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Stupid. They'd warned him, when he'd stopped at the town two nights ago, that there was an odd priesthood in the mountains, dedicated to some pagan god. The town itself didn't have much to do with the priesthood, but they spoke darkly of obscene rituals, sacrifices, travellers taken from the road and never seen again. A wandering singer last year; an alchemist the year before. They'd warned him to stay in town for the next few days, until the dangerous time was over, but he'd thought himself capable of fighting off priests. After all, he made his living fighting off worse.
He hadn't bargained on them being clever. He hadn't bargained on there being so many of them, or on them being strong. All the priests he'd met in his life, from country to country, were alike in their sedentary lifestyle.
These ones are different, and they even dress differently, in the foothills of the mountains. Clad in leather armour and armed with blunt instruments, they surround his horse, one of them darting forward and dragging the reins out of Erik's hands, taking advantage of his surprise and robbing him of control of the horse. The gelding dances beneath him, startled, and as it makes a particularly unsettled movement, he loses his seat.
They catch him before he can hit the ground, hands firm on his arms and shoulders. Even without his feet touching the ground, he goes for his sword, determined to at least leave them hurting. They're too practised, though, too quick to loop rope around his wrists and ankles. One of them undoes his sword belt, taking the sword and his dagger, eyeing them with something that looks like distaste. Maybe their god has something against blood; they're certainly all armed with weapons designed not to break the skin. He doesn't even know their god's name, but he's come across deities whose followers prefer to bludgeon rather than cut. It's an unpleasant way to die, and he renews his struggles, cursing them in all the languages they know.
One of them steps forward, a gangly, dark-haired young man who is armed with nothing more than a few vials tucked into a bandoleer slung across his chest. He eyes Erik for a moment before selecting one of the vials, pouring some of the contents onto a soft cloth, and then moves closer. Erik struggles in his captors' grip, unwilling to let the dark-haired youth any closer with what he's certain is some sort of drug, but they hold him still, and the young man presses the cloth over Erik's mouth and nose, forcing him to inhale the drug on it.
Things go strange, then. One of the priests mounts Erik's horse, and two of the others manhandle Erik up in front of him, held firmly against the rider's chest like a maiden being rescued from a dragon. Erik would know; he's rescued his fair share of maidens and youths from dragons, who usually prefer not to eat humans anyway.
That thought distracts him for – how long? Long enough that by the time he thinks to look around, struggling fitfully against the arms holding him, they're out of the foothills and into the mountains proper, following a trail that he can't for the life of him make out. The priests move confidently, with more stamina than he would have expected.
Time passes in an odd fashion, thanks to the drug that's making his head swim and his thoughts swirl like snow. He can't hold onto one for more than a few moments. He knows, somehow, that he should be concerned, he should be fighting, but the dark-haired youth comes over to the horse every now and then and gives him another dose of the drug, and it's impossible to fight when his body feels like it's only partly his and his thoughts feel like quicksilver.
Eventually, after gods know how long, they reach a tower. A man comes out of the tower – and fuck, he's huge – and the priests turn Erik over to him. He cradles Erik like a child, carrying him into the tower, and the drugs have worn off enough that Erik makes an attempt at fighting, an attempt that has the giant chuckling softly and resettling his grip, entirely unconcerned.
He manages to fight properly when they reach the top of the tower and the giant unties the ropes around his ankles. He brings his knee up sharply, grinning savagely as it cracks against the giant's face, and tries to run.
He doesn't get far. The giant wraps a hand around his arm, fingers meeting around his biceps, and pulls him back, calling for help. More of the priests come into the room, and between them, they get Erik stretched out over a stone altar, his wrists and ankles bound to stone outcroppings at each corner.
And then, unexpectedly, they leave.
He's left alone for a long time, long enough that his wrists start to ache from his struggles. He has no intention of being carved up on this altar, though, and even though they've taken his sword and dagger, he's determined to fight however he can.
As time passes, the room dims. He doesn't let that stop his fighting; he can tear himself free of ropes in the dark as easily as in the light. If only the ropes weren't so damned strong. Where does this priesthood get its supplies, if the town is so afraid of them? He'd expected fat, lazy priests and mouldering ropes, not this.
The room begins to light up, strangely. An eerie, otherworldly light starts up as the moon rises, visible through the huge windows. As the moon's rays touch the walls, they bring out light from stones or crystals set into the walls, a pale, almost shimmering blue-white light that illuminates from every angle, eradicating shadows.
Erik is beginning to feel more like a display than a sacrifice, and that's troubling. The religions that go to this much effort tend towards unpleasantly lengthy sacrifices.
