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Although one could argue Pantalone is one of the most normal out of the Harbingers, no one who intentionally chose to work with Dottore is ever a sane person. Scaramouche knows that very well, and he never doubted that secretly, the ninth Harbinger was just as much of a freak as his boyfriend.
Well, he supposes his theory has been confirmed, then.
“Be my pet for a day,” he had said the day before, “And I’ll fund whatever you want for the next five years. Deal?”
And oh, Scaramouche jumped onto the opportunity.
It’s not like he’s broke or anything — in fact, the Fatui are very well paid, especially the Harbingers. Pantalone, however, is more than rich; he’s a billionaire, one of the two people in the entirety of Teyvat who have that much mora, and no one in their right mind would pass the opportunity of being funded by the richest man himself. For five years, too! All that for one day of being his pet, and Scaramouche was sold.
Officially, he is now Pantalone’s pet for a full day. He expected the ninth to use him for chores, perhaps ask him to do his paperwork, dust his office, maybe even entertain his boyfriend, who knows. Both of them are freaks, he wouldn’t be surprised. But, instead, Pantalone actually did something Scaramouche wasn’t expecting.
“Wear this,” he said, holding the clothes he wanted Scaramouche to wear, and oh how much he wants to kill that smug bastard.
He finds himself facing a full body length mirror in Pantalone’s office bathroom, naked almost head to toe. The two clothes doing a pathetic job at covering him up are just a pair of thigh high black socks, and black panties to match that barely even covered anything. The sight arouses him, but is at the same time so embarrassing, Scaramouche isn’t sure if he wants to leave the bathroom.
Gingerly, he places the fluffy cat ears Pantalone had given him on top of his head. It matches the color of his hair, which is honestly very impressive. Did Pantalone… ask this to be specifically tailored for him? But that would mean he’s been planning this for a while.
What a fucker.
“Balladeer, what’s taking so long?” he hears Pantalone’s voice from outside the bathroom and he pauses, looking at the plug in his hands. He obviously hasn’t put it on yet, which the ninth had specifically told him to do so before leaving, but the size was too intimidating for him to.
The plug is thick and long with bumps along its shaft. It looks more like a dildo than anything, though its base is thicker than its head — it’s very obviously made to cause discomfort. He probably won’t be able to push it out without hands if he does put it in, which is why he’s so intimidated. He has no idea what else Pantalone is planning for him, and if that will involve having his hands be unusable.
“Give me a minute,” Scaramouche answers, feeling his mouth dry. Great, now he has to hurry up.
Sighing, he lubes his fingers up and bends over the sink, watching his own reflection on the mirror. He quickly averts his eyes, too embarrassed to look at himself in such humiliating position. His dry hand pushes the panties down, then his cheeks apart. Breathing in, he inserts a finger, shifting at the discomfort.
He should hurry this up, actually. Pantalone might lose patient, and as much as he’s the ninth’s superior, he’s still his pet for the day. He really doesn’t want to find out what the man will do to him if he disobeys. And as much as the thought should intimidate him, his cunt throbs, already so wet he feels it trickling down his thigh.
Ugh…
Deciding not to waste too much time, he fingers his ass fast, slipping in a second finger. He scissors himself open, massaging his walls the best he can, uncaring about the slight burn he feels. As soon as he’s loose enough, he shoves a third, then the fourth finger in, sucking air through gritted teeth.
He pants over the sink, fogging the mirror. The burn feels nice, he has to admit — he’s always been a pain slut. Perhaps this isn’t so bad.
Retracting his fingers once he feels like he can’t possibly stretch himself more than that, Scaramouche takes a few seconds to rest his arm, looking over at the still intimidating plug. How that’s going inside him, he has no idea. Shakily, he picks it up, squeezing as much lube as he can on the toy, making a mess on his hands.
“You can do this…” he whispers to himself, once again pulling his cheeks apart. He brings the plug to his entrance, circling around it. It’s gaping slightly thanks to his stretching, making him shiver.
Slowly, he pushes the plug in. “Ah..!” he gasps, feeling the bumps drag along his walls, getting ever so slowly buried inside him. His legs tremble as he pushes it deeper, its slightly curved head making his knees buckle. This plug doesn’t seem to have been made with his body parts in mind, he thinks — because he very clearly doesn’t have a prostate. He supposes Pantalone didn’t exactly know this information beforehand, though.
With a wet pop, the thick part of the plug successfully passes his rim. He exhales, feeling how deep the toy is, the way the bumps feel so good inside him. Fuck.
His hands shake as he pulls the panties back on, legs feeling like jello as he takes a few steps. The plug shifts inside him, taking tiny sounds out of his throat. He urgently needed something in his pussy right now or else he might as well go insane.
“Balladeer?” Pantalone calls again, and Scaramouche holds back the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s been almost ten minutes.”
Ten minutes?!
“Shut up, I’m coming!” he clicks his tongue, hiding his surprise at how much time had passed. That did not feel like ten minutes to him, at all.
