infestissuma'am

"it's quite simple, really."

Terzo is already pushing his slacks down his legs, kicking them off once they reach his ankles. they slide off the side of the bed. your bottoms follow suit.

"first one to touch the other loses." he's teasing his fingertips underneath the waistband of his briefs as he speaks.

"loses... what?" your hands mimic his, your eyes hooded.

"bragging rights, mostly."

"you're on."

his eyelids flutter closed as he give his cock a squeeze, letting out a shuddering breath. emboldened, you slip your underwear off altogether and revel in the groan he lets out once he gets a good look at you.

your fingertips drift up and down your sex, toying with there you crave the most touch. a little sound escapes you, something wanton and needy.

Terzo tucks the waistband of his briefs down below his balls, stroking his already weeping cock. his thumb and index rub against his tip just the way you know he likes and you can't help but long to replace his touch with yours. but that's not the name of the game.

he grunts again. this is just as hard for him as it is for you.

"oh, Terzo!" you whine, arching your back off the pillows as your fingers find the rhythm you crave. "need your hands, your mouth..."

"vita mia..." his hair hangs in his face as he looks down at the way pre dribbles down his knuckles. his hips buck mindlessly into his hand. sounds (and looks) like you've got him right where you want him.

especially with the way you spread your legs further, exposing every bit of you. he swallows down a rather pathetic whine and resists the urge to move closer.

it isn't until you tease a finger around your hole that he starts to cave. dipping just your fingertip in, he watches the way your jaw drops and brows furrow. and when you press it in to the third knuckle, he's done for. he needs to feel for himself.

"fuck this."

he releases his cock and nearly throws himself onto his stomach, mouth centimeters away from where you need him most. you can feel his breath fan across your skin.

"knew you wouldn't last long." your hands are already smoothing back his bangs.

"silenzio."

Not long after his reply, he waited by the door, trying his hardest not to let his nerves get the better of him. He forced himself to stand straighter, taller than his normal stature. Adopting the confidence that was so simple on-stage yet awkwardly fleeting off-stage. But gods how he needed this. He needed to harness that power, channel it into something tangible, a true show of his will and might.

When the knock at the door sounded, he'd almost thought he'd imagined it. It was too easy, far too easy. Isn't the first step having someone blackmail him with dick pics? Perhaps this was just his luck, taking a turn for the better. With a deep exhale, he swung the door open.

“Shit, nice mask,” his potential paramour grinned, leaning against the door frame.

Perpetua stood there for a moment, regarding the man in front of him. He was thin, wiry even, with long limbs and a mess of tousled black hair, worn leather jacket and torn t-shirt, not to mention jeans so tight they looked like they were painted on. But beneath that, he had a handsome face. Quite handsome indeed. And perhaps oddly familiar. But there was something else; a daring, challenging glint in his eye like he was sizing up Perpetua just as strongly.

“You gonna invite me in or you checkin’ that I'm potty trained first?”

“That depends. Are you?”

“Oh I know all sorts of tricks. And I'll do anything for a treat, like a good little pet.”

The scrawny little mutt winked with such confidence that the throb between Perpetua's legs was beginning to be impossible to ignore as he eyed the gutter rat in front of him. Sure he seemed confident, but underneath there was also something begging to be pliant, desperate to be fucked in a way Perpetua was quickly realizing he all-too excited to deliver.

“So does this stray have a name or do I just call you ‘dog’?”

With another smirk, the man reached inside the front of his shirt, producing a leather collar fastened around his neck, a silver skull and crossbones tag dangling from the metal loop. Perpetua stepped forward, gripping the collar and in a rush of self-assurance, gave it a rough tug, yanking him forward.

“Mary?” Perpetua read aloud skeptically.

“That's what it says,” he grinned, craning his neck for better access to the strap. “But you can call me whatever you think fits my charming personality.”

The two locked eyes, Perpetua daring to not break contact first although Mary was clearly testing this limit. Alas, the pup blinked, letting out a borderline indignant albeit impressed huff. Already he was proving his willingness to be broken.

“Call it a trial run,” Perpetua began, pulling out a black tether from the table beside the door, hooking it to Mary's collar. “Though I think I'll keep you on a short leash to start. Just until you learn your place."

“You got it, Master.”

That time the pulsating in his cock was strong he almost doubled over. Perhaps this little mutt was indeed what he needed.

“You seem eager to please.”

“Like I said, I'd do anything for a treat,” Mary smirked again.

“Then let's test that theory.” Perpetua grabbed the collar once more, pulling Mary so close their noses nearly touched as he hissed. “Down, boy."

Mary dropped to his knees, his gaze fixed and unblinking on his owner's face, awaiting the next command.

———

The first time he meets the last Emeritus brother, Dewdrop doesn’t even realize it.

It’s a quick thing in the wake of one of the last stops on the tour, a dark club in the wee hours. He’s just another devotee come to let out some energy after the ritual, and Dew’s just part of the crowd like anyone else. Still fully glamoured of course—one can never assume that all of the audience are in on it. But some of them are, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the grucifix around this one’s neck. It’s the real deal, clearly not purchased from the merch tables.

