Chapter Text
Archons above, give me strength and resilience, give me flexibility and courage, and let me not disappoint.
You came as prepared as you possibly could be. You stretched before bed and when you got up this morning. You brought the nicest pair of underwear you own - it’s black and only slightly tatty - and you have a letter drafted to send your foreman in case you need to call in sick. It was hard to get to sleep the night before, but you are awake, have eaten, and brought a few things that you can soak in the bathwater with you when you bathe. Now, as you hop in the sleigh, you just hope that you don’t look completely and utterly out of your element.
The sleigh driver reaches back and pats your shoulder. “Breathe, comrade.”
Shit. You pointedly take a deep breath. “Do I look that nervous?”
“Just a little,” he says with a smile. “Though it is not the first time I have seen it.”
Right. Another slow, deep breath. “I am just hoping not to make a fool of myself. I’ve just built it up in my head and I don’t know how much of it is fantasy.”
“You will have to see then,” he shrugs and turns back to the reins. “Would it help if I distracted you?”
“ Please.”
After a long discussion about his family’s farm and the kinds of animals that roam his lands, the sleigh finally pulls up to the Estate. As soon as you see the gates before you, the anticipation reaches in and twists your stomach into knots. There is no chance of turning back now. Not that you are going to, not that you actually think you would, but…the lack of the option to do so is nerve wracking. Still, you steel your fraying nerves and climb out of the sleigh with a nod to the driver. “Wish me luck.”
He gives you a sloppy salute in farewell. “Good luck, comrade. I will be back to take you home.”
Well, at least you’ll have a familiar face after whatever happens. You wave goodbye as the sleigh drives off again and you turn to face the front door. Of course, it opens before you can can raise your hand to the knocker. Anton stands at the other side, hands clasped behind him, and he bows. “Welcome, comrade.”
“Hello, Anton,” you bow in return as the door shuts behind you, hoping that you don’t look as nervous as you did in front of the driver. “Where are we headed?”
“To the bathing chambers in the East Wing. A room has been prepared for you.” He begins to lead you, as he always has, and you follow behind him. “And a washbasin for clothes, as I expected you might take advantage of hot water and soap.”
“You’re getting to know me so well,” you tease back, pulling out your small bag of clothes. “I won’t take too long.”
“I would advise you not to. Lord Pantalone is…waiting for you.” Impatient, you think Anton meant to say, but he smiles instead, a little quirk of his mouth.
“...any last minute advice?”
“I have left a box of recommended supplies for you to use for safety. Please use them.”
You can’t ask any more questions for how intense you are blushing. You’re pretty sure anything you say would come out as a squeak anyway. Instead, you just follow Anton down familiar hallways until he stops in front of a door you have not approached yet. He opens it without comment, showing you the bathroom. He adds, “When you are done, please take the robe on the door, dress as you see fit, and you will go to the room at the end of the hall with the silver door. Lord Pantalone will be there waiting for you.”
“Thank you,” you manage to say, distracted by the fact that the bathtub is absolutely massive. You set your bag of clothes down on a nearby table and as soon as the door swings shut behind you, you start stripping out of your dirty clothes. There is a little washbasin to the side, as Anton said, and you quickly throw all of your clothes in it to soak before climbing into the steaming water. You allow yourself a few moments to just soak in it, enjoying how good it feels. There aren’t any extra minerals in the water, only soap and a touch of some kind of oil that smells like incense. This will, in fact, be the cleanest you will ever be in your life, and you had best take advantage of it.
You’re pretty sure a rich man won’t climb into the bath with you out of anticipation - the water is dirty - but you still bathe as quickly as you can. You scrub your hair three times with the provided shampoo to get it clean. You dirty half of the provided washcloths as you rub soap in every single crevice of your body - how is there stuff in your belly button again - and do it once more for good measure. You wash under your nails, you clean your ears, you even grab the oil and give the hair by your bits one last rub for a pleasant scent. The water is nearly brown when you get out of it. It’s bloody cold after climbing out of the hot water as you shiver your way to the towels, but the fluffy towels make up for it. You wash your clothes in the basin and hang them up to dry on a nearby clothesline (thank you Anton) before you try to push your towel-dried hair into something remotely pleasing to the eye. It’s hard to come up with something. Anything is going to get ruined shortly, but you might as well do something. Then on goes your best underwear: black with slightly frayed edges, but well cut to show off your arse. Robe on top, collar pulled open to reveal the healing mark on your neck, deep breath…
And out you go down the hallway.
