist and Bloodraven pulled his hand away, looking at the blood himself.
“What did she do to you?”
“Nothing. Nothing,” Yhalen said, shaken, though at heart, he wasn’t so certain.
Bloodraven pulled and Yhalen had no choice but to shift towards him, using his free arm to catch himself. He lowered his head as Bloodraven lifted his braid to see the no doubt crescent-shaped wound on his neck. His rough fingers brushed the tender skin at Yhalen’s nape and he shivered. More than shivered—it was as if the touch sent spirals of sensation down the length of his body. He moaned, vision going dark around the edges, and leaned in towards the support of Bloodraven’s body.
Heat sliced out like a weapon where he touched, and Bloodraven’s hands when they moved to his back and shoulders to steady him, were like imprints of fire. The fire didn’t hurt, though, didn’t bring unbearable agony, but instead unbearable need. His pants tightened around his swelling cock, and the close fit of the fabric brought tears to his eyes. His nipples pimpled and hardened, singing with sensation from the mere brush of his tunic.
“That…bitch,” he gasped, “Bitchbitchbitch….”
“What did she do?” Bloodraven grasped his chin, forcing him to look up, but it was hard to focus.
Perhaps if he’d not been so weak from Bloodraven’s healing, he might have been able to shake her off sooner, or even to sense her invocation sooner. He’d never, ever let his guard down around her again, that was most certain, but for the moment—Goddess, but he couldn’t stop the spread of heat through his body or the utterly overwhelming need for relief.
He reared up, pressing hard against Bloodraven’s chest, pressing his mouth against the halfling’s in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. He ground his trapped erection against Bloodraven’s stomach and large hands hesitated only a moment before sliding down his back to grasp his buttocks, lifting him up and kneading him, squeezing him through the thin fabric of his trousers. Bloodraven’s large tongue plunged into his mouth and his teeth pulled on Yhalen’s lips—sucking, tasting, and biting.
“Please…please…please…,” gasped Yhalen.
Coherent speech had deserted him, and all that was left was blind need. His back hit the pallet with Bloodraven’s weight hovering above, Bloodraven’s mouth moving down his jaw to his throat, Bloodraven’s hands ripping the fragile cloth of his tunic to bare his chest. Teeth and mouth and tongue found a hardened nipple and the pain-pleasure of it made Yhalen arch his back and cry out.
Bloodraven must have recalled the last time he’d given Yhalen’s teats his full attention and hurt him, because his ministrations were gentle enough to drive Yhalen mad with frustration.
“Harder…please….”
Bloodraven hesitated a moment, lifting his head, a furrow between his brows, but Yhalen snaked a hand down between them and found the huge bulge of Bloodraven’s cock straining behind the lacings of his trousers. Bloodraven’s hesitation evaporated, his mouth finding the unattended nipple while big fingers pulled and twisted at the swollen, moist nub he’d just been at.
Yhalen wrapped his legs around Bloodraven’s waist, driving their groins together, and that was that. Bloodraven growled and pushed himself up, grasping Yhalen’s legs and flipping him over, then pulling his trousers down with one yank, baring all of Yhalen’s back. His fingers brushed across his mark on the small of Yhalen’s back before fastening on the globes of Yhalen’s buttocks. He fondled the firmness of rounded flesh like a man might a woman’s breasts for a moment.
“Stay,” he growled and rose swiftly, shucking off his trousers before fumbling on the table through the stoppered vials, until he found an ointment for wounds that would prove an efficient lubricant. He was back in an instant, spreading Yhalen’s thighs wide enough to allow him to kneel between them. He slid fingers slick with ointment between Yhalen’s cleft, and Yhalen moaned like a whore, sliding back so that his chest was close to his knees, his rear raised invitingly to the half man behind him. He reached for his straining, begging cock—but Bloodraven caught his hands and pulled them up behind his back, holding them in place easily enough.
“No. That’s for me to do,” he said, voice a low growl. His other hand slid between Yhalen’s buttocks, finger sliding inside ea
sily enough and twisting and curling, finding that spot that made Yhalen moan and gasp and push back eagerly. Another finger slick with ointment, and the pain was both brief and welcomed. Bloodraven took his time about it, loosening and stretching with a scissoring of big fingers, bending over Yhalen’s back as he worked to place his lips on the brand, then leaning further and licking the blood from the nape of Yhalen’s neck.
