Caleb watches through Frumpkin’s eyes as Molly saunters into Orna’s tent. She looks up and beckons to him.
“Once more with feeling, then?”
“Not if you keep up that attitude.” She points. “Leave your things over there.”
Molly tugs off his boots, first, and then shrugs off his coat. He lays it out and reverently wraps his swords in it. The jacket goes next, folded and laid atop of the swords. Then he pulls off his shirt. Caleb, back in his room at the Nestled Nook, sucks in a breath at the layers and layers of scars crisscrossing Molly’s lavender skin. The soft lamplight throws both them and the wiry lines of muscle in his arms and shoulders, into sharp relief. Little bits of gold glint in his nipples and navel. He sees more when Molly tugs his pants off his hips. Caleb counts them-- ten running from root to tip, and one hooked through-- well. Caleb reaches down to tug at his trousers.
He should just blink back to his own body, read those books, work on noting down any new spells…
Back in the tent, Orna lights candles. They are white and blue and green, in sharp contrast to the burnt umber walls of her tent and her fiery hair. Mollymauk stretches out on the floor and folds his arms beneath his head.
“Blindfold?” She asks.
“Not this time. No. Thank you.”
He shifts and fidgets on the floor as Orna moves around the tent. For a moment, he looks over to the mouth of the tent, where Frumpkin’s head pokes under the bottom of the flap. Then, as she passes him, she lands a resounding slap on his thigh. Molly yelps. His eyes snap back to Orna. His cock, Caleb cannot help but notice, stirs between his legs.
“M’all yours, gorgeous.”
“I’d believe that if you weren’t leaving us.”
“Orna…”
“I know. We don’t have to talk about it.”
Mollymauk lets out a long sigh. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She sets down a rolled leather case and a dark glass bottle.
He raises his head, the jewelry on his horns glinting. “Keep going until I beg you to stop, s’that it?”
“No.” Orna takes him by the jaw and shoves him back down. Molly’s eyes flutter shut and his mouth drops open on a sigh. “Look at me. No. Because you’re an idiot, and you’d let me really damage you. How do you stop me?”
“Scimitar.”
“Good. Sit up.”
He does, and Orna picks up a length of rope. With it, she binds Molly’s arms, the rope forming webbing between his hands that cradles his head and tangles around his horns. When she’s done, Molly cannot lower his arms. When Orna leans in to check the bindings, Molly whispers something to her. Again, his eyes wander to the tent flap. She nods and tugs him up onto his knees. When she kisses him, it’s sharp and demanding. She tugs at his lower lip and runs her tongue over the sharp point of one of his canines. Her fingers drag at his hair, bending Molly back. His hips press flush against hers. She backs off, ignoring his whine of protest. Then her fingers curl around his cock and stroke.
Caleb, hand trembling, undoes the fastenings on his trousers and matches her rhythm. His calluses drag at his cock until he blindly fishes out the little bottle of oil, half empty, and slicks his palm.
Molly’s fully hard, now, the head of his cock reddened and shiny. He pants against Orna’s mouth. Caleb can see the flex of his muscles as he tries to hold still. Then Orna raises her hand. The swing is widely telegraphed, but the crack of her hand against Molly’s cock makes Caleb flinch. Molly yells and folds on himself, hands jerking against the crisscrossing rope.
“Hell’s bells--”
He doesn’t get any more out before Orna’s hand catches him across the face. He drops, half sitting. When he tries to push himself back up to both knees, she strikes him again. He hasn’t, Caleb sees, gone soft at all. He eases himself back, abdomen tensing until he’s flat on the ground again, his legs in a careless sprawl. Orna gives his cock a final stroke, and then reaches for her fans-- a smaller pair than what they saw her using in her performance. She lights them from the candles before kneeling over Molly’s thighs. The fans swing down.
Caleb freezes. Molly arches as the flames lick over his skin. They don’t seem to burn him, and Caleb lets out a long breath.
“C’mon--” Molly starts, and then yells as the fan rushes past again. The purple of his skin takes on a pinkish tinge.
