Joran waved off yet another server proffering wine with a waning smile. The journey from the outpost to Lord Gareth's court had gone well, Sir Blythe's breaks aside, but the court itself proved a puzzle Joran wanted nothing to do with. It was true that they were well outfitted, with enough knights and warriors to help drive back the wilds alongside his own Lord's forces. It was also true that they were supplied more than enough to justify a political alliance. And yet...Joran found that people here were suspiciously light of spirit given their proximity to such active portions of the wilds. Further, the fete he
thought
they'd thrown for the Scion's arrival and engagement had been going for two weeks now, with no sign of abatement. Even more suspect, the women here were both more buxom and more demonstrative than the one's he was familiar with. Many of them reminded him of the Witch.
A woman who has been on my mind more and more as of late...
It was then, when the memory of the Witch's hands covering him in oil possessed him, even if for just a moment, that he dropped his guard for the first time since arriving in court. A soft form, cloaked in clove, cinnamon, and something peppery, fell against him. Surprised, he left his thoughts and found himself eye-to-eye with a small woman, whose eyes glittered with mischief.
"Forgive my clumsiness Sir! I wanted to bring you a pastry, to soothe your lonely post here at the edge of the party." It seemed that with each word she wriggled in a way that Joran found both distractingly pleasant and wildly inappropriate. He firmly pushed her away before he mustered a response.
"Thank you, miss, for thinking of me, though there is no need. I will eat when my Lord's Scion has gone to rest."
"Ah, but his rest is so far away, if previous nights are any indication. Surely you would not starve and distract your attentions?" Now that she was further from him, Joran saw she was perhaps a head or two shorter than he, with curves pressed tight against a dress that ended at a scandalous mid-calf. He flicked his eyes back up towards hers to find her smiling wide at catching his indiscretion. "Do you like what you see, Sir?" She leaned in and her scent fell more deeply on him. "I would love to show you more, if you could find time for me."
"I," Joran shook himself. "I must remain at my post."
"Well, I'll just wait with you here, then? I'm Marga, pleased to formally speak with you. I know you, of course -- the heroic Sir Joran." A note in her voice rippled in Joran's brain, strange and long enough that he was surprised when her voice sounded from beside him. "You're quite impressive, Sir Joran. We all think so."
"We?" Joran asked, eyes cast into the crowd to avoid looking down into Marga's bust.
"The girls, of course. Look, see the one in yellow? That's Nicola, she brought you your linens last week and we've been watching you ever since. Over there is--"
Joran's mind, inflamed by Marga's proximity, is returned to the memory of Nicola arriving to bring him a change of linens. He had answered the door forgetting the new and persistent weight his manhood took on every morning since his blessing, and it had only pulsed more strongly on seeing Nicola, whose bottom half rivaled the women that had undone Sir Blyth. It hadn't been until she giggled and pushed the linens to him that he'd been able to stop himself from starting.
I keep losing focus. I hadn't anticipated this outcome, but perhaps I should've -- increased stamina is what it sounds like.
In the present, Joran's eyes fixed on Nicola in a dress even shorter than Marga. He thought that if he looked closely enough, at just the right time, he might even get to see ben--
what am I doing
? Marga's laugh, light and smoldering, brought him back to himself.
"I'll let Nicola know you're thinking of her. But maybe you could think about me for a while? Your Scion has gone to bed, after all." Joran looked around, shocked, to see she was correct.
Too distracted by ass to watch my charge. And me with no cursed fruit to excuse my actions.
"Thank you for the offer, but I need to sleep."
"Well lucky you," Marga purred into his ear. "I know just the thing to help with that."
Joran, stiff and red, shook his head and walked back in the direction of the room he'd been given here. Marga threw her gaze down, smiled, and practically skipped after him. As they closed on his room, his mind whirled.
How can I get her to leave me alone? And why aren't any of my focus exercises working?!
As he stepped inside the door, he moved to close it behind him.
"Again, my apologies, I need to
hrk
," his sentence cut off as Marga stretched out a hand to rub on the protrusion his manhood made in his pants.
"What you
need
, Sir Joran, is to let me help you. You certainly won't be able to focus as pent up as you are. Don't you know it's not good for men to get so full?" Gripping firm on his head, she pushed his chest until he fell into a seated position on his bed. "Now, then, let's get this out, shall we?"
Joran's mind, as sticky and pendulous as his throbbing erection, tried and failed to find a way out of the situation. Marga finished disrobing him with the precise efficiency of an expert in the craft. Pleased with herself, she assessed his hanging shaft with eye and hand.
"Never been with one of these new monsters, I see. That will make this easier." Before Joran could ask what she meant, she showed him, and took his entire shaft from head to base into her throat with a rough, wet sound. Someone moaned, low and desperate.
Is that me?
The thought vanished as she throated him again, with increased speed. And again. Again. The noise, wet to start with, became even wetter with each pass. His hips had started to thrust in rhythm, increasing in speed alongside her as the moans increased in volume. Her eyes, filled with heat alongside the mischief, stared up at him. Her arms wrapped around him, held him in place, as she brought him closer and closer to climax.
It was when he reached the peak and stayed there that the back of Joran's delirious brain realized what the Witch's help had cost him. He found himself ever more furious and desperate, fucking without reason or remorse into Marga's mouth, until he became too sensitive to do more than drool as he grunted incoherently. Later, though how much later Joran didn't know, Marga lifted herself off him with an obscene sound.
"Well," she coughed, "I've never had someone as edged as you last this long. Now I wonder if you've been with a monster, just a new kind."
Joran twitched, which caused another dollop of precum to ooze from his swollen head. Marga licked at it happily; another tortured grunt from Joran followed her tongue.
"You taste good, though. And I do love those noises you're making. Hmm," she tapped her chin. "Have you ever been titfucked?" Joran responded only with continued oozing, held at the edge of eruption by the Witch's spell. "I'll show you, then!"
Joran's eyes had crossed and closed an hour ago, so his body responded only when she wrapped her soft and warm breasts around his shaft. The sensation, combined with the idea Marga presented him, was the last straw on Joran's struggling psyche. He faded away, with a new slick sound, along with the helpless moans the last things he heard.
