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A growl of annoyance filled the ancient study. God's be damned, there it was again.
He continued to scribe, willing himself to ignore it. Alas, despite his efforts and his deep loathing of it, he could feel that vile, needless yearning bubbled up yet again.
It was completely senseless! By all means, he should be past such petty mortal desires. He was a being of true, perfect undeath. There was no purpose in it. He knew well how ridiculous it was, how it went against all logic and reason, yet the longing still lingered.
He put aside his quill with a long sigh. He closed his eyeless lids and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Was he really doing this again?...
He stood there for a moment more, hoping the need within him would somehow disappear on its own, but it lingered on still, screaming for him to attend to it.
Fine. He would do it. He knew it was pointless, that he would regret it, expending all that effort in vain, but fine. Perhaps the quicker he got it over with and became bored sooner he could return to his work.
With another sigh, he finally pulled himself away from his desk and started to his room.
Just let him be done with it.
He sighed and leaned back into the stone chair.
He was doing this..
Despite the annoyance, the illogic, and the quiet shame that still lurked in the background, he did want this. He needed this. The mage could only give his best attempt to bury his degenerate eagerness as he partook.
He took hold of the tattered hem of his ancient robes, raising them up past his knees so he could snake his withered hand beneath them. The undead sighed, closing his sunken lids to better focus on what sensation he could still experience as he pressed against his well-hidden entrance.
He groaned slightly as he dipped a bony finger inside, desperately drinking in the treasured sensation of the pressure of the digit drawing within him, it just barely spreading him apart, only slightly stretching his opening around it. The mage impatiently withdrew before sinking a second back within his depths.
It was not nearly enough. Of course, the slow beginning to the affair was purposeful, in attempts to better tune into the whispers of feeling, to increase the intensity of the sensation to come. But this was naught!
He let go of any patience and pressed them in as deeply as he could, trying his best to zero in on the sweet pressure they brought. Alas, it was still nothing next to what he desired. He withdrew them then swiftly plunged them back inside himself, but that slight trace of something he felt only served to make it worse. He retreated yet again, only to sink them back inside over and over. He moved them apart from each other so as to scissor his cold innards further apart, but still nothing they produced was even near what he needed.
He spread his long, bony legs wider, readjusting to give himself the best access he could before shoving them with all the force he could muster, truly as deep as they could possibly go until his protruding knuckles met his rim. His low groan emanated about his chambers as he frantically pressed his knuckle deep fingers as hard as he could up against himself, desperately clinging to any sensations he could.
It was so unfair. To be dead but still hold these petty mortal desires he could no longer fulfill like he once could. He loathed the weight of his vile, deflated member, hanging eternally soft and forever useless between his legs like it was taunting him.
How he wanted to take it into his hand, to stroke it like he once did and bask in the wondrous pleasure that used to come to him so easily. Now he sat here, the wretched appendage entirely worthless, unable to give him anything of value, unable to deliver any of the pleasures it once brought. Now it left him here, only to desperately press within himself in its stead, to harvest nothing but the concept of the pitiful sensations of the pressure and stretch from the intrusion itself.
He closed his eyes and tried to forget about it, to focus upon what he could feel; the pressure from his own fingers diligently spreading him apart, maybe a fantasy as well. Yes, that he could still experience.
He thought up some faceless, large, strong man, yes! A large, strong man, standing above him. The larger man pressed the mage into his chair, pulling up his robes above his hips. The man would lock the undead in a passionate kiss as they’d rub their fingers over the corpse’s tight, leathery hole. Finally, he would begin to press in a thick, calloused digit into his frigid flesh. Pumping it in and out, over and over, working his taut channel open before adding a second, stretching the undead's innards farther than he ever could himself with his own bony fingers.
The man would thrust them in deep and hard with little regard for the creature beneath him.
He'd pump them in and out, scissoring the thick digits to spread him further for the living man's waiting cock.
The lich groaned at the thought of it, a thick living cock, waiting, ready to take him, to impale him.
He couldn't take it anymore.
The wizard ripped his meager fingers from himself. He grabbed the phallic rod beside him, unable to stand it any longer. Finally, he pressed the head against his frigid rim.
