The dark lady Morgaine rested back on her satin bed, her long milky legs swinging out to rest on the male attendant’s seated lap. He--what was his name again? Brent? Craig, maybe--barely managed to keep his posture straight, especially when her stocking-clad feet began to caress and prod at the growing bulge in his pants. I could see his eyes, wide with awe, trace the whole way up her long legs to a skirt that was decidedly too short. She smirked as she caught his gaze’s direction, and one slender hand picked up a fold to expose a soft thigh, a glimpse of lace, perhaps something wet... but before much of a greedy stare could be leveled at the space between her hips the cloth came fluttering down. “Ah-ah-ah, not just yet. You have to earn it, remember?” She stepped harder on the man’s groin as if to punish him for his transgression. I winced in sympathy, but from the mixed groan he gave in response I didn’t think he minded all that much. She poured herself a glass of mulled wine from the decanter by the table and sighed pleasantly. A quick glance justified the content expression on her face--his hands, rough but not calloused, were beginning to slide along her legs and it wasn’t long before his lips and tongue joined in. I couldn’t imagine the cloth tasted all that good, but who was I to say?
This continued for several minutes as she finished off the bottle of wine, a healthy red glow suffusing her features by the final cup. His kisses had grown more wet, more greedy, and by the low candlelight in the tower room several marks on her once-pristine stockings were visible. Her breathing was a little ragged by this point and finally she seemed to be able to withstand no more. Scooting back along the bed, she lay back with a soft thump. She still had enough composure to spread her legs with a degree of slowness, but open they did, praise the gods. The fabric between her legs parted and grew taut like a stage’s curtain before the skirt finally concealed nothing at all. The attendant at the edge of the bed gasped lightly, and I couldn’t help a low whistle (too quietly to be heard, of course); though her mound wasn’t hairless it seemed the duchess had taken it upon herself to do a little bit of trimming. Any reverent silence was broken by the sharp retort of flesh against flesh, however: the man fell back from the lady Morgaine’s kick and wiped at his bloodied lip. “Arrogant cur,” she snarled in a clear and controlled voice. “Your duty is not to look... but to lick.” That was what this attendant was for, I’d learned after some careful research: a gift from a neighboring duchy intended for mindless pleasure. Likely he didn’t enjoy the arrangement too much, but that was the way of the world. Some people get trod on and others get to walk.
The small bit of trepidation I’d had at hearing her collected tone dissipated as she lay back again, offering her attendant a second chance. The man seemed to be pleased as well; he leaned in almost too quick--earning a quick pinch from her thighs--but set to his task well enough. He seemed to know what he was doing, too, given the gasps and moans emanating from the noble lady’s mouth. These encouraging sounds gradually grew in fervor until they were fever-pitched screams and writhing underneath his talented mouth and tongue. He risked a curious glance up and got shoved right back down for his trouble, though her grip slackened immediately. “More,” she begged: “I want more!” Her hand fumbled along the bedspread until it found his chest and tried to move downward. In shock the attendant hesitated, but only for a second’s time. Then in a rush he pressed forward and she found his engorged member. Seeing her slender fingers pumping madly up and down his shaft gave me a bit of a rise, but the effect was much more profound on the man. He grunted and growled, shoving the Duchess into the bed as he sloppily positioned himself at her entrance. I could guess what was going on in his head--was this some sort of joke? Would his sadistic mistress spring up and chide him, have one head or the other decapitated? But as he grew closer and closer to the actual act without any negative reaction (much the reverse, in fact) he began to realize his lifetime’s chance. With a shudder he pressed inward and was rewarded with a pleasure-filled cry as he finally penetrated her.
Now, let’s stop here for a moment. Zip or tie up your pants, men. Ladies, if any of you are reading this, pat down your gowns and unruffle your garments. This is not that kind of book. I know if you stumbled upon this--and got this far!--you’ve probably encountered something of an erotic nature in the past. However, let me repeat: this is not that kind of book. I don’t have the experience to write it, for one thing. I just have my own experiences to draw from and as of now that includes absolutely no sex. I can’t imagine writing a voyeuristic text either; watching people doesn’t really get me off unless I’m in on the action and I hear you’re supposed to have your own drawers down while writing a dirty book, if you catch my drift. No, this is more supposed to be a book about my own life and as such it’s not solely about sex... though I gotta admit the two intersect closely quite a bit. No “Sex in the Tavern” or “Dragon’s Delights,” though. It’d be more appropriate to call this book “The Adventures of the Blueballed Thief,” though I don’t like the sense of futility in that title. If I had to call it something I might just call it after my name, plain and simple: Carver Clearbrook’s story. See that? A flawless way to work my own name into the story. That’s some real writer’s craft for you.
