Chapter Text
Embrose’s heat came on without warning, as it often did.
He’d been in the middle of a business meeting with a few of Nine-Fingers’ thugs, lounging artfully in a carved mahogany chair with a goblet of wine in hand. Everything had been fine one second, him listening intently to the men explaining why exactly they needed to back out of such-and-such tunnel in the sewer, and in the next his insides turned to writhing worms. It made him feel hot and accursedly, horridly empty.
He slammed the goblet down on the table, sloshing wine over the sides, onto his hands and a few of the documents strewn about.
They all startled, hands whipping to their various blades as they stared at him wide-eyed.
Before he did something utterly lunatic in front of the Guild representatives, Embrose took a steadying breath, deliberately softening his features into something like innocence. “Gentlemen,” he began, the very picture of contrition. “I do apologize. Urgent business recalls me to the temple. I must reschedule this for another time.”
“But we’ve barely got started!” One of them protested. He was new, clearly, if he thought arguing with the Blade of Bhaal was a good idea. Another of the thugs elbowed the lad roughly in the ribs. “Ow! What was that for?”
The other thug paid him no mind. Instead, he stood from his chair, the others following, and bent at the waist. “No trouble at all, saer. Just send word. Just know Nine-Fingers won’t take any action until you’ve sorted your end.”
“I am aware,” came Embrose’s clipped reply. “She may expect a message from me in a half tenday.” It took a great force of will to keep his eyes from straying too far southward on the other man’s body. He needed seed inside him; his unholy father demanded it.
“Avarice! Escort these fine gentlemen to Guild territory.”
A sickly green tiefling with gold ornaments on their horns slunk into the chamber. They held the door open for the Guildsmen, staring down their hawk-like nose at them with poorly disguised malevolence. “Come on, loves,” they hissed. “As His Eminence commands.”
“Who was that?” The newer recruit asked once he thought they were out of earshot.
“The face of death,” the other told him, grim. “Next time we’re here, do not speak out of turn. You ever hear about what he did to Tavrin?”
“Wait, he’s the one who used a fork to—?”
“Shut it, both of you,” Avarice growled. “The master has ears.”
“Right, sorry,” came the fearful reply.
Their voices faded at last, no longer echoing back over stone floors. Embrose shuddered a gasp, groaning from the pain. He curled in on himself, shoved his clawed hand down his breeches, and began to rub his tiny cock frantically, rutting against his hand. In only a few minutes, he’d wrung out a blisteringly efficient orgasm.
It was enough to clear his head, just for a few minutes. “Sceleritas Fel!” Embrose roared. Silence fell upon the chamber for a moment, and then his butler materialized before him.
“Yes, Master?” Sceleritas simpered.
Embrose swept from the room without waiting for him to follow. The butler would keep up with him. “Father calls me to serve him, so I will be unavailable for the next three days. Put Sister Orin in charge in my absence. I need you to pen a letter to Lord Gortash, informing him of my imminent arrival. Tell him, ‘The craven king trembles on his red throne.’”
Rage boiled within Embrose’s black heart. He knew the heat was necessary, that one of Bhaal’s edicts to his spawn was to go forth and multiply, but privately he loathed how it made him feel. So needy, so dependent, so pathetic.
“Of course, my liege,” said Sceleritas, vanishing without another word.
Embrose was of no mind to gather many possessions. Commoner's clothes and his red mantle would have to suffice.
Over the course of the past few months, Gortash and he had sorted out a system for dealing with his condition after a bout of heat had struck him while they’d been holed up together plotting in his home in the Upper City.
He had tried to rein it in, but a single lapse of control had seen Gortash’s fine tunic ripped to shreds, clawed fingernails pressed into his chest where the Black Hand of Bane marked him Chosen.
Gortash had had to feign an illness to all his house-callers for days, and been utterly run ragged by the time Embrose’s heat had abated. Since then, they had agreed to meet in brothels instead of somewhere as incriminating as his house, and Gortash would hire sex workers to fuck Embrose when he tired or needed to attend to business. Afterwards, they would all have their memories slightly altered so as to not remember his exact features.
