Sometimes I Write Stuff

As it gets worse and worse, and those sentences get too complex to manage, you just repeat exactly as trained: "Break me. Break me. Break me." Egging me on with the mantra, the fear and horror and pain in your voice meaningless next to the actual words.

Can’t stop thinking about the jester draped across the prince’s lap on the throne.

It starts off casually enough. The jester just sits there, arm slung over the prince’s shoulder and absently twirling his hair while he listens to a report from one of his knights. They grow bored rather quickly and begin to scheme up some mischief, as jesters are wont to do.

The prince maintains his attention on the matter at hand, one arm supporting the jester’s rear and the other on their knee. His attention is broken, of course, when the jester glides their free hand up his chest to tease the collar of his shirt and the ornately tied fabric that resides there. They lean in to brush their lips against his ear as they bring nimble fingers — each one adorned with rings gifted from the prince — up to carefully undo the shirt’s tight collar and pull it down to expose the his neck. Their breath tickles his skin as they whisper to him.

“This report is quite dull, your Highness. Allow me to entertain myself.”

Soft lips press against the prince’s ear then move down to his, now exposed, neck. The gentle kisses steadily grow in their intensity, and the wet sounds of open-mouthed kissing echo throughout the throne room. The prince squeezes the jester’s knee, rubbing his thumb against the skin-tight material of their costume, and makes no move to stop them. Why would he?

The knight pauses in his delivery, but a simple Continue from their prince makes him tear his eyes away from the sight. The knight clears his throat and restarts. As the report goes on, it becomes more and more clear just how affected this knight is becoming. His face is adorably dusted in pink and his gaze cannot seem to stay on the royal for very long, darting back and forth between his prince and the jester before giving up entirely and simply bowing his head.

The prince has been slowly sliding his hand up the jester’s thigh as the report went on, kneading the flesh through their hosiery. Now that it’s concluded, the prince’s decides he doesn’t want this little game to end. This particular knight is proving to be quite the delight to tease.

“Look at me.”

It’s a simple command, one all too eagerly followed. The prince gives a bemused smirk, then swiftly moves to cup between the jester’s legs. They let out a giggle, cradling the prince’s neck and pushing themself into his palm. Not once does the prince look away from the knight’s wide-eyed gaze, even as he begins to rub the jester over their hosiery with a practiced hand. The jester circles their hips around, grinding into the prince’s palm and his dick at the same time with an embellished groan.

The knight’s face is practically glowing now, not the least bit helped by the way the jester moans unabashedly. The prince’s smile widens further at the visibly growing arousal within the man’s trousers.

“Wish you’d donned your full kit, do you not? How unfortunate for you that you cannot hide yourself behind the codpiece, hm?”

Not that the prince truly wants him to hide it, of course. The way the knight shifts in embarrassment under his gaze is delicious. Almost as delicious as the sounds coming from the beautiful figure writhing in his lap. They are genuine moans, for the most part, but he’s too familiar with their noises to not notice the way they exaggerate for the sake of riling up the knight. He can always count on them to tailor their performance to any audience. It’s an admirable quality, to be sure, but not what the prince is in the mood for. Right now he wants to hear their sounds unadulterated, and far be it from him to not indulge in his desire.

He finally rips his gaze away from the knight to trade their mouth on his neck for his mouth on their’s. He releases their groin to reach up and untie their ruffled collar, slipping it off and letting it drop to the floor. Next comes the tight lacing traveling up the back of their corset. He has less patience with that, pulling and tugging the strings loose so he can tug it off and slip a hand up under their shirt. He runs his palm up and down smooth skin, thumbing over a stiffening bud when he nips at their collarbone. The moan they let out vibrates against his teeth.

The prince spends several minutes here, teasing their chest with fingers, tongue, and teeth. He knows just how sensitive their chest is, and he’s more than happy to draw this out to get them squirming in his lap. The prince flicks his eyes back to the knight every now and then, making sure the man is watching. Not that he needs to check, the knight has hardly blinked since the touching began.

