Alistair had arrived with his classic puppyish air, and the Warden, for once, was not in the mood for it.
"Beloved," she said, in a voice soft but firm, "we need to talk about your language."
"Common?" said Alistair, grinning in spite of himself.
The Warden shook her head. "All too common," she replied, and beckoned for him to sit beside her on the cot. Alistair dwarfed the elf in size, but found it difficult to see her as smaller when her presence could so command a room.
"The way you speak to Morrigan. The way you speak of her," said the Warden, "is unacceptable. When you call her a bitch, you accept that I am one as well, that Leliana and Wynne and Shale are also."
"Shale?" Alistair repeated with a smile, on the verge of making a joke when the Warden's finger touched his lips to shush him.
"You don't like Morrigan," she said, "and that's fine. But you won't use that word to describe her or anyone else, just as you would never refer to Zevran or me as knife-ears."
Alistair was given pause, his brow knitting with uncertainty and what might have been contrition. He was so easily guilted, the Warden thought fretfully, but she would not allow herself to smile her reassurance. "Do you understand?" she persisted, meeting his eyes.
"I'm sorry, darling," Alistair replied, "I never… well, I suppose I did know better." The Warden raised her eyebrows. "But it won't happen again," Alistair quickly added, his grin returning.
"I'd like to be certain of that," replied the Warden, a smile beginning to form at the corner of her mouth. She rose to collect a few spare rolled-up blankets from the other side of the tent, and brought them back to make a neat pile on her own makeshift bed. Alistair eyed her all the while, suspicious and curious and a little bit ashamed.
"Rest your hips over these," the Warden instructed, patting the lump of blankets, "I'm going to spank you."
Alistair stared, looking between her and the blankets respectively. "Darling—" he interjected, only to see her shake her head. "Unless you'd prefer to leave the tent," she replied, gesturing to the entrance flaps, "I need to be sure that this conversation won't be forgotten." When he continued to hesitate, she added, "you can't possibly convince me that the Chantry would have let you off so easily."
"But I hated the Chantry," said Alistair in a low whine, all the same shifting position so he lay with his front half facedown and his rump propped up by the blankets. The Warden helped him along, shifting his pelvis to her best vantage.
"I don't see why this should be necessary," he mumbled, only to nearly cut himself off with a whimper when the first strokes landed. Her hands were small, but by the Maker, they had a sting to them—must have been all the archery, he grudgingly admitted, building up her arm strength.
The Warden stood above him, slapping methodically at his upturned bottom, still clothed in the soft trousers he would wear to bed. She could see the motion of his flesh beneath the fabric, his well-formed buttocks, muscled from his adventures and warrior training but still bearing enough puppy fat to have a nice wiggle to them. She loved him, she remembered happily, and she relished the small sounds he made as she struck and struck. This person twice her size was submitting to her; after most of a life spent in squalor and indignity in the Alienage, this feeling of power was nearly intoxicating.
As tents tend to go, this one was not soundproof, and the rest of the camp caught wise before too long. As the sounds of whimpering and yelping interspersed with slaps grew louder from within, an audience in the form of Leliana and Zevran had appeared to sit by the canvas wall, grinning in fascination and hilarity.
"I would never have guessed," whispered Leliana, delighted.
"Of him, or of her?" asked Zevran, unabashedly resting his ear as close as he dared.
"Of her," Leliana decided after a moment's deliberation, "from what I gather, he has been asking for it since the day he was born."
"And finally he gets his wish," Zevran sighed, "would that she had not been so thoughtless as to exclude us.- I suppose some things must be kept between lovers." He frowned. "I just wish that something were myself."
The Warden had taken a break to sip from her water flask, which she graciously offered to the prone Alistair as well. He took it, arching his back awkwardly to prevent from spilling, elevating his rump in a picturesque fashion. The Warden took this as a cue, and set down her water to approach her lover and peel down his trousers.
"Darling," Alistair gasped, and jerked one hand back, though she grabbed his wrist with her right hand as she continued to tug the fabric down with her left.