There is no one else around as you pad your way down the hallway, barefoot. Only the faint echo of your steps as you make your way to the aforementioned door. From a distance, you wouldn’t have been able to tell that this door was different. Up close, however, you can see that the markings on the door are not of iron, but of shining silver. There is another unsettling realization as you look at this door. This is down the hall from where you were working. This is where you heard Lord Pantalone when he was engaged with other people. This is his room, and you are about to become another notch on his bedpost. Your hand hovers over the door, fingers shaking, and you breathe in slowly. You’ve got this. You will not disappoint him. And you are about to be fucked within an inch of your life. Just be honest, be eager, clench your muscles, and be ready to be absolutely wrecked.
With that, you knock a few times on the door and at a familiar low voice calling “Come in,”, you walk into the room.
You’re not sure where to look first. Do you look at the ornate canopy bed, draped with dark red curtains, red blankets and white sheets, with leather cuffs and ropes attached to the bedposts? Or to the box beside the door, with a small bottle of oil, intestine casings for condoms, bandages, ointment, and lotion, as procured by Anton? Or, more importantly, do you look at Lord Pantalone, sitting at a desk across from the bed, dressed down in a shirt and trousers, his long hair tied back in a high ponytail, expression still as he writes something down? Or is your head simply on a swivel, trying to take everything in, desperate not to miss anything? Probably the latter as you close the door behind you, hands clasped in front of you. “Good day, my lord.”
“Good day, little labourer,” he says without raising his gaze from the paper. “You are clean?”
“Yes, my lord,” you resist the urge to twirl around and show him. You do sniff your skin. “The oils in the bath were lovely.”
“Sandalwood, from Liyue,” he replies, writing a few more things down. “Have you inspected Anton’s box?”
“A little, my lord. I would be grateful to use the…condoms.” Why the word trips you up, you’re not sure.
“Good. It is something I insist upon,” he makes another tick. “And what is your safe word?”
“My safe word, my lord?” You pause.
“Something in case you are too overwhelmed to use the word ‘stop’,” if you aren’t imagining things, his voice is teasing, even if his face is not. “Which you very well may be, if I have my way.”
Fuck me running. You think hard for a moment. It would be too blasphemous to say anything in relation to the Archons or the Tsaritsa, but there might be something…OH. “Turnip, my lord,” you offer.
He stops writing for a moment before chuckling. “Turnip it is.” With that, he ticks off one last thing, pushes the paper to the side, and rises to his feet. “Center of the room, in front of the bed.”
You rush over to comply, standing with your hands loose at your sides, chin raised slightly. A double benefit - it lets you meet his eye and it shows off the mark on your neck. For his part, he begins rolling up his sleeves, folding the cuffs neatly until they rest above his elbow, and turns to look at you. His eyes follow the path you expect, from top to bottom, taking in the view of you in the soft robe, and then stopping again at your neck. The mark is almost gone now, just a faint rosyness and the cuts of his teeth, but it’s enough. He reaches over, ungloved fingers tracing the mark, and he lets out a little hum of satisfaction. “Good.”
The praise warms you from head to toe, and you smile in satisfaction.
“Now, tell me, little one,” oh, and isn’t that different, the pet name, “how do you like it? Soft, or rough?”
“Whatever my lord pleases,” you manage, “but…”
“But?” He’s smiling again, that slightly cruel smile, eyes sharp like a magpie who has claimed his prize.
You are certain that he can see your blush all the way down to your chest. “How you were in the hallway,” you manage. “With your words and teeth. I…I liked that.”
He chuckles. “So the little labourer likes to feel used and less than?” His hand slides up from your neck to cup your cheek. “That is what I intended to do to you, so I am most pleased to hear you have anticipated me.”
Again, the praise in that cruel tone makes you warm. “Thank you, my lord.”
“And about that, my lord is a little long for today,” he leans forward to whisper in your ear. “You will call me Sir. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The others had called him ‘my lord’. You heard that. You definitely heard that through the wall. This change was…not expected.
“Good.” He nips at your jaw, making your breath catch, and leans back. “Now, drop the robe. Let me see what you offered me. If it’s worth it, anyway.”
Right into it. You raise your hands slowly to undo the robe’s sash, letting it slide off your shoulders onto the floor. After a moment, you kneel down to pick it up, folding the fluffy dark fabric and setting it to the side. When you stand back up again, Lord Pantalone is surveying you. “Hm.” He raises a finger for you to spin, and you do so. His hand slides down your back, feeling the skin there, and draws back to slap at your arse. You gasp at the sharp sting and he laughs, low and cold, before slapping a couple more times, as if he’s watching the skin ripple. “I suppose this will have to do.”