When the full moon is high in the sky, the door opens, and a robed figure enters the room, moving quietly. Erik's attention is immediately fixed on the long, slender knife in the figure's hand, and he renews his struggles, cursing.
The figure crosses the room quickly, laying a hand on Erik's chest and pressing him down against the altar, murmuring, "Shh. Settle down."
Settle down. He snarls, tugging against the ropes, and the figure sighs, withdrawing a small, folded cloth from a pocket and pressing it against Erik's nose and mouth.
The dose of the drug is smaller this time, but it's enough that the tension leaves Erik's body and he goes limp against the altar, giving the figure ample time to get to work. Erik is expecting it – him? – to get to the business of killing him with that slender knife, but instead, the figure uses it to cut through the seams of his shirt and pants, tugging the fabric away and leaving Erik naked on the altar, suddenly aware of how smooth the stone is. How many struggling bodies have worn it so?
The knife vanishes into another pocket, and the figure lets the robes fall – and Erik can't help staring. He recognises high priest regalia when he sees it, but high priests are not, as a rule, young, handsome men with devastatingly blue eyes and lips that look like they've been kissed all evening. High priests are forbidding, sometimes lecherous, often rake-thin or overly-fat, but never particularly attractive. This cult is breaking all the rules of religion that Erik knows, and he resents that almost as much as he resents being their sacrifice.
The priest does something very unexpected then. He climbs onto the altar, settling himself over Erik's hips, looking down at him as though he's viewing a particularly fine piece of art. He runs his hands over Erik's chest before lifting one to brush over Erik's hair, murmuring, "Easy, now. Just relax."
His accent is strange. Do they all have that accent, so upper-class?
"They didn't explain, did they?" the priest asks, his tone a combination of amusement and chagrin. "They never explain. Honestly, you'd think the fear was necessary, the way some of them behave."
Erik is beginning to see what might have needed "explaining". The removal of his clothes could have been construed as the priest wanting to demoralise him before the sacrifice – some religions are like that, he knows – but the priest being naked, and more to the point on top of Erik, points to another option entirely. He's beginning to wish he'd asked the townsfolk what sort of god the priesthood worship.
"You probably think you're about to be slaughtered," the priest says, sounding apologetic. "I assure you, that's not the case at all. We don't take life, unless there's absolutely no choice. We're rather more concerned with the opposite, actually, in cases where orientation is compatible."
Erik lets out a disbelieving huff of laughter. The high priest of a sex god is sitting on him and talking about orientation. He suspects, for a moment, that that drug had been a psychedelic rather than – whatever it was.
"You'll be free to go in the morning," the priest says, but it's hard to concentrate on that when he says it while leaning down, almost absently running his tongue over Erik's nipple. As he brings his free hand up to rub over the other nipple, he says against Erik's chest, "It's not so bad, you know. Rather a nicer ritual than I imagine you were expecting."
Erik has heard of the sort of rituals sex gods require. They tend to get described as orgies by other religions, in a disapproving sort of fashion. He's never seen the appeal of orgies, and he's certainly not interested in one now, but . . .
"Just you?" he asks, trying not to notice the catch in his voice as the priest lips his nipple again. He can probably handle it, if it's just the high priest. How long can it last, if it's just one man?
"Just me," the priest confirms, smiling against Erik's chest. "Is that a yes, then?"
Does he have a choice? He nods, figuring it'll go easier this way.
Surprisingly, the priest doesn't get started right away, not really. He stays draped over Erik, absently kissing his nipples while he strokes his hair, murmuring, "You're quite lovely, you know. I expect you don't get told that nearly often enough; men usually aren't. But you are. Especially these," he says in a teasing tone, tracing Erik's lips with his fingertips. "You have beautiful lips. I can't wait to have them wrapped around my cock."
That shouldn't send a bolt of lust through him, and Erik tells himself that it's just the fact that the priest is still playing with his nipples, keeping the touches gentle for now, enough to entice but not to really arouse. He's not sure if he's supposed to respond, and he opens his mouth to say – he's not sure what he's about to say, really, and is almost relieved when the priest leans down to kiss him, silencing him.
"No," the priest says softly as he pulls back, leaving Erik a little breathless from the intensity of the kiss. "I'm sorry, my dear, I don't want you talking unless you're answering a question or begging for my cock. And you will be, sooner or later," he adds, with a wicked smirk. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight, and you're going to be begging me for more, by the time we're done."
Erik very much doubts that, but he doesn't argue. It's hard to formulate coherent arguments anyway, with the priest still toying with him.
"Oh," the priest says, another smirk touching his lips. "You are allowed to say one other thing. My name. Charles."