The prince’s hand moves down once more, slipping into the jester’s hose. He debates how far he wants to go here, whether or not the knight deserves to see his prince’s manhood stand at attention or how perfectly the jester’s body opens up to accept him. No, not yet. He’s done well to stand there and watch, but that sight must be earned.

He pulls down the jester’s hosiery just enough for their length to bounce free. It bobs in the air once, twice, but before it can fall a third time the prince has wrapped his fingers around it. He holds his hand there, unmoving, staring dead into the eyes of the knight with a shamelessly impish grin. It’s clear the man’s grip on the warrior persona is wavering, but the prince wants to see it crumble entirely.

When the prince uncovers the jester, wrapping a delicate hand around the hardened length, Errant actually feels his knees tremble, and something between arousal and panic shoot up his spine, and he doesn't know whether to drop to his knees or flee the hall entirely, completely overwhelmed by what is happening.

Prince Dorian must sense Errant's conflict when the knight doesn't immediately obey the command, and one perfectly manicured eyebrow raises. "I gave you an order, knight."

Sir Errant takes a shaky step forward, but suddenly can't quite meet the prince's gaze.

"Your Highness," he manages to say, his voice dry, "I shouldn't be witnessing this."

"Why ever not? I told you to watch." The prince's hand returns to the jester, wrapped loosely around the base of their arousal, holding just firmly enough to elicit another gasp from the fool.

"Yes, but..." Errant stammers, squeezing his eyes shut just to focus enough to put words in the right order. It doesn't help much, the image burned onto the backs of his eyelids. "I don't understand why your Highness would wish me to..."

Prince Dorian's expression has sharpened a bit, as if ready to commit to full displeasure if Sir Errant becomes any more difficult, but his lascivious smile returns. "Because I'm enjoying watching you struggle to keep your composure, Sir Errant. I hardly think I need more reason than that."

Errant's cheeks heat even further, and when he manages to meet the prince's eye again, it's with a touch of a frown. "So this is purely to torment me?"

"Mm." The prince shrugs, letting his other hand sink into the jester's hair and tug, not enough to move their head, but enough that the jester clearly feels it, sighing before moving their mouth back to the prince's neck, and gods, Errant is losing that separation again. Almost able to taste the prince's skin, to smell his perfume, just from watching the fool indulge so freely in a way Sir Errant knows better than to wish for, but can't seem to help himself.

"Not purely to torment you," Prince Dorian continues, and Errant has to shake himself to focus on his words again. "My darling fool does enjoy putting on a good show, especially to such a captive audience. I would hardly deprive them of the opportunity." He holds out his hand once again, pinning Errant with an almost predatory look. "Now, as I commanded, knight. I won't tell you again."

And as much as Errant would love to deny it, the decision is an easy one, hardly a decision at all. He's sworn to the prince, and even if he weren't, the question of whether or not to obey him is one easily answered. So the knight takes another step closer and sinks to his knees, ignoring the bite of the marble floor, so much colder without the barrier of plate armour. He holds the prince's gaze as he works his tongue, having to gather saliva for a few seconds before there's enough for him to spit in Prince Dorian's palm, barely stifling a whimper at the act itself. Who is he to sully the prince's hand? What penance could possibly absolve him of this sin? Hell, how does one even confess something like this?

But it's worth it, gods, it's all worth it when the prince's grin becomes indulgent again, when his sullied hand returns to the jester's cock, slicking the length slowly with the knight's obedience, when the jester gives a new kind of moan at the prince's movements, one that somehow sounds less performative and more genuine, even to Errant's untrained ear.

Magic is done entirely through sex. You build magical energy through sleeping with other wizards. The main component for gathering energy is time. You get the same amount of power blowing someone for an hour that you would plowing them for an hour. To get more energy, you need to add more people. As such, magic covens were polycules of equals, who would have orgies in order to perform rituals or do big spells. Magic in that way is collaborative and shared. Conversely, dark/evil wizards often had a harem of less powerful mages that they would leech energy from, resulting in magic that was more self-centered and hoarded. (Masturbating generates some energy, but it takes a very, very long time to get enough to cast even a low level spell.)

