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Size Queen (TWST) – Dom/Sub – Genital Torture (BG3)
—
From his place on his knees, Gale looks up at the pair of them with utter peace in his softly-shining eyes. “Direct me,” he says serenely, and Shadowheart smiles. What a good pup.
But as she opens her mouth to say so, Minthara crosses her arms, shifting those dusky breasts beneath the straps of her camp clothes. (Shadowheart knows she also wears leather pants and doesn’t have much room to talk, but Minthara’s “at-ease” clothes seem especially designed to make those around her anything but.) “‘Direct me?’” the drow says, dangerously low. One hand fists in Gale’s hair, quick as an assassin’s blade in the night. “Only you would be so arrogant as to order your submission. Even on your knees, you are mouthy, wizard. It seems you need someone to take you more firmly in hand.” She shoots a smug look at Shadowheart. “If the rivvil child isn’t teaching you better manners, I shall.”
Shadowheart’s mouth thins. That witch. “He’s plenty polite once you start hurting him. Aren’t you, Gale,” and it is not a question but he lights up like he’s just been handed a particularly challenging research project anyway.
“I assure you I am quite capable of being a gentleman. Rather pride myself on it, in fact. So… Direct me, please,” he says, leaning slightly toward Minthara as he tilts his head up to watch her reaction. “… Madam.”
She considers, staring down her nose at him. Finally: “Acceptable. You may also use malla if your human mouth does not distort my mother tongue badly enough for me to consider the removal of yours.”
“Oh, don’t rob us of that,” Shadowheart says lightly. “There are much easier ways to torture his tongue than merely removing it, and you’d deprive yourself of quite the experience.” She strokes slender, mace-calloused fingers through his hair. “Stick out your tongue, Gale, show Minthara how good you are.”
Obediently, Gale drops his jaw, tongue wet and warm as Minthara slides two fingers expertly between his lips. Her skin, slightly cool in the chill of the Rivington camp’s air, warms swiftly as a gentle, probing tongue works itself along the pads and halberd-hardened skin. He sucks around her fingers and manages to make it feel both like a kiss and like a coaxing all at once, bobbing his head softly in a way that makes it all too easy to push her fingers deeper. To make him choke and flush and flick melting eyes upward at her and sink further.
—
Shadowheart’s “oh, good boy, Gale” is enough of a blessing that it nearly rises golden in the air around them. Minthara hums, watching Gale’s eyes slide shut as he loses himself for brief moments in the worship of the fingers he has been given.
The faern’s mouth is pleasant, practiced; he is certainly no highly-trained courtesan to which she helped herself in the Menzoberranzan pleasure houses, but she supposes his command of the verbal gymnastics necessary to access the Weave is a good omen for a malleable tongue. “Very well. Stop.” She draws her spit-slick fingers from his mouth and swipes them across his face, leaving streaks of saliva as she uses his skin and beard to clean her hand. “Show me what I am working with, wizard,” she commands. “Strip.”
With a nod and a faint wince of slightly-creaky knees as he stands, Gale snaps his fingers and summons a mage hand, working on his trousers as the hand strokes along his jawline. Minthara raises an eyebrow, ready to reprimand the man should he indulge in his own pleasure too long, but he lets the hand drift down to lift the hem of his tunic, so she allows him his self-aggrandizing indulgences for now.
She’s not used to human men; even the colnbluth usually deemed attractive enough for the privilege of her consideration were usually surface elves or half-elves. If the smattering of hair is uncomfortable, she will simply remove it, she decides. They’ve candles and rags aplenty for waxing. Surely Shadowheart could not begrudge her a chance to both better groom and torture the man.
—
Gale draws off his shirt, with the mage hand immediately flying to work along the half-revealed bulge behind his laces. Through its blue translucence, Shadowheart watches his prick give a little twitch, and wonders what Minthara’s stance on letting him come will be. She’s heard most men under drow control aren’t allowed do so with any kind of appreciable frequency, and he does get so very desperate when she edges him.