Charles. It's such a normal, prosaic name that Erik can't help laughing. The laugh earns him a pinch to his nipple that makes him gasp from the odd combination of pain and pleasure, and the priest – Charles – leans down to kiss him again, deeper this time, until he can't focus on anything but breathing and letting the other man practically fuck his mouth with his tongue.
"Good," Charles murmurs eventually, pulling away and getting off Erik, leaning down to rummage through his discarded robes. Erik cranes his head, trying to see what Charles is doing, but the angle is wrong, and he's still bound tight. That, apparently, is as much a part of the ritual as the sex is.
Charles moves down the altar, settling himself between Erik's legs. He wraps his hand around Erik's cock and begins to stroke slowly, lazily, grinning as Erik bites his lip to keep from moaning. Running his thumb over the head, Charles murmurs, "You can try to be quiet all you like, lovely, but you're not going to be able to forever."
It's almost a challenge, and now Erik is determined to stay quiet throughout, to show this jumped-up little priest that even if he's technically consenting, he's not handing over control. Charles laughs softly, still stroking his cock slowly, almost teasingly slow, and says, "You're a fighter, aren't you? So much the better."
Erik can't quite keep back the gasp that slips free when Charles bends his head to suck the head of Erik's cock, still stroking the length of it. He's far from a virgin, but most of his encounters had been hurried, rushed things that never lasted long, not with his wandering life, and he's never experienced anything quite like that. As Charles keeps sucking, tonguing the slit and rubbing his thumb over the sensitive skin behind Erik's balls with each downstroke, it gets more and more difficult to keep his hips still. He doesn't want to be concerned about not choking the priest, but he is, and keeping still takes so much of his concentration that he can't help letting out a needy little whimper.
When Charles shifts again, cutting the ropes around Erik's ankles, Erik takes advantage of the brief reprieve to try to get his breath back. He's not given long, though; Charles urges him to bend and spread his legs, exposing himself obscenely, and settled back between them, wrapping his hand back around Erik's cock, running the fingers of his other hand down the cleft of Erik's ass, tracing over him intimately.
The sensation of Charles's tongue following his fingers is an unexpected one, and Erik can't help jerking away, letting out a startled sound. Charles wraps his free hand around Erik's thigh, holding him still, and keeps licking, probing. It's an entirely alien feeling, one Erik is sure shouldn't be as arousing as it is, and he forces himself to stay still, biting his lip harder to keep from whimpering as Charles thumbs the head of his cock and thrusts his tongue inside Erik to match the stroke. He can feel Charles's saliva slicking him up, and it's a strangely enticing feeling, even as it makes him feel dirty and obscene.
When Charles replaces his tongue with his fingers, they're coated with something warm and viscous, like some sort of thick oil. Charles resumes sucking Erik's cock as he works a finger into him carefully, keeping him from tensing up too much by distracting him with over-stimulation. The way he keeps tonguing the sensitive bundle of nerves just below the head of Erik's cock is maddening, driving him further and further towards orgasm, despite Erik's determination to outlast the priest. How can he, when Charles keeps touching him like this?
He manages not to cry out when he comes in Charles's mouth, undone by nothing more than one finger and Charles's tongue. The priest swallows and looks up at Erik, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he says, "One for me. Don't go thinking you're anything like done, lovely."
While Erik is still coming down, Charles adds a second finger, crooking them both to rub lightly against his prostate. The sudden surge of pleasure breaks Erik's concentration, and he lets out a sharp whimper, unconsciously rocking his hips back against Charles's hand. The penetration feels odd, but Charles is being careful enough that it doesn't hurt beyond the initial burn of muscles stretching where they're not used to.
Charles rubs his prostate again, eliciting another sharp whimper, and Erik is beginning to realise that his vow of silence is pretty much in tatters already, along with his control. Charles hasn't even touched his cock since he came and he's already getting hard again, just from Charles's fingers. The thought makes him flush, his face suddenly hot, and he hears Charles chuckle softly.
And then the priest pulls away, and Erik can't help making a soft sound of protest. That can't be it; Charles said there was more. Why is he pulling away?
He manages to crane his head enough to see Charles rummaging through the robes again, eventually pulling out a small jar full of . . . something. More of the oil he was using before, maybe? Although considering the smirk on Charles's face, Erik suspects it's not quite so innocent as that, if you could even call lubricant innocent.
"We got very lucky a few years ago," Charles says in a conversational tone, perching on the side of the altar and starting to stroke Erik's cock again, drawing a muffled moan from him. "I wasn't the god's Blessed then, but our sacrifice turned out to be a rather clever alchemist, and he cooked this up for us. It stops the sacrifice from . . . fading," he says, grinning and leaning down to suck the head of Erik's cock for a moment. "The Blessed gets imbued with the god's power for the night, you see, and that can be rather a lot for a mere mortal to match. So Hank made us this delightful little concoction, to give you a chance of keeping up with me. Would you like to see how it works?"
