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What was he but a tool for others? Hands which once so elegantly composed the Weave into the most beautiful magic were nought but sullied. He examined his nail beds, wincing at the dried blood embedded along his cuticles and under his nails. Blood whose original owner he could not answer. Blood still remained, no matter the amount of scrubbing, as a silent reminder of malevolent battles fought. He turned his hands over, eyes poring over his palms. Once instruments that conjured brilliant illusions of elegance and beauty meant to spark joy and wonderment, they now bore blisters, battle scars from sweltering fireballs and crackling lightning.
The crunch of footsteps on withered leaves was enough to stir him from his inner thoughts, and as he raised his gaze, he was met with ruby eyes set intensely upon him. Ruby eyes of a drow woman whose very presence resonated with the authority of one that knew they were destined for greatness.
"Wizard," she hissed out as she tilted her head up, leering at him.
He could feel the dizzying phenomenon somewhere behind his eye as the familiar sensation of her tadpole reached out to his own with an assertive persistence. From any other companion, he would have batted it away and raised his defenses. His mind was his precious sanctum. The only place where he still felt he had a semblance of control.
But this was Minthara, and she always got her way. She was an indomitable force in all regards of life. She took and ceased what she deserved, and he allowed her to pry him open in all manners she deemed necessary. So Gale released that mental fortress he had so meticulously trained and put up, and he allowed her in.
Another scene overlayed his vision and disoriented him, knitting itself over his view of the proud woman. He could see a man with tousled dark hair sitting on a log by the campfire staring back with a knitted brow and dark eyes. Round, sad eyes that seemed to give off a melancholy gleam in the campfire flames. As he stared at the image, he felt her intrusive thoughts prod about his head, scoffing at this sad excuse for a wizard, a shadow of his former self. She saw him as the lowly creature he was – a male fit only to be commanded. He winced and saw the man mirror his motion.
And then the connection broke as soon as it was formed. He blinked hard, reorienting himself, and caught the tail end of the charcoal-skinned elf sauntering away into her tent, confidence exuding in the sway of her hips. She gave not even a final glance back to him to see if he was following behind. She knew he was watching her. No tadpole was needed to know that she not only did she expect him to follow, but she knew he would. This had become their strange relationship; a demeaning phrase or pointed look was all that was needed to convey the silent invitation to meet her in her tent – to help her achieve the pleasure she took as tribute.
He wasn't quite sure how it had come to this. He was not her first pick. Gods, he did not even think he was her second pick. But Gale was still a man subject to mortal desires and whims; he had wants and needs just like anyone else, so he acquiesced, rising to his feet and following after her.
Gale had paused momentarily at the curtains of her tent, palming the forming chub that pressed against his pants. Would he really subject himself to this? Was this really what he wanted? If going off his body's response alone, he knew his answer based on the pooling heat in his core and the strain of his cock against his trousers. Yet if he did not want this, he would not have started this situation for a lack of a better word with Minthara. He would not be standing here, ready to plunge into whatever would occur once he slipped into her domain.
He made an audible swallow as he pulled back the tent flap to find her there, facing away from him, her form already bare. Her fingers were fidgeting with her bun, causing silky white locks to cascade and messily settle along her shoulder and back. Against her rugged, icy demeanor, her body was a juxtaposition of soft skin and mesmerizing curves, her prowess only alluded to by the battle scars that decorated her body. She was an unexpected masterpiece – a painting built on top of thousands of sketches; her battle scars akin to small lines bleeding from under strokes of gouache paint.
She turned towards him, noting how his eyes wandered along her body greedily, but she did not preen as another might. Minthara understood her value and desirability – this was something she was willing to share with him and she expected the nonverbal cues of appraisal. "It is not a good look to keep your valsharess waiting, faern," she rumbled, sultry yet dark.
He wanted to curse at the surge of heat rush to his groin at the pet names she used during their trysts. Faern was only the drow word for wizard, but there was an seductive undertone when she slipped into her native tongue. A wizard at least held more value than a man did in drow society. He still held some value to her, despite how minimal it was – though he did not know if it was necessarily true, or he was just trying to convince himself.
He numbly wondered if he would ever work up to a point where she might utter his name. Yet he knew his place, and knew better than to question her authority.