You swallow. Oh. That is how it’s going to be. You start to turn around when his hand stops you, keeping your back to him. “No. Forward to the bed and bend over like a good little whore.” There are definitely going to be bruises in your shins with how fast you run forward to the bed. Slowly, you bend over at the waist, pressing your face into the mattress, arms spread a little for support and your ass in the air. You can hear his feet on the carpet as he walks forward, standing behind you. This time, the hand on your back is not gentle. No, this time he presses you down into the blankets, his hand splaying across your back. “You do take direction well. Good.”
What expression is he making, you wonder? Is he disinterested and bored, as he has looked before? Or is he showing that same hidden hunger as you watched before, his eyes dark as he takes you in? Your fingers curl into the blankets, not sure what to do, and it takes all of the restraint you have to hold still, to not grind against the edge of the bed for whatever scrap of friction you have. Instead, you just whine.
“Yes?” He asks, although he doesn’t give you space for a true answer. “Is the little slut desperate for something?”
You nod against the blankets, but have just enough sense not to answer out loud.
“Well, what is it? Speak up, I don’t have all day,” he reaches forward, curling his fingers into your hair, and drags your head up from the fabric. “Come on now.”
Again, there it is, just the right amount of pain to make you moan, and your fingernails scrape against the blankets. What do you want? How can you say it?
“More.” You whine, the word dragged out in desperation. “Whatever you want, but please, just more.”
Lord Pantalone inhales through his nose. “You even beg like a whore. And here I thought you were a miner.” He tugs once on your hair, just enough to give you direction, and you push yourself off of the bed to stand up again. “Whatever I want?”
You nod, desire and a full understanding of what this day will bring driving you. “Whatever you want, sir. Please, sir.”
Another one of those short inhales and he turns the two of you around. He sits down on the bed, legs splayed open, and lifts his head up slightly to look down his nose at you. The candlelight catches on the lenses of his glasses, making them shine, and he says, “Well? Are you too slow to catch on?”
Your body and brain catch on at the same time. As your eyes drag down the line of his body, taking in the muscle you can see behind the thin shirt and trousers (and, of course, the slowly filling bulge at his groin), your knees give. The carpet is just thick enough that you don’t bruise your knees on landing, but there you are, kneeling between his legs, shifting forward so your mouth is just above it. “Do you want me naked, sir?” You ask quietly.
“No, not yet,” he replies, resting a hand lazily on his thigh. “But…once you open the buttons, I want your hands on your thighs. Labour once more.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” You raise your slightly shaking hands up to the buttons at his trousers. There are so many, probably for some fashion statement, and you start to undo them, one after another. Each time you undo one, you find yourself looking up at Lord Pantalone, trying to see if there’s any reaction from him. Each time, his expression is steady, but you can see that he is not taking his eyes off of you. Not when you undo the last button, not when you shift his trousers down so that you can get a better entry point, and not when your hands rest on your thighs, as requested.
“Satisfactory.” He adjusts a little further, lifting his hips, and you watch him draw out- holy mother of Archons that’s huge. Your eyes widen, staring at the length of him (and the girth, fuck, you are going to break), and he laughs, cruel. “Is the little slut afraid? Do you think you cannot do it?”
I think that if I don’t gag, it will be a miracle. “I can do it, sir,” you say emphatically, your mouth watering. “I can.”
“Then show me.” He reaches forward to grab your hair and drags your face forward. Your nose lands right where his leg meets his torso and you register a few things at once. First, that he uses a different soap, something a little sharper, and there is a fresh scent, as though he washed recently. Second, that he keeps himself trimmed, so at the very least you aren’t going to choke on any hairs. And third and most important - that while he is still fairly soft, he is growing harder by the second. Maybe the degradation does something for him too. Either way, you nuzzle into that crevice, breathing in the scent, and run your tongue in a broad stroke across a testicle. He makes a pleased but surprised sound at it. You focus on that, alternating between licks and drawing a whole ball into your mouth to suck on it. Again, there is that pleased, surprised sound, and his hand in your hair tightens ever so slightly. “Ah, not your first. I knew you were a little whore, offering yourself up so easily to me.”
