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My footsteps echo through the vast hall, deep under the Palace. The sheer depths at which this architectural marvel is buried is truly astonishing: the towering columns, so precisely carved in the stone, the polished floor which would reflect the ceiling, if light could only pierce the void between the two, the intricate dwarven masonry studded with faded gems casting a faint, eerie glow into the darkness. All of these combine to create a scene of stygian grandeur that never fails to bring a smile to my face.
While I deeply appreciate the aesthetics of the place, it is the soundscape that appeals to me the most. An almost absolute silence reigns here. Yet, on either side of the hall, rows of doors open onto a labyrinth of galleries, from which the moans and screams of prisoners bounce off the walls to reach the main chamber. That suffering, that despair—knowing all the while that it is not me, that it will never be me—rings in my ears like music.
Aunt Donnela is away for the week; it is the perfect opportunity for me to once again explore the secrets hidden beneath our family estate. I remember the first time she led me down this hall. It was about a year ago; her icy hand rested on my shoulder throughout. When I enquired about the nature of the melody of screams, she simply replied "prisoners", before diverting my attention to the architectural details.
She explained that the depths formed a crawling network of passages beneath Baldur's Gate, but that she did not want me to explore on my own, given how easy it is to get lost. I obeyed, at first.
But what could she expect from a young man like me, whose only permitted pastimes are reading and solitude, with the occasional ball (though such gatherings are far too exhausting to be enjoyable)? Naturally, a few months later, I secretly ventured into the Tourmaline Depths. The thrill of the unknown and the forbidden, the darkness, and the chorus of screaming creatures... I had never felt so alive!
Now, I am determined to find at least one of these prisoners. I have been unsuccessful with the first few doors on the right; being of an extremely methodical nature, I am now tackling the next one.
The place is dark, cold, and damp. I like it. It heightens the pervasive sense of despair. While I know I can leave this place at any moment, the prisoners have likely forgotten the warm caress of the sun. It amounts to an additional punishment—a fate they undoubtedly deserve, for my aunt is stern, yet just.
The corridor seems endless. I move forward cautiously, guided by the flame I’ve conjured at my fingertips—I never imagined a simple light cantrip would prove so useful—until I eventually come to an intersection. The whimpers don't seem to be coming from any specific direction.
I take the left-hand path, mentally mapping the layout as I go. I continue, making a point of turning left at every junction to avoid getting lost–a trick I picked up from books. I wonder how long I can keep wandering these corridors. Eventually, I’ll have to turn back. But I have provisions with me—at the thought, I grab an apple from my bag and take a bite, more to keep myself occupied than out of genuine hunger—so I’m in no rush. Finally, the passage curves gently, and I feel the cold intensify. Water drips from the ceiling in places, forming puddles that splash beneath my feet. The smell of mustiness and dampness is stronger here, almost stifling. The darkness grows more oppressive as the passageway narrows.
And suddenly, a loud crash.
CLANG.
I freeze, mid-bite. My heart is pounding. It isn't fear, but excitement. It’s something I’ve never heard before; the echo is still ringing, yet the noise seemed very close. I move forward, muffling my footsteps to pinpoint the source.
CLANG.
Again. It’s a metallic sound. Like something being thrown against a large piece of metal.
CLANG.
A grunt followed the racket... A grunt! There’s someone there–I’ve found a prisoner!
CLANG.
Another grunt. Oh, that was closer. The light I’m carrying must have given me away. But in the darkness, it’s impossible to see them.
CLANG.
I must be close, I can hear heavy panting, now. They must see me however. Where are they? Blood is roaring in my ears.
CLANG. CLANG.
It comes from behind me. I turn around. I jump, letting my half-eaten apple roll onto the floor.
There, illuminated only by the faint glow of the magical flame I’m holding, a naked man sits in a cell. He moans, and shrinks back toward the rear of the cell when I shine the light on him. The glare must hurt his eyes. Good. He probably deserves to be here.
Still, I want to take a closer look at him.
“Come here.” I order.
The man doesn’t answer.
“Step closer.” I repeat.
Still no response or movement, save for his heavy breathing. I step back a little. Perhaps that will coax him to come forward. There is no reaction for a moment as I patiently wait in the darkness, and then…
CLANG.
The man throws himself against the metal bars of his enclosure. The sound travels through the steel, but the grate—I can make out its outlines now—does not bulge. He grunts again; it must be painful.