An alchemist. The townsfolk had mentioned an alchemist going missing, hadn't they? Erik can't quite remember, and casting his memory back that far is impossible with Charles still stroking him. If agreeing gets him more of that contact, though, he'll try any herbal something-or-other that Charles wants him to. What's the worst it could do?
Charles's grin widens, and for a moment Erik thinks that perhaps agreeing wasn't the smartest thing to do, but, well, in for a penny, in for a pound. He's already agreed to what looks to be turning into a night full of sex; he may as well let Charles have his alchemical fun as well.
Charles scoops out a generous bit of the thick stuff in the jar, and, unexpectedly, uses it to lube up Erik's cock as he strokes. The stuff is strange; it's cool at first, but it begins to warm up with astonishing rapidity, although not to an uncomfortable point. What is almost immediately obvious is that it's made every bit of skin it touched insanely sensitive; Charles's hand is stroking loosely, but Erik's already hardening, a hot burst of lust curling in his stomach.
"It's delightful stuff, really," Charles remarks, grinning at Erik and massaging some of the cream into the head of his cock, making Erik whimper loudly. "Boosts the natural sex drive, bolsters endurance – not nearly as much as the blessing, of course, there's only so much herbalism and a touch of magic can do. And it makes you nice and sensitive, which suits me perfectly. Tell me, lovely, how many times you've come in one sitting before?"
It takes a moment for the question to register, Erik's so caught up in the heightened sensation. As soon as he can think clearly, he gasps, "I – I don't know, what sort of question is that? I don't sit down and decide to see how many times I can come!"
Charles laughs, taking another scoop of the cream and rubbing it over Erik's balls, rolling them gently in his hand. Bending to press a kiss to Erik's stomach, he murmurs, "Well, then, we'll just have to have fun finding out how many times you can come with some of this in you."
Suiting words to action, he slicks his fingers with the cream and trails them down Erik's ass, working the stuff thoroughly into Erik's hole before slipping two fingers in again, the penetration eased by the slickness of the cream and the warmth spreading through Erik with each new application of it. It's not like any drug he's ever felt before; there's no clouding of his mind, no intoxication, just sensitivity and sensation, and he's already harder than he's ever been before, even having come once already.
And Charles just keeps stroking his cock and fingering him, eventually getting around to adding a third finger, crooking all three to rub against his prostate and draw out another sharp, desperate whimper. He keeps palming the head of Erik's cock, rubbing his thumb over the slit, until Erik can't keep quiet or still, rocking his hips up in a desperate attempt to get more contact, to get enough to push him over the edge again. He can't remember ever being this aroused, and it's almost breathtaking, how much Charles is making him feel.
Eventually, after far too long, Charles twists his wrist at the end of a stroke, pressing his fingers more firmly against Erik's prostate, and murmurs, "You can come for me, lovely. I know you want to."
Something in the words does it; he cries out as he comes, feeling it spurt over his stomach. Normally making such a mess of himself would disgust him, but he can't bring himself to care about anything but the way Charles is making him feel. It feels off, not doing anything for Charles during all of this, but he can't with his hands bound. He tugs at the ropes fitfully, saying, "Let me loose. I want to–"
"No," Charles said, shaking his head and laying a finger on Erik's lips. "I told you, no talking unless you're answering a question or begging for my cock. Speaking of which . . . I think you've had your share of fun for right now, don't you? Time to reciprocate."
For a moment, Erik thinks that Charles is going to untie him. He can't do much tied up, can he? He's surprised to realise that he doesn't intend to fight, if he's freed. Doesn't intend to get up off this altar until the morning.
Charles doesn't untie him, though. He shifts, moving to straddle Erik's chest, and curls his fingers into Erik's hair, pulling his head up a little. Erik can't avoid seeing Charles's cock, and frankly doesn't really want to. It's not the largest cock he's ever seen, but then, Charles isn't the largest man he's ever seen, and he's in proportion. Everything about Charles is well-tended and clean, and his cock is no exception as he moves his hips forward to nudge the head of it against Erik's lips. There are some men who Erik wouldn't even consider giving a blow job to, but Charles smells good, clean with a light, enticing undertone, so he opens his mouth obediently, letting Charles thrust into it.
Perhaps understanding that Erik has no way of adjusting, like this, Charles keeps his thrusts shallow and slow, giving Erik plenty of room to breathe. Once he's used to the rhythm, Erik tries to participate more, bringing his tongue into play and moving his head forward as much as he can. It's still an awkward angle, and he's oddly regretful that he can't give Charles a proper blow job, but Charles seems to be enjoying it, if the low moans he's letting out are anything to go by.