Your nails dig into your knees for stability, trying to hold steady with those words, and you hum. He inhales that quick little hiss again, pressing your face even closer, and as you suck, you hear his breath grow louder. He doesn’t direct you like you thought he would, not micromanaging your movements on when and how to suck. He simply lets you do as you like, and when an action grants you one of those quick breaths, you double down to his great satisfaction. What that says about his banking strategy, you don’t know, but this is most definitely not the time or place to be thinking about money. Not when you switch to the other ball, press your nose a little into the base of his dick, and hear what could almost be a repressed moan. No, definitely not the time.
Popping off of his balls, you lean up slightly, licking once at the base of his cock. Before you can go up and swallow him down, he reaches over on the side of the bed, grabbing something slightly wet. “Wait.” You lean back, watching as he slides one of the condoms over, rolling the thin casing over himself, and he sighs a little with the movement. “I have doctors check all of my customers, but one cannot be too safe.”
A wise investor examines all possible angles, or something like that, you don’t know, there is a dick right there, possibly the most beautiful one you’ve ever seen, and you lean forward at his urging to lick a stripe up it. This time, you’re able to look, actually seeing Lord Pantalone’s face, and watching his head tilt backwards is perfection. As you get to the tip, you offer little licks to the most sensitive bits, listening to his breathing to tell where you should best spend your efforts. It’s quite easy, really. For all of his effort controlling his expression and his words, he cannot control his pulse or his breath. Under your tongue, you can feel his pulse jump, and you can hear the sucked in breath each time you do something worthy of approval. You lean up a little bit for a better angle, wrapping your lips around the head, and his sigh nearly makes your toes curl.
“You can do better than that,” he says, voice a little breathy as he presses on your head, urging you down a little. “Go on. If you want it so bad, you have to-”
You cut him off as you summon as much spit as you can to fill your mouth and sink down as far as you can in one go. It isn’t far - he needs to be wetter - but you are rewarded with something wondrous.
“ Ah!”
A moan. An actual moan.
Now we’re talking.
His fingers tighten in your hair as you begin bobbing your head, less focused on the depth and more on the movement of your tongue. You suck as best as you can, swirling your tongue with each movement, saliva filling your mouth and little drops spilling out. You expect him to be louder, now that the dam is broken, but no, he is quiet. His breathing is harder, his free hand curled into the blanket, but it is only when you press deeper that there is sound. Half-breathed moans, and what you think might just be the word ‘good’. Either way, it is definitely worth it when your eyes water when you inhale through your nose, squeeze your non-dominant thumb to try and push your gag reflex away, and swallow him down as far as you can.
“Fuck, ” he gasps out, his hips rolling up to meet your mouth. “Good, you’re maybe worth something after all.”
His next thrust makes you gag, just a little, and he laughs around his moan as your throat flexes around him. “Come on, little whore. If you want it, you have to earn it. More.”
You make a noise around his throat, a wet sound as you try not to choke on your next breath. More, he says. Alright, you will give more. You slide up ever so slightly, just enough that you can inhale, and swallow him back down. No big movements, just little movements for that bit of depth, just so that Lord Pantalone can lift his hips and fuck into your mouth. It hurts a bit as he hits the back of your throat, but his pleased sounds are worth it. His fingers knot tightly into your hair, holding your head in place as he uses your mouth as he sees fit. He only pulls back when you let go of your knee to pat at his thigh, an insistent little movement silently begging him to let you breathe. You pull back, gasping for breath, and as soon as you look even slightly under control, back in he goes.
“At least - fuck - at least you know how to suck a cock,” he growls, fucking into your mouth. “You take it well, you little whore, like you were made for it.”
You moan around his dick, eyes blurring as you focus on trying not to gag, but even through the wet sounds, you can still hear him chuckle. “I wonder if the rest of you was made for this. I cannot wait to try.”
He thrusts a few more times into your mouth, deep enough to make you gag, and slowly drags out. A trail of spit connects your tongue to the tip of his dick, and he sighs with pleasure at sight. “And look at you, such a mess.”
That’s not a joke. Your eyes are watering, your nose is running, you are gasping for breath from spit-licked lips, trails of saliva dripping down your chin. You are flushed from head to toe, nearly trembling from trying to stay still, hair nearly in knots from where Pantalone has been holding it, and there is definitely a wet, warm patch starting to form in your underwear. If he was to kick you out at this exact minute, anyone who looked at you would know precisely what you have been doing. You lean forward for a moment, catching your breath, nails digging into your thighs for strength. It’s hard to see for the blurriness, but you do see a hand come down and cup your chin.