"Stop that. I just want to see you," I say.
But the man doesn't seem to hear me; he rams into the door again and, this time, collapses to the floor immediately after, as if this pathetic display of determination has exhausted him. I sigh. It’s less interesting than I thought. I step closer again.
“What is your name?” I ask, civilised.
Still no answer, but the man is looking at me now. His eyes must have adjusted to the light. He looks haunted in the dim glow. And the smell... oh gods, that smell. A stench. It is foul, animalistic. How I failed to notice it sooner remains a mystery. He must have languished here for an eternity, never able to bath or clean himself.
I cast Light on the ceiling of his cell to free up my hands and illuminate him directly; his cage becomes fully visible.
Even now, I must squint, so accustomed have I become to the deep darkness. The prisoner looks away, whimpering. Were I not so consumed by the pain in my eyes, I would have found that sound beautiful. Finally, I can observe the creature—for it seems more beast than man—without suffering. And what a beast!
It is curled up on the floor, yet I can see how large it is. Its shoulders are at least twice as broad as mine —and I am tall for an elf— the muscles of its back are bulging with every breath. Its biceps and thighs are so massive that I doubt I could wrap both hands around them. The reek betrays a long captivity, yet someone must have ensured it was fed and kept active, for it is lean without being emaciated. Its pale skin almost glows in the dark, but I cannot make out the exact colour of its hair, as it is long, matted and caked in dirt. The sight is repulsive.
The cell is just as I imagined: devoid of any comforts, save for a heap of filthy rags in one corner. Opposite—barely two metres away—sit two buckets. One seems to catch water dripping from the ceiling; the other, I assume, is for bodily functions. I prefer not to dwell on that. Bones are piled near the rags. It looks as though this Thing tried to keep its room tidy. Perhaps a shred of humanity remains in it, after all?
He finally turns toward me, though his gaze seems drawn to a spot off to the right. I follow the line of his sight to the apple that slipped from my hands; it has fallen just out of reach, outside the cell. I pick it up between two fingers, shuddering with disgust—it is damp and coated in dust; it has probably rolled through a puddle—and I watch his eyes track the fruit with an open hunger. I even amuse myself by waving my arm up and down, watching him bob his head to keep the food in sight, like a starving dog. His face is gaunt, with hollow cheeks and deep dark circles under his eyes, yet the voracity, the madness shining in his eyes, makes him look wild.
He breathes loudly, his nostrils flaring with every inhalation. His lack of facial hair—thank the gods, or else a mass of knotted hair would be hanging from his chin, perhaps even covering his mouth entirely—along with his pointed ears, reveals his elven origins. His lips are cracked from dehydration, and traces of dried drool and blood stain his chin. He hisses, revealing half-rotted teeth—weary of my little game, though never averting his gaze from the apple. I can’t stop my face from wincing. It is a pathetic and repulsive sight, yet, I am fascinated by it.
What can isolation, the absence of light, and a lack of basic hygiene do to a man?
Are they all reduced to the state of a beast like this?
I ignore his growled threats, and let my gaze drift along the muscles of his neck, which converge in a V at the center of two protruding clavicles. I am immediately drawn to the small tattoo on his right shoulder: a dark spider set within a triangle— a symbol of servitude and of a follower of Lolth the Betrayer. A drow, then. Abnormally pale for his kind, but nonetheless a fair enough reason for him to rot in this cage.
His surprisingly well-developed chest heaves with every rasping breath—I repress the thought that I could barely fit one of his pectorals in my hand, they are huge! Yet he is clearly starving, as indicated by our little game, but also by his carved stomach: the skin is pulled taut, tracing the contours of his ribs and abdominal muscles.
Despite any common sense, I spit at his feet, half of disgust, half to distract myself from thinking more about the body in front of me. I cannot like what I hate, can I? The spit almost lands on him, but he jumps back slightly to avoid it. Rushing to the bars of his enclosure, he hisses again to my face, but my eyes are now caught on his dangling penis. I do not know why the sight shocks me. Perhaps it is because I have never seen a naked man other than myself. Perhaps it is the obscene length of him. I have read that some men’s members swell with desire, while others display their maximum size when flaccid. He likely falls into this second category; yet it is so large and absurdly long in this resting state—even for a man of his build—that I cannot tear my eyes away. I am not naive, and know what drow slaves are used for. But how would anyone want that in their holes?
