Gambled and Lost

Author's note:

Hey again, thanks for the positive reception on my last work. I was really surprised at how much people liked it. That being said, I'm trying something a little different. This story contains among other things: kidnapping/noncon, forced chastity, objectification, humiliation, and very vague transphobia. Look elsewhere if that's not your thing. Otherwise, hope it's hot!

This has a little more build up before it gets to the action cause i wanted to set up a quck premise for future stuff. Hope you don't mind.

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There's a part of Andrew that's aware, even while unconscious, that something is wrong. But it doesn't become apparent what that something is until he wakes up. Head aching, throat dry, and muscles stiff. Reality fills his lungs like a breath of cold air.

The first thing he understands is that he doesn't recognize the ceiling above him. For a moment Andrew stares, absently admiring the dark wood until he tries to sit up. Then a layer of panic sets in because he can barely move.

Alarm flares in his chest. He looks left and right, trying to get his bearings. He's in a small and modest house. Sprigs of wild herbs dangle next to shelves stacked with clay jars and an open window lets in warm spring wind. Perhaps on another day it'd be serene. Except Andrew is bound, hands and feet tied with thick rope to the wooden table he's laying on.

What was I doing? Andrew racks his brain, desperately trying to think of how he could have ended up here. It starts out blurry but the longer he thinks about it, the clearer it becomes. He'd been on his way home to the village and evidently had never made it.

A shortcut, his mind supplies grimly. I'd taken the shortcut through the Oldwoods.

And then what? His head hurts. That's when—

"So what's your name?" The voice is even and just a little raspy at the end and it startles Andrew badly because it comes from behind his head where he can't see. He pulls at his hands but the knots tying him down are unforgiving.

"Let me go," he snaps, trying to sound intimidating and more or less failing. It's hard to sound powerful when restrained and helpless. Where's his sword?

"That's an ugly name," the voice remarks dryly. "Doesn't suit you."

A figure circles around the table and by the late afternoon light seeping in through the window Andrew sees a man. He's pale-skinned and young, perhaps around the same age as Andrew himself, and the wide brimmed hat he's wearing immediately steals his attention. He's heard plenty of stories about the evils that live in the Oldwoods. Hags and witches that cast spells, concoct poisons, and curse innocent strangers.

"Are you a witch?" He asks quickly, dread worsening as he realizes that the stranger has his own sword raised idly in his right hand. His weapon. He wrestles with his bonds again, to no avail.

The man tilts his head and his nearly black hair falls in front of his eyes. "What's your name?" There's a layer of—something—in his voice now. Something slightly colder than before. It's not a question he'll ask again.

He tries to puff out his chest a little, which has limited effect when laid out. "Sir Andrew. Of Yorston."

"Sir Andrew." His captor sidles closer and his thin fingers wander to touch Andrew's left bicep, still covered by his tunic. "You look too young to be a knight."

That ticks Andrew off. "I'm of age!" The man raises his blade and Andrew stills. "I'll be knighted next week," he admits. "On my twenty first."

Fear causes him to freeze as the tip of his short-sword (his father's short-sword, should anything happen to it Andrew will surely be thrown out) swings above his chest.

"So not a knight. Not yet," the man says. With surprising delicacy the edge of the blade cuts through the front of his tunic, all the way down the middle till his chest is exposed.

"Let me go," Andrew tries again, even less commanding because the stranger's warm hands touch his pecs and trail over his bare stomach. It's as if he's being appraised like a midsummer hog. "Don't touch me. Witch." For he must be a witch, despite him looking nothing like the stories. He is not some ugly, green skinned old woman, hunched over her cauldron, cackling to no end. This man is willowy and fair faced.

The witch's amber gaze is piercing. He looks down at Andrew and it feels as if he's seeing straight through him. "How could you stop me?" He circles around the table to Andrew's feet and the sword bites into the fabric of his pants.

"You're not even a knight," he continues. "And I'm not a witch."

The air is cold on Andrew's now bare legs and it causes goosebumps, or maybe that's the fear. He thrashes against his ropes, this time for a good long minute.

"It's pointless."

Andrew stares up at the ceiling. He should have never taken that shortcut. He'd been warned about it time and time again. The Oldwoods are dangerous. Everyone knows that and still plenty of people risk the journey in order to shave off a few extra minutes. Never again, Andrew thinks. If I somehow come out of this alive.