When the butler delivered his message, Gortash would know where to meet him.
Already, he could feel the next wave of heat approaching. His cunt was dripping with anticipation, more juices leaking from him with each step. He needed to get to that blasted brothel before he jumped the bones of the next stranger he saw.
The Maiden Red, Five Hours Later
Embrose was tangled in the linen sheets, the area beneath the parting of his thighs slick, sticky, and emanating a musky heat that drew Gortash in like a spell had been cast. His burly arms, hairy in all the right places, had wrapped around the underside of Embrose’s knees. His face was so close to Embrose’s twitching entrance that he could feel the scrape of stubble against his sensitive skin.
Gortash sighed, appreciative. “I do so love this time of the month,” he murmured, eyes heavy-lidded. “You’re so beautiful like this, all needy for me. How unfortunate that I had no advance notice.”
It hadn’t taken much at all for Gortash to rise to half hardness in his breeches, but he knew how to draw things out. All good things would come in their due time.
All the Urge could think about was clamping its own muscular thighs around the vulnerable neck positioned between them, initiating a death roll that snapped the vertebrae with little fuss, and then riding the dick attached to the body to completion as many times as it could before it cooled in death.
It shifted again, the rattling of chains making it snarl and writhe instinctively. Its wrists were bound in iron that kept it from spellcasting, arms wrenched above its head in a position that threatened to pop the bones from the sockets. The magic necessary to make the puny lord grovel and bend before its dominant willpower danced just beyond reach in its brain-meat.
“Do you like them?” Gortash flicked one of the chains, brow arched. “I requested them specially from that wizard’s vault beneath Ramazith’s Tower. Not just anyone has access to Netherese iron, you know.”
“Who cares if I like them? Just do something,” Embrose hissed. He was drenched in sweat, thoughts a riot of color and sensation in his crimson brain. It was during sex and murder that the line between him and the Urge inside him became the hardest to determine, but the breeding heat that Bhaal demanded of him each month blurred them together into one animalistic entity, consumed by primitive desires and possessing the power to make them a reality.
Gortash slapped him sharp enough to sting, and smiled at Embrose’s breathy moan. “Be polite, dearest, or I’ll have no choice but to get the muzzle.”
“ARGH!” The Urge twisted and pulled again at its binds. It dug its heels into the puny lord’s back, hoping to bruise his tender flesh in revenge for this unconscionable slight. “I’LL ROAST YOUR INNARDS!”
Unmoved, Gortash kissed the top of Embrose’s mound, kissed the sides of his thighs, and then licked one long stripe over his entrance, circling around the swollen nub of his little cocklet.
“Naughty boy,” he breathed, nipping the sensitive flesh of his mound with teeth. Embrose’s legs twitched, but the strength of Gortash’s grip allowed for little movement. “Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.”
He spread Embrose open with his thumbs, nosing in between the hot, wet folds of his labia, and spat a gob of saliva straight into his dripping hole. This was swiftly followed by him pulling back, sliding his arm out from its position under Embrose’s thigh, and pushing two fingers inside. He explored briefly, pushing in and out to watch the violet flesh stretch around his eager digits.
Gortash had trimmed his nails for this, it seemed, despite the short notice. Embrose could always count on him to come prepared.
Already so wet, it was no time at all before Gortash had set a punishing pace. The thrust of his fingers was effortless, a gracious give and devastating take that was utterly without friction. It wasn’t enough for Embrose, who widened his legs. “More,” he demanded. “I can take it.”
“Can you now?” Gortash hummed. He added a third finger, stretching and twisting even further, delighting in the shameless moan that left Embrose’s chapped lips. “Feels good, doesn’t it? A fourth should be no trouble.” Indeed it wasn’t. His pinkie went in smooth as silk.
“Yessssssssss,” said Embrose. His razor-sharp teeth glinted in the candlelight as he grinned, head thrown back so Gortash could appreciate the elegant arch of his throat.