"Behave," she said firmly, "you're being punished."
Alistair moaned with dismay and drew her pillow towards himself to bury his face in it, all the same keeping his back end thrust to the ceiling. It was almost necessary, considering what was happening on the other side of his pelvis; perhaps it wouldn't be polite to rub himself on the blankets.
"If you're going to be difficult, I'll ask Shale to help," the Warden said cheerfully, and landed two more smacks, one on each cheek, right where they met his thighs. Alistair yelled with the unexpected impact on his bare flesh, and he buried his face in the pillow again, trying to restrain himself from kicking his beloved's hand away as she rained new slaps down from the top of his bum to his upper thighs.
The skin was so yielding and soft and it colored such a pleasant dark pink that it was almost a shame the Warden's hand had begun to sting along with it; she paused for a moment, instructing him to keep his bottom high and to spread his legs a little more while he was at it. He reluctantly obeyed, quivering at the cool air that seemed to tangibly clash with the deep burning of his posterior as it protruded above the rest of him. Tears had begun to spill from his eyes, and he was chagrined to notice that he was making a mess of the Warden's pillow. And yet, the mess from his arousal below was all the more impending.
The Warden returned, wearing one of her leather gloves, and began to spank him again without hesitation, opting to spend some well-needed time on his strong thighs.
"What is this."
Leliana and Zevran turned with a start to see Sten looming above them, his face the picture of stony indifference as always.
"Our young Templar is being taught a lesson," said Zevran with a grin.
"Very well," Sten conceded, and looked up at the side of the tent, seeming to bore into it with his gaze. "I had thought I heard someone in distress."
"Not the kind of distress that merits saving," Leliana quipped, and had to scramble out of the way as the Warden nearly trod on her exiting the tent. They looked at each other in surprise, the Warden narrowing her eyes slightly at the gathered audience, but then she simply shook her head and pinned the flap of the tent open to walk off toward Morrigan's encampment.
The three peered into the tent to see that Alistair stood with his back to them, trousers around his ankles and hands on his head, facing the opposite canvas wall. Everything he wore (or didn't wear) was drab and colorless compared to the blazing luminescence of his posterior, which it seemed had been intentionally left on display.
"A fine work of art," Zevran intoned, Leliana's face reddening at the sight. "Oh, Maker," she whispered, unable to conceal her grin.
"Oh, come on," Alistair said defeatedly, looking over his shoulder with a wet sniff but not daring move from the spot. He shifted uncomfortably, setting his naked body ever so slightly aquiver.
"…carry on," Sten said without relish, and quickly went to find a way to occupy himself as far from the Kadan's tent as he could manage.
"Morrigan, I have a favor to ask of you," said the Warden, approaching the far camp with an air of calm deference.
"Oh, do you?" Morrigan replied, and paused her reading. "What a surprise."
"I am teaching Alistair the error in his treatment of you," the Warden explained, "and he has seen reason, that the issue will not be resolved until he has been held accountable to you personally."
Morrigan took a moment to react to this, then smiled quietly and got to her feet. "'Tis a welcome request," she observed, "I shall be glad to assist you."
The onlookers scattered and reconvened after the passing Warden and Morrigan, the former of whom allowed the flap to close, but only loosely. The rogues peered inside to witness the Warden approaching Alistair and resting a thin hand on his lower back.
"It's time, beloved," she said, stroking her hand several times over his smoldering bottom, making him flinch.
"I've changed my mind," Alistair said, his voice stuffy with tears, "I don't want her here, and… do they have to be able to…?" He nudged his head in the direction of the tent flap.
"Do you mean to suggest this isn't what you deserve?" the Warden retorted, and gently drew her gloved hand along his erection. He hissed, tensing, and Morrigan stepped to stand behind him.
"Your childish behavior has been an embarrassment to all of us," the witch added conversationally, and gripped both of his buttocks tightly in her hands, causing a yelp of anguish. "'Tis only fair that all of us should see you punished for it."
"Please," Alistair whimpered, though it was unclear as to whether he was truly that unwilling, or if it had to do with the gentle finger stroking up and down his cock.