"What are you going to do with me?" He asks, a little more subdued now that he's practically naked. Andrew could meet a thousand different ends laying on this table, subjected to whatever is planned for him.

When his captor doesn't respond he cranes his neck to look down towards the end of the table. The man's gaze is bottomless.

"It's been too long since I've seen someone from outside the woods," the witch explains, almost to himself. He sets Andrew's sword out of sight. "If you wish to go home you must beg."

He scoffs. Even laid out and bare that's a ridiculous request. "I will not. I have honor."

At that, a sharp smile graces the man's pink lips. "We'll see about that." He hooks his fingers over the front of Andrew's underwear and pulls it down his legs as far as it will go, exposing him completely.

Embarrassment causes his face to heat up as the man examines him. A warm hand palms over his limp cock, just once.

"Well endowed," the man tips the brim of his hat up and his pale eyes gleam. "How blessed."

"No touching—" Andrew croaks and the stranger tips his head back to laugh. He sounds soft somehow, even when he does so.

"No touching? I quite agree." He moves out of sight and Andrew measures his breathing. This could be way worse than he thought.

"I'm Ezra, by the way." The man says behind him. "A warlock, not a witch. Though I'm sure no one from Yorston would know the difference."

A warlock. Andrew frantically tries to recall the fables. Is he weak to sunlight? No, moonlight? Running water perhaps? There's a difference, and it's more than just appearances. He can't remember by the time Ezra returns to view. His evil hat is gone and his messy dark bangs frame his face. He doesn't look anything like Andrew imagines when he thinks of a warlock. In all honesty his face reminds Andrew of those pictures woven into the grand tapestries at the keep.

"Allow me to present to you your first set of armor, oh noble Sir," Ezra says, unmistakably mocking.

Andrew watches in horror as the warlock circles to the end of the table again and nears his precious cock. There's something metal in his hand and Andrew can't figure out what it's supposed to be.

"Stop," he gasps. "What's that—" Ezra's violating touch promises nothing good. He stares down between his legs, helpless to resist as the cold contraption pinches around his cock and balls and fits over him like a cage. "What is that?" He repeats, louder and more panicked this time. It feels strange. It feels weird. There's a pressure—he bucks his hips. Trying anything to make it stop.

When Ezra steps back to admire his work, Andrew sees exactly how his cock is locked up. There is no better term for it, even a tiny golden lock dangles off the front of it. His dick is forcibly limp against him, helplessly cradled in its own armor.

"I want you to pledge yourself to me," Ezra says, tying a small golden key around his own neck and tucking it under his shirt. "Then I'll think about freeing you."

"What?" Andrew is in shock. "N-Never!" However, internally he is not as confident. It's a wildly different experience when an enemy has your entire livelihood in their hands. But I'll be a knight soon, he reminds himself. Or he will be if he manages to get out of this. Honor is paramount so he has to remain strong, like in the old tales. Perhaps people will come looking for him.

Ezra's smile is sly. "I like you," he decides. "You're a stubborn idiot." His hands drift to his belt and at first Andrew thinks he might be reaching for a flask. Perhaps a potion, a charm? Instead the man undoes his belt and Andrew catches one glimpse of pale thighs before he directs his focus to the ceiling again. His heartbeat is loud between his lungs and his face feels on fire. What an awful situation. He tugs at his bindings again. The rope is too rough and the table below him is too hard and his cock has been locked up like a common prisoner.

Something soft slips under his head, the first show of mercy, maybe pity. Andrew realizes it's Ezra's bundled up cloak as he carefully climbs on top of the wide table. Though he's not wearing pants, the end of his shirt covers up his cock as he gracefully shuffles up the length of the sturdy table, straddling Andrew. Revulsion starts to boil in his stomach.

"I won't do it. I only like women."

"Then don't complain too much," says Ezra above him with a hint of bitterness, and as he moves even closer Andrew sees why. Hidden between his tender thighs is a cunt. Bare and rosy and pleasantly rounded. It's glistening already with arousal and Andrew can only stare in awe as Ezra kneels above him. How? He doesn't understand it at all. Is it magic? The warlock is decidedly male but there's somehow a lovely little pussy between his legs.

