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You have returned to the House of Hope, to the boudoir where you once coaxed information out of Haarlep while he coaxed pleasure out of your body. It had been a fair enough trade, after all: your brief encounter and the addition of your image to his glamour in exchange for a way out of your contract with Raphael. You had not seen the devil himself since, though you knew from the phantom tingles and tremors that tore through your body every night and at odd hours of most days, that he had seen plenty of you.
You might have asked them to ease up a little, but in all honesty you had found little reason to mind it and a great deal of flattery in how often Raphael seemed to indulge in your image. But that is not why you have returned.
On your first visit to the house, Haarlep revealed to you that Raphael keeps his secrets in the boudoir safe, and the key buried at the bottom of one of his bedside drawers.
Your mission was simple: you had returned to find the key to his safe—a buyer in Baldur’s Gate was willing to pay handsomely for it—and once the key was found, all you had to do was slip out of the house without being noticed. The boudoir was empty when you found it, a fortuitous turn of events that has left you free to search for the key—it was in one of the two bedside drawers, and your hands were currently sifting through the contents of the first one when a voice interrupted your search.
“Haarlep.” You pause your rifling at the sound of the name, uttered in the familiar lilting baritone of the only devil in all of Avernus you had hoped to avoid today. Raphael.
“Raphael,” You reply, closing the drawer slowly and squeezing your eyes shut at the realization that you’d just been caught. Caught rifling through his things, and probably damned to become a permanent fixture in his House of Hope.
What would become of you, you wonder? Would you be condemned to roam the halls weeping, like one of the many debtors just beyond the boudoir door? Or would Raphael have other plans for you, perhaps deep in the dreaded bowels of this so-called House of Hope—deep within its prison?
“You’re still in last night’s glamour, I see,” Raphael muses, the sound of his footsteps slow and deliberate against the stone floor of the boudoir. He's pacing. Observing.
You pause, his words opening up a golden opportunity, ripe for you to pluck… should you desire it, that is. You decide to play along, leaning into this unexpected—though not totally unwelcome—case of mistaken identity. If you can convince him that you are the incubus, perhaps you can convince him that you belong, at least just long enough to make your escape.
“Yes, I rather like this one,” You say slowly, attempting to approximate Haarlep’s seductive drawl.
“Hmm, as do I.” Raphael’s footsteps draw closer until he is right behind you. You feel the tantalizing heat of his breath on the back of your neck as he speaks again, his voice low as he asks you, “And what were you searching for in there, little mouse?”
Had you ever heard Raphael call Haarlep by that epithet? Little mouse?
Still grasping at the handle of his slightly open bedside drawer, you shiver lightly as Raphael places a hand on your shoulder, his skin cambion-red against yours. Your breath hitches quietly as he trails his sharp fingers down the length of your arm, grazing your skin with a seductive tickle of danger before letting them rest them atop your own stilled hand. His other hand wraps around your waist, sliding across the plane of your tensed stomach. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you allow your eyes to drop to the opened sliver of drawer, Haarlep’s leather lingerie looking up at you from inside its depths.
“I was searching for something more appropriate for the boudoir, of course.” Of course. An idea flickers across the surface of your mind: the memory of a sordid, filthy dream that had awoken you blushing far more than was appropriate for your shared accommodations at the Elfsong Tavern.
No—that dream had been wild. It had been depraved. It was… it was something you had strangely found yourself desiring every time you crossed paths with the handsome devil.
You hook a finger into the drawer, sensing another opportunity. Not only could you make it out of his House of Hope, but you could also capitalize on the chance to make the most of your time within it. Lifting one of Haarlep’s strappy leather numbers from the open drawer, a wicked grin spreads across your face. You know exactly what you want to do—exactly what you are going to do.
You are going to fuck Raphael.
“A good choice,” he murmurs into your ear, giving your lobe a light nibble. A tremor runs through your body and he whispers again, “But hardly necessary. Come.”
His hands and lips slide away, and you find herself lamenting their loss as you listen to the sound of his retreating footsteps, beckoning you to join him in the open part of the room beyond the foot of his bed. You let the scanty leather garment fall from your finger and turn slowly—sensually—moving your body as you imagine Haarlep might. If Raphael had any suspicions that you were actually real and not just your own glamour, he doesn’t let them on, summoning you and a red velvet settee to the center of the room with a snap of his clawed fingers.