“Back on your knees,” she says sweetly as he steps free of his trousers. “Spread your legs like a good boy.”
Color rises in his olive cheeks, set aglow with the contrasting lights of Shadowheart’s candles and Minthara’s bioluminescent lantern and mushrooms. The last drifts of smoke from the incense Shadowheart lit for prayers earlier twines catlike along his skin, nutmeg and evening primrose notes replacing the black amber and lavender that she had preferred all the way through the wilderness and the Underdark and the Shadow Curse.
Minthara watches Gale move, a fat, darkened prick on display. “You don’t keep him in chastity,” she comments, as if she’s talking about the weather. “Perhaps you were not aware of the many varieties of cages and other solutions my people have at our disposal.”
Shadowheart feels the tips of her own softly-pointed ears heat red with a tiny flush. “Shar’s disciples follow strict protocols of loss. What makes you think I am unfamiliar with techniques to take something away from needy men?”
Between them, Gale makes a whimpering noise, drawing both women’s attention and looking quite embarrassed about it. “I do beg your pardon,” he murmurs and then nods to Minthara. “Malla.”
—
Gods take him, his accent is nearly perfect, and she would be a terrible woman indeed to punish such an earnest attempt.
“Tch. A clumsy tongue for a clumsy attempt at ingratiating yourself with me.” Minthara bends at the waist, grabs his chin. Wonders if she could use the beard to hold him in place, if it were only a little longer. “Which is more sensitive, your balls or your cock?”
He swallows, hard, one bobbing apple in his throat and several long moments of dampened, eager lips opened while he scrambles for his reply. “Prick, madam.”
“Very well.” She grabs one of the soft leather straps that float around camp for use as ties for gear and hair, depending on the size, and goes to one knee. Sure, strong fingers wrap the cord around his balls and around the base of his cock, spinning a web between his legs tight enough to prevent any hope of ejaculation. Perfect. Gale shifts against the bindings, running hands down automatically as if checking its position for himself.
Minthara stares down her nose as she rises, eyeing the bonds. “I intend to hurt you tonight, Gale,” she says, “but I am not so much a savage that it will go beyond a quick pass of hands from Shadowheart or myself.”
He lets out a shaky exhale through his nose. “Thank you, madam.”
“Are you satisfied?” Shadowheart asks. “I’d like to do more than just putting him naked and on his knees between us, and I don’t intend to sacrifice all of my sleep for it.” She turns, silver braid swinging. “Gale. Cast.”
He cups a hand over nose and chest, purple light glinting in his exhale after he takes them away.
“What is that, the spell?” Minthara asks, turning toward her pack.
“A variation on the water-breathing spell, madam,” Gale says. “One of the first off-book usages of spells many Blackstaff students encounter, along with grease and my own favorite.” The mage hand waves cheerily.
“Hm.” Silver hair dripping from her bun like starlight, Minthara rises to come toward him. He gazes up, and up, and up, and she wonders if she should bother with a blindfold. But no—he’s already slightly misty-eyed, and she wants to see him cry. A blindfold would absorb too many tears, and that’s unacceptable tonight. She wants to see trails of her power laying in salt-tight streaks across his face, and that can’t all come from letting him lick her cunt.
“Of course, the, ah, more intimate applications of the Weave are as open to infinite permutations as—”
“Gale.” Shadowheart, soft. “Shut up.”
His jaw snaps shut.
Minthara’s camp shoe angles up, pressing his bound cock flat against the lightly-furred belly. “In the absence of a more appropriately-stocked torture room, I took the liberty of supplementing with a few things.” She cocks her head towards a piece of broken machinery that at one time probably formed a piston, but is now just a freely-rotating cog on a small spur of metal. “A pain wheel, if crude, and a set of clamps that the priest of Loviatar the goblins invited left in my bag. A selection of low-grade irritants and other tinctures.”
