Again, the demon has pulled away completely from him, save for one tendril resting lightly against his cock.
Percy chokes a bit at the sensation of loss about him. Not only empty, he feels uncovered, the layer of sweat on his skin cooling and causing shivers to race down his spine.
“Ah… P—,” Percy licks plump, trembling lips. “Please.” The thin, lone tendril traces up Percy’s length, toying. “Please, I,” and he can feel the unbearable heat of his cock, a bead of fluid dribbling down the edge of it in response. “I need… I need you to…”
The look in Orthax’s eyes is sinister. “Now,” comes the guttural rumble, “you understand.”
With a deep chuckle echoing in his mind, Percy blinks, and finds himself suddenly back in his workshop. He’s clothed as he was before, gloves on. Except, now, dark smoke rings his wrists and ankles.
He can’t quite tell if he’s awake or still dreaming. Percy sees the mechanism he was working on still in front of him, tools and miscellaneous parts scattered on the desk around it.
And then the objects, chillingly, begin to lift up one by one, as if being examined. Instead of being placed back down, though, they levitate away to slowly clear the space on the desk in front of Percy.
Orthax’s rasp comes from directly behind him. “These creations,” Orthax says, manipulating the last few pieces of metal away, “are the product of our bond. The undeniable truth.”
“...And this,” Orthax hisses right into Percy’s ear, as smoky tendrils work to unfasten Percy’s trousers, “This is the reality of our communion.”
Percy wetly chokes as he’s lifted to press forward against his desk, Orthax’s heat large and dominating at his back. Suddenly, the full intensity of his aroused state hits him, but it’s even more real than before. He shivers at the drag of cloth sticking to his skin—he gulps air into his lungs—and he arches, easily and familiarly, into the warmth of thick tendrils sliding around him.
A tendril works its way in spirals up one of his spread legs, up a thigh, to press once more into his wanting body. Percy groans at the satisfying pulse of heat. His hands scrabble against his desk, as much as the restraining smoke will allow, as the tendril starts thrusting soundly into his ass.
Before his next hearty groan can ring out, another tendril of hissing smoke worms its way between Percy’s lips. Percy moans, caresses it with his tongue, and then relaxes as it presses forward forcefully, deep down his throat.
“This is how surely we are bound, Percival,” Orthax’s voice rolls over him, and his tone is just barely, tellingly frenzied. “Any other claim would be a filthy lie.”
Percy nearly shouts around the smoke filling his throat. He feels completely overwhelmed, the pulsing tides of pleasure resonating through him. And at once, Percy has a profound realization: the rhythm of the movements happening now, the pushing and pulling and bending of his body to Orthax’s will, matches with the pace at which Percy hammers out his sheets of metal. The flow of heat, Orthax’s smoke, it’s timed perfectly to the swell of bellows heating Percy’s forge. Percy comprehends, suddenly, how every moment in his workshop is a dance inspired by Orthax; every strike of a tool, every twist and turn is imbibed with Orthax’s intent.
“Now you understand,” Orthax grins.
Tears streaming down his face, Percy gives in to the heat in his hips, the slithering slide over his skin, and the deep, dragging mass pumping between his lips. He is undone.
“Receive me,” Orthax whispers.
Percy moans. He arches his back, his fingers spasm with blinding pleasure, and he moans around the tendril in his throat, “Orthax!”
A Filthy Lie (Orthax/Percy, NC-17, major dub-con) (5/6)
Percy chokes a bit at the sensation of loss about him. Not only empty, he feels uncovered, the layer of sweat on his skin cooling and causing shivers to race down his spine.
“Ah… P—,” Percy licks plump, trembling lips. “Please.” The thin, lone tendril traces up Percy’s length, toying. “Please, I,” and he can feel the unbearable heat of his cock, a bead of fluid dribbling down the edge of it in response. “I need… I need you to…”
The look in Orthax’s eyes is sinister. “Now,” comes the guttural rumble, “you understand.”
With a deep chuckle echoing in his mind, Percy blinks, and finds himself suddenly back in his workshop. He’s clothed as he was before, gloves on. Except, now, dark smoke rings his wrists and ankles.
He can’t quite tell if he’s awake or still dreaming. Percy sees the mechanism he was working on still in front of him, tools and miscellaneous parts scattered on the desk around it.
And then the objects, chillingly, begin to lift up one by one, as if being examined. Instead of being placed back down, though, they levitate away to slowly clear the space on the desk in front of Percy.
Orthax’s rasp comes from directly behind him. “These creations,” Orthax says, manipulating the last few pieces of metal away, “are the product of our bond. The undeniable truth.”
“...And this,” Orthax hisses right into Percy’s ear, as smoky tendrils work to unfasten Percy’s trousers, “This is the reality of our communion.”
Percy wetly chokes as he’s lifted to press forward against his desk, Orthax’s heat large and dominating at his back. Suddenly, the full intensity of his aroused state hits him, but it’s even more real than before. He shivers at the drag of cloth sticking to his skin—he gulps air into his lungs—and he arches, easily and familiarly, into the warmth of thick tendrils sliding around him.
A tendril works its way in spirals up one of his spread legs, up a thigh, to press once more into his wanting body. Percy groans at the satisfying pulse of heat. His hands scrabble against his desk, as much as the restraining smoke will allow, as the tendril starts thrusting soundly into his ass.
Before his next hearty groan can ring out, another tendril of hissing smoke worms its way between Percy’s lips. Percy moans, caresses it with his tongue, and then relaxes as it presses forward forcefully, deep down his throat.
“This is how surely we are bound, Percival,” Orthax’s voice rolls over him, and his tone is just barely, tellingly frenzied. “Any other claim would be a filthy lie.”
Percy nearly shouts around the smoke filling his throat. He feels completely overwhelmed, the pulsing tides of pleasure resonating through him. And at once, Percy has a profound realization: the rhythm of the movements happening now, the pushing and pulling and bending of his body to Orthax’s will, matches with the pace at which Percy hammers out his sheets of metal. The flow of heat, Orthax’s smoke, it’s timed perfectly to the swell of bellows heating Percy’s forge. Percy comprehends, suddenly, how every moment in his workshop is a dance inspired by Orthax; every strike of a tool, every twist and turn is imbibed with Orthax’s intent.
“Now you understand,” Orthax grins.
Tears streaming down his face, Percy gives in to the heat in his hips, the slithering slide over his skin, and the deep, dragging mass pumping between his lips. He is undone.
“Receive me,” Orthax whispers.
Percy moans. He arches his back, his fingers spasm with blinding pleasure, and he moans around the tendril in his throat, “Orthax!”