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He had been born of darkness and magic. Of brimstone and passion. Forged in the fires of the wild red-peaked mountains.
His creator was none other than the great alchemist Wizendore-Shertz. Known to him by the fond taken-name of Wize.
His purpose he knew and loved. He lived only to bring pleasure to Wize.
Their encounters were always memorable. The normally pious looking man would slip off his silken robes and come to him, asking coyly, “Oh Nendt, would you be willing today.”
Then Wize would play at the strings of his skirts’ linens in such a way that Nendt would feel his tentacles start to prickle with warmth.
There would be a breathless moment where the world would slow to the pulse of their hearts and the want in their veins.
Then Nendt would allow his tentacles to seep from beneath his robes and slither over the alchemist's smooth skin. He'd rip off the man's remaining clothes and then he'd have him.
Wize would usually allow anything that Nendt desired so long as Nendt filled the other man's near insatiable need.
He'd allow Nendt to thrust into his mouth with disregard. To spread his legs so much wider than he knew a human to be comfortably able to. He allowed him so much and yet, Nendt was always left wanting.
Wize would slip his discarded robe back on at the end of things, give Nendt a pleasant wave and a reminder that he could help himself to anything in the dwelling.
Then he would leave.
Nendt would be alone again. Even with the freedom to do as he wished, what he wished for was the impossible. For he wished for Wize. For the other man to look upon him as not just one for pleasure but one for love.