Hoarse staccato sounds. The creature’s belly jerks rhythmically. I meet his gaze—he seems to have realized I never had any intention of giving him the apple and finally he looks up at my face—and I understand that he is laughing. It is forced and painful, as if the lungs are not used to it anymore. The teeth show again, but this time in a smirk. Is he mocking me?
“Shut up.” I say.
I will not tolerate disrespect from such a pitiful creature. Yet he continues to laugh, now adding circular hip movements that make his massive penis sway in that manner—at once off-putting and strangely engrossing—characteristic of flabby flesh in motion.
“Stop that, you make me nauseous.”
It is only partially true. The vile smell, the obscene act of faux seduction and mockery make my stomach churn. The incongruous spectacle of this man’s downfall, reduced to a semi-feral thing, deprived of comfort of any form… I want to watch it forever. I want to etch the image into my diary to remember every detail. I want to drag him to a cell closer to my bedroom so I can keep an eye on him every day. I want to become as small as a mouse to watch him survive when he thinks that he is alone. I want to turn him into an experiment.
Oh gods, is it filling now?
The man hasn’t stopped his lewd dance, but now his dick stands half erect, making it truly pornographic. The penis has swelled, as if it were even possible for it to grow larger. Just how big does it get when fully erect? I feel a flush rising to my cheeks; fortunately, I am standing in the darkest part of the gallery. I unclasp my cloak as I approach.
“Cover up, you pig.” I throw the fabric at him, unable to stand this repugnant sight any longer.
The man catches my cloak and pauses. At least the indecent movements have stopped. He seems to be enjoying the fabric beneath his dirty hands. It has surely been a long time since he touched anything so soft. I watch him bring the cloth to his face and...
Is he sniffing my cloak?
The rasping sound escapes his lips again, and, with deliberate slowness, never once taking his eyes off my face, as if to ensure I am following his every move, he lowers his hands… And begins to frantically rub the fabric on his groin, humping my clothes like an animal in heat.
“No, No! Stop that!” I hear myself scream, one arm reaching out for my cloak across the bars of the enclosure. “Give it back!”
But the man is out of reach and continues his circus. He adds exaggerated moans of pleasure to heighten the obscenity of the situation, taunting me. Sounds that I have heard only once when I had dared approaching Sharess’Caress, one night, out of curiosity. I had quickly retreated, cheeks flushed and dick hard.
"Let's make a trade. I give you the apple, you give me back the cloak," I said, waving the apple in my hand to draw his attention back to the food he so desperately wanted a minute ago.
But there is no indication that the man understands Common. I try in Elvish, to no avail.
The spectacle is truly grotesque. My cloak will be forever impregnated by this man’s stench, for the gods alone know when he last bathed. But I cannot leave my cloak here. My aunt will find it, she will know I have gone into the Tourmaline Depths, and I will be in serious trouble.
In a fit of desperation, I throw the half-eaten apple towards him. He lunges forward and for a moment, I hope he will let go of the cloak so I can mage-hand it back to me. But he doesn’t. He drops to his knees, face first as if in prayer, and eats the apple right off the floor, while his hips continue fucking my cloak. The apple is black with dust, yet it doesn’t seem to deter him. He devours it with the largest bites I've ever seen. His eyes roll back and his moans of pleasure grow more honest, as if the sweetness of the fruit, and the softness of my garment, combined with the act of desecrating my possessions, were profoundly erotic to him.
Soon, nothing is left of the apple. He has even eaten the core and the stem. His large tongue licks the ground once, twice, probably trying to gather the last drops of juice. How can a man debase himself as such? Eventually, he straightens up, still on his knees, and looks at me again, all the while continuing the back-and-forth movement of his hips.
What began as a provocative performance is now turning before my eyes into a genuine masturbation act as I watch him progressively find a rhythm that seems to please him. Small grunts and moans escape his parched lips. His legs are widening, his hips thrust with the steady motion of a fucking machine. And I watch, horrified, as he surrenders all mental control to his arousal.
My own cock is hard. My cloak is ruined. Yet, it belongs to me and I refuse to let him defile it. Without a second thought, I touch the cell lock and whisper an incantation, learned from one of Donnela’s forbidden books. A click. The result I expected.
“I said give it back.”
