Martyn stares down at you, wide-eyed. You sense fear, and trepidation, and confusion, but also excitement. You have learned enough from Ayla’s lessons to attune your own mental magic more precisely than ever before. You plucked this fantasy from your halfling paramours own adolescent fantasies, slumbering shallow in his psyche. This scenario—the make-up, the proposition, the words, the tone of voice, the pace, the placement of your hands—they’re all taken from wet-dreams, previous liaisons, private fantasies, mixed and mashed into something irresistible. Even as he struggles to formulate a cogent argument against you, you sense that it’s more for your sake than for his.
You meet his eyes with your own, golden and glowing with the barest hint of succubus <Charm>, as your hands massage his manhood through his trousers, and you tell him truthfully:
“I <WANT> this. Don’t you?”
Martyn responds so softly you can barely hear him, but you sense the assent as loudly as if he’d shouted it. Without further ado, eager as a wolf kept lean amongst sheep, you unbutton his breeches and haul them down, claw-like nails seizing upon his undergarments in the same swift movement, and expose the confirmation of his consent: his rock-hard little hobbit cock. You breath deeply of the musk of his exposure, and his arousal. You take in the shape of it—not TINY, but elegant, and subtly arched and twitching with need. You fingers find it, polishing it as if it were the altar of some illicit demi-deity, sharp nails grazing it just sharply enough to elicit a thrill without drawing blood.
And then, you devour it.
“Oh gods!”
You don’t know if Martyn’s cry is intended for the Gods Above or the Gods Below, but either way, the only supernatural entity which answers his plaintive wail is you. Hungry as any èguǐ, you envelop him in your mouth. His moans are your moans, his pleasure is your pleasure; feeling his emotions and sensations almost as keenly as if it were your own cock being sucked, you learn by reaction how hard to suck, how quickly to bob your head, how to slip your tongue into place to stimulate the head of his manhood.
“That is… Oh gods, you’re amazing at this.”
“First time,” you admit with a nervous giggle, licking his tip and pumping the precum from the depths of him. “Am I doin’ alright?”
“You’re… Ah!”
Subtly modifying your throat, it is a simple thing to go as deep as he dreams of you going, and to shift the shape of your throat in subtle waves that ripple along his length to drag pleasure from the root to the peak of his masculinity. When he draws too near, you. Martyn grips your hair, bucks his hips, moans your name, and it feels like prayer. With the glossy, stygian blackness of your lips encircling his base, you meet his eyes with your own; acknowledged by his goddess, he explodes.
Orgone. Seiki. Whatever-the-fuck you want to call it, it flows into you like a shot of stimulant and sedative—like burning whiskey, like a spike of shirin. Your own body quakes as you grip your tits and twist your nipples. You keep your mouth anchored, sucking and sucking, swallowing and swallowing. Martyn starts to twist and writhe, to grip the sheets and pull himself away from a pleasure too intense to bear; you grab hold of his hips and pull him back to your hungry mouth, and your tongue elongates beyond your lips to encircle and pump his base, to massage his balls, as you milk him for
EVERY. LAST. DROP.
When finally you lift your toothless, jawless mouth away from him and realign your regular facial structure and dentition, Martyn is almost unmoving, staring up at the ceiling. If it weren’t for quiet wheezes of breath and the small movements of his chest, up and down, you’d have assumed he was dead. You feel a pang of worry even so, and ask:
“You good?”
Martyn slowly, shakily, raises an arm to form a thumbs up. He seems incapable of lifting any other aspect of his anatomy—least of all the one you just finishing sucking dry of aura and all else. You smile to see him so satisfied, to hear his quiet, happy groans of orgasmic aftershock…
But you’re still hard. You’re still hungry.
Your hands find your own implement—stubbornly stiff, unable to achieve the same satisfaction as your lover. You pump it furious, huffing and puffing.