To Deflower a Templar
You never forget your first, even if you wish you could.
Myra Amell: four syllables that inspired leaden dread in him, even as the thought of her warmed his flesh. Her painted face with its crimson smirk followed him through his dreams and his nightmares, until she became the only monster that walked in both and he could no longer tell the difference between his darkest desires and secret fears. Worse, when his gaze fell upon her lovely face, that knowing look in her blue eyes burned him to the core. I know, that look said, I know that you want me and that you hate yourself for it.
He could not remember what life was like before he loved her, it was as though the Circle Tower was his whole world, and Myra Amell was his crimson-stained sun. At first he thought of her as a trial to be overcome, just another part of his never-ending Templar training, but no matter how he pushed himself, her face danced behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes, mocking him knowingly. He earned himself a commendation for the enthusiasm he had for his physical training and it shamed him knowing that she was the cause.
Myra grew in power as the years passed, just as he feared she would. Her shameless nature ripened into lasciviousness and it was then rumours began to spread throughout the tower, connecting her intimately with her many supposed lovers. It was a different name whispered every time and it wasn't always men, or even humans. The thought of Myra entwining with women and even elves inflamed him and he abused his tender private flesh nightly thinking his shameful secret thoughts of her. She stalked naked through his fantasies, the flash of her imagined womanhood as crimson as her painted mouth, both of which he imagined wrapped tightly around his throbbing sex until he spilled his seed across his stomach in a rush of lust that shamed him.
The day of Myra's Harrowing drew near and he suspected he was far more concerned over her possible failure than she herself was. Personally he thought that Myra was far more a risk of becoming a Maleficar than that weak willed man-child Jowan, but didn't trust his own judgement around her, perhaps he was merely thinking of excuses to watch her closely. Myra devoured magical knowledge like she supposedly devoured lovers, she was always hungry for something, was it foolish to think that she might seek out forbidden knowledge too? He hoped that if the worst came to the worst he would be able to carry out his duty.
But he was spared that hard decision, for Myra came through her Harrowing unscathed. He was proud of her, but also a terrible foreboding filled his heart. She would no longer dwell among the dormitories of the apprentices, but be given a room of her own. It would be much harder to keep an eye on her without being noticed, the thought should have relieved him, but it didn't. What depths of depravity would she stoop to without him there to watch her? Watch over her, he meant, hastily censoring his thoughts.
He had his answer sooner than he wished.
He was near her rooms, hoping for a glimpse of her, trying to think of an excuse to see her, when he heard her unmistakable voice raised in song. She was singing in a language he didn't know but the words danced across his skin like caresses from her wicked hands. He was compelled to go to her while desperately trying to think of a reason. Her singing was very distracting, perhaps he could say it was interfering with the other mages' concentration? But he knew she would see through whatever shallow ruse he attempted to hide his true intentions.
Myra was there in her room, sitting on the windowsill, her red hair was slightly tousled and his fingers itched to run through those silken locks. Her song died in her throat as she saw him enter and her lips twitched into a wicked smile. "I called you and you came," she said, emphasising the word "came" in a manner that could only be interpreted as suggestively sexual.
He couldn't speak, it was if she had stolen his voice along with his will. Part of him knew that there was no magic at work here, but he pushed that thought away and told himself that Myra had bewitched him. She rose and came towards him, her elegant fingers tracing the pattern of the Sword of Mercy on his Templar's armour, before she snaked her arms around his neck in a surprisingly chaste embrace, her hands merely resting on his shoulders. It was maddening to be in her arms with the promise of that implied and yet to be embraced like a friend, or worse, a brother.
She was teasing him, the witch, he could see it in her eyes. He growled at her and slid his mailed arms around her to caress her bottom through her silky robes. Myra laughed and her hands slid up to stroke the back of his neck as she drew him towards her. She kissed him gently and delicately, with the lightest of touches, and it was her expression as she drew back that had him hard, not the insipid kiss. There was a challenge there in her face, she knew exactly what she was doing to him and it amused her.