He doesn't have time to think, however, because Ezra tells him "Bite me and I'll feed your dick to the wolves." Without further ado he lowers himself onto him, sits down directly on Andrew's waiting face.

At first he keeps his mouth shut as Ezra's wet cunt presses against him. From this angle he feels uncharacteristically small. The warlock towers above him and Andrew glares up, humiliated and appalled at the situation he's found himself in. Unbothered, Ezra sighs airily above him. His hips roll and his cunt rubs up against Andrew's skin and he's clearly finding enjoyment in sandwiching him between his thighs. He squirms, reaches down and pinches Andrew's nose shut until he's forced to gasp for air. Immediately all he can taste is Ezra's slightly sweet, overwhelming slick as he begins to grind against him. He is not gentle either, one hand gripping a fistful of Andrew's blonde hair and humping his face, full weight settled against him as if he's nothing more than a plaything. Not even bothering to look at him.

And the worst part is that Andrew doesn't hate it as much as he should, which doesn't make any sense. He's to be a knight by next week, supposed to parade his chivalry around on a noble horse in front of kindly maidens. There isn't any glamour in being trapped below someone who's currently grinding their clit against his nose. But still—Ezra groans and his voice is so mellow and secret that Andrew can't help but feel his cock stir in its prison. It must be the atmosphere, or the overwhelming taste, or even magic. It's as if he doesn't exist at all and instead is privy to witnessing something undeniably intimate. And though he could deny it, his body is trying to enjoy it, and there's no old stories that tell him how to deal with that.

The warlock's movements are growing frantic. Andrew tries to twist away only for the hand in his hair to tighten, holding him painfully in place as Ezra ruts mercilessly against him. A stream of huffs and hums fill the air. "Yes—" Ezra yanks Andrew's head up, so that he's pressed even more tightly against him, until the only thing he knows is Ezra with his dripping, intoxicating cunt.

"Oh—" Andrew feels Ezra's legs squeeze his head as he comes, mouth half open. His body shakes from the power of it and he pants for a while, catching his breath. Then he looks down at Andrew for the first time. His cheeks are tinted pink, eyes bright and comfortable. He lets Andrew's head go and settles himself fully on his mouth.

"Clean me up," he commands. It's strange because he doesn't seem like someone who gives orders. He's gentle looking and his voice doesn't carry or grate badly upon the ears. There is a quietness to him.

He looks like someone Andrew could easily bend over and have his way with until he is crying and so filled with sticky seed that there could be no doubt who's in charge.

The thought shocks Andrew because he has never had an interest in men, only women. But, to Andrew's humiliated dismay there's an unnerving pressure between his own legs where his cock is fighting to get hard. Why? His mind reels. All of this is against his will. It must be magic or something else equally violating. He glares up at Ezra, mouth closed, and tries to will away his shameful erection. It feels uncomfortable, unnatural. Manhood surely isn't meant to be trapped like this.

"I won't move until you do," Ezra tells him sharply. He wiggles his hips, smearing wet on Andrew's mouth and chin. "Don't you want to go home?"

For a moment he wants to bite, anger at his own situation bubbling up within his chest, but he knows deep down that there are no other options. He's tied up in the Oldwoods, at the mercy of a torturous warlock with unseen power. More than anything Andrew wants to go home so he can be knighted and forget about this deplorable nightmare.

So he opens his mouth and this time actively participates. He flicks his tongue on the underside of Ezra's clit, laps against the softest parts of his body, dips inside to find him wet and alive. Ezra's hips move ever so slightly and he sighs, which informs Andrew that he's doing a good job. He breathes him in as he works, trying to fulfill his demands as quickly as possible. Truthfully it's hard to find fault in such a pleasant cunt, even if the person attached is anything but.

Except Ezra stops him, finally, and cards his hand through Andrew's hair once and says, "Good boy," in the same gentle, pleased way with which one would address a favorite dog.

His cock strains desperately, a mounting pressure between his legs, and humiliation aches just as heavy as his arousal. How did he get so turned on by this? Being treated less than even a servant, as if he is barely human. Oh if he could only get free. He can envision himself easily pinning Ezra down against the long table and rooting his fingers inside of him just to feel him squirm. Just to hear his voice break.

