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Astarion drapes himself over the leather chaise, admiring the gilded walls of Raphael’s obnoxiously opulent boudoir. His body screams casual seduction. A prize show dog on a very short leash. His master’s favourite accessory.
He feels smug. But then, Cazador was hardly going to bring Petras.
"Payment?" Raphael’s voice rumbles dangerously. "You call this payment, Lord Szarr? You waltz into my House, after the hoops I've jumped through for you, and you offer me one of your little rats?”
Rats? I beg your pardon?
Raphael flicks his finger and a burning scroll sizzles into his hand.
"Let's consult the fine print, shall we? Clause 126, Subsection H: 'In the event that the offering rendered by the debtor is deemed insufficient in spirit, scope, or sheer entertainment value...'" He looks up at Cazador, eyes glinting. "I have the right to choose an alternative payment. A payment of my own selection, Lord Szarr."
Astarion basks in his master’s admonishment, despite the insult. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Raphael snaps the scroll shut.
"And, my dear little lord, I think I'd rather like to have you. Both of you, in fact. I would not want to be wasteful. And I have a fancy to be amused this evening.”
He taps his fingers thoughtfully against his leg.
“Let's play a little game, shall we? You and your little rat here will compete to show me your talents.”
“Me?” retorts Cazador. “This boy is the most experienced whore–”
“–Enough!” Raphael claps his hands, and their clothes disintegrate into a shower of smouldering embers.
“Whichever of you loses my fun little competition,” he says mockingly, “will get to become my pretty collection of holes for the evening. The winner will have the delicious luxury of watching.”
Astarion has to physically bite his lips to stop a cackle of pure, unadulterated glee from escaping. Oh, this was just too perfect. The great and terrible Cazador Szarr, being forced to shimmy and shake like a two-copper dockside whore? He is going to wipe the floor with the old bastard.
"And since you came here to insult me, we'll be inviting an impartial judge. A very special guest. A specialist, I believe, Lord Szarr..."
He snaps his fingers with a little hiss of heat, and the air grows cold. A figure coalesces from the shadows. Astarion's jaw drops. A drow, long white locks flouncing theatrically, emerges from the darkness, twirling a cane in his fingers. Positively mouthwatering.
Figures, he thinks to himself, he looks like me.
But his eyes. Red. Like his. Like Cazadors’. This is a vampire. But who? He glances at his master. His face has fallen into horrified yet somehow worshipful disbelief, as though staring into an old, deeply embarrassing memory.
What’s going on here?
"Cazador," the mysterious vampire purrs.
“Master…”
Oh. Oh. This is too good. Not only might he get to bed the spawn of an archdevil instead of a drunkard, but he might get to see Cazador flail, humiliate himself and get a spanking from his daddy. All in a day’s work. Astarion is already drafting his victory speech in his head.
***
“Four events. You will debase yourselves for our amusement, and we – Vellioth and I – will judge the winner. Let’s begin… simply, shall we? Present yourselves, and those neat little vampire puckers, and we shall judge the most pleasing posture. On all fours. Now."
Astarion sinks to the floor, a smirk playing on his lips. This he knows. This is his stage. He arches his back into that deep, enticing curve that says you want this, spine pressed down, hips tilted up. Lets out that little shiver that pulled so many victims helplessly across the event horizon of his arsehole.
He risks a glance at Cazador.
His smugness evaporates. Cazador looks… Perfect. Painfully, offensively good. His cock twitches in mutinous agreement. Back hollowed, arse lifted high, presenting his pucker like a bullseye in a near-perfect ninety-degree angle. Somehow, miraculously, he invokes the aura of a favoured, dripping, brain-dead concubine being loaned out to a high lord for an hourly rate that could bankrupt Evereska.
Oh. Oh fuck off.
Astarion’s own back suddenly feels… stiff. Amateur. Yet his demeanour too earnest. Is he to be outclassed? He tries to find extra give in his spine, but it is no use.
Raphael and Vellioth descend like hawkers at a meat market.
Vellioth plants a palm firmly on Cazador’s upturned arse, giving it an appreciative squeeze before smacking him one square in the balls. Not a flinch. “Mmm. My favourite vintage.”
Raphael gives Astarion a cursory pat, kneels, and gives a sharp, experimental thrust. “Mm. No. I prefer Harleep.”
Astarion’s teeth grind.
They swap.