Myra made a mockery of his resolve, all his Templar training was no use against that wicked twinkle in her eye and that wanton crimson smile. "No more games," he muttered, finding his voice at last, "I'll do whatever it is you want, just stop teasing."
"Take off your armour," Myra said, spreading her skirts and sitting down in the corner of her room, "then maybe I'll give you a real kiss."
He had never undressed in front of a woman before, but he knew any embarrassment or reluctance would just amuse her cruel heart further. He took off his gauntlets first and dropped them carelessly on to the floor, heedless of the clattering they made. He fixed her piercing gaze with his own as he hitched off his pauldrons and slowly unbuckled his breast plate, revealing the white cotton fabric of his aketon beneath it.
"I always wondered what you Templars wore underneath that plate mail," Myra murmured as he stripped off his battle skirt, mail, greaves and boots, leaving him in just his aketon and the cotton bloomers he wore beneath his greaves. He felt a comical figure in the quilted white cotton, foolish next to her casual sensuality, because even without his armour he felt more dressed than Myra in her tightly fitting robes, yet he was the uncomfortable one, not she.
"You never saw a Templar disrobe before?" he asked, casting the pile of his armour aside as he did.
"No, none of them were to my liking," Myra said, shortening the distance between them.
"You know I was always watching you, ever since you first came here?" he asked as she came within an arm's length of him. He ached to caress her skin, to taste her flesh once more.
"I could always feel your eyes upon me, and I liked it," Myra said, darting forwards, her mouth fell not upon his lips, but upon his neck, her tongue daring across his flesh. He moaned as she sucked his neck hard enough to bruise, then harder. Dimly he felt her teeth break the skin, then there was pain, pain so exquisite that he writhed as it consumed him. Now she had him more than hard, he throbbed with need and desire so desperately that it hurt his loins almost as much as she was torturing his throat.
"Myra, Myra," he gasped in her embrace, pleading, not knowing what he was asking for, but his entire world had shrunk to the touch of her mouth and the sensations she was inflicting upon his tortured flesh. Her teeth broke free of his neck, stained as crimson as her smiling lips. She stuck out her tongue at him, then ever so slowly began to lick his dry, trembling lips, with a feline delicacy that only increased the desperate pounding of his heart.
He could stand no more, his resolve had been shattered beyond retrieval, and he seized Myra's forearms, pulling her to him in a furious embrace, his mouth seeking her own. But it was here his inexperience proved his downfall, for he kissed her in a clumsy manner, all passion and no skill. She laughed against his mouth, a derisive sound that only angered him, he wanted to pin her there and make her cry out with the same pained pleasures she had inflicted upon him, but he didn't know how.
Her mocking laugher turned into something more affectionate, again the sound stroked against him like something soft and pliant, it was no magic he had ever heard of. Myra rose against him and he lifted her weight with ease, letting her legs wrap around his torso. Now she kissed him for real, showing just what she'd learned in her years in the tower, that her many lovers had been more than just rumours. His legs trembled but from passion and desire, not from exertion, and he eased himself down to a sitting position on the bed while still supporting her weight.
Myra's hands tugged at the laces of his aketon and soon she had worked him free of his garment, tossing it carelessly aside before sliding her hands across the hard muscle of his chest and its wiry dark hair. Now he wore nothing but his cotton bloomers and he was all too conscious of the thinness of their fabric while Myra continued to straddle him. He was made plainly aware that she was wearing nothing beneath her robe and he could feel the heat of her sex against his own imprisoned hardness. He imagined what it would be like to thrust into her wet core, to feel her flesh engulf him and tighten around him as she cried out his name in ecstasy.
She laughed again, as though she could see his thoughts herself and then her hands were upon him again, tugging his hardness free from his bloomers. She looked at him there, exposed and vulnerable in her hands, and smiled, whether at his size or the state she had reduced him to, he didn't know and he didn't care as long as she went on touching him. Her hands moved along him, stroking every silky hard inch with a cruel gentleness that was worse torture than pain.
He lost control, all his training failed him in this most intimate of trials, and his seed shot forth into her welcoming hands and dampened her robes. He spasmed in her grasp, his eyes rolling back into his head as the pleasure took him. "Andraste..." he muttered as he returned to his senses.