A long whine escaped the ageless mage as he allowed himself to rock against it. He was so hungry for the pressure, so desperate for it to finally be inside. He continued to rock against it, his corpse already quivering at only the sensation of the blunt pressure against his rim and the promise of what was to come.
He needed this, needed this so very, very badly.
Finally, finally he began to press the toy forth. He felt like he could lose himself in just the mounting pressure against his entrance. How it grew more and more against him.
The lich could not help but gasp as the tool finally breached him, the stretch from the tip hitting him all at once. What willpower it took to not simply plunge it straight in, but he was able to endure, willing himself to savor every sensation in full as he ever so slowly began to press it inside.
He could feel it; the delicious pressure that only grew more and more as he pressed it in deeper, spreading himself open around its fine girth. How it pulled him apart, stretching his desperate, dead flesh. He rocked into it hungrily as he took it inside himself.
How badly he needed this! It was so good, so very, very good! Alas, it still wasn't enough, not even close.
He wanted, no, needed more! He needed it so badly. So desperate, so hungry for it, for anything at all.
He, an ancient wizard of such power, one who had cheated death itself, whimpered so pathetically as the base hit his rim. He rocked against it desperate for more, throwing his shaking legs open wider, pressing against the base as hard as he could into his willing corpse.
He thought of that faceless man standing over him. Not a mere toy wielded by his own hand but a real, firm, living member pressed so deep into his depths, filling him up, stretching his own desperate, decrepit body open around its mighty girth.
Even in death, he shivered at the mere thought of it. Something was still, in some way, so deeply alluring about the thought of being taken by another. Just the thought of being overpowered and filled, completely stuffed by another larger, physically far stronger man made him shake with desire.
Of course, it was nothing more than a mere fantasy. And the shame he felt from such a concept, even simply in the way he entertained it during such administrations, always proved to be a near overwhelming regret outside of these fervent moments, let alone if such a thing was to actually take place.
Not like it ever would, of course. No strong, virile, or well, any mortal in all the world would ever wish to bed a lich, especially not to mention a male one in the way he truly desired it. But, at least at that moment, the fantasy deeply entertained him nonetheless, and he basked in how greatly fantasizing could improve the meager sensations he could draw from his own administrations.
He grabbed the base of the toy and began to alternate between swirling it around inside of him in a circular motion and pressing the tool back and forth within himself. He marveled in the way it pressed against the walls of his innards, stirring up the cold, dead flesh of his insides, all the while still picturing in his mind the living man pounding him savagely into the stone chair he was sitting upon, ravaging his wanting corpse.
He again pressed it inside all the way to the base and closed his shaking, bony legs together, squeezing himself tighter around the intrusion so he could really feel it. He squirmed in his seat around the weapon he impaled himself upon. He willed the negative energy of his body to animate his long unused muscles to clean down around it. The clench he summoned was weak, but intensified it still.
There it was! That little scrap of something he could choose to interpret as pleasurable!
But through it all, it still wasn't enough. None of it ever was.
Sighed and looked down again at his own useless flesh, still hanging there soft and entirely worthless. How he wanted to grab it still.
He regretted not taking himself into his own hands as often as he could when he was still alive. How greatly he took it for granted. It was so easy then alas, he had always been too focused on his pursuits in the arcane, his research… When he took the time to banish the troublesome urges, it was many times quick and methodical, nothing more than to get it out of the way so he could return to what really mattered.
It was only now that he realized how much he had neglected himself in this way, and of course, let alone pursuing actually bedding another…
If only he had taken the time to at least try it once, but yet he never did. Always so focused, never the type to socialize, let alone the type to court.
He never minded it then. Why bother with involving another if he could simply tend to such distracting urges on his own, then swiftly return to his work? He could take himself in his hand and be done in mere minutes, maybe even less than that. He swore there were many a time he could be through with it all in under a mere minute. How he wished it was like that now, instead of being left to desperately grind down on the tools he shoved within himself for sometimes even hours with no resolution to speak of. He only stopped when he inevitably became disinterested and gave up on the whole affair.
Although rare, always single-minded in his pursuits, the mage would still seldom get into the act back then.
That was certainly part of his abstinence from seeking a partner. At the time, he was of the opinion that it was solely because such a thing was a waste of his time. While this was mostly true, the vast majority still due to his focus lying elsewhere, but he now has the insight to admit that some other obvious reasons kept him. It wasn't like he never had the desire for another to be there.
