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Author's Note
: This story, Terrible Company, is sprawling sword-and-sorcery fantasy satire with a diverse cast of characters. Over its many chapters, those characters will have interactions (both with each other and others) that cross many of the lines that exist between Lit genres. I have come to believe that breaking the story into those different categories, as best I can, is the best way to expose the most readers to parts of the story they might dig, and that they might then be encouraged to read on.
Each chapter is written as a self-contained episode, and although there are running gags that continue through the series that enrich the experience, they shouldn't prevent one from starting anywhere in the series (including the final chapter) and enjoying it for what it is.
This chapter features:
Val
, the Female Orc Warrier/Fighter
Katsa
, the female Human Arcanist
Mathilda
, the female Dwarf Healer
Ayen
, the male Half-Elf Thief
Ivy
, the female Human Bard
Enjoy!//
"Vibrato starts in the throat," the Maestro urged, as he slouched in his heavily-cushioned chair. "Use the throat, dear."
"Nnnnhnnngh!" She took a deep breath through the nose, just like he'd taught her, and relaxed her throat.
"That's better. Tighten and relax, my dear. Tighten and relaaaax... Yeeees."
Ivy squawked wordlessly in reply.
"Now we're going to do some... hnnnnngh... light stretching exercises. That's it. And
down! Two! Three! Four! And
up.... oh goodness yes. And
down! Two! Three! Four! And
up! That's it! Three more! And
down! Two! Three! Four! And
up! And
down! Two! Three! Four! And
up! Last one, my dear! And
down! Two! Three! Four! And
up!"
"Whew!" Ivy gasped, blinking brightly when she finally came back up for air. She smiled, as much with her lips as her big bright eyes as she stroked the length of his curved member. "We've almost got my gag reflex gone completely!"
"I told you it would work. Now," he said, doing his best to adopt a lecturing tone. The curvaceous redhead's eyebrows rose in anticipation of the delivery of his wisdom, and the Maestro reveled in her rapt attention. His face, flush with exertion. "Bard Rule number sixteen, my little dovekin!"
"Never tune stringed instruments in the rain?"
The Maestro mitigated his mistake with only the most microscopic of hesitations. "Naturally, my dear."
Ivy swelled with pride, putting several buttons in the center of her too-tight blouse in true danger of being fired across the room with enough force to put out an eye.
"And Rule number fifteen?"
"Never start something you don't intend to finish?"
The Maestro nodded slowly, but Ivy merely blinked in confusion as she continued to pump her hand up and down. "Finish, my dear."
Nothing seemed to register behind her blue eyes. He nodded toward her hand, but Ivy merely turned to watch the handjob she was giving with equal confusion.
"
Me.
Finish me."
"Oh!" she laughed. "Of
course,
Maestro!"
"Why don't we work on our
deep breathing
exercises then."
Ivy nodded enthusiastically, pinched her nose as she gulped down air, and swallowed the Maestro's cock whole. The graying man writhed in his chair, counting out the seconds in his booming, sonorous voice. As he crossed seventy his beautiful apprentice's face began to match her dark red hair, and he reluctantly backed off. He immediately began stroking himself, near to his climax as he was, while Ivy fought to regain her breath.
"
Rule number forty two
," he croaked.
Bard Rule number forty two, of which the Maestro was particularly proud, stated that Bards should be drinking constantly. One never knew when adventure might sweep one out into a desert, and one could not count on there being anything to drink along the way. Bard Rule number seventy three, a later addendum, reinforced that since the Bard's most important instrument is the throat, proper and constant hydration is a basic necessity of the job. In addition to frequent consumption of his thick spunk, the Maestro had invoked Bard Rule number forty two to get her fall-down drunk on a regular basis as well as to take a potion that turned her into a young man for twenty four hours just for the fun of it. It was, by far, his favorite rule.
The apprentice nodded vigorously and opened her mouth. The Maestro, however, had recently discovered the joy of facials and deliberately brought himself to full before her lips reached him. Ivy recoiled in surprise, gasping softly and just barely getting her eyes closed in time. Squiggly white strings of semen slathered over her forehead, eyelids, and nose.
"So sorry," the Maestro wheezed, while not actually being sorry in the least. "Remember the rule, my dear."
Without hesitation, Ivy ran her finger along her cheek and put it in her mouth. He bit his lip as he continued to rub out the dregs, watching her devour his seed one finger-load at a time. Sometimes, he was unable to fathom how he had gotten so lucky as to have such an unbelievable apprentice. She wasn't even
trying
to be dirty or sexy. She didn't have to try; it was innate. Every slow blink of her long eyelashes, every gentle breath blown to help cool his tea;
every
action was drenched in sex appeal. Absolutely dripping with it.
"Am I ready to sing now, Maestro?" Until she opened her mouth.
It wasn't that Ivy's voice was annoying, or even that it lacked a sexual texture. Her natural register was high and clear like a flute chime descending from a lone tree in a field of wildflowers, tinkling in a breeze on a clear Saturday afternoon. Her pillow talk ran the gamut, from smokey and alluring to a level of raunch that had shocked him to his core the first time she was on top. She possessed an alto range in her singing voice which, in short bursts, was entirely pleasing.
The Maestro nodded, covering his grimace with an encouraging smile. Ivy sprung to her feet and backed across the room while he arched his back and pulled up his pants. "Start with the scales."
"D
ooooo, R
aaaaa
aaaa
aaaY, MEEEEEEeeee..." Extremely short bursts.
In some cases, he was sure that Ivy was actively making decisions in volume and emphasis. Questionable decisions, true, but with the right attitude an artist could pass off pretty much anything as being part of their 'style'.
"No dear," he interrupted. He paused to clear his throat and sang, "
Sooooooooooo.
" His rich tenor echoed perfectly throughout the conservatory.
"
Sooo
ooooo
oO
Oo!
" She smiled broadly and nodded. "Yes, that was much better."
It wasn't. It was, if such things can be quantifiably measured, worse. What troubled him the most, though, was her obliviousness. She staggered up and down the scales like an inebriated cat. A very sexy, inebriated, oblivious cat with a fishbone lodged in its throat. The Maestro did his best to present a facade of approval as she stumbled to a finish.