The fan swings by again, but high enough that nothing happens. Molly shivers and whines. He opens his mouth, catches some look from Orna, and grins up at her. Then he arches up to her. Twice more, she denies him. Molly starts to writhe under her, tugging at his bonds. He yells again, stomach flexing as the flames lick his chest. The light catches on the gold and silver of his piercings. Again, the fans swing past, raising a flush on Molly’s upper arms. He bucks and shouts as she works him over with them, louder when she leaves him wanting. He only twists away once-- when the fans swing past his cock. Orna settles her weight more firmly on his thighs, but she keeps the fans higher after that. After a few final passes, she puts the fans out and sets them aside. Molly lies panting on the floor. And again, his eyes flick open. They don’t seem entirely focused.
Orna hums. She smooths her hands down his chest, over his abdomen. Her nails scrape just above his hip bones. Then she drags a finger up the underside of his cock.
What, Caleb wonders, do those little gold bars feel like?
“Would you like me to hurt you more?” She asks in a low whisper.
Molly nods and clears his throat. “Please. I need whatever you’ll give.”
She shifts off of his legs. “Roll over, then. And don’t you dare rub off on my tent.”
With a sigh, Molly rolls onto his front. Orna reaches under him to arrange his cock comfortably. Then she unties and unrolls the leather case. Caleb realizes a moment late that it contains long, thin pins with copper handles. The bottle holds alcohol which she uses, in addition to the flames of the candles, to sanitize them. She scrubs her hands with some of its contents. With a bit of bandage, she swipes a little of the alcohol over the back of his shoulder. Then she braces a hand between his shoulder blades, the first needle pinched between the thumb and forefinger of her other hand. Caleb can see the slowing rhythm as his ribs rise and fall. It hitches for a moment as the needle sinks in high on one shoulder. Molly gives a long, low whine. His fingers twitch and curl tight in his hair.
Caleb’s hand tightens on his cock. He can’t hear himself groan, but he can feel it. He brings his free hand up to cover his mouth. He wants to reach out and smooth the tension from Molly’s arms. Orna does that for him. She picks up the next needle and a new bit of bandage. Swipe and pin, swipe and pin. She continues as the tension slowly bleeds out of Molly, rolling away with the little drops of blood that trickle down his back. The copper and steel gleam in the firelight. Back in his room, the pace of Caleb’s hand slows. Molly’s hips shift occasionally, but rarely with any real intent.
“Good job.” Orna murmurs, setting the next needle. “Deep breath.”
The needles make an almost lace-like pattern on his skin that runs from halfway down his back. When she finishes, she rinses her hands with more alcohol. Then she runs her fingers down the handles of the needles. Molly keens. A tremble works through him and a string of words in a language Caleb doesn’t speak pours from his lips. Orna flicks one, and Caleb gasps along with Molly. A fresh bead of blood spills down his side. She laughs, and Molly swears softly.
“You’re almost sweet when you’re quiet, you know.”
And, predictably-- Caleb has known this man for a matter of days, and he still knew this was coming-- Molly curls in all of the fingers on both hands except for the middle ones. Orna slaps him hard on the ass. Molly’s hips jerk and he moans, long and low. Caleb, back in his room, echoes him. He watches Orna slowly withdraw the shining needles and drop each one into a second bottle. She corks it and runs her hands up his back. Molly stretches beneath her and sighs.
“Do I get to thank you, now?”
Orna laughs again. “Turn back over.”
Molly does, and Orna wastes no time in hiking up her skirt, tugging off her leggings, and sinking down on Molly’s cock. Both of them cry out. Caleb imagines it because he can’t help it. What those gold bars would feel like sliding up inside someone, the bump and-- He stops, curses-- hopefully under his breath, and squeezes tight at the base of his cock.
“Fuckin’ angels--” Molly groans, his eyes squeezed tight shut.
She rides him-- hard, fast, and greedy, and he takes it. He thrusts up into her as much as he can.
“Don’t come.” She orders, breathless. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.”
His answer is to groan and dig his nails into his scalp. The slap of skin on skin is loud in the tent. They make a beautiful picture together, Orna above him, Molly arching beneath her. She comes grinding down on his cock. Then, slowly, she pulls off of him. He makes a plaintive sound.
“Oh shush.”