Certainly, he’s pretty for a human. But it doesn’t matter. Dew can see he knows how to move his hips, and that’s enough for tonight. They circle each other on the dance floor, and wordlessly agree to meet outside.

Dew kisses him up against the back wall of the building. He even has fangs—not proper fangs, but as close as humans get. It’s cute. His hands curl into the fabric of Dew’s shirt, the want clear in the tension of his body. Dew presses up against him from thigh to shoulder—yep, that’s clear too.

Some part of him recognizes he should savor this. He rolls his hips against the stranger’s, their cocks trapped by layers of denim but still so sensitive. The other man gasps and grunts and lets his head fall back against the wall, and Dew can’t help but indulge in the offering of a fresh, tender neck. Humans just taste so good when they’re horny.

The man shivers at the feeling of Dew’s tongue. He gets his hands in Dew’s hair, surprisingly sharp nails raking over his scalp, and Dew goes still a moment to get a hold of himself. Satanas, it feels good.

It doesn’t take long, really. Rituals always leave him in a heightened state, and that’s true of the audience too. They rut up against each other until they boil over, not even unzipping their jeans. The other man laughs, breathless. “Damn. Was hoping I’d get to see what you’re packing, that felt impressive.”

Dew gives him a half smile, flashes his real fangs. “Another time, maybe?”

Instead of fear, the man’s eyes are blown wide with lust. It’s only then that Dew realizes he has the white eye, the mark of the bloodline. “Fuck yeah. You with the band?”

The warmth of his breath against your sensitive flesh still isn't enough to wake you, nor the deep inhales he's taking of your scent, heady and musky from the light sweat of summer night slumber and the near-constant arousal that dews your sex any time you're in his presence. It starts with just kisses, soft and unhurried, dancing around your most sensitive spots as the soft curls of his sideburns tickle at your inner thighs. When he finally presses his tongue against your clit and lets the hardening bud roll under his touch you let out a sleepy mewl, and another, and another, hips rocking involuntarily in search of more pressure. "Easy...Easy now...," he chuckles after licking a languid swipe along your slit and watching you squirm. "Just let Papa show you how much he adores his little lamb." He loves you like this, so sleepy and sweet. Body so pliable and obedient. Pussy so wet and ready for him to play with to his heart's content. His favorite little toy. You take his fingers with ease when he slides them past your tight hole, squeezing them with a hungry whine as you cling to sleep in vain. "Hush now, my angel...Just take what Papa has to give you..." When he starts pumping his long digits into you, curling them and expertly pressing against your g-spot, you clutch with weak, ineffective hands at the bunched sheets around you in whimpering protests that go ignored. "Papa doesn't want to have to punish you, angel...Unless maybe you WANT me to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress instead?" That quiets you, at least temporarily. Even in your stupor you're keenly aware that he could take his pleasure from you in the most brutal ways if he wanted to. You hold your tongue, willing your body to relax into his worshipping touch, his prominent nose buried greedily in your cunt while his fingers coax you open and fill the room with the lewd sounds of the juices he's working out of you and spilling anything he can't capture on his tongue onto the bedding below. When he purses his pouty lips around your clit your whimpers turn to quiet sobs, the twisting and tightening in your core becoming almost unbearable and he has to tighten his hold on your legs to hold you still. But it only takes a few skilled flicks of his tongue to push you over the edge. Your body bows off the surface of the bed and a low, involuntary moan parts your lips. One last shudder ripples through your exhausted frame and you melt back down into the dampened sheets.

He watches the harried rise and fall of your bosom as you fight through shaky, strained breaths, your heart pounding so hard and fast he can see it drumming through your ribcage. He pulls his fingers from you reluctantly, cleaning them with a satisfied hum. He places his hand over your heart, a wordless gesture to tell you that you're safe, that he's proud of you, and your body quiets almost instantly at his loving touch. You're blissfully boneless when he returns to his usual space at your side and pulls you in close, but when you try to curl up into a sleepy ball against him he stills your attempt with firm hands on your thighs to guide you into the position he wants you in. "No, no, kitten...Keep them open for me." He runs his fingers aimlessly through your silken folds, gently petting until you stop trembling from aftershocks and your breathing slows to the way he found you just minutes ago. "Rest now, my sweet lamb," he whispers, placing a tender kiss to your forehead as he eases his fingers back into your warm, snug grip, letting his hand rest against your mound. He knows from experience that he'll awaken to your lovely, needy sounds and the wet heat of you riding his hand and pleading for more. Better than any alarm clock money could buy. "Keep Papa's fingers nice and safe like a good girl and I will take care of you properly in the morning." You nuzzle tighter into his neck, finally losing your sluggish battle with consciousness, lulled to sleep by the lingering scent of sex and sweat and cologne and the steady, familiar rhythm of his calm breathing.

.

I realized part way through that I never write in first person, and it was more of a challenge for my brain than it should have been...

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