Still getting used at the plug in him, he finally makes his way out of the bathroom, deciding to look Pantalone in the eyes with his chin raised. As if he doesn’t have a cat tail shoved up his ass. The ninth looks at him, partially blind eyes looking him up and down.
“You look delightful,” he says, and this time Scaramouche does roll his eyes.
“You can barely even see me.” he retorts, huffing.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it. Come closer.” he gestures with his finger.
“That doesn’t even make any sense. You can’t appreciate something you can’t see.” he argues, but even so, still makes his way towards the taller man, shuffling a little on his feet as he stops in front of the man’s chair.
Pantalone isn’t fully blind. From what Scaramouche knows, everything to the ninth is blurry and he can only make out blobs instead of clear shapes. Glasses don’t do much for him, and only help him enough so he can read, for example. If anything, they give him a headache, is what he once explained. From what he knows, there is no technology yet that can help the billionaire, however Dottore is working on developing a surgery to help him.
May the poor unfortunate souls who end up being his test subjects in the process rest in peace.
Still, though, Pantalone seems to always somehow find beauty in “blobs”, and as he himself says it, he’s an appreciator of art. It seems Scaramouche is the new “art” he decided to appreciate, as his hands hold the sixth’s waist, thumbs brushing over his skin. One of his hands grab an item from the desk that makes Scaramouche quietly gulp.
“Hmm, beautiful indeed,” Pantalone says, his voice softer than usual. Scaramouche feels giddy as the ninth brings the collar to his neck, putting it on with a small click, tightening it just enough that it squeezes his throat a little. “It’s such a shame I can’t properly see you. You’re very beautiful, I’ve been told, Balladeer. I’m sure you know people whisper about us Harbingers all the time, yet when you’re brought up, I either hear that you are a sight to behold, or an annoying brat. Often both in the same sentence. The second one I know for sure is the truth, so I’m certain the former is true as well.”
Oh, he knows. Snezhnayan citizens are known for gossiping, it’s hard not to know what people are talking about you when they don’t ever shut up. As time passes, you tend to learn to ignore it. Scaramouche, however, basks in the attention — it doesn’t matter if people say he’s “an annoying brat”, or if they say he’s beautiful, or whatever else they say about his person. Either way, they’re talking about him, and that in itself feeds his ego.
Pantalone isn’t helping it go down, even after being collared.
“As much as I would love to appreciate your pretty face, we both know I can’t do that. Instead, I would like you to be a good boy for me today. I’m sure you can do that, can’t you?”
He has no idea what the ninth is doing to his head, but whatever it is, it’s working. He feels speechless for once in his life, face red, mind feeling cloudy. His thoughts are muddier than usual, but he can’t help but enjoy it.
“I asked you a question, kitty.” Scaramouche blinks, trying to snap out of the fuzziness he feels as he nods. “I need a verbal answer.”
“Yes, I can.” his tongue feels heavy.
“Good boy. On your knees.”
The sixth never fell to his knees so fast. This should be embarrassing, but obeying Pantalone only makes the fuzziness increase, and it feels nice. He’s not sure what’s going on, but he likes it. He really does.
Pantalone unzips his pants, pulling them down just enough so his cock sticks out, and Scaramouche almost salivates looking at it. His cunt throbs, wanting that inside him badly.
“I have a few more paperwork to finish for the day, so I want you to keep my cock warm with your mouth, got it?” Scaramouche enthusiastically nods, and Pantalone chuckles. “Remember your words, kitty.”
“Yes, sir.” the title slips out of his mouth naturally, like he’s always been meant to call him that. In any other circumstance, calling an inferior that would possibly cause him to spontaneously combust, but today he really can’t give a damn about it.
Eagerly, he crawls under Pantalone’s desk in between his legs. The ninth rolls his chair closer as Scaramouche shuffles until he’s face to face with the man’s cock. He opens his mouth, holding the ninth’s dick in his hand. The puppet gives its head a small kiss before he slips it inside his mouth, opening his jaw further up so it can fit. He feels the cock’s veins on his tongue as he slowly goes deeper and deeper, until it hits the back of his throat, then slides in.
His throat tightens around the intrusion, the collar making it even tighter. He has no need to breathe, so it doesn’t bother him to stay like this. In fact, it feels quite nice. He doesn’t have to do anything, just stay this way, not sucking or licking. Simply warming the ninth’s cock, and that’s his entire job. He can do that, he can be a good boy.
As the minutes pass with Pantalone’s cock weighting on his tongue, Scaramouche’s eyes flutter shut. His brain feels so fuzzy, thoughts so distant from his head he can’t even hear them. Even the sound of the ninth’s pen writing on paper can barely be heard by him, and that’s the only noise in the entire room besides the occasional wet noise he lets out.
He’s not sure how much time passes. It could have been just a few minutes, perhaps an hour, perhaps three. He’s really not sure, because time barely feels like a real thing to him anymore. He’s so content just being Pantalone’s personal cock warmer, he has no problem staying like this for the rest of his life. Eventually, though, he feels a hand on his head starting to gently pat him, causing him to slightly jump.