Molly nips at the finger that she presses to his lips. But he raises his head when she slips her hand under it, and holds himself like that, half upright, as she unpicks the knots around his wrists. She shoves the pillow from her bedroll beneath his head. He shakes out his hands and stretches his arms out to either side.
Orna lifts her skirt again. This time, she settles with her knees to either side of his head, facing the rest of his body. She gasps and her eyes close. A moment later, she reaches over and picks up a candle. Orna tests the wax on her forearm before she tips the candle over Molly’s chest. White wax spatters down on his skin. He whines, and she shivers. She tilts it again. This time, she draws a line up the center of Molly’s chest. His nails dig into the cloth floor of the tent.
If Caleb only had a decent vantage point, he might hear better the sounds Molly makes. If Orna were not riding Molly’s face, Caleb would be able to take in his expressions. He keeps watching his hands, the flex of muscle in his abdomen and at his hips. He listens to Orna’s keening praise. If she took off that skirt, he would be able to see what Molly was doing with his wicked tongue. Caleb strokes himself a little faster. His breath comes ragged, and probably loud, although he can’t hear it. He can only be glad that Molly won’t hear him, either.
Orna comes again, her thighs squeezing around Molly’s horns. The candle in her hand wobbles. Wax splashes just above his hips. Caleb clearly hears Molly’s shout, muffled as it is. For a moment, he tenses all over, hips thrusting up against nothing. When Orna climbs off, Caleb hears that he’s cursing. The lower half of his face is wet, his mouth and cheeks flushed. He goes still after another moment. His hands press flat on the floor of the tent again.
“That was close, wasn’t it?”
Molly nods and lets out an incoherent noise.
“I want to hurt you a little more, first.”
He nods again, much more emphatically. Orna laughs and takes up a fresh candle. Once more, she settles over Molly’s thighs. With one hand, she tugs at the jewelry in his nipples and navel. With the other, she drips wax over his chest, his stomach, his hips. She runs her nail just under the head of his cock.
“Please--” Molly arches up. He starts to say something, visibly changes his mind, and continues “Please, please, please.”
“Shhh…” She gives his cock a lazy stroke and stands. “Spread your legs.”
Molly obeys immediately, bending his knees and pressing his heels into the floor. Orna settles between them. She plays back and forth between dripping wax over Molly’s skin and striking the insides of thighs. Her hand cracks against his cock. Molly bucks, yells, and Caleb spills over his hand.
“Scheiße.” Caleb pants. “Fucking--” He feels rather than hears the rough, half-strangled noise he makes next. He claps his clean hand over his mouth while he fumbles for a cloth.
Molly is panting and whimpering, now. Wax drips closer to his cock, and he shouts again.
“Fuckin’ please.” His voice comes out half a snarl, half keen. “Mercy.”
“Alright.”
There’s a final slap, the sound cracking through the small tent, and Molly comes. For all his earlier shouting, he’s silent now, shaking, with his eyes squeezed shut.
Orna blows out the candles, leaving them in the relative shadow of her single lamp. Then she arranges herself on her bedroll and pats her lap. Molly lays his head in it. They speak quietly, in a language Caleb does not understand, as she cleans the needle marks on his back and removes the hardened wax from his chest. He takes sips from a skin of water. Slowly, his thumb rubs back and forth over the inside of Orna’s knee.
“Thank you.” He murmurs, back in Common. “S’good. I feel good.”
“We’re going to miss you, Molly.”
“I’ll miss you, too. But it was time for me to move on. I’ll see you again.”
“Will you?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Her fingers comb through the amethyst curls of his hair. “Who will you go to when you need someone to give you this?”
Molly shrugs. “I’ll figure it out. You look after yourself, too, alright? I know there are more people than me who’ll let you light into them from time to time.”
He lingers and kisses her softly before getting to his feet. “Thank you.”
Molly dresses, very carefully arranging his clothes over what has to be sore skin. He pulls on his boots and checks the hang of his swords at his waist. Then he slips quietly from the tent.
Caleb, sitting in his room, jolts back to himself too late.
Molly looks down at Frumpkin and smirks. “Well? Did you enjoy the show?”