When he finally removed them and positioned the fat head of his cock at Yhalen’s loosened hole, Yhalen was panting and covered with a sheen of light sweat. His mind was a swirl of incoherent sensations that had no room for thought as he pressed eagerly back.
The entry of the slick head brought minimal pain, but the swollen flare of the shaft that never seemed to stop on its slow, inevitable entry strained muscle and flesh to the tearing point. He clenched around it as much as a body could clench around something so large invading his body. Bloodraven paused, not fully seated yet, and let Yhalen adjust. He released his arms and wrapping an arm about Yhalen’s waist, pulling him up almost off his knees while the other hand encircled Yhalen’s dripping cock like a huge glove heated by the hearth.
Yhalen cried out in pleasure, relaxing—accepting, and Bloodraven drove home, cock head twisting around the bend of Yhalen’s lower intestine and finding a comfortable home in his guts. Yhalen whimpered and moaned, rotating his hips to garner more of the sensation that the charm demanded he crave.
Bloodraven gasped, shuddering at the clenching, twisting movement. Yhalen rotated his hips again, a slow desperate grind, marveling at the feel of all that flesh stretching, filling, invading his body. He was well familiar with the feel of a man’s shaft filling his cavity, but no man he’d ever slept with had delved far beyond that, venturing up into the untraveled territory of his bowels and the sensation was strange and thrilling and humbling.
He reached back and stroked Bloodraven’s arm, feeling fine hairs over smooth skin so very keenly.
Bloodraven began moving, beginning that slow, steady rhythm that Yhalen knew he could maintain for inhuman lengths of time. He moaned, crying out each time Bloodraven almost pulled out only to ram back in. Each aborted short stroke was meant to graze that most sensitive spot inside Yhalen, and each long smooth thrust traveled to the deepest depths of him.
And Yhalen moved his hips and clenched his muscles and did all the things he might have done for an Ydregi lover, and perhaps because of that, Bloodraven’s stamina faltered. He came in great jerking spasms that filled first Yhalen’s bowels with searing semen, then covered his back and buttocks as Bloodraven pulled out. Bloodraven’s hand tightened on Yhalen’s cock, pumping with fevered intensity, and Yhalen spurted on the pallet, though not nearly so much as Bloodraven.
Sated, the need suddenly poured out of him, and with it what little energy he’d had upon waking.
He went limp and lax, with not even the strength to lift a hand to brush sweat-dampened hair from his eyes. The place that Bloodraven had left, throbbed, and the channel inside him felt gaping and empty despite the cooling semen that leaked out between his legs. He felt the presence of Bloodraven leaning over him, breathing hard from exertion, felt the shift in the pallet as he moved over Yhalen. Heard the scrape of the bucket as Bloodraven dragged it over, then the cool feel of wet cloth against his skin as the residue of sex was washed off. Bloodraven, as always, was thorough about such things.
He was also, as Yhalen had discovered, fascinated by the changes his entry had wrought upon Yhalen’s body—by the swollen looseness of his hole and the marks of Bloodraven’s fingers on his hips.
He placed his mouth upon the swell of Yhalen’s buttock, and then parted the flesh, fingers pulling the gasping hole of his rectum wide enough so that cool air touched the shadowy walls of his insides.
Bloodraven’s tongue followed, easily bypassing the ring of lax muscle, flickering upon the inside walls of his channel and sucking at the puckered mouth of his hole.
Yhalen whimpered, infused with a weary little stab of pleasure. Bloodraven withdrew and left a little chill behind him with the departure of his warm mouth. He turned Yhalen onto his back, spread his legs to either side and pulled his lower body up onto his lap. He bent down and engulfed Yhalen’s limp cock in his mouth—sucked it in balls and all, and Yhalen’s vision went black with the feeling.
Bloodraven grasped his buttocks, lifting Yhalen’s lower body so that only his shoulders touched the pallet, and devoured him, licking and sucking as he cleansed Yhalen of his own smeared semen.
Yhalen gasped, heart thumping like a caged beast in his breast as his cock came back to life, though he hadn’t a notion of where it found the strength to do so. It was short lived, though, finding release in a minute or less. Bloodraven seemed pleased, however, and caught him up with a hand behind his head before moving both of them to a dry spot where he settled, Yhalen cradled at his side.