A wrinkle formed on Gortash’s brow in thought. He could, if he cared to, bend his thumb into the proper shape to fit that in too. The idea of his whole fist being inside Embrose, his Black Hand marking the vulnerable insides of another god’s Chosen, was enough to harden his cock fully.
Gortash’s eyes traveled over the form of his beloved, utterly debauched before him. Embrose’s arms were thrown over his head against the pile of goose-feather pillows, the chain trailed hypnotically from his wrists over his shoulders and up to a hitch that had been installed in the headboard for this exact purpose. His face was flushed a fetching periwinkle, spark-blue eyes gazing up at him from beneath heavy lids.
Without offering any warning, he withdrew his hand from Embrose’s cunt. The man growled in protest, but it was swiftly transformed into a bit-out moan when Gortash dove forward and wrapped his lips around Embrose’s straining dick. It was small, an inch at most, but so delightfully sensitive. Gortash sucked, laved his tongue around it expertly, pleased when a gush of slick squirted from Embrose’s hole to douse his chin.
Gortash lapped up what he could, crawling up over Embrose’s body to claim his mouth. “I’ll make you taste yourself, dearest,” he rasped. With one hand cradling his jaw, he angled his head exactly how he liked, bit and sucked at his lips, and tangled Embrose’s forked lilac tongue with his own.
There was a wet sound as they separated, both gasping for air. The Urge bent its arms, using the leverage to spread its legs wider, cant its hips up into a more easily accessible angle. It was singularly focused on one thing: the hard shaft of a cock pressing into its stomach. The weight atop it belonged to a prospective mate, it knew. Strong, smart, and dominant, he had bent it to his superior might so now it could mindlessly serve the grand purpose it had been made to.
“Please,” it whined, breathy. “Fuck me.”
Gortash’s arms gave out in shock, but he caught himself before he looked a fool. Thoughts of teasing Embrose any further evaporated immediately. He fumbled with his breeches, not wanting to waste time getting them all the way off, so he settled for shoving the waistband halfway down his thighs.
His cock, now freed, hung heavy and hard in his hand. It was thick, an average length, and the head of it was purple with blood-flow. Gortash pumped it a few times, lined up the head level with his hole, and pushed in achingly slowly. Embrose’s cunt, despite having been so thoroughly stretched by his attentions, seemed to tighten around him like it was trying to suck him in further.
Gortash’s hands, sturdy and sure, gripped Embrose’s hip bones, his thumbs caressing over their ridges. He rubbed one hand over the plane of his stomach, tracing over the scars there with a delicate touch, and sank his cock with breathtaking slowness into the panting beast of a man beneath him.
“Nnh, yes, that’s it,” Embrose’s head fell back against the pillows with a gasp. Gortash’s cock was perfect for him: thick, velvety, and hard. It pierced him like a hot knife, drew blood from the sensitive inner walls of his cunt, no longer used to serving this function. The coppery tang filled his nostrils, working his salivary glands and making his slitted pupils dilate with desire.
Gortash could smell it too. He looked down at the place where they were joined together. Blood leaked out around his cock. Before it could trickle its way to the sheets, Gortash swiped the pads of his fingers through it, promptly sucking them clean of scarlet stain.
“Let me taste,” the Urge crooned. Gortash grinned at it, the gaps between his teeth bright red. He licked up more blood and held it in his mouth, leaning forward to take the Urge’s lips with his own. In the same motion, he sunk his cock into the depth of its cunt once more.
It lapped up the taste of its own coppery redness with an eagerness that astounded Gortash every time. It truly was a beautiful creature, so carnal and open in its desires. He sometimes found himself wishing that Embrose would be more like his alter-self all of the time. It was a delectable fantasy that he kept tucked tidily away in the archives of his mind, only ever to be withdrawn and pored over at night when he could be leisurely with his musings.
“More,” the Urge grunted in Gortash’s ear.
“Like this?” asked Gortash, thrusting shallowly into it with a questioning sort of hesitancy.
“That is not the only flesh I desire,” it growled. Then, without warning, it performed a surprising feat of dexterity, nuzzling the collar of his shirt aside and sinking its teeth into the meat of his neck.