Casting a spell works similarly: You need to have some kind of sex with someone. However, you can cast by sleeping with anyone, even if they're not a wizard themselves. Spells vary in effectiveness based on the intensity of the act, and in power based how much energy a mage has. A really good handjob with lots of kissing and groping is going to cast a stronger spell than half-hearted penetration. The only thing that wasn't really clear was the cutoff point. You didn't need to have an orgasm to cast the spell, but a "finish" needed to happen in some way for the spell to actually have its effects.

As you can imagine, most magic wasn't launching fireballs or spawning in a dozen blades. Instead, it was usually physical (making someone stronger or faster), mental (putting someone under your control or breaking the control of someone else), or otherworldly (summoning or exorcising something,) though you could still strike someone with lightning if the need arose. Some magic could be done without sex, but it was mostly weak stuff, and was usually done in preparation for a larger spell that did involve sex. (Think of things like setting up a summoning circle or making a short message that only wizards can see.)

With that explained, the narrative of the dream was equally as ridiculous. I was the member of an extremely powerful coven. We had done somesuch powerful ritual in the past, and decided to lay low for a while and split up the group while we did so. For reasons that I don't remember now, I decided that it was time to get the coven back together. I had already recruited one of the other women in my group, and we travelled to a church a ways away. The witch we were looking for had started working for the church after the coven split. However, when we got there, we found that the church had been condemned, and the witch was instead working at the fast food place next door. When we went to said fast food place, there was nobody around. No customers, no employee. When we called out, we heard a noise from the bathroom, and she came out in uniform, disheveled. Clearly fucking. However, she didn't recognize us. We could tell that her magic was low, even lower than it should be for someone laying low. After talking to her for a bit (and seeing an odd guy slink out of the bathroom and out the door) we figured out what had happened: While in hiding, she let her magical energy get too low. The guy, a mage, had managed to talk her into sleeping with him. Instead of helping her regain her energy, though, he cast a spell to enthrall her. He was one of the aforementioned dark mages, planning to do the same to other wizards in the area and build up a harem. However, he didn't realize that he had someone so talented under his control, since he kept her at very low energy and didn't let his mental control slip.

So, we did what any good covenmates would do: I took her to the back and fucked her out of his control (and replenished her energy) and my friend caught him and shook him down for information on what he was planning after he succeeded. I woke up in the middle of the sex (very classic of my sex dreams) so I don't know what happened to our spunky heroes after that.

time was absentmindedly fidgeting with the pocket watch on the table. "where's this coming from?"

"i'd rather not have a giant, glaring weakness that villains could exploit."

"oh, that's what it is. i thought you just wanted me to be more possessive. i was prepared to do it."

he briefly considered playing into that, pretending it was the real reason he wanted it, in order to convince them. they would probably see right through it, but they might be willing to go with it, anyway.

it would still be too embarrassing.

"i thought the whole point of these sessions was to help me as a hero?"

"it's to help you with your powers. i don't care about your hero stuff."

Flouncing around in an apron and nothing else, giving a brainless giggle every time you're groped or stroked. Wearing whatever your owner wants you to wear, be that a collar or some high heels, and always making sure to chirp out a brainless "thank you, Master" whenever they tell you how pretty you look.

Just a silly Stepford doll, no longer having to worry about anything more complicated than having dinner ready on time and keeping your owner happy and satisfied.

it's already stretching you so painfully wide, pressed against the back of your cunt. but then the stool's kicked away and you fall back on the toy, and it hurts, so fucking badly. all you can do is fight to keep your balance, toes just barely brushing the floor and breathing through the pain. imagine just hanging there, quivering and panting and growing more and more tired as you're practically split open on such a massive toy.

Whumpee’s eyes were still a little far away, but the smell seemed to bring them back. They look down, stomach growling, and take a stuttering breath. “Oh.” They look up at Caretaker. “Thank you.”

Caretaker smiles gently. “Would you like to hold it?”

Whumpee takes a moment, looking down at their hands and unclenching their fists, where their nails had dug into their palms. They were shaking, only a little, and had pulled their knees into their chest.