Caleb/Mollymauk, E/NC-17. Voyeurism, needle play, wax play, fire
Caleb watches through Frumpkin’s eyes as Molly saunters into Orna’s tent. She looks up and beckons to him.
“Once more with feeling, then?”
“Not if you keep up that attitude.” She points. “Leave your things over there.”
Molly tugs off his boots, first, and then shrugs off his coat. He lays it out and reverently wraps his swords in it. The jacket goes next, folded and laid atop of the swords. Then he pulls off his shirt. Caleb, back in his room at the Nestled Nook, sucks in a breath at the layers and layers of scars crisscrossing Molly’s lavender skin. The soft lamplight throws both them and the wiry lines of muscle in his arms and shoulders, into sharp relief. Little bits of gold glint in his nipples and navel. He sees more when Molly tugs his pants off his hips. Caleb counts them-- ten running from root to tip, and one hooked through-- well. Caleb reaches down to tug at his trousers.
He should just blink back to his own body, read those books, work on noting down any new spells…
Back in the tent, Orna lights candles. They are white and blue and green, in sharp contrast to the burnt umber walls of her tent and her fiery hair. Mollymauk stretches out on the floor and folds his arms beneath his head.
“Blindfold?” She asks.
“Not this time. No. Thank you.”
He shifts and fidgets on the floor as Orna moves around the tent. For a moment, he looks over to the mouth of the tent, where Frumpkin’s head pokes under the bottom of the flap. Then, as she passes him, she lands a resounding slap on his thigh. Molly yelps. His eyes snap back to Orna. His cock, Caleb cannot help but notice, stirs between his legs.
“M’all yours, gorgeous.”
“I’d believe that if you weren’t leaving us.”
“Orna…”
“I know. We don’t have to talk about it.”
Mollymauk lets out a long sigh. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She sets down a rolled leather case and a dark glass bottle.
He raises his head, the jewelry on his horns glinting. “Keep going until I beg you to stop, s’that it?”
“No.” Orna takes him by the jaw and shoves him back down. Molly’s eyes flutter shut and his mouth drops open on a sigh. “Look at me. No. Because you’re an idiot, and you’d let me really damage you. How do you stop me?”
“Scimitar.”
“Good. Sit up.”
He does, and Orna picks up a length of rope. With it, she binds Molly’s arms, the rope forming webbing between his hands that cradles his head and tangles around his horns. When she’s done, Molly cannot lower his arms. When Orna leans in to check the bindings, Molly whispers something to her. Again, his eyes wander to the tent flap. She nods and tugs him up onto his knees. When she kisses him, it’s sharp and demanding. She tugs at his lower lip and runs her tongue over the sharp point of one of his canines. Her fingers drag at his hair, bending Molly back. His hips press flush against hers. She backs off, ignoring his whine of protest. Then her fingers curl around his cock and stroke.
Caleb, hand trembling, undoes the fastenings on his trousers and matches her rhythm. His calluses drag at his cock until he blindly fishes out the little bottle of oil, half empty, and slicks his palm.
Molly’s fully hard, now, the head of his cock reddened and shiny. He pants against Orna’s mouth. Caleb can see the flex of his muscles as he tries to hold still. Then Orna raises her hand. The swing is widely telegraphed, but the crack of her hand against Molly’s cock makes Caleb flinch. Molly yells and folds on himself, hands jerking against the crisscrossing rope.
“Hell’s bells--”
He doesn’t get any more out before Orna’s hand catches him across the face. He drops, half sitting. When he tries to push himself back up to both knees, she strikes him again. He hasn’t, Caleb sees, gone soft at all. He eases himself back, abdomen tensing until he’s flat on the ground again, his legs in a careless sprawl. Orna gives his cock a final stroke, and then reaches for her fans-- a smaller pair than what they saw her using in her performance. She lights them from the candles before kneeling over Molly’s thighs. The fans swing down.
Caleb freezes. Molly arches as the flames lick over his skin. They don’t seem to burn him, and Caleb lets out a long breath.
“C’mon--” Molly starts, and then yells as the fan rushes past again. The purple of his skin takes on a pinkish tinge.