"Oh, you're a born cocksucker, aren't you, lovely?" Charles murmurs, petting Erik's hair approvingly. It should feel like an insult, but said in that tone, fond and approving, it doesn't. It just spurs Erik to try even harder, to get more of those sounds from Charles. He's doing something right; Charles groans softly, his fingers tightening in Erik's hair, and murmurs, "That's good. Keep doing that, my gorgeous little slut. You'll do whatever I want you to as long as you get fucked in the end, won't you?"
He can't agree, not around the cock in his mouth, but somewhere along the way, he stopped resenting this. He wants to get Charles off, he wants to help him complete this ritual. Something about the treatment he's been getting has touched something inside him he wasn't aware was there.
"Good boy," Charles whispers, groaning again and thrusting a little deeper into Erik's mouth. He reaches behind himself, a contortion that's frankly a little impressive considering he still manages to keep thrusting, and pinches Erik's nipple, hard enough to make Erik whimper around Charles's cock. It's not a bad sort of pain, though, and it promises a reward if he does this well.
Charles pulls back suddenly, and Erik can't quite quash an instinctive burst of disappointment. He's about to ask if he's done something wrong when Charles silences him with a finger laid against his lips again, so he subsides, watching as Charles strokes his cock twice, three times, before groaning and coming, his semen spattering over Erik's lips and cheeks. It's an inherently degrading act, and Erik can feel his cheeks burning with another blush, but Charles leans down to kiss him, murmuring, "You're lovely."
The little jar of aphrodisiac reappears, and this time Charles spends several minutes rubbing it into Erik's nipples, grinning as that relatively small bit of stimulation swiftly reduces Erik to soft, needy whimpers. He'd never realised how reactive his nipples could be, especially with the aphrodisiac making them over-sensitive. Charles doesn't use his lips or tongue this time, no doubt not wanting to risk washing the cream away, and he's a little rougher, twisting and pinching, each harder touch getting a gasped moan from Erik as it sends a bolt of combined pain and pleasure through him, a contrast that's as intoxicating as pure pleasure.
Eventually, Charles moves one of his hands back down to Erik's cock, already half-hard again. He begins to stroke, faster this time, setting a punishing pace that makes Erik moan and twist his hips, unsure whether he's trying to rock into the contact or move away from it. Charles bends his head to kiss Erik's chest, careful to keep the aphrodisiac cream in place, where every breath makes air move across Erik's nipples. And then, as he palms the head of Erik's cock, he bites down sharply, hard enough to make Erik cry out in mixed shock and arousal.
"Pain, is it?" Charles murmurs, smiling against Erik's skin. "Lovely."
He pulls away again, fetching up something from the robes that glimmers in his hand. Something small and metal. He leans up to kiss Erik deeply, biting his lower lip, and says softly, "You may talk for now, only to tell me if this hurts too much. You may not say anything else that isn't asking me to fuck you."
He rubs more of the cream onto Erik's nipples, and then attaches the silver things – clamps, Erik realises as the first one bites down, just hard enough to be a painful sort of pleasure. He whimpers as Charles rubs his thumb over the trapped nipple, arching up into the touch, and can't help another whimper at the wicked grin on Charles's face as he attaches the second clamp, giving Erik's other nipple the same rough rub.
"Does that hurt too much?" Charles asks softly, his tone gentle for the first time. Erik takes a moment to consider it and then shakes his head. He can tell that the pain will turn unpleasant if the clamps are left on too long, but right now, it's just the right mix of painful and pleasant.
Charles smiles again, dangerously, and moves down Erik's body, pressing kisses that turn into bites to his chest and further to his stomach, reaching down to stroke his cock as he kisses him. Erik can feel Charles's lips through the come on his stomach, and the thought of Charles with Erik's come on his mouth is far too arousing.
"Do you want my mouth on your cock again?" Charles asks, looking up at Erik. "You get to decide, this time. Do you want my hand or my mouth?"
It's hardly even a choice. Erik replies, "Your mouth, please."
Charles's smile brightens, and he presses another kiss to Erik's stomach, murmuring, "Good. You don't get to sit back this time, though. A perfect cocksucker like you should keep his mouth busy, don't you think?"
Flushing again, Erik nods. He's not entirely sure how they're going to manage that, but he's willing to try.
Charles's smile turns dark, and he reaches up to rub his thumb over Erik's nipple, making him gasp. Repeating the motion and receiving a whimper in return, he says softly, "You don't look enthusiastic, my lovely little slut. Don't you want to be a good cocksucker?"
