This is a fill for a request I got a while ago, and of course it took me forever to write it, but here it is.
Motility - Psychology Of or relating to mental imagery that arises primarily from sensations of bodily movement and position rather than from visual or auditory sensations.
It wasn't that Lord Coward was adverse to sex rites—as much as they disturbed and disgusted him, they were the cause of Lord Blackwood's existence. But he had never been asked to participate in one, had never been stripped naked before the eyes of another and forced to perform sexual fantasies.
"The purpose of this ritual is to solidify your connection to the arcane, to deepen your understanding of powers as of yet beyond your control, and most importantly, to confirm your loyalty to me," Blackwood had told him, pacing back and forth with black grimoire in hand, eyes glued to its pages rather than to Coward's face rapidly paling as he was informed of exactly how he would be losing his virginity.
Now, Lord Coward smiled to himself wryly. Had it been anyone other than Lord Blackwood deflowering him, he may have said no, may have even said to hell with the Order if it meant preserving himself against the lustful desires of those old men. In any case, it was Lord Blackwood who was preparing him now, long fingers, coated in fluid, pushing into his entrance, sliding in and out, stretching him callously, as though expecting Coward to somehow be experienced at this. He hissed at each intrusion and Blackwood sealed his lips over a laugh; he would show Coward true pain shortly.
He would be taken on the floor—so cold and impersonal it seemed, though it suited the immediate purpose well enough. The symbols were drawn around them, etched into the floor. Candles burned, surrounding them, the only thing illuminating their shapes in the darkness.
Blackwood's voice cut through the shadows like those countless dots of fire.
"Do you swear to obey my every instruction during the course of this ritual so as to ensure that it is properly performed?"
Coward closed his eyes, took a breath, answered, "Yes, my Lord."
He held back a hiss at the feeling of Blackwood entering him, clenched his rows of teeth together until a moan forced its way between them.
Blackwood established a bearable rhythm, rocking Coward forward on his knees, beginning to chant Latin verses lowly. Coward struggled to remain alert and coherent, but the pain in his body was steadily being replaced by pleasure—it distracted him, and he began to wonder if this was a magical result of the ritual, too.
The friction created between their bodies heightened each sensation, stealing Coward's voice, his mobility, his breath. He moaned as he was thrust forward, his muscles clenching around the foreign entity crashing into his body and staining his insides with semen.
Lord Blackwood was chanting louder now, faster now, his hands braced unyieldingly on Coward's thin hips, grip tightening exponentially as he relinquished himself to the ecstasy of releasing a torrent inside of Coward. Coward cried out, loudly, and at the end of his cry Lord Blackwood's chanting reached its climactic halt.
Coward breathed harshly, trying his best to control it, battling himself in an effort to withhold visuals of his exhaustion from Lord Blackwood. He felt the pressure within him relieved, and he couldn't hold back a groan, but it was over, and he had done well, he had performed his task and hopefully had pleased his Lord, and although he was ready to collapse he reinvigorated himself with that expectation.
Coward moved only when Blackwood released his hips and indicated that Coward should face him. Coward sat up and, with the support of Blackwood's larger frame, turned to look at his Lord in the eye. There was a glow in Blackwood's eyes, predatory and impassioned and something not entirely readable.
"My Lord," Coward began, "thank you for advancing me in my relationship with the Arts. You have my eternal loyalty-"
He was silenced when Blackwood put his mouth over his, a rough gesture nearly as much of a bite as a kiss, Blackwood's hands gripping his upper arms and pulling him closer, leaning down to get access to a soft, thin ring of pink.
Coward automatically made the effort to gasp, but it only served to shorten his breath further. Lord Blackwood was cutting his air, smothering his words, sending him into a shock made so complete by this abrupt and unexpected action. He briefly wondered what had come over his Lord, whether he had planned this or whether it was an act of spontaneity, but whatever had possessed his Lord to treat him so, Blackwood was not letting him go.
The forceful, selfish kiss ended with Blackwood murmuring, "You're not done here," against his mouth before finally pulling away, leaving Coward to pant for breath in the absence of their lips' union.
