It was the tickle of grass poking up from beneath the bedroll that drew Gretel out of tranquil sleep. For a merciful moment, the wizard lay there with his eyes closed, listening to the crackling of the fire, and thought he was back at his campsite.
The next moment, his eyes opened, and he remembered how much trouble he was in.
He was alone in the clearing, to his slightly confused relief. The crystalline pools glittered around him, and though it was ice-cold that night--he was fairly certain it was the witching hour--a campfire chuckled beside him, keeping him nice and warm. There was a black pot nestled in the ashes on the outskirts of the firepit. Beside it lay to a pair of tongs and a folded white handkerchief.
A piece of paper lay in the grass beside him, pinned to the ground by a smooth river stone.
"Drat." Gretel let out an exhausted sigh, lifting his head and striking the pillow with it. He'd gotten caught up again, wasted more time. And his hands were still bound in that red silk cord.
His heart raced at the thought of Marise returning and finding him like this, bound and squirming, cock still... enhanced...
At least she'd put his borrowed shirt and pants back on for him. He wasn't sure why she'd done that, and he wished his cock didn't have to strain against the tight fabric like that, but a little dignity was better than nothing.
He tried not to think about how much dignity lay in a girl dressing him while he sleepsuckled at her breast.
Gretel shook the thoughts off. Time to go. He braced himself against the ground with his legs and sat upright.
His head hit the pillow a half-second later.
Gretel blinked blearily. His head felt like a... like a liquid. The sudden waves of exhaustion and vertigo had caught him utterly off-guard.
He took a deep breath and shook himself, blinking rapidly. He had to force himself out of the daze. He was
not
proving that insufferable Limini woman right. If there was anything he hated, it was just... letting people like that talk down to him.
Well, he was
supposed
to hate it, wasn't he?
How many times had he let it slide since he'd left the Ivory Tower?
Gretel tried to sit up again, his mind lingering on the thought. He just knew so little about the outside world. He wanted so badly to just trust that people wanted what was best for him, just like he tried to want for them. Back in the Ivory Tower, nobody smiled. It wasn't a smiling place. Out here, people were so much more friendly, so much more...
inviting
. Welcoming, even.
Gentle. Warm. Soft. Sweet.
Gretel jolted back to wakefulness, realizing he'd been on the verge of nodding off again. He hadn't even noticed himself falling back down onto the pillow this time.
He looked around, trying both to keep himself awake with new sights and figure out what was wrong. What was...
Oh.
The cord around his wrists trailed away through the tall grass to encircle around a small green statuette he hadn't noticed before. It looked to be carved out of soapstone, but particularly glassy, almost translucent. It took the shape of a sleeping curled-up kitten.
He let out a groan. Of course.
He managed to roll over--the magic didn't seem to trigger as long as he didn't try to get up--and took the note in his bound hands.
Let's see what she had to say.
It wasn't a long note, but his face grew hotter the further he read.
Good morning, sweet boy~
I trust you slept well. In fact, I'm quite sure you did. You seem to be perfectly content in my arms as I write this, and even though I'm sure you'll be missing my heat, I'll make sure to leave the fire burning nice and toasty for you~
I'm also sure you'll be feeling positively famished without my sweetness, so I made sure to cook up something quite special. It should be done cooking now.
Use the tongs, though, darling, and eat with the cloth. We wouldn't want you burning yourself or making a mess!~
Oh, and if you want to leave, you're absolutely free to, of course. But I'm sure that bed is wonderfully enticing, so I'll be surprised if a weak little thing like you gets far.
Be back soon, sweet boy,
Marise~
Gretel bit his lip. He'd once heard tildes were called 'serpents' by non-mages, popularized in casual writing by a well-known set of similar wavy sigils employed in goblin marriage-collars. He knew what they connoted.
And he
was
hungry, too. His eyes lingered on the pot. All it had taken was a reminder of her 'sweetness' to send memories of her milk's taste flowing through his mind, and he couldn't get those memories to stop as long as his stomach rumbled. Eating something might help with that, he reasoned.
Except he knew the idea had
nothing
to do with 'reason'.
His eyes lingered on the pot.
In the Mage Towers, curiosity was upheld as one of the great virtues. In the real world, at this rate, curiosity was going to get him killed--or worse.