The warlock climbs off of him and the table entirely, clearly satisfied for now. Andrew watches him peddle around the room for some time, tidying things up, or perhaps preparing a brew, or some other cursed affair. He doesn't get dressed and Andrew finds himself staring at his ass when he turns. He must be thinking with his cock, because he can't look away. What would it be like to hold it he thinks shamefully.

"Others will come looking for me," he breaks the warm silence, mouth still tasting of Ezra. "You must let me go."

"No one will find us. And I won't free you until you beg," says Ezra. "I want a knight of my own to swear fealty to me."

"That's absurd," Andrew snaps. I have honor."

Ezra turns and laughs. The same as he did earlier. "I rode your face like a royal horse and you liked it."

"I didn't—"

The warlock's hand brushes against his caged cock and every thought leaves his head. "No lies." There's that commanding tone again. His touch is feather-light on Andrew's body. The barest brushes against his strangled balls, the tiniest taps against his poor cock.

"You liked being tied up and beneath me," Ezra croons. "You've lost your honor."

"No—" Andrew croaks miserably. His cheeks are red hot.

Ezra's eyes flash with something. Hunger, perhaps. An intensity that was missing before. He snaps his fingers and Andrew doesn't know what he's done but he's done something. Fear courses through him. Ezra pulls the tiny key from around his neck and quickly unlocks his cage and Andrew doesn't understand why. His cock immediately springs to attention and the relief from that awful pressure is immediate, although he still can't touch himself.

"Swear fealty." Ezra climbs up onto the table again, sitting on his legs. He strokes Andrew's cock twice, grip rough, and perhaps because of how long he's been hard it feels extra sensitive. As if his body is starting to catch fire.

"N-No," he hisses through his teeth.

A determined, excited look crosses Ezra's face. He lifts himself up on his knees and lines up the tip of Andrew's long cock with his entrance, teasing him with how close he is. Andrew's own need causes his hips to automatically jolt up. A little closer. His desire for relief is slowly starting to eat away at him. A plague upon everything he knows.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Andrew licks his lips, still tasting slick from earlier. He watches in vivid detail as Ezra sinks down onto his cock, head tipping back as he slips lower and lower, until Andrew is fully hilted and gasping. Heat has enveloped him entirely, sopping wet still, deliriously tight.

"Fits so good." Ezra's cheeks are red and he smiles. "I much prefer this sword to your other one." He braces his hands on Andrew's stomach and leans forward. "Doesn't it feel good?"

Yes, Andrew thinks. Yes. Yes. The feeling is too perfect. He tugs on his bonds and bucks his hips again and the warlock gasps in welcome surprise.

"So you agree."

Ezra begins to ride him. It is an agonizing pace that Andrew has no control over at all. His body rises and falls and Andrew sees the way Ezra's dark hair swings in front of his face when he leans back, stares at the way his body swallows up Andrew's cock. In the moment he would give anything to just be able to move. He wants to press bruises into his hips, hold him down against his body. Humiliation and disgust are washed away by a white hot need. His cock is already so sensitive, it won't take much and he wants it so badly.

Yet he doesn't come.

Terrible desperation grips Andrew because he can feel it. He's on the edge of his release but his body won't let him come and his cock is still hard and Ezra's cunt is still gliding up and down his length endlessly. He realizes in the midst of his panic that it's magic, that there's no other explanation. That's why the warlock had snapped his fingers earlier, he'd cast some cruel spell—it's too hard to think coherently. He only wants to come.

"Stop—stop it!" It's difficult to speak.

"Swear fealty," Ezra instantly calls back, a moan tucked beneath his words. "Beg."

Andrew howls at the ceiling. He yanks on his ropes and twists his hips, trying vainly to dislodge Ezra. His wrists and ankles ache but it's nothing compared to his impossibly hard cock. Unfortunately his struggling only seems to spur Ezra on. Andrew sees how he reaches down with one hand to rub circles onto his clit. That could be me, Andrew thinks, nearly delirious. Could be my hand, spread him open, fuck him apart.

Ezra has stopped thinking about him, he knows it because he's got that same look about him, like when he forced Andrew's face closer and used him like he was less than nothing. That's what's happening. To Ezra, Andrew is just a plaything. Something fun to fill himself up with. Somehow that makes him ache even more and he can't explain why. Andrew might be going mad as the minutes drag on.