Anyway, I am not a voyeur and I had perfectly good reasons to be in the Duchess’ rooms at exactly this moment. That wine, if she’d bothered to smell it, had a light bouquet of rose--something completely out of place to the normal aroma of the wine. I should know; I was the one to put the aphrodisiac in it not two hours previously and the waiting had paid off. Crouching in the Duchess’ closet was no enjoyable task but I sucked it up for the greater good. Now my time was near and I rose slowly, peeking out of the closet slit to fix my eyes upon my prize. On the bedside table was a very shiny, very nondescript crystal ball perched atop a satin stand. I had it on very good authority (the authority of the Thieves Guild’s personal informants, the former of which were my gainful employers) that this crystal was no ordinary artifact. At least, that’s what I assumed; I didn’t really care what the ball did as long as I got paid. That was my current job, an unusually high-risk and high-reward one at that: take this little gem and escape safely. Only problem was the Duchess Morgaine had a very powerful set of enchantments attached to pretty much everything in her rooms. Touch the wrong thing while she wasn’t there and... well, it’s not the method I’d choose to become celibate but I hear it’s popular among some monks.
Now if you’re a cunning opportunist like me, you caught right on to that stipulation: when she’s not there. That’s the thing about spells, see--most of them are quite touchy so intelligent wizards keep a back door around. Morgaine’s back door (not the one currently being teased amid shrieks of pleasure, the other kind) was that she had to dispel the enchantment as soon as she entered her room. And true to her wards, she’d done just that 15 minutes ago. Now, lost in the throes of pleasure, she’d be unaware if I silently came and went. I stood fully and pushed the closet doors open enough for my thin body to squeeze through, mentally breathing a sigh of relief when no sound came from the well-oiled hinges. I crept quietly to the bedside and grabbed hold of the ball, sneaking a quick glance at the two entwined lovers on the bedspread. He was pumping in and out of her in abandon, eyes glazed. I could see more than pleasure in hers, though: there was a deeply buried sense that something was going wrong, that she’d never intended this at the night’s onset and wouldn’t have considered it without my own dose of liquid courage. Pleasure won out, however, and her rational mind was lost deep indeed.
Humming silently to myself, I made my way to the window and turned back for a fraction of a second, just enough to make sure I was safe. My eye was drawn unerringly to a single candlestick, slowly dripping wax below its guttering flame. Now, I don’t like candles and never have. The ambiance is nice, true, but they’re messy and costly. If you’re a mage, go for it: it’s part of your vibe, I get that. But if you want to bed a girl just toss some flowers at her instead. Not that it’s ever worked for me, I mean, but just no candles. There was another problem with candles I was quickly reminded of as an especially hard thrust slammed the Duchess into the bed, too: fire. The unstable candle shivered, tottered, cracked, and fell with a ponderous twist onto the very edge of the bedspread. Almost instantly a fire sprung from the cloth and startled the embraced mistress and servant--the shock burning the haze from lady Morgaine’s mind. Mesmerized by the caravanwreck unfolding before my eyes, I took just too long to make good my escape... and at a single eldritch word, I found myself unable to move at all. I turned slowly and against my will, only to be met with a very flushed Duchess dressed all in tatters. She did not look pleased. More gestures and arcane words brought my clothes sliding to the floor as I stood tall. She eyed my erection with mild interest, perhaps comparing it to the one that’d just been inside her. I don’t know how I size up, but I figure I’m alright. That’s what I’ve been told, at least.