You walk over—running a hand over the lush fabric, the gilded gold filigree along its ridged camelback, and the rolled arm of the fixture. When Raphael instructs you to take a seat on the arm, you comply. Nudging your legs apart, he steps between them to tower over you, and you crane your neck upward to take him in.
“Tell me, Haarlep,” he says slowly, grazing a hand along the side of your face before letting it drop to your neck, giving you a gentle caress, “Are you up for some fun? Or did I wear you out last night?”
You look up at him, finding the blaze of desire behind his eyes utterly captivating, and as he strokes your neck carefully, all you can do is nod.
Raphael smiles, the sinister look striking equal parts fear and excitement within you, the anticipation building somewhere deep within. “Was that a yes?”
You nod again, and he leans in to lay a breath-stealing kiss upon your lips, murmuring quietly against them, “Yes… to which part?”
Looking straight into his eyes, at the hungry flames licking within them, you find some buried bravery—or perhaps it is foolishness—as you give him your breathy reply. “Yes to the fun.”
He smiles again and draws himself back up to his full height, clasping your face in his hand roughly as his wings twitch with excitement.
“Very good,” he croons, the sharp ends of his claws pressing dangerously against the soft skin of your face. For a flicker of a moment, you wonder if his claws will leave a mark, but the thought passes when he eases his grip and runs one of his thumbs over your near-trembling lips.
You draw in a quick breath as he parts them with the press of his finger, and you allow his thumb to slip in with no resistance. He hasn’t broken his eye contact for at least a full minute, the grasp of his gaze strong and unrelenting as he issues his first real command of the evening—a single, spine-tingling word: “Suck.”
You do as commanded, your eyelids fluttering half shut as Raphael’s thumb presses deeper into your mouth, a soft moan escaping as he gently caresses the length of your tongue with it. Closing your lips around it, you look up at him again, his face fixed in an expression of wicked and undeniable pleasure as you give his thumb a light suckle. The blaze in his eyes narrows upon you and he issues his second command of the evening: “Harder.”
There is no hesitation. Painting swirls upon it with your tongue, you begin to suck on his thumb deeply and greedily, your own fingers digging into the velvet arm of the settee below as you bob your head a few times along the length of the digit.
“Beautiful,” Raphael breathes, running his other hand through your hair in praise of your compliance. You shiver at the sensitive caress of his claws as they scrape lightly at your scalp, your eyes fluttering shut once more at the gentleness of his offering.
Raphael withdraws his thumb from your mouth with a wet pop, seemingly pleased at the way you continued to suck and swirl your tongue over it through to the very end. Raking his eyes over your body, he gives your scalp one final caress before taking a few steps back and looking down with a frown. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”
You lift your hands from where they had been gripping at the velvet, raising them to unfasten the buttons on your top but you pause when Raphael tsks at you disapprovingly.
“There’s no need, my dear little mouse. Stand for me.” With a single finger, he gestures for you to rise. When you do, he places a hand on your hip and leans in for another kiss. Your lips part instinctively, a surprised gasp tearing past them when Raphael instead flips you around and presses you face-down into the cushions of the settee, your hips hiked up over the pillowy roll of its arm. He leans over and you can feel the press of his length against you, hard and hungry against the curve of your ass. You feel the heat of his breath again as he whispers softly into the back of your neck, “Shhh-shh-shhh…”
The shush is as much a comfort as it is a command to stay still as he runs a sharp claw from the sensitive nape of your neck down the full length of your body, slicing the clothing from it in a single, fluid motion. You feel the fabric fall away, the warm breeze of Avernus rolling in from the open balcony windows to sweep across the exposed planes of your skin as Raphael continues to work at the fabric, slicing it away from your flesh with a cautious and exhilarating precision. Every flick of his sharp claw sends another shiver tearing through you, and when he is finished—pulling the scraps of your destroyed outfit from beneath you and tossing them to the side—you are very nearly trembling beneath his touch.
“Do not be nervous, my dear,” he croons as he leans over you again, the cold metal of his belt buckle pressing into your soft flesh. You can feel the throb of his erection against the back of your exposed thigh as he leans further, reaching a curious hand to explore the planes of your back, his claws raking down your spine.
When he hears the pleasured exhale fall from your lips, he murmurs, “Yes, little mouse. You have such a beautiful back…” His claws press harder and you shudder at the sensation.
“I can’t wait to see how you arch it for me.”
At his words, a quiet moan escapes from your mouth, swallowed up by the velvet cushion below you. His hand continues to track down your spine, and when it reaches the curve of your lower back he steps backwards—you wait for him to trail his clawed finger right down to the very center of your parted legs.