The revenant’s undead body still cringed when he recalled how embarrassed he made himself when he truly indulged his mortal urges. His own sexual fantasies he conjured up did excite him in the moment, but at one point or another, the shame would hit him the same as it often did now, sometimes even before he had completed, ruining it. Not only simply the subject of the kind that he would picture himself with, but more the role he took.
He supposed now, in retrospect, somewhere inside, he was under the assumption none would ever go out of their way to be with him. Of course, he was far from hideous per se, especially with his elven blood, but he was never really what most would consider 'desirable', even when apart from his admittedly abrasive personality and demeanor.
He was always far too bony and pallid. Even then, while his heart still beat, he had at least some hint to a cadaverous quality about him… and, well, not that it really mattered at all, especially now of all times, he could potentially, maybe, admit he was not necessarily the most… well-endowed… Possibly- Well, probably, somewhat a bit below average…
He paused and looked down at the lame thing, quickly averting his gaze once he realized what he was doing.
Alright, he was below average.
In truth, he did not care about such a foolish thing himself. It's not like such a thing mattered overall, of course. Though even now in death, he still could feel himself growing almost flustered at the thought of that predicament and even the mere thought, momentarily unveiled past the fog of lust, of actually being with another in reality.
Even worse, while his ability for speed was convenient for himself and his work, he could not even imagine the shame that would come from such a quality displaying itself in front of another he was engaged with. How disappointed they would be with him, especially with at least his understanding of how that sort of engagement with another went down versus on one's own, such a fault would most definitely be amplified, wouldn't it? He could remember times when he managed to neglect himself for some time, then ended up swiftly soiling his small clothes after seeking only simple friction from his own hand over the fabric.
He could only imagine how another would react if such an occurrence took place with the company of a partner! Such a thing was undesirable, wasn't it? Something he would surely be shamed for!
But in a way, he had come to regret how he had neglected this area in life, if even only just a little. He could have at least endeavored to find another on which to perform the act with, even if it meant resorting to paying for it. Now he would never again be able to have such an experience.
The necromancer physically shook his head to rid his mind of these unfortunate thoughts. What an idiotic thing to ruminate on. His now ancient mortal insecurities are far from matter. He needed this, and he wouldn't have it ruined yet again, his mind drifting to these petty, irrelevant matters. He would enjoy this.
He willed himself to refocus back to his fantasy. The strong man, how he ran his strong hands over his withered form. He was forcefully and roughly but yet he touched him so gently, so lovingly.
It wasn't enough.
The mage rose from the chair, hand still on the base to keep it from slipping out. Rather awkwardly, he moved to bring a leg over the chair's arm so he was straddling it.
He slipped his hand out from under him as he lowered his body down onto the arm, letting out another creaking groan into the chilled air as the phallus was forced back in much deeper than before.
He imagined straddling and riding the faceless man, impaling himself over and over again on his mighty living girth as he ground down onto the inanimate rod.
This was so good. So very, very good! He could truly feel that delectable pressure so deep within him.
So much, so very intense, so nearly overwhelming, but yet still not enough!He needed more! To be pounded into, to be fucked open, entirely stuffed with cock, stretched and filled to the brim while held by strong, warm arms, held against a muscular chest, hearing their still beating heart as he was so entirely ravaged.
A fine idea crossed his mind, and he paused his grinding. The mage brought a bony hand down his cadaver, making sure to brush the tips of his long fingers against the ancient fabric of his robes that still clothed his upper half, picturing the living man's strong digits in place of his own.
He stopped when he reached his concave stomach and pressed into himself. He could feel it. A burst of arousal clouded his mind at the very thought of it. He pressed in harder, feeling the added pressure inside as he did. A creaking groan echoed off the walls of his chamber.
It was so easy to trace along the very prominent outline of the thick rod impaling the corpse with his fatless stomach.
Gods, it felt so large.
Moans of the undead filled the tomb, the familiar sound of his own voice now made unnatural, even to the lich himself, with how it dripped with lust.
The necromancer began to move his hips once more, continuing to grind into the chair arm, his hand never letting up on the added pressure.