“Impressive,” Shadowheart allows. “My training likewise emphasized the ability to find instruments of suffering in all circumstances, so I imagine we’re quite well equipped between the two of us.” She looks at Gale through cool leaf-green eyes, and she is gloriously nude a few moments later; he lets out a quiet gasp but otherwise maintains his composure.
Minthara’s foot presses harder, squeezing the beginnings of a groan free as she increases pressure. At his noise, she grabs Gale’s head once more. “You are being allowed a great deal of freedom, Gale,” she says, silky and seductive as the Spider Queen’s webs. “If I were better supplied, I would have this sack trapped in a humbler and would delight in beating your pathetic family jewels until they were as purple as my own skin, and I’d expect you to thank me for the kindness.” Her toe kicks gently at his balls, and she gives him a nasty smile as he stifles a curse.
“Still, he’s an entertaining thing,” Shadowheart says. “Eager, sensitive.”
“Oh?”
“Here. His nipples — you said you have clamps?” Shadowheart moves to kneel behind Gale, and somehow when she goes to her knees it is a benediction rather than a supplication. Two hands curve from beneath his arms to pull him back against her chest, quick fingers finding his sensitive spots and flicking hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth. The tiny pain sings along his skin, heat flaring.
His traitor cock bobs above Minthara’s foot. Watching it reach for her, she knows the man himself isn’t far behind.
She tilts her head, all deep skin and malice, as she kicks at his cock again. Like she’s watching an experiment in one of Blackstaff’s alchemy labs, like she’s taking mental notes on every quiver of his lip as he leans back into Shadowheart’s supportive body and lets her twist and pull and dig short, well-tended nails into his chest. The pain fizzes along his body, rising in sharp eager jerks and the ah ah ah— of a verbose man reduced so easily to animal need.
“Clamps on,” Shadowheart warns in his ear. Minthara frowns. She doesn’t give her playthings warnings, but it seems Gale is even more spoiled than she had heard surface men to be. Accustomed to being coddled.
She’ll fix that. She crouches and grabs his cock in an uncaring hand just as Shadowheart snaps the first clamp closed, reveling in the uncontrolled movement of his hips as he tries to buck into stimulation and shy away from pain at his first instinct, and then the slow roll and hazy look as he realizes he should do the opposite. Shadowheart puts the second clamp on, tugging at the slender chain between them, and he lets out a shuddering breath that lands hot along Minthara’s cheek.
She squeezes. Dry. Too tight. When he makes noise, she tightens further, until she’s got a fist clenched around his shaft and he’s staring up at her with eyes blown huge, short huffs of breath coming fast and shallow from his nostrils as he tries to skim along above the pain.
He’ll break.
And then, oh, Shadowheart was right, because Minthara sees the moment he descends into an altered headspace, and he’s much more polite when his “ah, thank you, malla—” is riding to her ears on a moan of pain.
She rewards him by loosening her grip slightly; he sags.
Unacceptable.
A swift flick to the sensitive underside of the head makes him howl in pain, and Shadowheart snickers. “Oh? Are Jaheira or Halsin about in wolf form tonight?”
“No, miss,” Gale gasps.
“Well then. You’d best deal with your noise. We’re secluded over here, and I know Astarion is out searching for his siblings, but…” she walks her fingers along his shoulder, up to his neck, and cups a hand over his mouth as she pulls his head back to whisper in his ear: “poor Wyll’s quite sheltered, I think. Imagine him thinking something is attacking our poor, defenseless wizard.” Gale’s eyes fall closed, blood heating his face as he shakes his head (but softly, so he does not disturb Shadowheart’s perfect hand). “Running over here,” she continues, hooking her left index finger in the nipple clamps’ chain and listening to Gale’s muffled exhale. “Seeing you get off like this.”
Minthara flicks the head of his cock again and Gale doubles over, involuntary convulsions tearing him free from Shadowheart’s embrace. “Hnnngh.” The noise is a scream into a vast canyon, quiet and weak against the vastness of the surrounding majesty.
“Pathetic,” Minthara sneers. “Cringing so soon?”