“Up, come on, little whore,” he tugs upward on your jaw, and as much as your trembling legs ache to stay sitting down, you rise. The hand leads you over to sit on the edge of the bed beside him, which you do (thank the Archons, you were about to fall over), and his thumb brushes away the spit on your chin. It’s almost tender, which is a startling contrast to everything that has happened. Your eyes close, savouring it, head tilting a little into it. His thumb stills and when your eyes open to look at him, he is staring at you. Not hungrily, not teasing, not condescending, nothing like you have seen Pantalone look at you before. His eyes are almost soft as he looks at you, his mouth twitching just slightly, his thumb brushing over your chin with the tip brushing the bottom of your swollen lip.
It’s almost…tender. Sentimental.
You tilt your head down, ever so slightly, so his thumb rests fully on your lip. He doesn’t move. Not when you press a kiss to the tip of his thumb, not when it turns a little more open-mouthed, and not even when you suck on the tip of it.
“All that, and you’re still hungry,” he says, voice soft. He pulls his thumb out of your mouth, dragging it down your chin. The rest of the hand joins in, lifting your chin, and he leans in to press his mouth to your neck, over the mark. For a moment, it’s an open-mouthed kiss, just as tender as a thumb brushed over your lip. Then one more, for good luck. But then he sinks his teeth into your neck again, sucking and biting, and all of that tenderness disappears in the wake of more. “Perhaps it is my turn to feast.” He hisses against your skin, sucking a little more, before his hand pushes you back onto the bed.
“Ah!” You fall backward, and as quickly as he did that, Lord Pantalone appears between your legs. He pushes them open and pushes you up the bed, to which you oblige. “Sir, I don’t-”
“I said that you were made for this, didn’t I? Or did you not listen to me?” He reaches up your body and tears off your underwear, throwing it to the ground.
“I did, I did!” You say, trying to keep your voice somewhat still as he kneels down in front of you.
“Then you know what I intend to do.” Your legs are shoved over his shoulders, his face goes forward, and with a single swipe of his tongue, you forget how to speak. It should be unsurprising that a man who has as much sex as he does, who is as well-prepared and thorough, would know how to eat you out. He knows how and where to kiss you, the right kind of suction on each place, how best to use his tongue, how to unwind you so that he can slide his fingers into you, how to multitask with all of the above. A man as good at planning as he is takes advantage of every opportunity, after all. This is just a different battlefield where he is escorting your pleasure along your nerves to meet your end goal of even more pleasure. You just dig your fingers into the sheets, swallow, and hope that you can hang on for the ride. You think you can do it. Probably. Hopefully.
His tongue presses into you just so, his nails digging into your thighs. He is not kind or gentle with his actions, and there is a moment where it feels like he has grabbed hold of one of your nerves. He strums it like a guitar, and your back arches off the bed in a near wail of pleasure. He laughs into your thigh, cruel and sharp, and proceeds to wrap his teeth around that spot.
…Archon’s fucking bones, you hope the stone walls are at least somewhat soundproof. Your wailing and moaning could wake the damned dead.
Instinctively, you throw your hands up and dig your fingers into his hair as an anchor, thighs clenching tightly around his head to keep him in place. Almost immediately, he stops what he’s doing, grabs your hands, and pins them to the sheets beside you. You try to ask him why he’s doing that. What comes out is a desperate whine. Lord Pantalone looks up at you from between your legs. His glasses are fogged up from the warmth and breath, his mouth already smeared with his own spit, and there is not a trace of his previous sentimentality in his face.
“ Stay. ”
That is possibly the hottest thing that anyone has ever said to you. And so, you dig your hands into the sheets, legs shaking, and nod.
“I didn’t think you needed to be told such things,” he tsks. “Perhaps I will have to be clearer. Now, be a good little whore and come .”
It takes all of your last thought process not to dig your hands too tightly into the sheets. They’re far too expensive for you to tear. That leaves no control for the rest of your body, so with his attention returned to the task, he reduces you into a wailing mess, legs over his shoulders, body writhing on the bed, flushed all over, alternating between moans and more babbled directions and praise. Lord Pantalone sets himself to his task with all of the dedication in the world. The sounds coming from him are absolutely obscene, wet and sloppy. For all that you know, he's a man on death row and you're his last meal. He finds the spots that make you catch your breath, which make you whimper, which make you scream. All the while, he draws the tension out of you so he can press his fingers into you. Above all things, he's careful, and before too long, you feel yourself shoved to the edge of that familiar cliff, ready to fall over. You don’t have enough air to speak anything other than to just scream silently in pleasure. Your every muscle is tight as you arch off of the bed, shaking like a leaf, drawn tight like a string until-
you-
Snap .