"Come on then," the Warden decided, and smirked at Morrigan, who released him to allow a shift in position. Alistair was guided over the Warden's lap, his pelvis resting atop her legs to the extent that his own feet no longer touched the floor, though his arms were now on the ground and his head nearly followed. His erection was tucked beside her outer leg, and she kept a tight grip on his hips, at the very least strong enough to keep him from wriggling off. Morrigan sat beside her and held her hands up momentarily, her palms beginning to glow a dull red as she offered the Warden a conspiratorial smile.
"Why isn't she being punished," Alistair whined, one leg drifting as he tried and failed to get comfortable, "she's just as rude to me as I am to her."
Morrigan's hand fell, and with it came a burning sensation that left no mark but felt like a lick of pure fire. Alistair howled, and she grinned.
"Life's not fair, is it puppy," she smoothly replied, striking several more times and eliciting the same reaction. The Warden ran her free hand experimentally over his buttocks and pulled back in surprise at the heat Morrigan had left.
"You agreed to this, Alistair," she said with a surprised laugh, "Maker help you."
"What is she doing?" whispered Leliana, fighting to see from behind Zevran, who at present was hogging the tent opening.
"Magic," Zevran replied, "who cares."
Morrigan was making a show of things, slapping upward and sideways and around, making her target bounce and its bearer wail with each new stroke. He kicked and cried, his bottom becoming a deep crimson with her ministrations, though between the two women he was held snugly in place.
"If he works any harder we'll have to call Sten," Morrigan remarked, eliciting a wordless sob of disagreement from the Templar as the merciless strokes fell and fell.
Finally, she seemed to tire, and shook her hand out with an amused glance at the Warden, who had begun to stroke her bawling lover's hair. Alistair lay sobbing and prostrate on her lap, no longer caring that his blazing bottom and bright red thighs were in full view of any who glanced into the tent—he was certain by now it could all be seen like a beacon from the Free Marches anyway.
"Will that be all, Warden-Commander?" asked Morrigan, rising to her feet, "or shall I gather some nettles for him to remember me by?"
The Warden laughed and shook her head, lifting a hand to shoo her out. "Thank you," she replied, "but I'll take it from here. Close the tent when you leave, please, unless you two want to be next."
Morrigan did as she was bade, though before the flap could close completely, the Warden was certain she heard Zevran ask if that was a promise.
Meanwhile, here was the problem in her lap, freshly spanked and quietly crying. She had never been this harsh on him before, but the Warden had suspected it might be a direction to take one of their evenings—especially when she had a real reason to punish him.
"Not so bad, was it?" she joked, rubbing the back of Alistair's neck to calm his tears. He nodded, docile in spite of his emotional state, and began sobbing anew as the Warden's hand worked her way down his back.
"But you understand, don't you?" she asked soothingly, "and you won't forget this, will you?" Alistair shook his head.
"Good," the Warden said, and nudged her leg up to encourage him to raise his pelvis. He did so unthinkingly, and she stood, but immediately turned back to clutch his erection. He gasped, but welcomed the touch, and it wasn't long at all before it became clear his true feelings on the evening's festivities.
Now that he was spent, all of Alistair's energy seemed to leave him. The Warden kissed him on top of his head, then moved the extra blankets out of the way and allowed him to lie on his stomach. Her fingers moved through his hair once, then she stepped away to let him rest and to take care of some… business… of her own.
"Please, Wynne?"
"No."
"Pleeease?"
"No, Alistair, you know where we all stand on this."
Morning had broken, and Alistair was finding it difficult to go about his routine while he still felt like he'd sat on a pot of hot coals. Wynne was in the process of making tea for the camp, with herbs ready to mingle with the water once it had boiled.
"But… just a little bit?"
"Why don't you make another crack about how old I am?" Wynne replied, and Alistair followed her gaze to where the Warden stood chatting with Shale. As if on cue, they both turned to meet his eyes. The Warden smiled, and Shale lifted a large, stony hand to wave ominously.
"Never mind," said Alistair.