“No, malla,” he gasps, and when he tilts his face up there are tears streaking slowly down his face, sliding gently along the streaks of the Orb. “I can be good. I won’t come.”
It hits her like one of the divine smites she laid into Genera— Ketheric only a few days before. Devastating. Bright. Nearly holy. “Oh?” The moonlit white of her hair glints as she grabs his chin. “And here I thought you were whining about the pain.”
“Oh, no,” Shadowheart says. “He’s come after a good spanking session to the sack.” Behind him, she is silver-strong and sensual, trailing a hand along his pectorals and deliberately avoiding the chain that lays between. “Did you know, in the goblin camp after Tav took that priest of Loviatar’s blessing, he had the audacity to say it wasn’t his cup of tea?” A low giggle. “So much shame over wanting something more… physical than Mystra’s embrace.”
Gale would likely protest if his mind were anywhere close to its usual agility. The wizard is incapable of keeping a single thought to himself, tadpoles or no. Instead, he looks as though he is wading through a particularly thick potato soup. “Mmhmm,” he says, letting his eyes close rather than looking up at Minthara.
She looks down at him, all dampened lashes and plush-wet mouth and need. Soft, this wizard, unused to battle or hardship or proper use, and all the more attractive for it. The only hard part of him is the thick, heavy cock, and she intends to put that through a good deal more torture before she allows it to be anything but. “Coming from pain, hmm,” she says. “Pathetic, but I suppose it’s to be expected. At least part of you knows to recognize the privilege of attention from your betters when you receive it. Get that prick out of the way.”
Eyes still closed, he fumbles for his cock and braces it behind a splayed hand against his belly. It leaves the bound balls vulnerable, easy to hit as a prone enemy. Minthara delivers another swift, sharp kick with the top of her foot and smiles, low and dangerous, as Gale’s face contorts with ecstasy and pain. She bends again, stroking gently along the tender flesh and lulling him into a slack-jawed haze of sensation.
Squeeze.
He shouts, muffling himself at the last minute behind a swift bite to the back of the wrist. Even his instinct to stifle himself is to cause more pain — perhaps this one would have made an acceptable pleasure slave after all. “On your back,” she demands. “I want to use your mouth.”
He scrabbles to sprawl down, head thunking hard enough against the ground that it probably would have benefited from a cushioning charm. But Gale pays whatever pain he has caused himself no mind in service of her pleasure, beckoning her up like a man stranded in a desert suddenly given a vision of an oasis nearby.
Minthara beckons Shadowheart forward. “Have you ever ridden a bound rod?”
“No,” the cleric says, eyeing Gale’s cock and its leather-cord wrapping with interest.
“Do,” Minthara commands. “Take your pleasure from him; the bindings should prevent ejaculation.” She glares down at Gale, mouth set in a thin line. “This does not mean you are permitted climax. Even a dry peak will result in severe correction.”
“Yes, madam,” he whispers, licking his lips and letting his mouth stay softly open in invitation. “I shall refrain.”
She knows his concentration is exceptional. It has to be, to maintain spells while facing down the avatar of a god, and Gale’s spell work all through the fight with the risen Lord of Bones was nothing less than exemplary.
She wonders how much it would take to break that mental grip.
Throwing a leg over his face, she grabs the base of his cock and turns to meet his eye over her shoulder. “Do not disappoint me, wizard.”
She sits. His tongue begins working immediately, licking and exploring as he learns the taste of her, nose pressing ever-so-slightly against her asshole, bearded chin scratching at her clit. (It’s a new sensation, but perhaps not an unwelcome one, especially after he learns that he can soothe her sensitive flesh with a soft sweep of lips and tongue and make her grind harder against his face. A quick learner, this mage trained by a goddess.) Minthara rocks into the suction of his mouth and lips, bracing the bound cock for Shadowheart to lower herself in slow, torturous movements only to pull herself off halfway.