"My Lord," he gasped when he had gathered himself to an appropriate extent, but, at a loss for words, he could only stare confused into the eyes of Lord Blackwood and wait for an explanation.
"We are not yet finished," Blackwood stated, unconcerned about Coward's opinion in the matter.
"My Lord… Was there more to the ritual? Did I not perform my part well enough?" The answer to neither question, however, would quite explain that kiss.
"You did your part excellently, Coward, I implied nothing to the contrary. But we are not finished here."
Coward was speechless for a moment, still under the hold of his Lord, unable to imagine what more the ritual could possibly have required.
Blackwood was merciful enough to elaborate. "I want you to use your mouth."
His words left his mouth and his face remained unchanged in its expression, his countenance so commanding, so dominant and betraying no tolerance of unwanted questioning.
His words sank in, and Coward's eyes widened; his lips parted ever so slightly more, and they trembled with the realization of what the words meant.
"Lord Blackwood," he said, nearly stumbling over his own speech, "surely you don't mean…"
"I want you to perform fellatio on me," Blackwood said bluntly, effacing any other misconceptions that may have been revolving in Coward's pretty head.
"Is… Is that part of the ritual?" Coward asked, his voice timorous, his eyes wide.
"There are more parts to a ritual of this nature than simply copulating with you once," Blackwood intoned, and Coward, helpless to take any course of action other than to obey, accepted it as explanation without allowing himself to further question it.
Blackwood stood up, bringing Coward into a kneeling position before him. Threading his fingers through Coward's hair, he guided the younger man's face toward his recovering erection.
"My Lord…" Coward whispered, a mere ghost of words whose tone matched the uncertainty on his face.
"Do as I told you," Blackwood ordered. "Trust me."
With eyes clouded with doubt, Coward obeyed. Leaning forward, he opened his lips to the head and allowed it inside, tasting Lord Blackwood, running his tongue along the underside. His natural talent made up for his inexperience, and soon Blackwood was letting out low moans, his fingers clenching tighter in Coward's hair. Coward felt shame burning his cheeks—shame or arousal or rapture, right now they could all mean the same.
As the act continued the roughness increased, and soon Blackwood was thrusting against the back of Coward's throat, foregoing any attempts to spare him the discomfort. Coward, near swooning, tried to still his hands, which were cautiously resting on Blackwood's legs for balance. With mild difficulty, he looked up at the face of his master, saw something in Blackwood's eyes, something not unlike the passion that Coward saw in him the first time that his Lord had described to him the vision of a better future.
And Coward realized that this wasn't part of the ritual; this had become something more, it no longer had anything to do with what was in that book in Blackwood's hand the day that they had planned this. It was wrong, something said in the back of Coward's mind, it was immoral and inhumane of Blackwood, tricking him like this. He wondered if the sex rite Blackwood had talked about even actually existed. There was that voice in the back of his mind telling him how wicked all this was; yet there was something else all but extinguishing that thought: the realization that he not only enjoyed this, he needed it, needed this approval, this display of desire, this excuse to express physically what went unsaid between them.
Coward closed his eyes and moaned.
They finished with each other, ending with mutuality what had started off as a deception. Blackwood came hard in Coward's mouth and Coward felt it run down his throat like a remedy for a sickness he didn't know he had. He pulled back from Blackwood's member, looked up into the face of the man he felt had liberated some part of him, and, taking Blackwood's hands in his own, Coward pulled himself up and threw himself against Blackwood, embracing him and being embraced, kissing him and being kissed in return. Something happened here, Coward thought, something that wasn't written in that book but that needless held its power.
"I could feel it," Coward said breathlessly when their lips came apart, "I could feel the magic. In every motion."
Blackwood smiled at him, and there was a kindness in it that surely no one else was used to seeing.
"There is no magic in the enjoyment of sin," Blackwood told him. "The supernatural element that took place here had only to do with the bond that solidified between us."
Coward had never heard words more enchanting, he thought, smile adorned with adoration, and he leaned in to kiss Blackwood again.
© Shadows Underground 2010