"A-apologies, valsharess," he said. His queen, his mistress.
Mystra would have been disappointed, but she had abandoned him, hadn't she? Minthara had perhaps preyed on him in his moment of weakness, but she was conveniently there and willing to take on the role once held by his goddess, patching the crater of destruction Mystra had left behind. He had been left raw and vulnerable, and perhaps the drow saw his need for a firm hand and stern voice.
"Don't just stand there. Down."
She did not need to say more for Gale to know her expectations of him. He fumbled with his clothes, discarding the garments hastily. He gawkily clambered to her bedroll, feeling particularly exposed as she watched him, expressing her impatience through the slightest curl of a frown.
His body had already reacted accordingly. His cock throbbed, hard without the need of stimulus. Gale reached to take himself in his hand but stopped with a stern tut from the drow. With him splayed on the bedroll, it typically meant Minthara would lower herself on his face like a queen on her throne. Yet after stepping a leg over him, she loomed over him with a planted foot on either side of his hips, watching him with abated curiosity as if deliberating on her choice.
He did not know what he had done to be rewarded so favorably when she rested on her shins, her cheeks pressing against his length. Normally their sex felt detached; she would position herself in a way where he could not peer at her, or ensure his gaze was averted, but it seemed tonight would be different. Minthara leaned forward the slightest, teasing his tip with the promise of pleasure before she lowered herself down his shaft slowly, already wet. Those red eyes did not break away from him, so strongly captivating and all-consuming in their demand for his attention. Maybe she craved him as much as he craved her – fantasized about how she could use his body the very night before approaching him. As she bottomed out on him and he found himself choking out a groan, Gale hoped she fancied him as a precious bauble or heirloom with enough value to hold onto and hoard.
Gale never thought that he would crave or find pleasure in the mortal flesh after experiencing the bliss of lovemaking with a goddess. Was it ever the euphoric melding of bodies that truly fueled his lust? Maybe it was the relinquishing of control, allowing himself to slip into the role of servitude, that had become so entrancing.
She started to rock against him slowly. The soft yellows of dim candlelight were replaced as the mark on his chest flourished in color, another visual marker of his state of arousal. As his Netherese mark radiated deep purples and blues, the light granted some otherworldly etherealness to her, bathing her monochrome skin in cool hues. Her words were sharp daggers that cut to his bones, but she gave him purpose. She was just as poisonous to his veins as the orb, yet as she rolled her hips, she seemed as divine as the mother of magic.
He hesitantly reached out, cupping a breast in his hand and running his thumb along her nipple. Normally she would have batted the hand away and reminded him of his place, but to his surprise and joy, Minthara leaned into the hand and allowed a breathy sigh to slip as he thrusted along her motions.
She leaned forward even further, resting her arms along his shoulders as her pace quickened slowly. He could hear her murmuring her native tongue under her breath, soft curses and malicious words that came off as endearing felicitations only when uttered by the drow woman.
He always told her when he was nearing his precipice as it was a part of their arrangement, but the small adjustments she had made to their routine seemed to fan the flames of his arousal. He should have at least given her some kind of warning when his climax neared – a grip on her hip or even a small verbal cue such as a whimper, but the building tension in his core engrossed him much too fast, too sudden as she tossed her head back, and moaned xi'hum. Pet, plaything.
It was demeaning. Degrading, even. He deserved to be treated better than this, didn't he? Afterall, he had been an archmage once, courted a goddess and been her chosen, and while he had lost his abilities and goddess's favor, his name still carried a weight to it. He should receive respect, yet he was fine with being just a plaything, wasn't he? Gale had traded an aspect of his relationship with Mystra for a different flavor of it with Minthara; while he wanted to have an equal partner, there was something that reveled in being the lesser. He enjoyed the snide remarks, the disparaging comments she threw at him. Like with Mystra, he could not help but put the woman on a pedestal and shower her with carnal reverence.
He let out a soft groan as he came. Based on the ceased rolling of her hips, he could tell Minthara had become aware of what he had done. Gale pushed all fears of repercussion aside in that moment and he found himself lost in the moment of ecstasy, erratically thrusting to make up for the lost motion, desperate to ride out his orgasm. And as icy as she was, she was at least gracious enough to allow him to finish.