“AH!” Perhaps if you were coherent, you would have shouted ‘sir’ or called him by name. But there are no words as you come into his mouth and squeeze tight around his fingers. The sheets don’t rip, but it is a near thing, back nearly a perfect arch off of the bed, your feet anchored on Lord Pantalone’s back as you come and come and come. All the while, his tongue and fingers work you through the aftershocks, dragging it out, pushing every last bit of pleasure out of you until you feel completely wrung out. You feel like the laundry you left behind in the bathroom, except instead of a washboard, well…
“As expected, you are quite responsive.” You find just enough strength to sit up and look at Lord Pantalone, who is currently wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “And made to be eaten out.”
“H-how so, sir?” You ask, more than a little baffled.
You watch as he starts undoing the buttons on his shirt, eyes wide, and are so distracted by what is revealed that you nearly miss the hissed out, “You taste divine. ”
Oh.
Well…
Oh.
“Thank you, sir.” Again, you drag up enough strength to sit up, and offer your shaking hands to the task of disrobing him. The buttons are surprisingly hard, but you get one undone while he finishes the remaining three. With a shrug, he slides the shirt off and pulls his undershirt up over his head. You are sure that a sensible person would draw their eyes to the shape of his muscles - his pectorals, his abs, the sharp curves of muscle that lead down below his waistband - but perhaps you are not so sensible. A sensible person wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, naked on velvet blankets and silk sheets, staring as one of the most powerful men in the country undresses in front of you. A sensible person wouldn’t lean forward and brush shaking fingers across a massive burn scar across his side.
“This looks like it hurt,” you say quietly, incapable of keeping your mouth shut.
Pantalone pauses with his hands at his belt buckle, looking over to where your fingers touch. “Perhaps it did,” he says simply, “but perhaps it was also worth the pain, if it meant doing my duty.”
If you didn’t know any better…you’d think it looks like a sword. A claymore, maybe, made of fire, seared into his side as if he was stopping a blow with his body. “Have they faced punishment for it?” You ask instead, looking up at him.
He stares at you for a long moment, that same soft expression in his eyes. His fingers are still at the metal, as if caught between action and thought. Slowly, he reaches over to touch your hand, pressing them to the scar. “Not yet. With time, I shall, or another hand of the Tsaritsa shall, and his beating heart shall know the chill of ice. But the game is still being played, and I am not yet ready to show my hand.”
You nod slowly before leaning forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to the scar, beside his fingers. “For what it is worth, my lord, I am glad you still stand.”
The moment is oddly soft, for why you are here. His fingers slide up and brush through your hair, easing out some of the knots in it. It’s strange - you would think that such a thing would not happen from a man as Lord Pantalone. A man of greed, of hunger and power, who treats the needs of others like opportunities would not… bestow. And yet, here he is, offering in response to your tenderness some tenderness of his own. Or maybe it is because that which you offer doesn’t have a price. Acts of kindness have their price, sure, but kindness itself? That feeling is without cost, and to be offered so freely? Perhaps that sentiment meant more.
Almost as if flinching from a burn, he withdraws his hand from your hair and pushes his trousers to the floor, stepping out of them. Without a word this time, no degradation in the slightest, he pulls you off of the bed and turns you over, bending you over the foot of the bed. His hand presses on your shoulders to force you down before sliding down your back to cup at your waist. “Do you want to receive or do you want to be used?” He says, voice low.
Well, just like that, the softness fades away and your arousal kicks back into gear. “Both, sir,” you say in response. “I like the sound of being used.”
The same shift happens in him and you feel him grind against your ass, pressing close to you. “You remember the word.”
“Yes, sir. Turnip.”
“Good,” he pats your ass a few times before reaching over to where you remember the box of supplies is. There is a clink of glass, a faint sound of oil pouring, and Lord Pantalone hisses as he presumably rubs the oil over his condom-covered dick. Before too long, you can feel something warm and wet pressing against you. Broad, hard, definitely a little more than you can take…but you are prepared to take it. You inhale slowly, trying to relax your muscles, while he grips your hip for stability. “So ready for me, as I made you. And here I thought I’d have to work harder to turn you into a greedy whore.”