“My, my, Haarlep,” he drawls as you shake lightly beneath the slow drag of his fingers, “Is this some new game you wish you try? You’re so nervous that you’re practically trembling.”
You suck in a sharp breath as he runs his finger between your drooling, exposed lips, and when they brush over your aching clit you let out a low and desperate moan. He chuckles at the sound, and you suddenly feel the heat of his exhale between your legs, Raphael kneeling down to examine you closely.
“Oh. You’re not nervous at all. You’re excited.”
You feel the flicker of a forked tongue swipe up your center and you moan again, your hips tilting up as your body begs him for another lick. He runs his thumb slowly over your clit and observes your response, repeating the exercise again and again with excruciating patience until he dips the clawed tip of his thumb into your slickened entrance.
“My dear, you’re positively dripping,” he purrs, spreading your wetness around slowly before you feel the cool rush of a concentrated breath against your skin, Raphael blowing teasing circles onto it. The sensation makes your clit twitch, and when he finally runs another finger over it, your legs tense further open—an invitation.
But Raphael seems content to tease you and toy with you at an agonizingly unhurried pace, taking great pleasure at the way you whimper and whine as he draws languid circles around your pleading clit. When his swipes make your entrance tense and contract, he chuckles in amused approval, enjoying the sweet torment of watching your orgasm build while refusing to let it topple over the edge.
When a particularly firm swipe of his fingers prompts your hips to buck up into him, he pulls them back and watches as you tighten with the tension of release, tsking in disapproval as he leaves you exposed and clenching desperately around nothing. Your body tried to come, begged for it, but Raphael refused to allow it, leaving the ache of your ruined orgasm and all of its unreleased tension still ringing within your core.
“Naughty little mouse. Did I give you permission to come?” He says in a low voice. You hear him stand up from where he was kneeling between your legs, then the shuffle of fabric and the sound of a zipper. You shake your head and he slaps your cunt sharply, a sudden sting as you continue to twitch and gasp into the cushion. You hear his belt buckle hit the stone floor.
“I must say, my dear Haarlep,” he drawls, running another finger between your slick lips to tease at your twitching hole. “You’re much more sensitive than usual.” His thumb swipes across your clit again and you moan at the contact. “I like it.”
You hear fabric landing softly on the floor, and then you feel Raphael against you again—his skin on your skin. He runs each of his clawed hands up the backs of your thighs, the sharpness of his touch making you quiver. And then you feel it—the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.
Raphael teases you with it, running it between your slick lips, along your throbbing clit. He kisses it to your entrance again and places a firm, stroking hand along the curve of your lower back as he croons, “How shall I fuck you today, my dear?”
He pushes into you, and you gasp into the velvet as you adjust to the crown of his cock, his thick length paused and pulsing. That alone could have been enough, but his thighs weren’t even touching the backs of yours. He pulls out of you slowly and gives you another shallow thrust, asking, “Shall I be slow and gentle?”
When he pulls out again—almost completely—your back arches instinctively, asking for more. He lets out a low and appreciative hum at the motion, and then his voice drops. “Or shall I be rough with you?”
In a single, unrestrained thrust, he drives his full length into you, his thighs slapping against yours with the force of his movement. Something between a whine and a yelp tears from your throat at the delicious, raw feel of him fully sheathed inside of you. The sound is your admission of preference. The sound is permission enough.
You make the sound again as his cock slides out slowly and drives back in—quickly, sharply, roughly. You shake and stifle a moan, your fingers curling into the velvet cushion below. Raphael pulls out again, this time quicker than the last, and when he delivers another unforgiving thrust that has you quaking, you can hear the cruel smile on his lips as he says, “Yes, that’s it. Tremble for me, little mouse.”
You bury your face in the velvet of the cushion, every thrust reverberating through you as a deep and unrelenting shudder of your own depraved rapture. He’s forceful and unforgiving with you, and as your legs dangle freely over the velvet arm of the settee, you know that you’re utterly helpless against the exquisite punishment of his cock, but you don’t care.
There’s a heat building within you, an orgasmic tension that has you tightening around him as he holds you firmly in place, his hands gripping your waist as his claws scrape at your hips, your stomach. Suddenly, you’re tensing and releasing around him, around... nothing.
You let out a frustrated groan at the emptiness left by his withdrawn cock, and though you can feel his disapproval in the terse grip of his hands upon you, you don’t care as you spasm and clench around nothing for the second time that night.