“This arch,” Raphael remarks delightedly as bounces himself off Cazador’s arse, “is heavenly. What on earth did you do to his spine?”
“Oh. Trade secrets I’m afraid.” Vellioth laughs, making a snapping sound and an illustrative breaking motion over Astarion’s back, and Raphael chuckles.
Astarion very deliberately decides that was a joke.
“Such an eager little thing,” Raphael remarks, his voice dripping with amusement as he gives Cazador a pointed thrust. “So very well trained. Naturally.”
Vellioth whacks Astarion between the legs. He yelps.
“Poorly trained dog you have here, Cazador.”
He? Astarion? The virtuoso of seduction? He feels the hot, stupid blush creeping across his cheeks. This is not going how he expected.
***
"Cock swallowing," Raphael purrs, pointing to a girthy 12-inch dildo attached to a pillar. "Deepest throat claims the point."
Astarion’s confidence returns. He's swallowed a thousand cocks. More.
Watch and weep, you fossil
He wraps his lips around the blunt head, and sinks it as best he can. Fights his gag reflex as though strangling a snake with his tonsils. He grabs the pillar for leverage and heaves himself down. But he cannot bottom it out. Ten inches. Still, surely, it’s enough. As if Cazador could suck cock like him.
But when his master lines up the dildo, he simply opens his throat, and the monstrous length slips in like a gun in a holster. Astarion watches, horrified, as Cazador's slender neck bulges obscenely. No strain. He just… Takes it. And then, with the deliciously placid expression of a man with absolutely no self-respect, he leans forward and slowly, deliberately, licks the base with the flat of his tongue.
How?
The easy, vacant confidence is that of a man who'd been served a fourteen inch club morning noon and night for a century.
"Muscle memory, after all this time, boy?" Vellioth grins as he hooks a palm into the nape of his neck and grinds him into the pillar.
And Astarion, who'd always thought himself a vintage wine, suddenly feels like lukewarm ale.
Raphael lets out a low, appreciative whistle and adjusts the considerable bulge in his breeches.
“No wonder nobody pays you, boy” he snarks at Astarion.
“His Master has had rather a lot of practice. Maybe it wasn’t a fair contest,” smirks Vellioth.
Cazador doesn’t look at Astarion. He doesn’t look at Raphael. He only looks at Vellioth, his eyes dumb and empty, waiting for the next command. He has won the point without even trying.
***
"Cock Control Racing," Raphael announces gleefully.
Astarion groans inwardly.
Who comes up with this shit?
With a flick of his wrist, Raphael conjures two tiny cages. "You will race to get fully erect, and then lock yourselves in your cage. No touching. First to lock their cage wins."
Vellioth strokes Cazador’s knee with his cane. His master drops to his knees and opens them. Instinctively, it seems. Astarion copies, somehow irritated by his master’s reflexive obedience.
"Begin," Vellioth commands, stepping forward to adjudicate their erections.
Astarion squeezes his eyes shut. He needs an image, something fast and dirty. The Archduke, with that quick easy smile, on his knees, begging for it. Yes. A smirk touches his lips as he feels himself swell. He is already half way there. He opens his eyes to preen.
But Cazador is already rock hard.
He is just staring at Vellioth. Shamelessly.
Astarion covets his master’s cock, but he’d never admit it.
Cazador’s former master extends his cane to lift the head of Cazador’s erect cock, gives it a slight, testing nudge and it bobs, heavy and full and somehow Astarion cannot seem to tear his gaze away. Vellioth nods his approval. “Excellent. Now cage it”.
Astarion furrows his brows in frustration. Deep down, he wonders if he should have just gazed at his master, the way Cazador had done with his, from the start. He imagines that cock delving into the depths of his arse–
Oh. There it is. Fully hard. But he is losing.
Raphael tuts.
Vellioth hooks the cane under his cock, and holds it aloft. “Acceptable. Now in the cage.” It is enough, though compared to Cazador’s formidable weapon, he feels… quaint.
Astarion's confidence evaporates. He tries to think of gnome orgies, gaping hag arses, taxes. But somehow the vision of Cazador's swollen cock has burned into his mind. He stays stubbornly, traitorously hard, even as he strains into his pelvic floor, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.
Click.
His eyes snap back to Cazador. He is locked in, cock shrivelled like a raisin. He has beaten him. All without breaking a sweat, while Astarion throbs like a dog in heat.
