Philter of Lust

Later, he's angry.

"You expect me to work for you after that stunt you pulled?"

She rolls her eyes. "Your madam already signed the paperwork."

"That's not--"

"Let me make it up to you."

"How could you possibly--"

"I'm having a little party this weekend." She adjusts the fold of his robes on his chest, entirely unphased by his fuming. "I've invited plenty of other nobles. Their purses are so heavy, they don't know what to do with them. Perhaps you'll find another patron there."

He pauses, glaring at her. How could he refuse?

So he shows up to the gathering a few days later, his edges sharp and his hair slicked back. The meticulous styling is the custom of his company, and he must look his absolute best if he is to be hired by someone other than her. There are plenty of eligible patrons that he might try to persuade, and she appears to be entirely civil. He shakes hands, smiles charmingly, jokes and chats. Eventually it is time to sit for dinner.

"No. You sit there." She points to the seat beside hers, and he notices that the wine glasses are already full.

"Of course, jalil," he obeys with a demure grin, eyes downcast but posture cautious.

"I'd like to propose a toast," she announces, and those who had already sat shuffle back to standing. "To Veszrek Despana, may his new business deals lead to prosperity."

The courtesan toasts with the others and takes a small sip, wary of the last time he had drunk wine from one of her glasses. He looks at her, but she isn't looking at him.

Veszrek sips as well, then lifts his glass again. "I couldn't have done it without Wehldrin Kensynge. To our continued partnership."

They all sip again, and sure enough, there's another toast. Then another.

"To Zanthara Oussiryn, may she pass her trials."

"To my poor late husband, that his body serves well in the undead armies."

"To the illustrious and talented Haelaste Zauduis."

Slowly, his wine dwindles. To drink is the only polite thing to do. There is a nagging worry at the back of his mind, but it is assuaged by her civil smile and diverted attention. He is caught completely off guard when, on the final toast, her well-manicured hand rises to the base of his glass and holds it in place. For a panicked moment the wine can do nothing but pour down his throat.

Instinctively, he gulps it down.

When he is finally allowed to lower his glass again, it is empty. He looks at her with realization in his rust red eyes, then fear. "No... no, jalil. Please."

He looks around at the rest of them, and is greeted with a sea of mischievous grins. Had they all known about her poison? Was this all some sort of ploy, some sort of sick game?

He can't wonder for long. He barely had a chance to understand the complexity of their plotting when he feels it. The twinge. It is hot, throbbing, and humiliating. It is hard, erotic, and contemptible. He fears it, and he hates it, but most of all, he loves it.

That low chuckle of hers is too familiar, that haughty satisfaction that drips out of her like precum. It shakes in him as he bends forward, clutching the edge of the table, feeling all eyes on him. A stray white hair swings out of the grasp of his pomade to curl in front of his face, teasing the last of his breaking will. "Please..." He begs again, but this time it is for something else entirely.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she gestures to him, as if his hunched posture were some sort of preliminary bow. "Your entertainment for the evening."

He knows what to do. Or at least he thinks he does. The chair slides out from behind him as he falls to his knees, his trembling hands clutching her ankle if only so that they cannot be occupied by the heat in his groin. All at once, all of his goals and desires have evaporated in the fire of his sexual need. It doesn't matter that he was trying to impress these people, that he wanted employment, or contentment, or dignity. It only matters that his cock is hard. And he has no other purpose except to be satisfied.

He lowers his head to kiss her foot, but before he can, she kicks him away. "Get out from under the table, boy, where no one can see you. Let us get a good look."

He turns his gaze up at her with pleading in his eyes, craving to touch her but too desperate to deny her. Her smug grin matches the rest of theirs as he gently clambers to his feet, revealing the hard bulge between his legs. He folds his hands in front of himself, as if it could hide anything, and bows his head in humiliation as he hears the guests titter among themselves all the same.

"Hands apart, now," she continues. He obeys, squirming. "Tell us what you want."

"I want... I want to fuck you, jalil," he mutters into his chest.

"Jabbress." It means Mistress. "And do speak up."

His hands shake stiffy at his sides as he says, a bit louder, "I want to fuck you, jabbress."

"Hm. Well, I think I'll pass." She makes a sweeping gesture over the table. "But you might be able to convince them. If you beg."

His stomach sinks as he turns from her to the others. "Please..."

"What was that?" A woman in the back grins maliciously at him.

"Please, would... you let me fuck you?"

"Oh, I'm not sure," Haelaste replies with a sardonic sigh.

"Please, jalil. I need it."

"...How much?"

"More than anything. More than life. Please, if you let me fuck you, I'll go willingly to the altar as a sacrifice. I'll... I'll be in your eternal debt, no favor you ask too big or too small. I'll tell the world I belong to you. That I'm a sniveling cretin who lives to serve you. That I'm a disgusting wretch that you crush under your heel. If you'll only let me fuck you, I'll ruin myself. I'll quit the company and utterly wreck my reputation. I'll debase myself at your pleasure..."