Hearing those words in that prim voice nearly takes your breath away, and the feeling of his cock pressing into you does take your breath away. You gasp out, pressing your face into the blankets for support, and try to relax as he presses into you. “Fuck.”
The stretch burns a little as your body gives way to him, each inch burning heat into your skin. Your mouth is open in a silent moan, unable to put words together after that. It’s hard to hear over the sound of your heartbeat, which is now starting to pick up into a racing tempo, but you can hear it. Behind you, he is moaning. It’s a long dragged out sound, more like a moan than the half-hidden moans in breaths that he let out earlier. As he presses into you, making your body give away, he moans. “You’re so- fuck.”
How is this so different from every other time you’ve had sex? How? Whether it is because of who it is, or how he’s fucking you, or the circumstance or how he’s taken the time to open you up, or how he is pressing into you on the tails of an orgasm - you are not sure. All you know is that as this Harbinger presses into you, as deep as he can, and leans forward to plant his hands on either side of your hips, gasping with pleasure, you know that this is already turning into the best sex you’ve ever had. Your muscles clench around him, trying to take more of him inside when there is already more than you can take. You moan. He moans. And then he mutters it. “You are going to be the best fucktoy I’ve ever had. Now hold still, and you can come when I tell you to.”
His hips slide backward, almost entirely out of you, and you choke on your inhale as it twists into a whine. “Please, I-”
“Please, what?”
“Please, sir, I need more, please give me more, I-”
His hand slaps hard against your ass and his hips slam into you hard, too hard, right on that edge of pain and sweet, sweet pleasure. Your words trail off into a scream, your face pressed hard into the sheets. “YES!”
“You will have what I give you,” he growls. “Now be a good toy and take it.”
Then he fucks into you again. And again. One hand moves to your back for stability, while the other curls around your hip to guide each thrust firmly home into you. He knows precisely how to fuck you. How, you don’t know, but for all that he claims you were made for sex, he seems tailor-made to fuck you. To know exactly how to make it feel good. Every time he thrusts inside you, he rubs something sensitive inside of you and pleasure courses through your veins. You're not going to be satisfied with anyone else ever again. Not after his cock has stripped you raw, each thrust almost a direct connection to your nerves. This is it. This is the best sex you will ever have in your life, that you will get to have for the next two weeks whenever he wants it, and then you will never get to have it again.
Best to make it a good one.
It’s difficult to gain friction on the bed, especially with the silk sheets, but you manage to gain just enough to pull your hips forward. Not far, just a little bit when he pulls back. This time, you can drive your hips backward to slam into his and hear him choke on a moan. He slows his pace just a little so you can do it again, and again, dragging your bits on the blankets with each thrust of your hips. It nails you right where you need it and apparently your muscles clench just right when that happens, because he makes a sound about two octaves higher than his natural voice. “ Fuck, that’s-” With the last bit of your coherency, you clench your muscles around him tighter while he’s inside, and his sentence is cut off by a loud whine. “ AH!”
Distantly, you think that you’ve never heard him sound quite like this. Yes, you’ve heard him grunt, moan, and growl out filthy words to whoever he is buried inside (or perhaps who is buried inside him, and isn’t that an image to consider at another time), but you have never heard him whine. In two weeks, no one has made him…lose control. And that is what is happening. His steady rhythm is falling apart, a stuttering frantic thing, and you can feel his fingers digging deep into the meat of your hip as he tries to anchor himself. When you reach your hand back to hold his wrist and clench again, he very nearly keens.
Then, of course, he drags his dick out of you nice and slow, brushing against every live nerve ending inside you, and it is your turn to keen out, “ Sir, ah-”
“Such a good fuck,” he growls out, slapping your ass cheeks one after another, hard enough that you know there will be red, red handprints. “You are such a good fuck, I knew you would be when I saw you, how are you so-”
“Can I, can I please, sir, please, I just wanna cum-” you whine desperately. “ Please.”
With that, he drags himself fully out of you. It’s almost painful, the sudden emptiness, and you just about sob at it before you notice him climbing on the bed in front of you. “Can’t believe I’m doing this, but fuck, you might be good at it,” you think you hear him saying, and when you look up, you see Lord Pantalone sitting on the bed, legs slightly open. His hair is falling out of his ponytail, whisps sticking to his forehead with sweat, and he takes off his glasses, setting them on the table beside him. Then, to your wonder, he pats his thigh. “Don’t just lay there. Show me your worth, little whore, and maybe I’ll let you come.”