Raphael sighs theatrically. "Looks like it's you, me and your adopted grandfather, little rat. And I'm afraid we’re rather insatiable, today. But we’ll finish the experiment anyway…"
***
"One more round,” says Raphael. “Make your opponent cum. The fastest to cum loses. Just for fun… Since you have already embarrassed yourself," he finishes, shooting a dirty look in his direction.
Vellioth taps his cane to Cazador’s arse. “You give first.”
Astarion does his best to look horrified at the thought.
Oh no, says his face. Fuck yes, says his mind.
He feels a flicker of confidence – his master never concerns himself specifically with his pleasure. Yet the idea of those powerful hands on him, forcing him... What if his body, the great traitor that it is, decides to enjoy its ruin rather more than he likes to let on? As usual, he thinks.
Mentally, he prepares for the railing he’s sure is coming. But then, his master straddles him. He’s going to ride him? What a treat. Cazador spits crudely on Astarion’s rising erection, and Astarion hears himself moan as he presses himself down onto him. It isn’t hateful. It’s divine. Deep. Cazador rolls his hips. He whines. Why is this so fucking hot? He bucks up to meet them, watching his master’s cock bob like a pendulum. Can’t resist. This is going disastrously. He is losing. Already. Catastrophically. It feels so, so, so fucking–
He begins to spurt thick ropes up his master’s arse.
“Oh dear,” remarks Vellioth mildly. “How embarrassing.”
“A little break before round two,” declares Raphael.
“No!” Astarion follows his instincts. He doesn’t need his cock to make his whore of a master cum. Cazador gives it large. But this man? No. He is a needy little bottom and he is going to cum. On his fist. Now.
"On your stomach," he snarls, slamming his master's back down into the ground.
Astarion spits. Plunges into him. Two fingers. Three. Finds the rough marble inside his arse. Crooks his fingers. Cazador whines and obligingly wiggles his arse.
“Oh. you like that. You won’t last. You don’t want to admit it, do you? But you always wanted this.”
He hears Vellioth chuckle behind him.
Astarion spanks him, hard, the crack echoing around the boudoir. He was right. The ancient monster. A secret, desperate submissive little slut; folded, gasping, feral. He closes his fist. Works his knuckles inside. Cazador gives the most snivelling, pathetic little whine imaginable.
Slap.
"You love this, don't you?"
Slap.
Cazador’s body seizes as he works his prostate furiously. Not ten thrusts in, Cazador cries out as his cock shoots an enormous, messy load onto the floor.
Raphael laughs.
“I’m not sure either of you won that one.”
Somehow, strangely, neither of them had even lasted half a minute.
***
Raphael claps his hands. "And that, my dear little platinum blonde, is the game. A resounding, catastrophic failure on your part."
Vellioth circles Astarion, his cane tapping a disappointed rhythm into his palm. "A truly dismal performance. The discipline of a goblin in a fireworks wagon. Your master warned us you were pathetic, but we could not have expected such intense mediocrity."
He, Astarion, the poster boy for predatory seduction, has lost. Been utterly out-whored by his own ancient pimp.
Raphael grins. "The prize, my dear Cazador, is a simple one: exemption."
Astarion sighed internally as he prepared to lose the not-getting-fucked game for the fifty-thousandth time in his death.
"So," Raphael announces, his voice bubbling with glee. "It falls upon the loser to provide the evening's entertainment. Do try to be a little more… pliant than–"
"No," Vellioth interrupts with a low, dangerous purr. "No, the prize is withdrawn."
Cazador, for the first time, flinches.
Raphael eyes him.
"He won a race against a three-legged dog," Vellioth sneers, gesturing dismissively at Astarion with his cane. He looks down at Cazador. "You've had two centuries to mold this creature into something passable, and this is the result? You don't get a reward for being slightly less pathetic than your own shoddy workmanship. The prize is void."
Right. Not just a loser, but somehow an embodiment of Cazador’s incompetence.
Fantastic.
"Since neither of you can perform to a standard worthy of my time, it seems we will have to provide a more… hands-on lesson. For both of you."
He gives Cazador a final, contemptuous poke with his cane, sets it aside, and unlaces his breeches, freeing a cock that explains Cazador’s success in the cock-swallowing round in the way a siege engine explains a missing city wall. He slots it home into Cazador’s mouth, eyes locked together, sighing as though settling into a favourite chair.