"Yes," Erik whispers, his cheeks burning. He's not prepared for the slap, hard against his thigh, but even as it stings, it doesn't really hurt.
"I didn't hear you. What are you?"
"Your cocksucker, Charles," he says, louder this time, the possessive slipping out without him meaning it to. It makes Charles smile, though, and mollifies him enough to bend over and kiss Erik, before he moves.
Bound the way he is, Erik has no choice but to let Charles work out how to situate himself. Charles at least lets him get used to the positioning first, leaning up to take Charles's cock into his mouth as much as he can. This is a less awkward position than before, if only by a bit, and Erik is more confident about his ability to please Charles like this, for all it feels odd, having the other man straddling his head like this.
After a few moments, he feels Charles's lips around his cock, and he suddenly feels hopelessly inadequate. He tries to mimic Charles's movements, what he does with his tongue, but it's surprisingly difficult to concentrate on properly pleasing Charles while Charles is doing his level best to pull Erik apart again. And then, as Charles's movements change, Erik realises that he's mimicking every move Erik is making, that his own enjoyment is going to depend on how well he tends to Charles.
He wishes he could use his hands, but he makes do. He uses his tongue as much as he can, working at sensitive nerve bundles and the head of Charles's cock, tonguing the slit and being rewarded with the same motion performed on him. As he gets more comfortable with the positioning, he begins letting out soft whimpers around Charles's cock, inexorably drawn closer and closer to orgasm. He's determined not to come before Charles, though, and increases his efforts, gratified by the pleased moans Charles is letting out.
Charles doesn't pull away this time. His hips halt in their shallow thrusts and he lets out a groan around Erik's cock as he comes in Erik's mouth. Erik had been expecting it, but that doesn't change the fact that he's never swallowed before, and it's a strange sensation. He manages not to choke, though, and he can feel Charles stroking his side in approval as the priest comes down, pulling back and moving away by the time Erik has his breath back.
Charles moves back to sit beside Erik, smirking down at him as he reaches over to scoop up more of the aphrodisiac, rubbing it into Erik's cock. Erik whimpers sharply, rocking his hips up against Charles's hand, and Charles chuckles darkly, saying, "You like that? You can't get enough of it, can you? I wouldn't have thought it of you when I first saw you, the stoic swordsman, but you're a slut under that stern exterior, aren't you?"
"Please," he whispers, only aware that he's speaking as the words come out. "Please, I – I want you to – I need you to fuck me. Please . . ."
Charles is silent for a moment, and Erik's afraid that he's said the wrong thing somehow, and then Charles leans down to press a kiss to his hip, biting hard enough to make Erik yelp, murmuring, "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"
Even then, he doesn't fuck Erik right away. No, he spends far too long slicking his fingers up again and working them into Erik, stretching and massaging the tight muscles. Long enough that Erik comes again, decorating his stomach with his own semen again – and then Charles reaches up, dragging his fingers through it, and uses it to lubricate Erik's ass, bending his head to bite Erik's thigh hard enough to bruise.
Finally, finally, when Erik harder than he's ever been and whimpering from Charles's teasing, Charles pulls his fingers away and settles between Erik's legs, thrusting in one smooth, easy movement. It hurts a little at first, but it's the same burn from before that quickly fades beneath the sheer pleasure. Charles sets his hands at Erik's hips, tight enough that Erik's pretty sure there are going to be marks later, and sets a steady, brutal pace, fucking him hard enough that he feels every impact of his shoulders against the altar.
Charles doesn't even have to touch Erik's cock for him to come a fourth time, shuddering beneath him from both the force of Charles's movements and the force of sensation. He doesn't let up, still fucking Erik hard, this time reaching around to grab Erik's cock and start stroking it, seemingly unconcerned about the way Erik whimpers, the over-stimulation getting a little intense.
Even when Charles comes, his fingers tightening even more on Erik's hips as his own hips snap forward to bury him deep inside Erik, he doesn't pull out. He reaches up to fiddle with the ropes around Erik's wrists, unhooking them from the stone protuberances in the corners of the altar and wrapping them around one in the middle, binding Erik's hands together above his head instead of spread out. Bound that way, it's easy for Charles to urge Erik onto his side, moving with him until he's pressed against Erik's back.
It's a little easier to breathe now; he's still aware of Charles's cock inside him, but Charles isn't moving yet, and their positioning is almost comforting, in an odd way. Charles wraps his arms around Erik, pulling him back against his chest, and murmurs, "You're a very good fuck, you know that, lovely? Has anyone ever claimed your ass like this?"