It wasn't perfect, but it was certainly something, at least, but it still wasn't nearly enough. Maybe if he were to get something thicker, that would make it more intense. If it could only stretch him only a bit more, then maybe he could be that much more satisfied. He so desperately just desired only to be filled, to have something larger stretch his chilled insides past what he had now. A size large enough to maybe even make the object difficult for him to move within himself.
A broken, disembodied whine filled the crypt chamber at the very thought.
He could wrap his pelvis with bandages, akin to how one would prepare an embalmed mummy, to make sure it remained there, seated deep inside him.
The lich shivered at just the thought. He would go about his business as usual, all the while hidden under his robes; his wanting carcass was spitted full around the thick girth of a false phallus.
He whined. Gods did he want it! He needed more! He was so desperate to be filled, so full he could finally, truly feel!
He ground down hard into the arm, bouncing himself on the cold rod a few more times before dismounting, holding the rod in place to not let it leave him. He shifted back to the seat of the chair, this time sprawling himself horizontally across the arms, immediately returning to fervently pistoning the phallus in and out of his frigid hole.
He needed more than just these petty sensations he received. Mortal desire still coursed through his body but his dead flesh could now only receive the awareness of the touch itself, the sensations eternally numbed to all forms of pain or pleasure.
It was all in his mind. The knowledge of what the feeling meant. That the intrusion through his decrepit body was the impalement of a phallus, the stretch and weight within his dead flesh from how the thick girth filled him up, the pressure from how stuffed full it made him, and how it slammed into the frigid walls of his bowels with every thrust. That he was fucked.
He forced his mind adrift yet again. This time, he pictured that strong man clad in gleaming armour. He burst in, declaring him a villain and an unholy monster to be destroyed. The man charged him before he could react, slamming him down to the stone crypt floor, grabbing his wrists, and pinning them above his head so he could not cast a proper spell against the knight. The warrior leaned in close, whispering into his ear how his evil deeds must be punished.
The knight forced himself easily between his legs and lifted his robes past his waist. The lich struggled, but he was powerless against the warrior atop his bony cadaver. The man was so big, dwarfing the mage under him with his huge, virile form. He was too strong for the undead to move him, his mighty, warm, living muscles keeping him pinned helplessly under him.
The knight squeezed his thigh, the man’s large hand nearly wrapping the entire way around the dessicated limb. The knight rubbed his hand up and down the dead flesh as he spread the undead's legs open wider, granting him further access between them.
He easily pulled the lich's small clothes aside, dragging his fingers over his leathery hole before forcing them deep inside, fucking the lich with his-
What?
What in the hells was he doing? Was he truly fantasizing about somehow being miraculously defeated and overpowered by some pathetic mortal? How degenerate. Was this what his mind went to when he-
The lich banished the thoughts from his head. He wasn't finished yet.
He kept up his thrusting of the implement, desperately trying to continue chasing that far-off high he still craved.
Maybe he could fill his bowels with embalming fluid or something? Yes, that would probably feel good… He could fill himself up, overstuffed, filled to the brim, then maybe plug his hole-
What a stupid idea.
It wasn't worth it. It wasn't working, and now the mood was ruined.
The lich let out an echoing, frustrated sigh.
It always ended like this.
All of it was for naught. It was never enough to obtain what he chased after. The act always came to a close from either frustration or boredom, all of his efforts forever in vain.
He gave a few more lazy, useless thrusts into himself before extracting the implement from his cadaver, and held up the rod to his empty sockets’ loathful gaze.
What a filthy thing it was. A tool only carved and possessed by the truly depraved, a degenerate instrument for the mortal.
What was wrong with him?
He could feel the shame and self-loathing bubble up inside his cavernous core like searing hot black tar.
Why was he like this?
He should not want. He had ascended past mortality; no lich would ever lust. And to lust for this.
It was him.
Has he always been so broken? Was he so deeply perverted that even in death it could never be washed away? He knew the answer.
It was him. It was always him. His weakness of will, his degenerate desires, the nature of his tastes.
He closed his sunken lids and let out a long sigh, with all his sadness, frustration, and disappointment.
Now there he was, feeling worse than when he had begun. He knew it would end like this.
Despite it all, all the wasted time, all the frustration, no matter how unsatisfactory or ashamed he was left, the necromancer knew he would never learn.
Soon, he will return to find himself here yet again.