Gale groans into Minthara’s quim, and Shadowheart laughs low and cruel. “I may have been outcast by Shar, but I still know the pleasure of loss,” she says, raking blunted nails up his soft stomach and giving the clamps a yank.
With the light of sadism in her eyes, Minthara finds it very easy to lean forward and cup her cheek, drawing her close for a kiss that is closer to tender than she’s ever managed before. Shadowheart is a foil for her, in so many ways, ripped from home and faith and heritage, and though Minthara’s usual instincts with men and women alike lead her to a firm hand on the stick…
She finds that Shadowheart might blossom under the carrot. “Your mouth is as fine as you,” Minthara whispers, shoving the image of Shadowheart kiss-swollen and caught between her hands across the tadpole for Gale to see. It’s a cruel impulse, not even letting him watch his lover with his own eyes, and Gale groans vibrations into her pussy and redoubles his efforts as Minthara taunts him with Shadowheart’s pleasure.
—
The cleric sinks onto the bound cock once more, swiveling her hips as she takes it to the hilt and moaning as the motion rubs the leather bonds across sweet spots deep inside. Another rock shows her the pleasures of rolling her plump clitoris against the wrapped base; a third, the joy of Gale shoving mercy mercy please across the psychic link as he struggles to keep up with the pace Minthara demands of his tongue.
He still grinds up, messy and eager, giving Shadowheart everything he can summon from a body pinned so thoroughly beneath the press of cunt and thigh and scratching hands. Between the three of them, the pleasure becomes a cycle, visions of wet-swollen flesh and gasping mouths and dilated eyes overlapping onto the dizzying wash of pain and need.
Minthara peaks first, as is her right as guest and as she no doubt expects out of all her couplings. She floods Gale’s mouth, pumping her hips against his tiring tongue and yanking on the chain between his nipples like a set of reins. He yelps into her folds at the sensation, and Minthara grins wickedly as she reaches for a small bottle.
Shadowheart raises an eyebrow. “Is that…”
“Karabasan’s Gift? Yes,” Minthara says, cool and casual as she swings a leg free to let the wizard draw breath once more. “Gale, you may choose. I am feeling generous this evening. Pain or paralysis? The agents in the brew would numb your agony.”
But the man, doomed and beautiful, shakes his head with hazy eyes. “I want to feel your gift, madame Minthara. Karabasan’s would be a paltry offering in comparison to anything you could deign to offer me.”
“Oh, such a sweet talker,” Shadowheart murmurs, leaning over him and planting a hand next to his ear to hold herself up as she works her hips in lewd, long circles over the straining cock. “Don’t think it gets you out of anything.”
“I would never, my love,” Gale says, looking up with a distinctly sappy air.
—
Minthara replaces the bottle and picks up the broken gear-wheel instead. She supposes some might start gently with it, rough as it is, but that has never been her way. A swift yank pulls Gale’s clamps free, nipples jutting red and swollen into the evening breeze as Shadowheart leans back to give her space.
He gasps at the rush of blood searing back into the skin, and groans long and deep as the metal wheel rolls directly over a tender peak. His agony is delicious; Minthara drinks it with a moan of her own and brings her other hand between her legs for the beginnings of a second climax. The wheel leaves faint spots of scarlet, enough that if Astarion were here he’d surely complain about the scent of Netherese blood-blight in the air, and Shadowheart’s eyes glow brighter green still as she watches Gale writhe beneath her.
“Hells,” Shadowheart whispers, bucking harder over Gale. “You dirty boy, you. I can’t believe how much you like this.” Minthara makes an enquiring noise as she continues to torment Gale’s skin, moving behind Shadowheart to torture the sensitive inner thighs below the plush curve of the cleric’s body. “His prick— mm. It gets thicker when you hurt him,” she gasps, sliding her hand down to rub flat fingers quick and furious against her clit. “You’re close, aren’t you, Gale?”