Gortash cried out, jerking away from the source of pain, but the Urge had locked its jaws tight around him, forked tongue laving over the bite marks and lapping up the small gush of blood that had welled up.
Once it settled, a low rumble began emanating from its chest. Gortash felt the heady rush of fear mingling with his already-heightened arousal. It was utterly intoxicating.
The Urge made no move to attack, simply continuing to lick and suck at his ravaged shoulder. It was then that Gortash understood the sound was no warning, but a signal of satisfaction. “Are you purring, dearest?” he asked it wonderingly.
It didn’t reply, instead bucking its hips up to change the angle at which Gortash’s cock was seated inside it. Air punched out of Gortash like he’d been winded. “You saucy little minx,” he tsked. “I’m afraid you’ve been greedy, dear. It’s time you take what I give you.”
Drawing back, Gortash ignored the Urge’s whine of protestation. Instead, he gripped the Urge’s knees, pushing its legs up to either side of its head until the muscles of its thighs strained. The new angle—a mating press, as Embrose had referred to it once—allowed Gortash to settle atop him. Sweat beaded on his brow and gathered in the muscular hills and valleys of his back.
The unexpected change in position forced the Urge’s jaws to release their vice-grip. It’s head fell back against the pillows, shock and arousal making it limp. Blood flowed freely from the fresh wound in Gortash’s shoulder. The same blood glistened scarlet and hot on the Urge’s chin and neck, its pointed teeth dyed red.
Gortash’s hair, clumped with sweat, hung in thick strands over his eyes. He swiped them back over his scalp to see his creature all the better. “Good pet,” he grunted. Maintaining his iron hold on the Urge’s thighs, he pulled his cock out of its cunt until just the tip remained inside, and then drove home as deep as he could. The heaviness of his sack slapped against the Urge’s asshole.
The Urge keened. Unable to reach for the one breeding it because of the chains restraining it, it instead clawed at the bedposts and headboard, gouging curled slivers of wood out with its razor-sharp nails.
“You take me so well,” Gortash told it, panting. He slapped its hip lightly, delighting in the way the fat there rippled. It all but begged to be pinched and pulled, slapped, bitten. He would do all that and more before the night was through.
“Mo-ooore, please,” it whimpered. The scarlet smear of blood down its face and chest did little to make it sound less pathetic. It tried to hump him like a dog, its flushed violet cunt stretching hypnotically around the girth of Gortash’s cock.
“I’ll give you more,” he said like a vow, taking pity on the brainless creature. After all, his friend and confidante was gone entirely by this point. All that remained, and would remain for the next few days, was the Urge. “You want me to breed you, isn’t that right, pet? My perfect vesicle. You’ll have new Spawn growing inside of you in no time, just as your father wishes.”
“YES,” it cried out in synchrony with Gortash’s next devastating thrust, voice the deep rattle befitting a Bhaalspawn. A mess of new slick oozed out of its pretty cunt, welcoming his cock in deeper. Gortash fancied he could feel the entrance to the Urge’s womb deep inside of him, that he was hitting it with every chasing humping rut.
“Master,” it hissed, making something break in Gortash’s sex-addled brain. “Owner,” it continued.
Without thinking, Gortash wrapped his hand around the Urge’s throat and squeezed. Not too tightly, but enough that its eyes went hazy. Its forked tongue lolled out of its mouth, and any significant tension in its body eased. “That’s right, pet. Trust your owner to do what’s best for you. Let me have you!”
The Urge didn’t reply. It couldn’t. Still, Gortash saw the desirous glint in its blue eyes. With a snarl of his own, he set a brutal, punishing pace, one only the Urge ever saw. With other lovers, he always had to take care to play the part of dashing gentleman, always had to keep his wits about him. That was not the case during these cherished times of the month.
With the Urge, he did not make love, he used it until there was nothing left of its mind. He devoured it and fucked it and dominated it and bred it, and it loved every second. Drool slid down its cheeks and its eyes lost focus, completely lost in a haze of pleasure.