"Never been called that before," Myra said dryly, releasing him now he was limp and spent "but I never pleasured a Templar before neither."
"None of them?" he asked her when he no longer needed to gasp for breath, realising that the many rumours about her had only ever connected her with other mages, never his kinsmen.
"I would not risk touching any other Templar save you," Myra said, looking at the mess he had made of her blue robes, "any other would just smite me down, but you, you alone would welcome my touch." She moved backwards and squatted on her heels so as to give him a better view, as she grasped the hem of the robes and lifted them over her head. His earlier guess about her wearing nothing beneath the robes had been an accurate one, as she was now entirely nude squatting before him on the bed. Her body was as pale as her face, but he noticed a dusting of light freckles across her shoulders, before his gaze was dragged further down.
Her breasts were round and soft to the touch and before he had even realised he was stroking them he buried his head in her bosom. He toyed with and pulled at her nipples, exploring the rosy buds with his hands. Myra seemed amused with his fascination with her breasts, but not the slightest bit aroused by his fumbling. She grew tired of his inept pawing and pushed his hands away.
"I have pleasured you, Templar," she said, spreading her legs and drawing his heated gaze to the red-thatched mound between her thighs, "now I will show you how to pleasure me." She parted her flesh with her fingers and showed him her wet inner lips and the swollen bud of flesh above them. He stared, feeling his prick start to harden again as she stroked herself before his gaze. Myra circled the swollen bud with her fingers, thrusting into her wet opening with the fingers of her other hand. He watched her secret flesh grow slick with fluid and ruddy with desire as Myra's breathing grew faster more ragged.
He inched closer to her exposed sex and, made bold with desire, added his own hand to hers. She moaned as he touched her lips with a trembling hand and that sound brought him fully erect once more. Myra let him explore inside her with his hand, while she continued to rub herself with her own. She was warm and welcoming to his touch and he thrust two fingers into her as far as they would go. Myra bucked her hips against his hand and he felt her tighten around his fingers as she growled deep in her throat.
He fell into the rhythm of her body, matching the thrusts of his fingers with the rise and fall of her hips, her own hands pleasuring herself as his. He liked the noises she was making, but he wanted to know that it was his touch alone that caused them. He caught her wrists with his hands and in one swift movement pinned them down on the bed, leaving her trapped beneath him. Myra gasped as she realised he was far far stronger than her and she could not so much as budge his hold on her.
His bloomers were around his ankles and his hard prick was pressed up against the scorching heat of her opening. He ground his groin against hers, rubbing the head of his member against that nub of flesh she had been so attentive to with her hands earlier. The effect it had on Myra was immediate, she cried out and arched her back, regardless of his strength. Before he knew what was happening Myra had wrapped her legs around him and drew his hardness inside her.
"Maker... Maker!" he cried as her tight wet walls of flesh enveloped him and his virginity was gone before he knew it. She was shuddering and crying out beneath him and he began to move in her. She was open and ready for him and he sank into her until his entire length was sheathed inside her opening. He didn't worry about hurting her, all that mattered to him was the sensations being inside her was creating in him and he began to thrust in and out of her as hard as he could. He wasn't hurting her, she was so wet and tight around him and every thrust made her cry out in wordless pleasure. Somewhere in their lovemaking he had let go of her wrists to support his upper body, Myra drew him down to her lips and they kissed while they coupled.
Myra's cries reached a crescendo and she screamed his name as she came, her sex convulsing around his. As her body arched and she clawed at his back he bit her throat, just as she had bitten his own earlier, it was this act that brought him and this time he spilled his seed inside his love. He stayed inside her as long as he could, not wanting the act to end, but he was spent and knew it.
Myra touched her neck where he had marked her and then reached to him to play with his beard. "You know," she said, "you're quite energetic for such an old guy, better than I expected." She got off the bed and picked up her robe, tutting at the stains before putting it back on.
Greagoir watched her go, knowing that she had been using him, and not minding one bit.