Only then did he realize that he was rubbing himself urgently over the cloth of his pants, caught up in his own self-degradation. He gasps and pulls his hand away, and Haelaste bursts into laughter. "I tell you what," she says, once she catches her breath. "I'll fuck you if you hump that pillow, on the ground, through dinner."

He looks over to the pillow on a chair in the room opposite, and gulps softly. His frazzled mind only allows him one moment to stall; in the next, he's sprinting across the room to grab the pillow. As the poisoned jaluk darts back to the table, both eager and ashamed, the man beside Haelaste speaks up.

"I'll fuck you too, if you take this fruit." Wehldrin holds up an item that only some in the Underdark would recognize as an apple. "And hold it between your teeth without taking a bite - through dinner."

He would need more than one of them, the courtesan reasons, if this curse was anything like last time. After he had left the Jabbress's estate, he had searched for someone, anyone, who would be able to sate his insatiable need. But he ultimately had to resort to spending a chunk of his savings at a brothel, through nine grueling hours in a haze of perpetual lust. As he looks down at the apple, he knows he'll have to convince them all.

He didn't even have a chance to take the thing before Veszrek pipes in, pouring out the last of a wine bottle into his glass. "I'll fuck you too, if you lower your trousers and put this in your ass, through dinner."

The desperate jaluk has no more energy left to hesitate. He takes the apple and the bottle, juggling them with the pillow toward the largest corner of the room. There he falls to his knees and holds the apple to his mouth.

"I'll fuck you too..." The final voice says, and Zarthara doesn't even bother to look at him as she adds, "If you don't cum, through dinner."

His teeth cut a little into the fruit already as he whimpers against this last challenge, but he nods all the same. Setting the other items aside, he peels his pants down his thighs and exposes himself to the room. His ass is soft and perky, his cock hard and angry. He lowers himself onto the pillow in front of him, and lines up the bottle behind himself.

Then he gets to work.

Soon enough, the jaluk has broken a sweat. He is bucking wildly against a velvet pillow, his sensitive member unfulfilled by the pliable, plush object. He is holding a glass bottle awkwardly behind him, violating his own tight asshole with it as his hips jerk frantically into it. He is clutching a sweet fruit in his mouth, jaw aching around it as he concentrates carefully on not clenching too hard. He is physically hungry, having forgone his dinner in favor of proving to these people that he deserved to fuck them... or rather, be fucked by them. The sweet taste of the apple teases his senses while he watches the others eat and chat and ignore his misery. And all the while, he has to force himself to hold back the floodgates, edging into a grunting mania that slowly narrows his perception until all he can think about is his cock's unending need. It is a unique kind of torture, which he is beginning to think he deserves. Why else would he have to endure it - because he is just unlucky?

The dinner seems to never end. They take their time, of course. The slaves tread carefully around him, as if he were a chair or a painting that they are tasked to avoid. The guests spare only a few looks every now and then, and at one point he doesn't bother to check if they are paying attention any more. After all, looking into their red eyes nearly sends him over the edge, and he can't cum. Not yet. So instead he stares forward, working his precum into the ruined pillow, fucking himself in the ass with a cold, hard bottle.

That's the worst part, of course. He should have thought to lube the object with more than wine, which he might have even tasted if he hadn't been so eager to obey. Instead he holds it as still as he can within himself - no easy feat with his hips thrusting constantly through the evening. It chafes and presses, hurts and invades, but it doesn't hinder his unending fervor. Worse, it touches that little thing deep within him that craves subjection, dejection, and pain. If he brings himself that much nearer to the brink, if he begins to cherish it the most of all his little tortures... that must mean he wants it, right?

An eternity passes. Inner conflict, mounting arousal, and terrible disgrace consume him, and he forgets about the world outside his suffering. That is, until a narrow heel kicks him off balance.

His shoulder collides with the ground and he loses grip on the bottle, which rolls noisily away. He gasps and bites further into the apple, but luckily the piece between his teeth is not broken from the whole.

"You ruined my pillow, slut. What a dirty little whore you are."

His jabbress stands above him, confident and cruel. The others have risen from their seats and are slowly moving toward him as well, looming over his prone body with amused smiles on their mouths. He looks up at them with rising fear, pants pulled to his knees and hair in a humiliating mess around his sweating face. "Y- yes, jabbress..." He mutters, not knowing what else to do in the silence.

"Thank me for turning you into a dirty little whore," she insists, digging her heel into his chest.

"Thank you, jabbress," he repeats breathlessly, unable to keep his hands from working his own cock and balls in their incessant need. "For turning me into a dirty little whore."

"You've been good filth, though. Didn't even fail one of our little tests. So I guess that means that everyone gets to fuck you, doesn't it? ...Doesn't it?"

"Yes, jabbress."

"How exciting for you! Now, Haelaste, I believe you were first. There's a guest room just over there."

Haelaste smiles and steps forward. Without warning, she takes the miserable jaluk's cock in her hand and begins to tug him toward the bedroom. It's all he can do not to shoot from within her soft grasp, but he does emit a long, dull moan in the attempt.