He tosses his head back and forth, silvery strands darkened with sweat. “I— yes. But I won’t, miss, want to be good—”
Shadowheart comes, throwing her head back and almost hitting Minthara in the face with the force of her spasms. Every line in her body is tense and taut as she convulses around his cock, and Minthara takes this moment to reach between their bodies and deliver a line of sharp fire from the wheel against his drawn-tight balls. His yelp only spurs Shadowheart on, coaxing her to bounce and grind through a long, shuddering orgasm that seems to end only after several bouts of aftershocks nearly as strong as the peak itself.
The muscles on Gale’s neck are tense and tight as the chains that hold the bridges to Wyrm’s Rock. “Nnngh,” he manages when Shadowheart pulls herself off and brushes a soft kiss against his cheek. “My love, it hurts…”
“What, your poor precious prick? Your balls? Does my good boy want to come?” she coos, deadly sweet.
It does indeed look painful, nearly purple and so thick with blood between the binds that each throb sends a tiny splash of Shadowheart’s wetness dripping free. Minthara smiles. A good look for the wizard, if he must be allowed the freedom to harden at all.
But Shadowheart is more generous than she, reaching down to cup his balls in a caressing hand and trailing gentle fingers along the length to toy with the flared head and slit. “I suppose you’ve pleased us both.” She glances at Minthara, forest-green eyes meeting Lolth-sworn red, and an unspoken communication flashes between the two women. No tadpoles necessary.
He’s been so good.
So he will only be better if he is not rewarded fully.
“Gale,” Shadowheart croons, poison-sweet. “We’ll let you come. Say thank you.”
He does, babbling, verbose, and Minthara smirks as she plucks at the cord wrapped around his prick. It is so soaked with fluid that it will be useless once it dries, so she tosses it onto the blanket and leans back against a mushroom to watch as Shadowheart wraps delicate fingers around Gale’s cock.
The response is immediate, instinctive: he bucks up so hard the only points of contact with the ground are his shoulders and heels and head, and apparently this is the way that one gets a bookish mage to do calisthenics. But Shadowheart doesn’t demand his effort, as Minthara might; instead, she lets him crash back against the blanket and twists her fingertips slowly around the crown.
A fat drop of liquid oozes free, dripping down to glaze her fingers, and then another; Gale trembles as his balls draw up—
Shadowheart flicks the very tip of his cock, and smiles beatifically as he comes. Ruined in a dribbling, painful spurt, and another, and a third. Without a hand in place to stop its progress, his seed drips down to wet the curls of hair at his base even further, matting them against his body as he twitches and sobs as his body gives the release of orgasm without pleasure. Only desperation and pain and ache.
His hands are fisted into the blanket below. “Mystra have mercy,” he groans, quiet and broken.
Shadowheart clicks her tongue. “Tsk. You know better, Gale. Mystra can give you no mercy beyond the Orb.” She guides him to sit up, hand on his back, and just when Minthara is about to roll her eyes at the tenderness of the scene, Shadowheart grabs a handful of hair and yanks. “You should be begging me.”
Gale shudders, eyes sliding closed, and a tear spills over. A wash of Shadowheart’s magic seals his pinpricked skin and ushers away the bruising already rising reddish along his body, and she tugs him to lay his head in her lap and stroke gently along his brow and forehead.
Minthara watches the pair. Soft, the two of them, despite ambition and spines of steel. They are well-suited for the sunlit cushion of the overworld, even as they play at pleasures better suited to the dark. “Satisfactory,” she says, pushing herself off the mushroom. “Should you find yourself in need of another hand to provide the discipline he so sorely craves, Shadowheart, I would not decline a chance for further stress relief.”
But it’s Gale who answers, blinking tear-sticky eyelashes open to watch as she opens her tent flap to disappear inside. “Thank you, Minthara,” he says quietly. “I am pleased to have served you well.”
She looks over her shoulder. “You take direction better than most wizards I have known. It is a pleasant change from your demeanor otherwise.”
He chuckles, nestling back into Shadowheart’s lap. “I look forward to the next time you might direct me, then.”