You just about rip the sheets with how fast you move to get on his lap. He adjusts his position to match you and tucks pillows behind his back for comfort. You sit astride him, thighs pressing against his, and reach down to guide his cock into you. The press of the head, even through the condom, feels like heaven, and if you were feeling cheesy, you’d say that him sliding inside you feels right. Like coming home, like a puzzle piece assembling, like you were made to have him fit inside you, like the toy he calls you. Either way, he hums with pleasure as you whine, your head tilting backward as you sink all the way down onto it. “Can I come after you, sir?” You ask desperately as you lift yourself up, thighs shaking with the effort. Then you drop down and your moan turns into a drawn out “ Please.”
His breath turns into a muffled curse, his hands immediately coming up to grab your waist for support. “Yes, yes, you can come after me, fuck, just don’t stop.” Gone is the mask of the cool, confident, powerful banker. All that you can see is a man, sweaty and flushed, pupils so wide that you cannot see the colour of his eyes, barely able to keep his eyes open as he takes in the pleasure that you have to offer. His nails dig into your hips, one hand sliding to claw at your sweaty back, and when you drop down hard onto him, he almost howls with pleasure. “ Yes!”
You have a mission now, even as your hips keep moving without your own volition. You are going to make him come. You have to make him come, not just for your own sake, but because you want to burn yourself into his memory. You want him to remember you when he lies in bed alone at night with a hand around his dick, or when he is buried deep in someone else who isn’t squeezing him just right. If these two weeks are all that you are going to have of this man, you want to make sure that he remembers you. With that, you roll your hips as you slide down, trying to find the perfect angle to squeeze around him. His mouth parts in a silent scream, hips stuttering as he tries to meet your thrusts, and he drags you forward just so he can dig his teeth into your neck. It’s sloppy. It’s brutal. You are going to have aching muscles for days, bruises for even longer, but as he presses sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to your neck and fucks into you nigh on desperately, you know that it’s worth it.
When he comes, he barely makes a sound. His head falls backward, face contorted into a silent wail, and even through the oil and the last moisture of his spit, you can feel the warmth of his cum dumping into you. You ride him as best as you can for the last of his rhythm, your nerves stretched tight as you ache for your orgasm to come, but you have patience. Just enough patience to watch him sink back into the pillows, panting for breath, his hands shaking where his nails have nearly made you bleed. Then he fucks into you once more. And again. And again. “Now. Come for me now,” he gasps out, barely able to get more than one word out per breath, “like a good little whore. You’ve earned it.”
Finally. It only takes a few thrusts, done just so, and you are sure they could hear you at Zapolyarny Palace when you come, wailing desperately. It’s so good, like every muscle unwinds at his touch, suffusing you with warmth and exhaustion. You just about fall onto him, only managing to keep yourself up by grabbing onto your knees. You see stars, your entire body shaking, and there are no words. Nothing you can think of as the two of you look at each other, panting, and his hands smooth a little bit over the marks he has left on your hips.
It takes a bit to gather yourself, but eventually, you move. You manage to slide off of him with a grunt on both of your parts, and he is able to tie up the condom, dropping it into a waste bin nearby. He even manages to grab the lotion, putting it nearby before he falls to the bed beside you. At first, you think he is going to kick you out. In what world would he want to cuddle after that? You would be lucky to have just a moment of respite to gather yourself before he sends you home to rest up before whenever he calls for you again. But to your surprise, he doesn’t. He rolls onto his side and draws you closer, curling around your back as a big spoon.
“My lord?” You ask in surprise, your voice raw from all of the abuse your throat has taken.
“Rest.” He says simply, pressing his nose into your hair. You might even feel the faintest brush of his lips against your hair. “We will speak later.”
What this means for your contract, you do not know. Maybe he will keep you. Maybe he’ll decide that you are one of the best fucks he’s ever had and if he lets you go to waste, he would never forgive himself. Maybe he decorates your neck with marks and a necklace in his colours, and hires you on as a personal labourer so that he can keep an eye on you. Maybe he even makes ‘little whore’ sound like a compliment, and lets it shift after a time into ‘little one’.
But for now, you let yourself drift off to sleep in his arms, tired and spent, savouring the feeling of use and knowing that there are only good things to follow from here. You will take all that you can, and give all that you can in return. That is what is to be expected from a transaction with the greediest man in Snezhnaya, after all. You shall give…
And he will keep.