I open the door, and immediately a strong hand grabs my forearm, pulling me further into the cell. I don’t even have time to realise what is happening. One second I am pushing the door; the next, I am lying on my back beneath that gigantic man who towers over me, his hard cock rutting into the space between my legs, the cloak and my trousers being the only barrier between our genitals.
This close, the stench is unbearable. The heat of his body radiates the potent reek of his masculinity, so strong that it makes my nose tingle and brings tears to my eyes; he breathes right into my face, baring his rotting teeth, and—oh gods—his breath is so foul that I feel like retching. If I move my head to the side in an attempt to dodge it, I am met by dirty locks, their greasy texture making me recoil. If I try to breathe through my mouth to avoid the stink, I almost taste him in my palate, which is even worse. I try to push him, but his giant frame doesn’t budge an inch against my frail stature. I am built for study, not physical labour.
In my struggle, my hands end up on his arms, back and shoulders, anywhere I can reach. Eventually, I scratch his skin and he hisses, sounding annoyed. Did I draw blood, or did my nails only rake at the dirt and sweat on his skin? It is too dark to tell. I do it again, driven by a survival instinct that I did not know I had. This time, the rutting pauses with a snarl against my neck: his teeth are locked onto my jugular, not piercing, but warning. This beast is no vampire but I have no doubt that he would not hesitate to bite down and rip out my throat if I misbehaved. As I freeze, he loosens his grip on my throat and, with a large, powerful hand, he grabs my wrists and pins them above my head. This display of strength leaves me breathless, torn between panic and a feeling I would rather not examine. Unable to squirm away, I let out a faint whimper of fear, which brings a twisted smile to my assailant’s face. Then, the rutting resumes.
At first, each thrust is too frantic to be erotic. Yet, I cannot suppress a moan when I feel his cock rubbing against mine through our clothes. It feels as massive as it looks—a thick, burning weight right up against my own much smaller one. It feels…good? The pressure on my crotch, of course, but also the raw virility of him, his body completely covering mine, the muscle of his shoulder rolling before my eyes, his aquiline nose tickling my neck… his...
He just licked my cheek.
I wince at the sensation of wetness—realizing at that very moment that tears of helplessness and shame were streaming down my face—while unable to stop a flush from rising to my cheeks. He also makes low, masculine sounds. Moans of pleasure, I suppose. They are deep and guttural, like an animal’s growl, and they resonate in his chest just as they do in mine where our bodies press against each other. My nipples feel tight, constantly stimulated by his imposing frame rubbing against my torso. His teeth occasionally graze against the delicate skin of my neck, which makes me tremble. Is it fear? Is it arousal? Is it disgust or attraction?
He repositions himself over me, moving forward, bringing my knees closer to my head, almost folding me in half. The new position seems to renew his ardour and I feel his pace change, faster but also more deliberate. The cloak has slipped, probably reduced to tatters, and he is now rutting directly on my clothed bulge, and my hips slowly rock to meet his.
My trousers are getting wet from his precum, but I am leaking too. I hear myself whine. Every thrust brings a surge of pleasure in my groin, a grunt in my ear and a ragged, desperate gasp that I can’t hold back. Each roll of his hips grinds us together and makes me want to bring him closer. At some point I realise that I have stopped fighting and my legs have wrapped around his waist, keeping him there. But just as I’m about to release him, mortified, his rhythm becomes erratic, and with a low moan in my neck, he comes. A shiver runs down his spine, then hot cum soaks my breeches, seeping through the fabric that covers my still-erect cock. I whimper, craving more, still aroused, but also relieved, because surely he will let me go now?
I try to catch my breath, looking at the illuminated ceiling. A drop of water falls on my face and, suddenly thirsty, I think of sticking out my tongue to try to catch the others that will inevitably follow. But instead of water, a massive, slimy muscle invades my mouth. It tastes of dirt and rot and the sweetness of the apple the prisoner ate earlier. It’s dry and rough but also wet and slimy. The thing rubs against my tongue, explores my teeth and the top of my palate. It sinks deep into my mouth until I gag, retreats, and sinks inside again, as if fucking me. I stay here, too stunned and confused to respond. I only realise that the beast kissed me once the violating tongue retreats again, leaving behind the sour taste of bile and nausea roiling in my stomach.
He’s barely spent a minute panting against my ears and licking the salty sweat from my neck—making me shiver with a mix of disgust and arousal—before his hips resume their devilish back-and-forth motion. My own cock never flagged down. His is rapidly swelling again.
