Geas Ch. 04

She chuckles lowly as she turns toward the couches, and he follows her to her seat. There he takes his place in front of her armchair, arching his back and opening his mouth wide, as she gently sets her feet upon him. Soon enough, he feels the sensations she commanded him to.

Two large invisible dicks move inside him, known only to the two of them. They push against his most vulnerable places, subjecting him to the relentless, robotic violation that only his own imagination can conjure. Except he could never have imagined this particular torment. He endures it without variation or climax, his own phallus stiffening with the false stimulation for all to see. He suffers this humiliation because she commanded him to, because it amuses her, except now he does so as simply a piece of furniture, a footstool. He can hear nothing except the gentle moaning of the two women on the table, and he has a clear view of them as well.

They are not subjected to a Geas, so they can only do their best to follow the instructions of their masters' superior. The buxom one seems to be struggling to hold herself up by the elbows, her breasts pressing against the smaller one's stomach as her thighs smother her face. The thin one's feet are hovering in the air, toes curled with ecstasy as little moans chitter from her stifled mouth. Their tongues, once tentative on strangers' genitals, now lap eagerly in mutual pleasure. Fragrant juices drip from their faces and into dark pools on the silks beneath them. Hungry hands reach for the curves of breasts and the smalls of backs and the fats of asses. The top girl's shoulders clench as the bottom girl writhes beneath her, their quiet sighs and groans acting almost as music behind the mild conversation on the other side of the room.

It is the frail one that earns the first orgasm: sharp intakes of breath, surely full of her partner's oppressive musk, preceding a long shrill squeal of delight.

"Don't stop," the yath'tallar reminds them flatly, between other words. And even before she can entirely catch her breath, the slave's mouth is already back on the other one's pussy. What is worse, the footstool wonders: to be compelled to serve, having no control at all, or forced to, out of one's own desperate effort not to be punished?

Later on, the gemstone button is pressed. The plugged man emerges on weak knees, moving as quickly as he can as he is summoned for the umpteenth time. "A plate of berries," is requested by a drow man whose only jewelry is a few thin platinum chains hanging over his exposed chest. With a tight nod, the slave moves to fetch them, but the guest accidentally places the disk upside down.

This leaves the button pressed indefinitely, which no one seems to notice. The slave struggles to continue, but does not dare correct anyone; each step is ecstasy and agony as the plug rattles forcefully inside him. His cock stretches in his thong as he carefully places the berries on a porcelain plate, and it is all he can do not to crush the delicate thing as he trembles back to the group.

"Hurry," the slave's mistress demands, and he tries to. But this agitates the device more than he anticipated. He grimaces, stumbles, and falls... sending the plate to shatter on the floor. The conversation stops (though the yath'tallar's footrest would not be able to tell) as all eyes turn to the slave on the floor.

"I- I'm s- s- sorry..." He stutters, scrambling to pick up the pieces with his hard cock defining his thong.

"Oh." The man with the necklaces says, picking up the disk and realizing his mistake. The distant noise of the plug is suspended and the slave whimpers with relief, like a wounded animal.

"Leave it," the yath'tallar suggests, and obviously no one argues. "We'll just turn it off the next time we need him, instead."

With a shrug, the man sets the button back in place, and the plug resumes. The slave gasps, and slowly staggers to his feet. "Clean it up and get another, then," his mistress directs impatiently, so he does. With the blood rushing to his crotch, his shaking hands collect the rest of the mess. With his sphincter buzzing with pins and needles, he wobbles back to the table. With his heart fluttering in poorly suppressed lust, he dumps the waste in the bin. By the time he puts together another plate and returns to the man who requested it, the group of drow had forgotten about his misery. He meets the footstool's eye, glancing curiously at the wide open mouth, before he moves out of sight with the plug still vibrating intensely inside him.

As the night wears on, the music from the girls on the table ebbs and flows. The smaller woman beneath makes all manner of noises on the spectrum between a squeak and a wheeze, slurping on the heavy labia above her with dutiful abandon. The larger woman above is less attentive; she bucks her hips toward her own desire, often neglecting her partner's in the heat of any given moment. Her little cries tend to crescendo until she is almost too loud, only to stifle into strained yelps as she is pinched or slapped in a silent reminder to be artful. Occasionally, the harmony of the plugged boy's pitiful moans maintain an undercurrent of inflicted pleasure.

A few hours later, the yath'tallar sits back and sets the heels of her shoes into her slave's side. His invisible torture persists behind his glazed, miserable eyes. There is a puddle of drool between his aching hands and a modest stain on his tights, but no one seems to have noticed. "I think it's time to punish your elf, jalil," she decides with a devilish grin. "Do you have a dagger, or will you use mine?"

"I would be honored to use yours, malla."

"Very well." She slides it from its sheath and offers it by the hilt. "Their skin is too soft. You spoke of scars, yes? Tonight, they earn them. Write their truth into their flesh. Xa'huuli srow." Worthless scum.

"Yes, malla yath'tallar." With a measured bow, the drow woman accepts the dagger and steps toward her slave, who meets their mistress's gaze with wide eyes. The blade is raised, glinting in the dim purple light of the room's enchanted candles, and is then pressed into the soft of their inner bicep. The elvish blood blooms in bright, hot lines on their moon-pale skin. It paints them with the color of pain, tensing their muscles and twisting their expression in anguish.

At first, they struggle. They shiver and hiss, then they groan and gasp. The heavy iron shackles clatter on taut chains as they whine and simper and beg. They are small, insignificant, a tool to be used and abused. They are a fly caught in a web, and the spider is pleased by their writhing fear. "Please, jabbress. I'll be good. No, no, I promise. Please, have mercy. Please, it hurts."

"Hear us now," the yath'tallar whispers to her footrest, digging a sharp heel into his ribs. He flinches, and so too do the phantom phalluses seem to press even deeper within him. His ears open, though the guests are silent now.

Instead her voice is the one that rises, full of unusual passion and reverence. She speaks over the elf slave's pleadings, like lyrics to the melody of so many other slaves' pleasures and protests, in joyous prayer. "May you deign to hear the cries of the unworthy, almighty Lolth, our Dark Mother. They have been captured by your will, and suffer at your pleasure. If their torture brings only the briefest smile to your magnificent mouth, we will be pleased wholly and utterly. We do not dare ask you for anything, only that we be tested by your endless trials. Perhaps you will witness this offering. Perhaps we will earn the barest moment of your attention. Even if our efforts are futile, we relish the opportunity to inflict upon the child of your enemies."

The man in the necklaces slides to his knees and clasps his hands in prayer, muttering his own words of worship. The other drow quickly follow suit, their rumbling chorus like a dark drum beat.

By the time the first word is fully carved, the chained slave's cries have changed somewhat. Whines have turned to whimpers. Fear has turned to hunger. Screams have turned to song. The pain of the knife's continued abuse sears through their being, overwhelming their mind into a singular focus that frees them from the shackles of worldly sensation. The high of it rushes through their supple limbs and trembles in their clenching fists as they cry out in unwitting worship of the goddess that has enslaved them. Their eyes roll back. Their blood drips quietly onto the stone floor below. Slick ecstasy dribbles between their thighs, smeared by their mindless squirming. And still the blade delivers white hot torment, raising them higher and higher into oblivion.