Opening his eyes, Scaramouche’s vision slowly focuses on Pantalone, who looks down at him. He probably notices the sixth’s eyes on him, for he smiles. “Enjoying it, kitty?” it takes a few seconds for the words to register in Scaramouche’s brain, but once they do, he nods eagerly with a muffled moan. “That’s a good boy. I’m almost done, just a few more minutes.”
The sixth nods again as he once more closes his eyes. He doesn’t really care how long he’s supposed to stay like this, Pantalone can take all day for all that matters. The fuzziness in his brain keeps him happily entertained as the hand on his hair keeps the soothing movements.
At some point, he shifts to adjust his position, and he feels the plug hitting a particularly good spot. “Mmph,” he whimpers, stimulation suddenly making him remember his pussy is still as wet as ever. He shifts once more, both hands now on Pantalone’s thighs as he grinds his hips on the ground, the tail plug shifting inside. Feels so good, he wants more. “Hhng…”
The hand on his hair suddenly tightens. “Stop moving, kitty. You don’t want to be a bad boy now, do you?”
He huffs through his nose, eyes opening to weakly glare at the ninth. His brain is slightly less fuzzy, and he desperately wants it back. Pantalone sighs as he pulls himself off Scaramouche, making the puppet whine at the loss.
“Guess I have to train the defiance out of you, then.”
…
“Nghh, ahh, mmhhg, nnhhff..!”
Scaramouche helplessly moans as he gets bounced up and down on the ninths cock. His hands are tied to his collar in a way that makes it look like his hands are little paws, unable to do anything as he mercilessly gets railed by Pantalone’s cock.
There’s a ball gag on his mouth, preventing him from speaking — lewd, obscene noises escape both his mouth and his pussy as he gets fucked, the fuzziness in his brain so big he can’t even remember his own name anymore.
Earlier, as his brain cleared, he argued against Pantalone. That was a big mistake, as according to the ninth, he “lost his talking privileges”. When he refused to only meow, that’s when he got gagged; and now he’s being bounced on a dick, unable to even set his own rhythm as his legs feel like jelly and his arms are currently unusable.
He thinks he came twice already. He’s honestly not sure, he didn’t even attempt to count. All he knows is that Pantalone took his sweet time preparing his pussy, then played with his clit until Scaramouche’s thighs shook and his eyes rolled behind his skull. Only then did he finally start fucking him, and Scaramouche felt too overstimulated to even try fighting it.
Not like he wants to. He feels so, so good, he might die.
Pantalone keeps bouncing him on his cock, uncaring of Scaramouche’s previous orgasms, treating him like an actual sex pet instead of a living being. He chases after his own orgasm as the sixth writhes on his lap, lewd noises escaping his mouth like a broken record.
Eventually, his thrusts get messier as he approaches his climax. His hands on Scaramouche’s hips tighten as he buries himself deep, coming deep inside the puppet’s pussy. He shakes, cunt throbbing at the feeling of being filled up, so close to his own orgasm.
Pantalone pulls him out with a whine from Scaramouche, earning him a chuckle. “Don’t worry, Balladeer. You still have around ten hours of the day left.”
The sentence is enough to slightly clear Scaramouche’s head as he looks back at the ninth in disbelief. Pantalone simply hums a tune as he gently places the sixth on his desk, face down. “I had a few things planned for you, but unfortunately I don’t think a day of training is enough for what I want to do. For now, though, I suppose you might enjoy this.”
His brain is still so fuzzy, he doesn’t have the mind to look and see what Pantalone is doing until he feels it. With a jolt, he feels a cold, small toy being pushed in his cunt. “Mmmgh,” he whines from overstimulation, wiggling his hips.
“I’ll leave you here for a little bit while I take a break, yes? I have to go see how my boyfriend is doing.” Pantalone smiles almost innocently as Scaramouche hears the sound of tape ripping. He wiggles his hips again, trying to pull away from the stimulation, but the ninth grabs his waist. “Don’t be so dramatic, I’ll be back soon enough. I’m sure you’ll enjoy your time here.”
Pantalone puts the tape over Scaramouche’s cunt, trapping both the vibrator and his own cum inside. The puppet whines again, arousal making him somehow get wetter. The ninth picks him up and places him on the chair he had been previously sitting on, legs spread, taping them to the armrests.
“Be a good boy and wait for me, yes?”
As he leaves the room, the vibrator in his pussy starts to buzz suddenly, already on max. Scaramouche arches his back violently, immediately being hit by a a strong orgasm. Small tears escape his eyes as he accepts he can do nothing but sit there and take it, so he might as well enjoy it.
He gives in to the fuzziness once more overtaking his mind, constantly being brought to orgasm over again. Who knows when Pantalone will come back — all he knows is that he’s perfectly happy as his cute little kitty.