The fan swings by again, but high enough that nothing happens. Molly shivers and whines. He opens his mouth, catches some look from Orna, and grins up at her. Then he arches up to her. Twice more, she denies him. Molly starts to writhe under her, tugging at his bonds. He yells again, stomach flexing as the flames lick his chest. The light catches on the gold and silver of his piercings. Again, the fans swing past, raising a flush on Molly’s upper arms. He bucks and shouts as she works him over with them, louder when she leaves him wanting. He only twists away once-- when the fans swing past his cock. Orna settles her weight more firmly on his thighs, but she keeps the fans higher after that. After a few final passes, she puts the fans out and sets them aside. Molly lies panting on the floor. And again, his eyes flick open. They don’t seem entirely focused.
Orna hums. She smooths her hands down his chest, over his abdomen. Her nails scrape just above his hip bones. Then she drags a finger up the underside of his cock.
What, Caleb wonders, do those little gold bars feel like?
“Would you like me to hurt you more?” She asks in a low whisper.
Molly nods and clears his throat. “Please. I need whatever you’ll give.”
She shifts off of his legs. “Roll over, then. And don’t you dare rub off on my tent.”
With a sigh, Molly rolls onto his front. Orna reaches under him to arrange his cock comfortably. Then she unties and unrolls the leather case. Caleb realizes a moment late that it contains long, thin pins with copper handles. The bottle holds alcohol which she uses, in addition to the flames of the candles, to sanitize them. She scrubs her hands with some of its contents. With a bit of bandage, she swipes a little of the alcohol over the back of his shoulder. Then she braces a hand between his shoulder blades, the first needle pinched between the thumb and forefinger of her other hand. Caleb can see the slowing rhythm as his ribs rise and fall. It hitches for a moment as the needle sinks in high on one shoulder. Molly gives a long, low whine. His fingers twitch and curl tight in his hair.
Caleb’s hand tightens on his cock. He can’t hear himself groan, but he can feel it. He brings his free hand up to cover his mouth. He wants to reach out and smooth the tension from Molly’s arms. Orna does that for him. She picks up the next needle and a new bit of bandage. Swipe and pin, swipe and pin. She continues as the tension slowly bleeds out of Molly, rolling away with the little drops of blood that trickle down his back. The copper and steel gleam in the firelight. Back in his room, the pace of Caleb’s hand slows. Molly’s hips shift occasionally, but rarely with any real intent.
“Good job.” Orna murmurs, setting the next needle. “Deep breath.”
The needles make an almost lace-like pattern on his skin that runs from halfway down his back. When she finishes, she rinses her hands with more alcohol. Then she runs her fingers down the handles of the needles. Molly keens. A tremble works through him and a string of words in a language Caleb doesn’t speak pours from his lips. Orna flicks one, and Caleb gasps along with Molly. A fresh bead of blood spills down his side. She laughs, and Molly swears softly.
“You’re almost sweet when you’re quiet, you know.”
And, predictably-- Caleb has known this man for a matter of days, and he still knew this was coming-- Molly curls in all of the fingers on both hands except for the middle ones. Orna slaps him hard on the ass. Molly’s hips jerk and he moans, long and low. Caleb, back in his room, echoes him. He watches Orna slowly withdraw the shining needles and drop each one into a second bottle. She corks it and runs her hands up his back. Molly stretches beneath her and sighs.
“Do I get to thank you, now?”
Orna laughs again. “Turn back over.”
Molly does, and Orna wastes no time in hiking up her skirt, tugging off her leggings, and sinking down on Molly’s cock. Both of them cry out. Caleb imagines it because he can’t help it. What those gold bars would feel like sliding up inside someone, the bump and-- He stops, curses-- hopefully under his breath, and squeezes tight at the base of his cock.
“Fuckin’ angels--” Molly groans, his eyes squeezed tight shut.
She rides him-- hard, fast, and greedy, and he takes it. He thrusts up into her as much as he can.
“Don’t come.” She orders, breathless. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.”
His answer is to groan and dig his nails into his scalp. The slap of skin on skin is loud in the tent. They make a beautiful picture together, Orna above him, Molly arching beneath her. She comes grinding down on his cock. Then, slowly, she pulls off of him. He makes a plaintive sound.