“Mmm, naughty thing,” he growls, watching your desperate cunt drool for more. You cant your hips backwards in a hopeless bid for stimulation—his cock, his fingers, the front of his thigh, you’ll take anything—but all you receive is another stinging spank against your aching clit, your swollen lips.
“Perhaps I wasn’t clear with you,” he murmurs, and you shiver at the current of danger running beneath his words. Raphael rakes his claws across the curve of your ass, up and down the backs of your thighs. He trails a single claw in a treacherously light circle around the sensitive skin between your legs.
“You’ll come only when I command you to.” The point of his claw tickles you gently and then his voice drops. “Every time I command you to.”
A sharp gasp tears out from your throat as his claw swipes over your clit, the dangerous point dragged through the parted center of your lips and right over your desperately slick entrance. Your hips twitch with need as you strain not to press them back onto his teasing finger.
Raphael chuckles at the clear agony of your arousal, a string of drooling wetness following his finger as he withdraws it from you. Against your exposed cunt you can feel the Avernus air, the breeze through the boudoir’s open windows blowing in and across your slickened skin. You can almost groan at the frustration of it, of the desperation that has seeped through every part of your body as it waits for Raphael, as it wants for Raphael. And when you feel the firm head his cock notch against your begging entrance again, you can’t help but moan at the pleasure of its contact.
He knows what you want, knows what you need, and as Raphael sinks his throbbing length into you again, a deep and satisfied sigh leaves your lips. It doesn’t take long until the tension is building in you again, every hard thrust of his cock bringing you maddeningly close the precipice of orgasm again.
You will yourself to relax, your body sagging into the velvet cushions as Raphael grips at you with his hands, pumps at you with his cock. You briefly consider asking him to slow down, to give your body a moment of reprieve to allow the delicious tension building around him to let up so you don’t accidentally come undone around him, but in the overwhelming ecstasy of it all you struggle to find the words.
All that escapes from your mouth is a deep and guttural moan as your body betrays you and betrays Raphael’s order, a wave of heavenly release ripping through you. Even your best efforts couldn’t stop it.
As you begin to clench around Raphael, he pauses his thrusts and you wait for him to withdraw again. You knew you weren’t supposed to come but your body simply couldn’t help it.
Cock stilled within you, he rakes his claws down your back and lets out a sinister chuckle, “Greedy little thing, aren’t you, attempting to come again without my permission?”
You can feel yourself spasming desperately around him still, but you know better than to ask him for anything. You suspected as much when you first let him bend you over the arm of the settee, and as he waits for your desperate spasms to subside around him, you know for certain. Raphael will give you what he pleases—no more, no less.
He leans down again and twines his fingers in your sweat-soaked hair, pressing the side of your face into the cushion as he whispers in your ear: “I’ll let you come… if you beg for it.”
With his other hand, he reaches down to give your clit a firm flick, your entrance tightening at the sensation as you gasp for air, for mercy.
“Please,” you say between gasps, your voice hoarse and desperate.
He gives your clit another swipe and growls in your ear, “Please… what?”
Your back arches up into him as your body begs for stimulation. He chuckles in your ear at the desperate motion but waits—you know he wants to hear the words from your lips.
“Please,” you gasp again, your voice hardly more than a whisper. “Please let me come.”
“Hmm,” he lets out an amused hum, giving your clit one final, firm swipe as he says, “Be careful what you wish for, little mouse.”
With those words, he stands back up, fingers still gripping roughly at your hair, as he draws his hips back, the thick drag of his cock delicious and depraved as it slides out of you. It’s almost enough to make you moan until he’s slamming it back in, the motion so harsh and abrupt that you yelp at first. He pulls back again and then slams into you once more, faster and harder than the first.
Raphael adopts a punishing pace, his cock thick and relentless as it fills you with thrust after thrust, each movement somehow entirely wild and simultaneously measured and calculating. Your back arches and your fingers dig into the kind velvet below, the only thing that still feels soft about this whole encounter as you tighten around him, your body begging, screaming, crying for release.
On a particularly rough thrust, you receive it—your cunt spasming wildly around his pumping cock as every muscle in your body tightens.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs, releasing your hair and allowing your head to drop to the cushion below.
He runs his hand down the sweat pooling on your tensed back as you gasp at his every thrust. He hasn’t slowed down, and he shows no signs of stopping.