When Gortash felt his climax nearly upon him, he removed his hand from the Urge’s neck, allowing it to gasp in an instinctive breath before he closed his mouth over its, wrapping his tongue hotly with its. He relished in the prehensile movement of it, so alien yet so welcome in his mouth where the two of them intertwined.
It strained forward and bit his bottom lip, hard, and Gortash saw white. He shallowly thrusted some more, pumping his seed into the Urge’s womb, filling it up. Everything was so hot, so wet. He bent down and kissed it messily once more, and, completely pliant in his arms, it complied, allowing him to bend its head this way and that.
Regretfully, he pulled out. The Urge made a noise of protest, but Gortash swiftly pushed a plug into the hole to keep too much of his load from leaking out again immediately.
“Fear not, pet. I just need to recover some strength. You’ll have me again soon enough,” he said.
Reassured, it settled back to wait as patiently as it could. Gortash saw the plug pulse and shiver where it was pushed into the Urge’s abused cunt, and that was enough to get his cock to twitch with interest.
He rose from the bed, shucked his trousers off entirely, and went to the desk in the corner of the room. There was a bottle stood there of supreme interest to him, as the liquid inside promised to keep his stamina up for at least ten more rounds into the night. Gortash downed the whole thing in one go, not even so much as wincing at the bitter taste.
Instead, he directed his attentions to writing a letter to the mamzell of the brothel, informing her and her employees in no uncertain terms of how his pet was to be treated in his upcoming absence, along with incredibly detailed descriptions of what exactly would happen to them if he should learn of their failure to comply.
This was not the first time they had come to this particular brothel to meet the Urge’s needs, so he wasn’t particularly worried. He always paid exorbitantly enough that he suspected if he were to ask for the moon delivered on a silver platter, the staff here would find some way to make good on his request.
Returning the cork to the bottle of ink, Gortash set the quill and letter aside to dry. He went to the wall beside the desk and withdrew one of his favorite implements: a leather collar, padded comfortably on the inside with multiple sturdy rings installed around the exterior. It had a chain leash attached to the front already, but the back could easily be attached to the cuffs around the Urge’s wrists.
In no time at all, the collar was fastened around the Urge’s neck, placing a delicious amount of strain on its arms and shoulders as it struggled to find a comfortable position for them.
Then, Gortash pried its mouth open, fitting a ring gag between its teeth like a bit into the mouth of a stubborn horse. The strap of the gag painfully stretched the corners of the Urge’s lips. Gortash cradled its jaw, and it made a strained gurgle in response.
“Good dog,” he muttered while he worked. “Dearest pet.” The clinking of steel and bend of leather soothed them both.
Then, almost idly, he began to stroke his cock to hardness once more as he contemplated the tamed creature at his mercy. It could break its bonds if it so chose. Not with magic, but it had other tools at its disposal: a burst of preternatural strength or transformation into its Slayer form would make light work of Gortash.
However, like the delightful animal it was, it made no effort to overpower him. More than anything, he knew, it craved to be thoroughly bred. Gortash would do his best to take the edge off its heat, but he had duties to attend, and even with the aid of potions there were only so many times he could get it up in such rapid succession.
Just then, there was a knock at the door. At his affirmative signal, one of the brothel’s prostitutes glided inside. It was a young drow, lean and muscular, with skin the color of night orchids after sundown. He had silver bangles in the shape of spiders wrapped around each bicep. Anklets with little bells tinkled and rang with each step he took.
As Gortash had instructed the mamzell each time he frequented the establishment, the drow did not once lift his eyes to look upon him. He bowed gracefully, staring at the rug-covered floor. “Good evening, saer. I am Ilyndor of the Seldarine. Will my lord be requiring our services now?” he asked, quiet and melodic.
“Not now,” Gortash forced his voice to be level, although he was annoyed at the way his cock had wilted upon Ilyndor’s arrival. “Half an hour more, and I believe it shall be right where I want it.”