Erik shakes his head, biting back a whimper as Charles drifts his hands up over Erik's chest to rub his thumbs over Erik's nipples. He's not sure whether Charles needs the time to recover or if he's just being merciful – a certain sort of merciful, at least – and giving Erik the time to catch his breath. He suspects it might be some third option, as Charles rolls his hips lazily, nudging his cock against Erik's prostate and drawing another whimper from him.
This is somehow more intense than the fast fucking; this is slower, more deliberate, and the build-up is slower as Charles keeps rubbing his thumbs over Erik's nipples, reaching down to stroke his cock a few times, rocking his hips to let his cock brush against Erik's prostate. Erik can feel Charles getting hard again, but he seems to be in no hurry right now, cradling Erik close and taking him apart piece by tortuously slow piece.
"I've half a mind to keep you," Charles murmurs against Erik's throat, sucking hard enough to raise a mark. "It happens sometimes, you know. You'd like it here. But we can talk about that later."
He rolls his hips again, moving with more deliberation this time. He urges Erik up onto his knees, his upper body resting on his elbows and forearms, wrists still bound, and drapes himself over Erik's back. He presses more hard kisses to Erik's shoulders, adding teeth often enough that Erik's certain he's going to be covered in bruises later, and begins to thrust into Erik again, going slower this time. Slower is no less intense, and while Erik's stamina is flagging a little, it still feels good. He lets his head drop, all tension gone from his body except what he needs to keep himself upright, breathing in short, sharp gasps as Charles fucks him, taking his time about it this time around.
"We're getting to the hard bit," Charles murmurs against Erik's shoulder, reaching around to stroke his cock in time with his thrusts. "Do you trust me?"
What sort of question is that? What does it matter if he trusts Charles or not? Why does Charles even have to ask that? He's here, not fighting, isn't he? Isn't that enough proof? He manages a nod, though, whimpering as Charles's thrust sends another burst of pleasure through him. Charles murmurs something against his skin, something approving, he thinks, but he can't quite make it out over his own whimpers.
Charles moves his hand down, circling the base of Erik's cock with his fingers, and says something in a language Erik doesn't recognise. There's an odd sensation of pressure, even when Charles pulls his hand away, like there's a band of something wrapped around his cock, serving to keep him hard. The idea is a bit overwhelming, and he cranes his head to look over his shoulder at Charles, seeking some sort of reassurance. Charles kisses his shoulder again, murmuring, "It's all right, lovely. It's just until we're done. I'll take good care of you."
The gentleness in his voice is at odds with how rough his thrusts are turning, driving him deep enough into Erik that Erik's pretty sure he's going to ache pretty soon. The purpose of whatever it is around Erik's cock becomes evident in short order, as he gets more and more aroused, hard enough that his cock aches, but never quite manages to tip over the edge, even when Charles comes again, biting down on his shoulderblade.
When Charles pulls out, he turns Erik back onto his back, reaching up to tie his hands to the corners of the altar again. He's going to stay on his back, then. He tries to relax against the stone as Charles straddles his hips, rubbing his ass against Erik's cock, making him groan with pleasure. Charles smiles down at him, reaching down to press his thumb against Erik's nipples, and smirks when Erik whimpers and squirms, each touch sending a bolt of lust through him right to his cock, but none of them quite enough to let him come.
"This is driving you mad, isn't it?" Charles asks softly, reaching behind him to trail one finger along the length of Erik's cock, chuckling when Erik moans. "I'm sorry, lovely, but that's for the grand finale. Can't have you coming too soon and exhausting yourself before we're done, can we?"
Erik half expects Charles to move forward, to be made to suck his cock again – not that the idea doesn't have any appeal – but Charles stays where he is, Erik's cock rubbing against the cleft of his ass with each movement he makes, the contact enough to make Erik whimper and rock his hips up, trying to get more. Charles wraps his hand around his own cock, stroking himself quickly as he rubs Erik's nipples again.
Every noise Erik makes, every desperate whimper and needy moan, seems to work magic on Charles. The expression of desire on Charles's face is almost as intoxicating as his touch, and the way his breath catches every time Erik lets out a particularly loud whimper is enough for Erik to give up on the idea of staying quiet. If his noises make Charles happy, he'll make as many of them as Charles wants to force him to.
Charles's refractory period is insane. He comes over Erik three times, hardly going soft between them, and he still manages to pay enough attention to Erik's nipples and cock that Erik's erection doesn't flag in the slightest. By the third time Charles's come lands on Erik's chest, Erik is squirming at the slightest touch, gasping, "Please – please, Charles, I need – I need you to fuck me, please, I can't take any more–"
"Yes, you can," Charles murmurs, leaning over to kiss Erik hard. He shifts off Erik's chest and pulls away long enough to settle between Erik's legs, slicking his fingers up and reaching down to finger him again, smirking at the high whine that slips from Erik's throat. He bends down to wrap his lips around the head of Erik's cock, dragging another ragged moan from Erik's lips as he squirms, trying to escape the stimulation for just a moment, just long enough to catch his breath.