Both of his hands find your hips, digging into them so tightly that you know he’s going to leave marks behind, but you don’t care as he issues another command, his voice as rough as his thrusts, “Come for me again, little mouse. I like the way it feels around my cock.”
With those words, he slams into you, hitting you at an angle that makes you moan and spasm. Raphael had gotten you so pent up that you couldn’t resist the command even if you tried. Your back is arching again, fingers grasping desperately until they curl around nothing.
As the second orgasm tears through you, leaving you panting and gasping for mercy, Raphael finally slows his thrusts to a lazy pace, trailing a clawed finger up the divot of your spine. “Are you enjoying yourself, my dear? Or is it all too much?”
You can hardly answer through the aftershocks, can hardly speak over the mind-numbing drag of his cock as it slides in and out of you even at this languid pace.
“Shall I stop?”
You shake your head.
“Can you handle more?”
You nod.
“Very, very good. I was worried I’d already worn you out.” He delivers a particularly rough thrust and you cry out.
“But then again…” He drags his cock out slowly, pausing just at your entrance. “You were feeling greedy today, weren’t you?”
You nod loosely into the cushion and he digs his hands back into the soft flesh of your hips, giving you a few shallow, teasing thrusts. It’s a brief mercy, and you know it. A short rest for you to brace yourself for what’s to come.
He pauses and his grip on your hips tightens as his voice drops and he asks, “Or was that all for show?” You shake your head at his question and cry out as he slams into you again, as rough and raw as it was unexpected.
Raphael finds his relentless pace again, angling his every thrust down into the sensitive bundle of nerves within you, every pump of his cock so fast, so merciless that you can hardly tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. All you know is that you’re twitching and spasming without end, reduced to a sagging, drooling mess of moans and sticky sweat as your body tenses and releases in waves of sweet and agonizing pleasure.
“Yes, that’s it, little mouse,” he says roughly, his fingers finding your clit again as he continues to pump into you.
You buck at the contact and cry out hoarsely.
He flicks at your clit again and you tense around him, your muscles aching with the onslaught of pleasure they’ve so far endured. It is delicious agony, the way his ministrations are capable of plying indulgent pulse after indulgent pulse from deep within you.
It’s almost too much, you think as you gasp and jerk at the sheer overstimulation of his fingers on your clit and his cock filling your twitching hole. Instinctively, your body slides forward on the arm of the settee, trying to lessen the impact of every punishing pump of his hips.
Raphael chuckles sinisterly at the motion, and you wonder if you’ve displeased him as his cock slows and then stops entirely, only halfway withdrawn from your spasming entrance as you wait, wondering if it’s already over. Tired as you are, as much as your muscles ache, you wonder how much of this Haarlep can take, night after night. How many more orgasms? How much more hedonism?
From somewhere deep in Raphael’s throat, you hear a low growl that tells you no, he’s not done with you yet, and your eyes flutter shut at the violent ecstasy of his hands hooking around your hips, wrenching you back onto him and into your assigned place on the arm of the settee.
He tsks at you lightly, one of his hands sliding from your hip to caress the back of your thigh, his claws digging into your soft flesh. When he gives it a brutal shove, hiking your aching leg onto the arm of the settee, you feel yourself drip freely and unabashedly as the sensation of being spread so wide open for him.
His other hand slithers its way up your spine, coming to rest between your tensed shoulder blades. You let out a quiet groan as Raphael leans his weight forward, pressing your chest down into the plush velvet as his cock sinks into you again, so deep that you can feel his hips against your ass, so deep that you can feel your own wetness smeared upon him as your slickened lips kiss the thick base of his cock.
Raphael holds you firmly in place like that, one hand pinning you to the cushion, the other gripping your leg as he spreads you wide, as he observes you, letting out an appreciative hum. When he finally draws his hips back, you whine at the drag of his cock as it pulls out of you, but he’s patient. He chuckles again at you, at the needy noises escaping through your gaping mouth.
“Now, now,” he grunts, delivering a single devastatingly forceful thrust between each of his words, “Didn’t I warn you? To be careful what you wish for?”
You nod sloppily against the cushion, taking every thrust with a hoarse cry as you drip and pucker around him. You can tell he enjoys it, doling out every drive of his cock with a near-sadistic pleasure as he watches you gasp and writhe beneath him, your muscles aching from the relentless waves of orgasm, your cunt weeping from stimulation and still begging for more.