The drow’s smile never faltered. “Of course. We’ll be waiting,” he murmured with just the right amount of sultriness. Then, he turned and glided away. Beyond the closed door, Gortash heard whispering, although they were quickly extinguished by growing distance.
Gortash again turned his attention to the creature before him. The Urge was covered in sweat, eyes heavy-lidded and chest heaving. Its legs were spread unashamedly, and just the barest trickle of his cum had begun to leak around the plug stoppering his cunt. Gortash’s mouth watered.
It killed him to know that he was not the only one who got to savor the Urge when it was like this. He had to enjoy having it all to himself while he could. Jerking himself off with renewed determination, he removed the plug from the Urge’s cunt and replaced it with his own cock without warning, sheathing himself all the way to the hilt with one big push.
He felt more of his own spend leak around his length, so Gortash adjusted the cant of the Urge’s hips to keep as much of it inside as possible. “What do you think, dearest?” he asked it in a most conversational manner. “Shall I seat you on me the rest of the night, hm? Wring the slowest orgasm of your life out of you for hours until you’re screaming for my cock? For my seed?”
The Urge moaned with the stretch of him. Its piercing eyes implored Gortash to use him again, however he wanted, forever. Perhaps that was just wishful thinking, but ah, what a thought it was.
He envisioned himself sat upon a black throne emblazoned with the hand of Bane, emperor of all the Sword Coast and beyond, his precious Dark Urge leashed, bound, and muzzled at his side like the dangerous attack dog it was. He’d keep it barely clothed but for the necessary bindings to keep it in check, the Black Hand claiming it as his property, tattooed upon its chest, its ass, the flesh of its stomach above its woefully fertile womb.
It would have seen the error of its ways, understood that murder was fine in moderation so long as tyranny was allowed to reign supreme over the peoples of Toril. It would understand that they could rule this world together as wielder and weapon, as master and pet. Two halves of one great, diabolical whole.
He of course respected his beloved partner, his Embrose, but when he became the Urge, Gortash found it oh so difficult to restrain his burning need for total domination. It simply had to be controlled, utilized by a greater mind for a greater purpose. And Gortash would provide that purpose. He would revel in it, even.
The Urge gnashed its teeth ineffectually against the steel ring that wedged its jaws open. Gortash draped its muscular thighs over his own. He began to move languidly, pistoning his cock in and out of its sopping wet cunt without a care in the world. “You’re all mine. How many litters of my mewling pups do you think you could bear for me, dearest?”
“Nnhg,” the Urge moaned. Its prehensile forked tongue lashed beneath the press of the ring gag.
“Poor thing,” Gortash clucked his tongue. “Do you want that hole filled, too? That can be arranged.” He swiped two fingers through the cum and slick dripping from the Urge’s abused cunt, gathering the fluid onto the digits and transporting the mess of it to the creature’s awaiting maw.
He slid his fingers inside, feeling the slimy rasp of its tongue lave at the mess eagerly. ‘That won’t do,’ he thought, and pressed the tongue flat in a small but meaningful gesture of dominance. “Taste us, dear. Drink up.”
Keeping his fingers in the Urge’s mouth—a courageous act given the rows of razor-sharp teeth well within biting distance—he increased the pace of his thrusting. The squeeze of the Urge’s wall around his girth was positively addictive. Gortash wished, not for the first time, that he could adjourn from his duties for the duration of its heat.
Alas, that would be far too noticeable. He had a meeting with the city’s chief architect in the morning that could not be missed. Later in the evening, he would have a little soirée to attend at Lord Szarr’s castle on the arm of Lady Jannath in place of her absent fiancé.
The Urge performed a particularly dexterous maneuver with its tongue around his fingers, pushing all thoughts of tomorrow from his mind. He would focus on the here and now, enjoy this, and leave his dear creature in the capable hands of the Maiden’s harlots when the time came to take his leave.
His grip tightened possessively on the Urge’s thigh, his blunt nails too dull to break skin. Gortash lost himself in the warmth and wetness of the hole he was fucking. The fat of its thighs and stomach jiggled hypnotically with every rocking thrust.