His hands tussle with my shirt, tearing it away to reach my skin. The fabric rips; the delicate silver clasps pop off and roll away into the darkness. My heart is racing, my blood is pounding in my ears. My own hands remain above my head, docile and frozen by a mix of fear and anticipation.
Please, don't hurt me.
Please, keep rubbing my cock until I cum.
I open my legs to give him even more range of motion. But he huffs, frustrated.
Suddenly the world tilts as he flips me over, face down, ass up, trousers pulled down to my knees. I hear myself moan, somewhere between relief and discomfort, as my cock is now bobbing freely in the cool air. His hands–fuck they are huge–are encircling my waist, his fingers nearly meeting. He tears off the remnants of my shirt and I feel him pause, no doubt to admire the view of my pale backside. He spreads my cheeks to get a better look at my hole, and I close my eyes, humiliated. Never have I been manhandled and disrespected this way. Never has my cock been this hard.
I know what is coming. I’ve seen the position in books. He is going to ram his enormous cock into my ass. He is going to fuck me and fill me with his seed. But how can this gigantic cock fit into my tight hole? It is far bigger than the two fingers I had managed to slide in there during a night of shameful exploration. I clench, my heart pounding, my cock throbbing, which seems to amuse my tormentor.
Later, I will wonder why I didn’t fight. Perhaps my body recognised that there was no way of overcoming his brute strength. Perhaps, deep down, I was simply too aroused to fight back. I brace myself for the penetration. I’m going to take his cock without protest. I won't let him win. But instead of staying loose as I intended, all my muscles tense the moment I feel something hot and wet against my hole.
Did…Did he just lick me...there?
The supple muscle moves from the back of my balls to the base of my spine; it twists and caresses my opening, wetting it, teasing it. Eventually I feel it breaching me. Face in the dust, eyes wide and vacant, all my focus switches from my erect member to the massive wet tongue, which one minute ago was in my mouth, now exploring my ass hole. It pushes in, it twirls, it retracts, I feel it scraping the sides as if tasting my innards. Sometimes the muscle relaxes, turning soft and moist, other times it tenses, darting, imposing, fucking.
The sensation is unnatural and repulsive. Who would dive head first in this part of the body? Yet, his ministrations light up my nerves, and pleasure travels straight to my ever-weeping cock.
Eventually, it withdraws, leaving me empty and slick. The man behind me makes a low, satisfied hum as I feel him straighten up. His hands slide on my backside until both of his thumbs breach my opening. He hooks them on either side and pulls. I flinch, the feeling uncomfortable, almost painful, but I am immediately pinned in place by an iron grip.
His hands are searing hot, contrasting with the cool air of the cavern. His fingers dig into my flesh, with such a force, pressing so close to the bone that I fear he might shatter my pelvis if I protest any further. I try to relax, letting out a whine as I heed the silent warning. His thumbs rub slowly against each other before hooking back into the rim of my opening. He pulls, stretching me wide. Realising that my tension won't help, as the man will open me anyway, I try to relax. Soon, I feel a draft of cool air where there shouldn't be one, followed by a drop of wet spit sliding into my opening. I shudder.
The thumbs leave to be replaced by something bigger and warmer. The blunt head of his cock–that massive cock I had admired and wanted to hide from my sight earlier–brushes my hole; it is pushing now, parting the sphincter, inevitably advancing. Against my better judgement, my body starts thrashing, trying to get this thing out, trying to get this man off of me. I writhe, I push; my knees scrape against the rough floor. I’m shaking. I’m probably crying again. The pressure is unbelievable. It's painful, it’s pleasurable, it’s absurd, it’s grotesque. I am too hot and too cold all at once. It’s too much and I need more. I am burning and I am drowning. But once again, I am pinned down with a strong hand on my head, keeping it in the dirt while the other grips my wrists behind my back.
The weight applied on my head grounds me, somehow, but it does not erase the intensity of the situation. I can feel myself sweating profusely. The gigantic cock slowly carves out a path in my entrails, constantly pressing, pushing. When I think I am full, stretched to my limits, and can take no more, it continues to advance, slowly but inexorably. A voice in the back of my head tells me that it is not as painful as I had imagined, though the feeling is foreign, overwhelming.