Yhalen drifted, helpless in the arms of exhaustion, his mind still jumbled and fuzzy. In the very back of his mind, he could still hear echoes of the lady’s chant. Bloodraven had not been the rapist in this.
She had, as surely as if she’d violated him herself.
He might have slept. Was sure he had when he woke and Bloodraven’s warmth wasn’t beside him.
The halfling sat, dressed in trousers again at the edge of the pallet, leaning over the tray of cold dinner.
Cold or not, it didn’t matter. Yhalen’s stomach was screaming protest. He must not have slept long, for a good portion of the food on the platter remained. There was a jug of watered wine and Bloodraven offered him a half full mug of it. Yhalen hesitated a moment before taking it, and gulped it when he did, spilling wine down his chin and chest. Ah, he was naked. He flushed with embarrassment and caught sight of his trousers. Getting them on was no easy task, with his legs as watery and weak as if he’d run ten miles. His rear held the familiar soreness of being well and truly used. Bloodraven watched his endeavor without comment, a hunk of crusty bread held in his fingers, a faint expression of satisfaction on his face.
That look struck a chord of annoyance with Yhalen. That arrogant woman had cast a charm on him, and a wicked one at that, and he’d fallen prey like the densest of fools. He snatched the portion of the bread that Bloodraven had not eaten and tore a hunk off, chewing furiously. His mother wasn’t a charm caster, but his grandfather was—as were a few other of the Ydregi gifted with the blessing of the Goddess. Of course, charming a person against their will, was as frowned upon as say, for instance, draining the forest of its vitality or stealing the life force from a person. Ydregi charms were used to help. A man might desire one to overcome his fear of something or to help break a bad habit—they were not used to garner unwilling sex.
Bloodraven pushed the platter towards him. There was a good piece of meat left, and vegetables softened and stained by the pork juices and spices. Bloodraven was methodically sucking grease off his fingers.
The pork was very good. Tender and seasoned. Yhalen chewed and simmered, wondering how he was going to go about avoiding falling prey to Lady Duvera’s invocations again. He’d heard too much of it, he thought, recalling that whisper in his mind that a person without the gift would never have noticed. He’d been too exhausted and off his balance to catch the scent of it sooner, or he might have cast her out like he’d done at the end of her chant. That had obviously been far too late to do him much good.
“Good meat,” Bloodraven observed, having finished grooming himself of pork grease.
“Oh, shut up,” Yhalen snapped, hardly considering short ogrish tempers or prickly ogrish pride.
Bloodraven lifted a dark brow, frowning, looking very much perturbed by the suddenness of Yhalen’s temper.
“Oh, by the Goddess, she charmed me, you idiot!”
Bloodraven continued to stare.
“You don’t think I was so desperate for your attentions suddenly that I could hardly wait till she was out of the room? It was a spell. Didn’t you have a notion?”
&
nbsp; Brows furrowed and black-fringed eyes narrowed. “Mind your tongue with me, or I’ll take you across my knee to teach proper manners. You seemed honest in your enthusiasm.”
Yhalen slapped the pallet in frustration. “You called me a witch, but she’s one in fact and she cast a charm on me to make me…do what I did. It was no want of mine.”
“You seemed to enjoy it.”
“I didn’t….”
Yhalen trailed off, realizing that for a blatant mistruth. He’d gotten intense pleasure out of the act, almost more than he’d been able to bear—but he was uncertain if that had been the charm telling him he wanted it, or his body in truth responding to Bloodraven’s attentions.
“That’s not the point.” He dropped his head into his hands, cheeks flaming, so very acutely aware of the soreness in his backside and the sensitivity that still stung his nipples.
“Why did she not place some spell on me, then, to force my cooperation?”
“I don’t know,” Yhalen admitted. “Perhaps you’re not so easy to spell, being only half human. How should I know, not having studied the practice?”
“Easy enough to heal, though, eh?” Bloodraven said dryly.
“It’s not the same thing,” Yhalen snapped.
Bloodraven sat and pondered and finally asked, “Is it gone, this spell?”
Yhalen blinked, lifting his head, not having considered the lasting effects of the lady’s charm, only bemoaning the initial reaction. How did one know, save from not losing all reason and falling upon Bloodraven in a desperate passion? He didn’t hear the tiny whisper in his head urging him on, so perhaps the spell had dissipated after passion had spent itself.
“I don’t know,” he admitted in a small voice. “I think so.”
“Shall we see?”