Perhaps she was going through how she planned to reprimand him.
When he finally came down from his orgasm, he withdrew his hands from her, finding himself feeling suddenly all too aware of himself and his place, unworthy to touch her. "I-I'm sorry, valsharess," he stammered when he finally found his voice.
"Mal'ai." Idiot. Minthara's eyes narrowed. "I give you the privilege of my body, and you try to take more? Faern, you are not worthy of breeding anyone, much less me." She was pulling herself off his body, raising herself to her feet.
He shut his eyes and felt himself freeze up, bracing for an aggression that would not come; the drow did not need to lay a hand on him for him to understand his blunder. Outside of combat, her weapon of choice was her words, and she wielded them well.
"Clean your mess," she said firmly.
"Yes. Of course," Gale answered, scrambling to rest on his shins. His cock, still twitching from the stimulation, drooled down his thigh as he ran his hand along her inner upper thigh.
"You mean to say 'yes, valsharess.' A jaluk should properly address their alur."
"Yes, valsharess," he repeated. He trailed his thumb upwards, running it along her slit teasingly, parting her folds before tentatively resting it against her clitoris. He looked up to her for approval. Cold eyes stared down at him as she rested a hand along the back of his head. He made a show of closing his eyes as he neared her and inhaling deeply, savoring the musk. He lolled his tongue and opened his eyes to see an expression of budding annoyance. The hand resting along the back of his head gripped a handful of his hair and she pulled him against her.
"Dos phuul naut wun lil' ussgyot ulu inbal dosst jivvin."
This should have been humiliating, shouldn't it? Gale didn't dwell on the thought.
He ran the tip of his tongue along her slit and slowly angled it until his tongue rested flat along the folds. Gale rubbed slow small circles against her clit and hummed when she hitched her breath. She broke the intense stare to close her eyes, letting out a soft sigh. It was the closest to a praise he would receive from her – and so he continued onward, pressing his tongue deeper into her folds and allowed for the flavor of their intermingling juices to run along his tongue. Even polluted with his salty filth, he still hummed contently as he lapped at the taste of her.
He reveled in the knowledge that he was the sole member of their group that experienced the only sweet part of Minthara. He found it ironic that it was not a gentle, loving soul – there was no tenderness in their physicality – but rather, the taste of her.
He could tell she was getting close when she squeezed his head with her thighs and quivered in a frenetic way, jutting her hips forward and pressing firmer on his head. She was strong, resilient, demanding, but even she showed small fractions of moments of desperation when chasing her high. Gale's thumb rubbed faster, harder and he pursed his lips along her labia and sucked softly.
"Vith," she seemed to spit out the word. He groaned when her knees seemed to buckle and she forced all her weight down onto him, causing him to fall back, bumping his head roughly, only cushioned by her pillow. There was no pause as she grinded against his face, letting out a series of languid moans. Her back arched and she shuddered against him.
When she came down from her orgasm, she was quiet as typical. The only indication of a job well done was a slight flutter of pale lashes and what looked like the ghost of a smile on her lips before her expression reset to the typical imperious look. She withdrew, seating herself against the orb's mark as she waited for her chest to steady. When her breathing had finally calmed, Minthara withdrew, raising herself to her feet once more.
It was always over too quickly; there was no post-coitus pampering, no afterglow basking in each other's presence. She simply stepped away, a fog lifting from her eyes as she reached for her clothing. "Out," she said coldly.
He nodded, quickly pulling his trousers back on and gathering the rest of his garments in his arms before leaving her tent. When he found himself back at his tent, he settled into his tent and freed his once more hard cock, allowing himself to replay their encounter – imagining the feeling of her so tight along his length as he squeezed his hand around his shaft. He allowed his nostrils to flood with her scent once more before he lapped the remainder of the drow's taste off his thumb.
Gale had grown to like their agreement. There was no need to talk about their feelings – of which he had plenty, and they were all very confusing – but there was a comfort in being able to completely surrender himself to another and allow them to direct him. Hands once used to create beauty, now used to reap destruction, and inspire pleasure when given the opportunity. Afterall, he reminded himself numbly, he was nothing but a tool for others now.