Finally, I feel his thighs on the backs of my legs, our balls pressed together. He drapes his massive frame over mine until I feel his breath against my ears. He is boiling, keeping me warm from inside and outside. His stench envelops me; soon I become aware of nothing but of his skin–at once dry and oily, coated in grime and sweat–against my back, his hand pressing on my neck, his cock filling every inch of my ass. Then he starts moving. Slow at first, then, when he realises that he encounters no resistance, with increasing determination. Each time he pulls out, his cock drags along my inner walls, catching the muscles of my opening, tugging on my sphincter, bringing a familiar sense of relief; each time he pushes in, I feel the blunt head bullying its way inside me, separating everything as my body has no choice but to accommodate his colossal size, until I can feel the shape of his cock bulging through my stomach.
How does something this big fit inside me?
A twist of his hips alters the trajectory of the cock bulldozing my insides, and I see stars. Pleasure shoots first from the monster in my ass, then spreads through my stomach and lungs, until I feel my fingertips and toes tingle. I gasp, mouth open, body racked with shivers, eyes wide, stunned on so many levels.
Why does it feel so good?
The prisoner must have found my reaction enticing, for he now keeps aiming for that precise spot on my hole.
The prostate. my brain supplies, before switching off.
My vision goes white.
And suddenly I feel too much.
The beast hasn't stopped fucking me. He fucked me through my orgasm, he will fuck me until he is done. I understand this to be inevitable. Yet I whine. What was pleasant a minute ago feels now like being pierced by a red-hot firebrand. My hole is chafed, swollen. My body is sore.
“St-Stop”. I try, pathetically.
Unsurprisingly, I’m ignored. Each thrust is punctuated by a grunt of his in my ears and a ragged gasp from me as I try to catch my breath. His heavy balls swing and smack mine–much smaller–; the sound seems deafening in the silent darkness. I am alone and I realise that I’m not sure I’ll make it out alive.
Yet, my cock stands to attention again, still dripping with cum. I try to focus on the viscous sensation of semen rapidly cooling on my legs, rather than on the dread in my mind or the cock in my ass. Everything feels sticky and damp and filthy.
I'm brought back to the present by a tug on my hair and a brutal snap of his hips which drives his cock directly into my sensitive spot. I choke. He moves more and more frantically, hammering my ass at a pace my body cannot follow. I remain limp, my head held high by the hand pulling my hair, the other resting on my stomach to keep my body from collapsing, while my mouth stays wide open, struggling to draw enough air.
He keeps readjusting his grip on my body to get more and more leverage.The thrusting of his hips grows more urgent and needy now, as he growls louder than ever, as if his arousal has finally reached the point of no return.
The thought that this beast is about to come, pumping me full, spilling his cum deep into my hole; his cock relentlessly pressing the right spot, his low grunts, the slap of his balls against mine… The pleasure travels straight to my brain, before I even realise that my balls, which were already so tight and empty, expel the last drops of cum from my dick.
I pass out.
I wake up in my bed; a peeled orange and a glass of cool water await me on the nightstand.
"I’m sorry," I whisper to my aunt when she comes to see me, after the servants have alerted her that I’m awake.
She dismisses my apology with a wave of her hand and leaves the room.
In the weeks that follow, I don’t ask how she found me—likely half-naked and covered in semen, while the beast was still riding my unconscious body. Nor does she ask what I was doing in the Tourmaline Depths. But I’ve learned my lesson: I will never venture there alone again. And I think that’s the end of the story.
Until the day, months later, when she enters my room followed by a very handsome man. He is dressed in sumptuous clothes—lace and silky fabrics—and his white hair falls in curls down to his waist. He is striking, both for his beauty and his stature.
“I'd like you to meet my new spawn,” my aunt says. “His name is Vellioth. He will be your personal servant from now on.”
She speaks these last words with a dangerous smile—one I only understand the moment I meet the man’s gaze. I would recognize that glint in his eyes anywhere now, for I’ve dreamed of it every night for months.
My face must have gone pale, for Vellioth grins in return, showing teeth in much better condition than how I had found him. And suddenly, I remember the beast speaking as I lost consciousness, and his voice echoes in my mind, as clear as if it had just been spoken.
Can’t you handle being fucked by my cock without passing out, little lord?
And like a promise, an omen, the voice adds:
The next time I fuck you, you’ll be conscious enough to feel me cum deep inside your ass.