Geas Ch. 05

The night is a success, according to her, but it is not over when she announces that it is time for her guests to leave. "That jaluk will stay behind," she mutters to her slave, pointing to the man with the necklaces. His tongue still lolling out on an imaginary dick, he turns his gaze toward him. She rolls her eyes. "You no longer feel the phalluses. Stand up and clean while I get to know him a little better."

He moves slowly to his feet, sore from holding his position for so long. He rolls his wrists and rubs his jaw, but not before he makes his way over to the tables and gets to work.

It is almost worse, to do the drudgery of regular servitude. As a footstool, he had been able to focus on the less than tender rhythm of the imaginary dicks, the discomfort of staying still for so many hours, the tingle of his pulse in his own dick as his innermost lust was stimulated. He had lost track of time in that state, without a task or objective to distract him. He had accepted his role as useless, ignored, suffering in silence. Best of all, he had his mind to himself. He had been free to lose it, to discover his own numb oblivion.

But now, with stiff knees and an asshole that had never actually been full, he collects the silks for washing. He blows out the candles, unhooks the delicate garlands, prepares the leftover food for keeping. She had not told him not to eat, so he takes the opportunity to pick through the scraps. He hates that he must scavenge, that she so often forgets to let him eat. He hates that his favorite part of the evening was the part where he was outside of himself. But most of all he hates the jaluk with the necklaces, for stealing his mistress's attention away.

He catches glimpses of the drow man, who first moves to the edge of the couch adjacent to her chair. His thin lips are quiet but charismatic. His lax posture is mellow but mysterious. His gently gesturing hands are clever but compliant. The human catches himself staring and moves along, but the next time he glances over he sees those glittering necklaces frame her face as the jaluk has moved to perch on the arm of her chair. After what feels like only a moment, the slave looks back to find that the merchant has knelt before her and is massaging her bare indigo foot between his navy blue fingers.

The jaluk probably isn't forced to center his entire existence on the comfort of her feet, or memorize every centimeter of every curve and toe. He gets to smile and chat with her, to improvise and surprise her. Which he certainly seems to do, as a delighted laugh bubbles up from her and she kicks him playfully away.

"We're going upstairs," she announces, her gown sweeping around her as she stands. For a second, the slave is allowed the brief fantasy that he will be left alone. But then she adds, "Bring the wine!" And he is compelled to follow.

He enters the bedroom last, a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. He immediately sets them on the vanity and fills them without being asked, resentful that he must anticipate her orders even without the Geas to control him. It does, however, demand that he strip naked when within the room, which he does without ceremony.

Meanwhile, she is falling back onto the bed and her gown is riding up to her thigh, but he knows tonight it is not his to touch. Instead he plays the role of the jealous cuckold without even the honor of a marriage to betray, as the jaluk gets to run his hand over her smooth skin and pull the pins from her soft hair. The human stands quietly beside the vanity, his hands behind his back, as the other two kiss and whisper and explore each other.

"Really?" The jaluk says, in response to quieter words.

"Anything," she seems to confirm, gesturing lazily to her human slave. "Do whatever he tells you to, my little toy."

Her lover takes a moment to consider, then shrugs. "Punch yourself in the face."

She gasps, but her smile does not entirely wane. Her slave raises a fist and collides it with his own cheek before any of them have a chance to prevent him. He steps to catch his balance, pauses to catch his breath, and with a wince he steps back into place with his hands behind his back. He gulps, fearful of what else is to come.

"Oh, you." She shoves the drow man on her bed cheerfully, then tsks. "Nothing else with his face, though. I like him pretty."

He catches her hand and kisses it. "Very well." He looks the standing man over and suggests, "Squeeze your testicles."

The slave obeys, more like a programmed construct than a living person. It feels good to put some pressure on himself even after a day of cumming and an evening of edging. He releases a small sigh, but his relief is short lived.

"Harder," the jaluk demands with a dark grin, and the man with the Geas emits an involuntary hum of dread as the tension on his balls increases to a sharper pain. "Harder..."