“Vampire slut spit-roast. Lovely,” chuckles Raphael, chuckling, taking his place behind the bent vampire. "Don't mind if I do."
He drives greedily into Cazador’s arse, jolting him forward and deeper onto Vellioth’s cock with a muffled, strangled sound.
"And you," Raphael grunts at him. "Get under there. You have a new job: make him cum again. Use your hands, your mouth, I don't care. But if he doesn't cum before we do, you’ll be my incubus’ personal fleshlight for a tenday."
Astarion’s stomach turns. He scrambles onto his back resentfully, shuffling until he is directly beneath his master, staring up at the familiar and profoundly irritating sight yet somehow… hypnotic sight of Cazador’s cock swinging into readiness.
“And Cazador, my love,” follows Vellioth, “If you dare to cum before we do, I’ll hide you so raw you’ll have no skin left on your arse.”
Above him, the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh and the muffled gags from his master fill the air. Raphael smacks Cazador’s arsecheek. He hears his master give a choked groan around Vellioth's cock, and the cock in Astarion’s hand gives a sudden, interested twitch. The bastard is enjoying it. Thriving, even. Getting off on being used, degraded. A putrid voice in the back of his head asks him if that reminds him of anyone, and Astarion dropkicks the thought down three flights of stairs.
Astarion stares up at the thick, angry length. The way his throbbing veins press through his skin, the heavy, steely weight of the shaft filling his palm, the velvet-soft skin stretched tight over the hardness beneath… and suddenly, it’s the only thing in this godsforsaken world. He doesn’t care. He worships it with his hands, pops his heavy balls into his mouth one by one, lets his cock slip into his mouth, losing himself in the rhythm of the thrusts above him, rocking his hips into the air as he wrings pleasure from his handsome master, drowning himself in the high-pitched whimpers emanating from above.
And there, latched in bitter adoration to his favourite object in the whole world, Astarion’s body betrays him in the most spectacular way imaginable. Astarion cums. Untouched. A thin, miserable stream spills onto his own stomach, anticlimactic and pathetic. No build. No dignity. The most embarrassing orgasm in the history of the Hells.
Silence.
Then, Raphael throws his head back and lets out a roar of laughter. "Absolutely tragic!"
Vellioth stares down at Astarion with a mixture of disgust and morbid fascination. He prods Astarion’s twitching cock with his foot. "Disgracefully undignified. What a uniquely disappointing specimen."
Yes, Astarion thinks, the universe really does hate me, personally.
"Well," Raphael says, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "I'm not done with this one." He gives Cazador, who was still a panting heap, a dismissive wave.
“And you, friend, look like you could use a tighter hole."
Vellioth’s eyes glint. "An excellent suggestion. Change of scenery."
He and Raphael swap ends.
Raphael presents his cock to Cazador's dazed face. "Round two."
Still in the throes of his own demeaning release, Astarion still needs Cazador to cum if he wants to avoid the incubus and watch Cazador get a good thrashing. He wraps his lips around his enormous shaft and sucks like he’s trying to draw a soul out of his urethra.
The new configuration seems to reboot Cazador's system. Vellioth pumping him from the back with Raphael’s infernal heat filling his throat seems to be a combination his submissive little soul simply cannot process.
This time, Cazador doesn’t last twenty seconds. With a muffled scream, Cazador cums again, hard. His cock, which Astarion is still lying miserably beneath, erupts like a geyser, spraying thick, heavy loads of cum into Astarion's mouth, then over his face, chest, stomach.
Double-glazed in Cazador’s pearly-white unholy baptism, he sputters, wipes the burning cum from his eyes, dimly aware that he’d technically succeeded.
With a few final, brutal thrusts, Vellioth and Raphael reach their peak. Raphael pulls out with a vulgar groan and hoses them both with hot, pornographic pools of infernal seed. And then Vellioth follows, letting cool stripes of thick, white cum fly all over their dripping bodies like iced stripes over glazed doughnuts.
Sweet hells. Are they trying to drown me?
They step back, admiring their artistry.
Cazador collapses on top of Astarion in a heap; a panting, spent disgrace as Astarion marinates in the profane cocktail of vampiric and infernal semen.
Vellioth unwinds his leather belt and sits himself on the chaise, beckoning to Cazador.
"Well," Vellioth says to Astarion, eyeing the cum covering him from head to toe, as he hauls Cazador face down over his lap.
"At least you're useful as a canvas?"