"Please, I – I can't–"
"You're fine," Charles says softly, pulling up off his cock long enough to press a kiss to his hip and twist his fingers to rub over Erik's prostate. "You're doing just fine, lovely, just hold on a bit longer and I'll make you feel better than you've ever felt. You're doing fine."
It doesn't feel like he's doing fine; it feels like every nerve is on fire, as though breathing is enough to send a jolt of pleasure through him. It still feels good, but it feels far too intense, and it's getting difficult to catch his breath long enough to do anything but whimper, shuddering beneath Charles's expert hands.
"You're perfect," Charles murmurs, reaching up to release one of the clamps. The blood rushing back makes Erik let out a choked wail, writhing on the altar, and Charles doesn't give him any time to adjust before removing the second clamp, rubbing his thumbs over Erik's over-sensitised nipples. He leans over to kiss each nipple, still working his fingers inside Erik, and says softly, "You're making it very difficult for me not to want to keep you, lovely."
Erik almost doesn't hear him over the sound of own his heart thundering in his ears, of his ragged breaths, each one edged with a whimper. Charles keeps touching him, crooking his fingers to rub against his prostate and brushing his other hand over Erik's nipples and occasionally leaning down to suck the head of Erik's cock for a few moments, and the sensations all merge into each other, into one hazy mass of too much, until Erik's not sure of the passing time, not sure of anything except that he's never felt this much arousal in his life, so intense that he's half-afraid he might die from it.
The haze is broken when Charles replaces his fingers with his tongue. Erik is dimly aware that Charles came at least twice while he was tormenting Erik; the sensation of Charles's come landing on his stomach and chest had cut through the pleasure momentarily. His nipples hurt from the clamps and the repeated pinches, his wrists are sore from his unconscious tugging at the ropes, and his cock is so hard it aches. It feels like he could come from the slightest touch, but with the magic Charles used, he can't. All he can do is tremble beneath Charles, letting out tiny, broken whimpers as Charles's tongue sweeps up and down, cleaning him up, delving inside his over-used hole and making him moan softly as it probes the swollen tissue.
And then Charles's tongue is gone, replaced by his cock, and Erik lets out another ragged wail, panting heavily, aware of tears streaking his cheeks. He's not in pain, exactly, but it's too intense, too much.
"Almost," Charles whispers, thrusting harder, faster. Now it hurts, but it's not the sort of hurt that makes him think he's been injured. It's the burn of over-stretched muscles, but not the sharp pain of more serious damage, and even with the pain, it still sends shafts of arousal through him, making his cock ache even more.
"Please," he whispers, his voice cracking. "Please, I need – I need to come, please, Charles . . ."
Either Charles takes pity on him, or his plea happens to coincide with moonset; either way, Charles wraps his hand around the base of Erik's cock, murmuring something in that odd language, and Erik feels the band around his cock vanish. He's almost surprised when he doesn't come immediately, but that would be too easy. Charles keeps thrusting, holding onto Erik's hip with one hand and wrapping the other around Erik's cock, stroking roughly.
Finally, Erik's body is wracked by the most intense orgasm he's ever experienced, intense enough that his vision goes black, for several long moments.
By the time he comes back to himself, he's off the altar, laid on a soft surface like an offering – which fits, doesn't it? Charles is sitting beside him, cleaning him up gently but thoroughly. Erik tries to sit up, thinking to save what's left of his dignity and do that task for himself, but he has no strength left. Charles smiles softly at him, leaning down to kiss his forehead, and murmurs, "Let me, lovely. You deserve some pampering."
Erik whimpers whenever Charles's washcloth brushes over sensitive areas; as soft as the cloth is, it's almost torture on his cock, and when Charles uses it to clean his come off – and out of – Erik. Eventually, Charles sets it and the bowl of warm water aside, settling beside Erik and pulling a sheet up over them both. Erik whimpers again when the fabric touches him, too sensitive to handle much contact, but they'll need the sheet against the night air.
Charles wraps his arms around Erik from behind, snuggling him against his chest, and presses a gentle kiss to his throat, over one of the marks. He whispers, "I want to keep you. You're lovely. Let me keep you."
He's exhausted. He's in no state to be making decisions.
He already knows what his answer is.
But he's determined to get back at Charles, just a little, for that painfully arousing waiting, so he closes his eyes, settling down to sleep, and mumbles, "Ask me in the morning."