“My insatiable little bitch,” he purred, sharp touch gentling into caresses. “You were made just for this, and only this. You’re taking my cock so perfectly, pet. I know you’ll take so many others tonight when I take my leave, but none shall be my equal. Is that not so?”
As ably as it could despite its restraints, it nodded desperately. Its eyes had clouded into a wild, animalistic haze. It knew only pleasure and pain, the joy of submission to a master who would give it exactly what it wanted, so long as it behaved.
With a smirk, Gortash removed his fingers from the Urge’s mouth, using them instead to circle the straining head of its little cocklet, pinch it, and begin jerking it off.
The Urge yelped, high-pitched and delectably bitten off. Its thighs quivered, hips bucking into the assured touch of Gortash’s hands on it.
Twice more, Gortash fucked the writhing mess of tiefling until it was a wailing, blithering mess. His spend gushed from its overflowing womb, soiling the bedsheets in an entrancing display. Truly, that stamina potion had been worth every last gold piece.
Gortash barely noticed the knock at the door, so was startled to find Ilyndor of the Seldarine standing in the threshold, head bowed in a clear show of deference. “The half-hour mark has passed, saer. Shall we take over the proceedings?”
Two more men hovered behind the drow, shuffling nervously as they tried to get a good look at the Urge chained and sprawled across the bed without accidentally making eye contact with him in the process. The conditions of the contract he’d signed with the brothel ensured that any who broke his little rule would live to regret it.
Gortash approached the washbasin on the floor near the window, using a small cloth to clean his cock before he began to dress himself. “You may,” he told the new arrivals, watching them carefully.
“Gul’az? Leon?” The drow spoke to the other prostitutes too quietly for Gortash to discern from a distance, but he seemed to be instructing them. One of the men—a half-orc with olive-green skin, rosy lips, and plaited ebony hair down the length of his spine—took no time at all before he was jerking himself off beneath the scanty loincloth slung around his muscular thighs.
He took the enviable position of fucking the Urge’s needy cunt. The sheer magnitude of his cock stretched it wide, something that made the Urge gnash at its gag and cry out hoarsely as some of Gortash’s cum was displaced, pushed from the hole with a wet squelch.
Some primal, deeply territorial part of Gortash’s mind rebelled at the sight, but he settled himself. All of this was merely to sate the Urge. There was no chance of pregnancy. They’d taken precautions on top of precautions to prevent such an outcome. Still, he wanted his claim over his beloved creature to be clear as crystal.
“Remember, gentlemen. Remove its gag or bindings at your peril. Even when it seems perfectly complacent and docile, wait until the full time period has elapsed before you even think about it. It will bite, maim, and even kill in its effort to mate.”
Now looking far more nervous, the third man—a raven-haired high-elf possessing pupils that glowed like red embers in the sockets—had crawled onto the bed. He brushed a sweaty lock of the Urge’s hair out of its face, jerked his already half-hard cock to firmer hardness, and brushed it against the Urge’s plump, wet lips.
The Urge’s eyes tracked the elf intently as a predator tracks its prey. The rhythmic pounding of the half-orc's huge cock rocked it back and forth, rocked the entire bed as a matter of fact, so the Urge’s lips slipped easily over the pretty pink head of the elf’s member. The elf gasped, hips jolting forward at the sensitive touch.
His dick pushed past the cold metal of the ring gag, sinking all the way to the hilt. Gortash watched its throat bulge with the intrusion. He craved to wrap his hand around that throat, feel the throb of another man’s cock crammed inside of it, deprive it of what little breath it was managing to intake.
“Of course, saer,” Ilyndor was reassuring him. It tore his attention away from the gorgeous sight of the Urge. “The mamzell ensured all three of us were informed of the terms of your… special contract. Leon will be mindful of its teeth.”
“If anything goes awry, she will know how to get in contact with me.”
“Yes, saer.”
Gortash spoke now to the Urge. “Just let yourself go, dearest,” he murmured. “You will be returned to me soon enough.”
With one last look at the debauched scene atop the bed, Gortash turned and left it to its keepers.