She seemed to think it was amiable enough: with a saunter that seductive noble came up to me and placed her long fingers on my chest. They raked down and caught hold of my cock, squeezing fiercely. I groaned--seemed my tongue wasn’t bound the way my body was--and futilely tried to struggle. In a sultry, coaxing voice she whispered sweet nothings in my ear while taking careful note of my face. If she could memorize my features at all it was certain there’d be posters up in mere hours. Sliding her hand along my member she drew another groan from me before sliding up real close. I could feel her wet pussy sliding against the length of my dick as she pressed it between her legs, daring me to tilt just a little bit upwards. Gods know I wanted to, but the spell held me fast. She nibbled gently on my earlobe and caressed my hand with hers, one finger tracing the crystal ball but not pulling it free. Not yet, not until I was completely under her spell. And honestly, I was pretty close to that point already--if she’d have told me to dance a jig I might have if she gave me a stay in her “regal chambers” afterwards. She gasped a little as the teasing grabbed hold of those last bits of aphrodisiac and she slid off partway. Her cruel lips curved in a sadistic smile and she grabbed hold of my pulsing cock before pressing it at her sopping hole. “I’ve never laid a voyeur before,” she whispered in my ear as her other hand reached for the crystal ball. I gasped as she pressed in, my cock almost ready to blow already. Just a little more, and I’d...
Castles, when not properly enchanted or when they’re simply too old, begin to fall apart. Certain termites like to munch on stone, or so I’ve heard. Sometimes the combined weight of two people about to become one--aw, who am I kidding. You could come up with lots of mundane explanations for why the floor beneath my naked heels caved in, but none would sound very realistic. You can simply call it luck, if you like. Me, I’ll call it a fucking curse.
Perhaps some backstory would be helpful. I, as a young lad, had romantic intentions upon a girl who lived near the village I grew up in. Okay, maybe romantic is the wrong word, but I certainly wanted to bone her. Hard. She had one of those cherry asses and a sweet face to match, as well as the biggest pair of... well, you get the point: she was a knockout. Anyway, for some reason she thought I was pretty charming myself and things were beginning to get pretty hot and heavy between us. She’d been cooped up her whole life, see, and I was something interesting and pleasurable to experiment and flaunt her dad’s authority with. Not to say I minded; at that point I was just trying to get my dick in something moving and preferably humanoid. Normally this sort of story would have a happy--or at least humorous--ending, but there were several key details I didn’t mention. Namely, she spent her time cooped up in a castle. Run by a lord. Who was as powerful a sorcerer as he was protective of his daughter. We picked the wrong time for a rendezvous and, well, he ended up walking in on the deed. Allow me to reiterate: VERY powerful wizard. So though it’s a shock he didn’t kill me outright, the fact I’m now cursed isn’t all that surprising.
I’m told it’s a very complex curse, too. First place I tried to get it removed just laughed at me. Second place it drove a man insane. At the third shop they wouldn’t even let me in. It took me about a year of searching before I found a place that would even begin to help me, and they were stumped at how I’d managed such a predicament. They couldn’t remove it but they told me some details, most of which I’d already figured: it was a powerful hex (check), nearly impossible to remove (check), kept me from achieving orgasm (FUCKING CHECK), and was somehow divinely ordained. That last part was certainly news to me, but didn’t end up as that huge a surprise considering the specifics. See, it wasn’t enough for that goddamn wizard to make me unable to cum, he actually made it so that, whatever happens, I never get a chance to finish. How would you like that? Masturbating? Someone walks in on you no matter where you are. Getting sucked off? No such luck: she gets startled and bites. Handjob? Roving bandits attack. Fucking a girl? No can do--something always happens. It’s never quite the same thing twice, either, so it’s not only impossible to predict but impossible to evade. If one contingency doesn’t work, the next thousand will. And in a country as sex-crazed as Lutetia, you’re hard-pressed not to be pressed hard all the time. At least, that’s what I see: people all around are just fucking all the time though I never seemed to quite catch the knack of it. Something about the magical chastity belt, no doubt.
Anyway, I bet you’d want to get that belt off yourself. Well, too bad! If it’s divinely powered then you have to jump through even more hoops to get it dispelled. The best quotation I’ve got so far is upwards of 5,000 gold pieces (five thousand! You could buy a duchy with that!) and so, grudgingly, I’m saving my coppers for that glorious moment I can get some release.
Problem was, nothing's ever that easy.
And more to come.