“Oh shush.”
Molly nips at the finger that she presses to his lips. But he raises his head when she slips her hand under it, and holds himself like that, half upright, as she unpicks the knots around his wrists. She shoves the pillow from her bedroll beneath his head. He shakes out his hands and stretches his arms out to either side.
Orna lifts her skirt again. This time, she settles with her knees to either side of his head, facing the rest of his body. She gasps and her eyes close. A moment later, she reaches over and picks up a candle. Orna tests the wax on her forearm before she tips the candle over Molly’s chest. White wax spatters down on his skin. He whines, and she shivers. She tilts it again. This time, she draws a line up the center of Molly’s chest. His nails dig into the cloth floor of the tent.
If Caleb only had a decent vantage point, he might hear better the sounds Molly makes. If Orna were not riding Molly’s face, Caleb would be able to take in his expressions. He keeps watching his hands, the flex of muscle in his abdomen and at his hips. He listens to Orna’s keening praise. If she took off that skirt, he would be able to see what Molly was doing with his wicked tongue. Caleb strokes himself a little faster. His breath comes ragged, and probably loud, although he can’t hear it. He can only be glad that Molly won’t hear him, either.
Orna comes again, her thighs squeezing around Molly’s horns. The candle in her hand wobbles. Wax splashes just above his hips. Caleb clearly hears Molly’s shout, muffled as it is. For a moment, he tenses all over, hips thrusting up against nothing. When Orna climbs off, Caleb hears that he’s cursing. The lower half of his face is wet, his mouth and cheeks flushed. He goes still after another moment. His hands press flat on the floor of the tent again.
“That was close, wasn’t it?”
Molly nods and lets out an incoherent noise.
“I want to hurt you a little more, first.”
He nods again, much more emphatically. Orna laughs and takes up a fresh candle. Once more, she settles over Molly’s thighs. With one hand, she tugs at the jewelry in his nipples and navel. With the other, she drips wax over his chest, his stomach, his hips. She runs her nail just under the head of his cock.
“Please--” Molly arches up. He starts to say something, visibly changes his mind, and continues “Please, please, please.”
“Shhh…” She gives his cock a lazy stroke and stands. “Spread your legs.”
Molly obeys immediately, bending his knees and pressing his heels into the floor. Orna settles between them. She plays back and forth between dripping wax over Molly’s skin and striking the insides of thighs. Her hand cracks against his cock. Molly bucks, yells, and Caleb spills over his hand.
“Scheiße.” Caleb pants. “Fucking--” He feels rather than hears the rough, half-strangled noise he makes next. He claps his clean hand over his mouth while he fumbles for a cloth.
Molly is panting and whimpering, now. Wax drips closer to his cock, and he shouts again.
“Fuckin’ please.” His voice comes out half a snarl, half keen. “Mercy.”
“Alright.”
There’s a final slap, the sound cracking through the small tent, and Molly comes. For all his earlier shouting, he’s silent now, shaking, with his eyes squeezed shut.
Orna blows out the candles, leaving them in the relative shadow of her single lamp. Then she arranges herself on her bedroll and pats her lap. Molly lays his head in it. They speak quietly, in a language Caleb does not understand, as she cleans the needle marks on his back and removes the hardened wax from his chest. He takes sips from a skin of water. Slowly, his thumb rubs back and forth over the inside of Orna’s knee.
“Thank you.” He murmurs, back in Common. “S’good. I feel good.”
“We’re going to miss you, Molly.”
“I’ll miss you, too. But it was time for me to move on. I’ll see you again.”
“Will you?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Her fingers comb through the amethyst curls of his hair. “Who will you go to when you need someone to give you this?”
Molly shrugs. “I’ll figure it out. You look after yourself, too, alright? I know there are more people than me who’ll let you light into them from time to time.”
He lingers and kisses her softly before getting to his feet. “Thank you.”
Molly dresses, very carefully arranging his clothes over what has to be sore skin. He pulls on his boots and checks the hang of his swords at his waist. Then he slips quietly from the tent.
Caleb, sitting in his room, jolts back to himself too late.
Molly looks down at Frumpkin and smirks. “Well? Did you enjoy the show?”