She laughs again. "Harder." She waits for him to grunt with displeasure before she says again, "Harder! Good. Now bring us our drinks."

He lets out a preparing breath through tight lips, then begins the task while enduring the agony he must inflict on himself. He has no control over his own actions, and now there are two people ordering him to hurt himself and laughing about it. He walks bowlegged between them and the vanity, having to serve them one at a time with his other hand performing a vice grip on his own genitals. He hears the clink of their glasses as he returns to his position, short breaths attempting and failing to relieve the strain on his balls.

"Now hold still," her chosen lover commands, perhaps not realizing what he has actually done as the human beneath his gaze is forced to freeze his every nerve and muscle. The slave can only look as high as his cruel smirk as the other man brings over a handful of pins from the yath'tallar's hair, which is now draped magnificently over her slender shoulders. Each one has one or more heavy gems on it, nearly a dozen in total. He clips a pair to the paler man's pink nipples, then chuckles as he attaches the rest as hanging weights.

The slave is forced to stand stock still, balls and nipples suffering in silence. He can only watch as the jaluk slowly strips for her, then sensually peels off her clothes. He witnesses in burning pain and envy as two pairs of red eyes meet in fresh, budding lust, as the drow man holds her and feels her and seeks out the erogenous zones that her toy has long since memorized. Her latest lover is not made to worship her, but rather to follow his own pleasure through the investigation of hers. They continue like this for minutes, or perhaps seconds, or perhaps hours. Time is lost to the tortured slave, until eventually she addresses him.

"Release your balls and stroke yourself." He knows she is commanding him even though she does not bother to look at him. With a quiet sigh he unhooks his rigid fingers and tugs his cock out of his stained tights. As he begins to stimulate his shaft, she adds, "It makes you hard to watch me make love to a real man, not a thing like you. He's so hot, and he's going to pleasure me like you never can. Think about how unworthy you are. Don't cum without permission."

Her words become his truth. This morning he thought he was lucky, but now he realizes that he is insignificant, less than inferior, more worthless than the one who had been carved with that very word. He does not deserve to belong to the most powerful woman in the city. He is useless without her to control him. Worse than that, every command she gives him is a waste of her precious breath. The anger he feels for being forced to be her plaything is pointless; the least he could do is appreciate the position he has been afforded, but instead he is pathetic in loathing it, devoid of all value that another slave might provide. He isn't even worthy of the cock that cuckolded him, the one that had begun to pump inside of her and make her moan with a passion that he could never inspire.

He is distracted from his misery by her chiding voice. "Now, now. No one cums inside me." She has placed her slender hand on the jaluk's toned chest and signaled him to slow his grinding hips. Both of their shoulders are heaving with the suspended love-making, but she directs the drow man's head downward, toward her sex. "Slut, you will suck him to completion while he shows me his tongue's prowess."

The jaluk nods hungrily, setting quickly to work on her cunt. The slave sighs and, with his hand still squeezing his own unsatisfied member, he positions himself between the other man's legs and examines his navy cock. It smells like her, a bittersweet musk punctuated by the salt of his precum, and a tear drops from the slave's eye as he thinks about how unworthy he is. He doesn't even have enough value to pleasure her - he has to pleasure her lover by proxy. He probably won't even be able to make the jaluk cum, and he will probably be punished for it.

The dick in his mouth is not gentle. It pounds presumptively into the back of the slave's throat, even while he must remain as still as possible, even while the heavy weights hang from piercingly tight pins on his nipples, even as his hand works his useless cock. He chokes and sputters, gags and groans. In the distance he can hear her orgasmic scream, granted to her by a mouth more talented than his. And before he knows it, his mouth is full of sour seed. No one told him to swallow it, but he doesn't want to be entirely worthless, so he gulps it down.

He is kicked off the bed as he watches them settle into it, her nestling into his arms as they gently kiss each other to sleep. As quietly as possible, the slave drops a glob of spit onto his own cock, which is still stiff between his sliding, gripping fingers.

She never told him to stop. She never told him to cum. And he can't move enough to ask her to. So he slowly strokes himself into the night, watching the two dozing contently above him.