It’s so much more than you thought your body was ever capable of giving, ever capable of taking, but as long as you remain pinned beneath Raphael’s delicious weight, you will continue to take it all. As he plunges into you again and again, your legs quaking and the muscles in your back wound taut with pleasure, you begin to spasm and contract around him again, gasping and crying into the velvet at the sheer overwhelm of it all.
“Yes, that’s it, my dear,” He purrs, caressing your thigh as it quivers beneath his touch, the tension and release of your orgasm tearing through every muscle in your body. You don’t know how you could possibly tolerate another, the cresting pleasure so great that your mind feels blank, your vision blurred, and your eardrums pounding with the pulse of your intense, near-shattering arousal.
But when the waves of your orgasm finally begin to subside, Raphael speaks again. He only says three words as he continues to pump into you.
“Very good. Again.”
The drag of his cock is deep and merciless, and though you’re so sore and exhausted that you wonder how you could possibly come again, when he presses you deeper into the cushion and digs his sharp claws into your thigh, another sudden orgasm tears its way through you.
And when he commands you “Again,” his voice deep and relentless, your sore and aching cunt complies to his order instantly. As you flex and tighten against the relentless pump of his hips, coming apart at his command, the realization dawns on you that your body is no longer under your control.
You realize, as you succumb to the depravity of his will, that Raphael will command you to come as many times as he wishes, and your body will answer him every... single... time.
You don’t know how long he continues to fuck you like that, plunging in and out of your aching, convulsing cunt. All you know is that the thick and unabating drag of his cock has blurred that line between pleasure and pain, worn thin from the first thrust and now, as you surrender completely to the pulse of his cock, you feel the separation between them dissolve entirely.
It’s so easy to lose track of time here, where the moments are no longer measured by hands on a clock face, divided by the tick of passing seconds. Here, time is meted out only by the unrelenting rhythm of Raphael’s cock. Here, it is measured by every delicious bounce of your body against the force of his every thrust. Here, you are helpless. Here, you are free.
As the waves of pleasure crest over you endlessly, you are vaguely aware of the symphony of moans and whimpers that fill the air of the boudoir. The sounds must be yours, you think, and though they rise from your own throat, you somehow know that they indisputably fall under Raphael’s domain—he will make you sing as he wishes, make you whine and sough into the velvet until he is satisfied.
It is only after your surrender completely, only after you have sagged into a mindless, needy heap of drooling desire, that you know you have truly pleased him. Raphael’s thrusts are growing greedy and quick, and you can feel the commanding throb of his cock as he digs his claws into the soft flesh of your hips and ass.
Suddenly he withdraws, and you feel the hot drape of thick ropes coating your tense and trembling back, the sticky strands of his spend pooling in the arch of your back before they run along your spine toward your neck and the cushion below. You can hear Raphael’s satisfied panting as he wipes a hand through the rivulet, catching the hot drip of his own spend before it runs along the nape of your neck and into your hair, where his other hand has tangled its fingers. He gives your sweat-soaked head a firm tug and your face lifts from the cushion.
Your eyes flutter open, their lids heavy with lust, and in front of them you see Raphael’s cum-slicked fingers, just inches from your gaping, slack mouth.
Your body has nothing left to give, nothing left to take, but as he gives you his final command of the night—the same as his first—one final delicious and depraved shudder runs down your cum-coated spine. “Suck.”
You wrap your lips around his fingers and taste the salty slick of his spend, and as you swirl your tongue dutifully over them, feeling him plunge them deeper into you, a deep and satisfied moan rises from your throat.
“Very good, little mouse...” There’s a smile on his face as he speaks the words. You can hear it through his low, coarse baritone as he croons, “Your moans are a song so beautiful that not even the compositions of Cormyr’s greatest poets could compare.”
The corners of your tired mouth twitch upwards into a smile around his fingers, and when he withdraws them, he gently wipes away the saliva and spend from your lips with the side of his thumb. The fingers wound firmly through your hair loosen, and he eases your face back down to soft caress of luscious velvet.
“My dear, that was wonderful.” His claws graze your scalp tenderly and you let out a contented sigh, your eyes fluttering shut once more. You did it. You endured the onslaught of pleasure doled out to you by Raphael, evading his suspicion and withstanding the indulgences of the night as only Haarlep might. You tricked the devil in his own house, and you lived to tell the tale.
But when Raphael speaks again, giving your scalp one last sensuous graze, your spent muscles try and fail to tense as he breathes into your ear: “Next time, little mouse, perhaps we can even invite the real Haarlep to join us.”