All nerves and disorientation, they nod, and take the bowl into their palms, crossing their legs slowly and leaning back against the kitchen cupboards.

“Thank you.” They say again, quieter.

“You’re welcome.” Caretaker says gently. They give their friend a long look. “You seem tired.”

Whumpee nods, staring down at the bowl. “I am…I am tired.”

Caretaker lets the silence fall gently between them.

“You haven’t been around the commons in a while.” They say, not accusing, just quiet. “I figured you might need some checking in on.” They move their hand down to the key card that had allowed them into Whumpee’s living quarters.

Whumpee’s mouth goes into a thin line, then they breathe again, and let out a kind of laugh. “Ah, well… I just.. felt too much like…”

Caretaker waits patiently for them to speak. It takes a few minutes.

“Too much like… myself.” Whumpee completes.

“Like yourself?” Caretaker gently probes.

“Yeah,” Whumpee whispers. “Like myself from… before. Who I… was. Who I used to be.”

“Your old self.” Caretaker nods, gently correcting it in their head, understanding. “How do you feel now?”

“Like me.” Whumpee says. “More like me, more like who I am. With you. With everyone here, now.”

“That’s good.” Caretaker gets on their knees in front of Whumpee. “I hope you get to feel that way. All the time.”

“Yeah.” Whumpee says quietly. “Me too.”

By this time the soup steaming had died down. Caretaker nods at the bowl. “Would you like to have some?”

Whumpee refocuses on it, as if just now remembering. “Ah, yeah… I was just… waiting.”

“Waiting?” Caretaker quirks a smile at them. “Waiting for what?”

“For uh… permission.” Whumper admits. “I… I used to have to ask.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well…” Caretaker says slowly, “you don’t need to anymore.”

“Yeah.” Whumper pauses, then stands up, and holds a hand out for Caretaker. Caretaker takes it and stands. “I don’t need to anymore.”

The two move to the dining table. Meant for just one person.

Whumpee pauses, looking at caretaker, who shrugs. Whumpee then looks towards the door of their quarters. They hadn’t even given it thought in at least a week. But now…

“Would you like to eat in the commons?” They ask caretaker.

Caretaker just smiles. “Would you be coming with me?”

Whumpee nodded.

they have already been turned away way too many times to count. they don't want to impose, but after the fourth night of sleeping on a bench and being kicked awake, they could really use someplace to stay. only for a night, they don't even care for a couch or some pillows— just a corner of some dusty room would do. they would even clean up after themselves. it's been raining non-stop and they've learnt to live with the cold winds and the damp rags that barely pass as clothes, but they're so afraid.

it wasn't whumper, they tell themselves, trembling as they think back to the glimpse of the coat they caught in the speeding car. it wasn't them— the height was all wrong. maybe. maybe.

the door opens. whumpee attempts a weak smile, a poor mockery of politeness, "hello," they rasp, voice gone to hell from the long disuse— at least when they haven't been screaming. their once-friend looks good. they've been doing well for themselves. it is shameful to show up here, begging for help, but fear burns brighter, sitting in their chest and under their skin, with the scars and bruises whumper inflicted.

"um, do I— oh." whumpee flinches at that, averting their eyes. they wait for the door to be slammed in their face, only to be taken aback when arms come to wrap around their shoulders, pulling them inside— the warmth almost startling and foreign. there are tears on their friend's face.

they didn't— they didn't expect this. "why are you...?" they ask them, feeling lost and confused and small as they are herded to the bathroom. they didn't expect anything but a cold shoulder— just the same as they've received all the other times. they don't even remember being that close to them, before.

"why am I helping you? you—" a choked sound resounds, like a hiccup or a sob, "you disappeared. no one knew anything, wouldn't tell me anything. I didn't— I didn't think I'd get the chance to see you again."

whunper watches in stunned silence as their friend wipes their tears off their face. "I'm never letting you go again," they say as they pull whumpee in for a tight, tight hug.

Instead, whumpee says: "Huh. That's unusually thoughtful of whumper."

"Thoughtful?"