The Magician's Bitch, Ch. 3

 

Chapter 3: Slowly Succumbing

 

Anal sex becomes a regular fixture.

Because it’s not messy – especially with his little magic seals, which conveniently open over a toilet – Archaelaus finds cause to engage in places like the library, the sitting room, the kitchen. I’ll be reading and he’ll come down, lift my robe, and slot himself in. I’ll be passing through and he’ll seize me, throw me to the floor, and mount me like a dog.

I’ll be doing anything, and he’ll be doing me.

I know I should hate it. I know that it’s wrong. But holy shit, I’ve never cum so hard in my life as I do when being penetrated by the pervy old mage.

‘That’s it, sonny,’ he’ll say, pinning me wherever I happen to be at the time. Against my bed, against a wall, upon a table. Face-down, arse-up, on the library floor. ‘Take it, boyo. Take every inch of daddy.’

‘Ugh. Fuck.’

‘Humph. Good boy.’

‘Archaelaus. Jeez.’

‘Ughn. Tight little slut, sonny. Such a tight fat butt on you.’

He’ll spank me and slap my arse, reach for the stupid tits he gave me and fondle them, sometimes even kiss my neck and speak dirty into my ears, but the mainstay is always him thrusting away with such abandon that is so ill-fitting his skinny pot-bellied physique. The feel of that hairy belly atop my rump, or the weighty swing of his pendulous gonads against my thighs and balls, is unbecomingly erotic.

I’m not gay, I tell myself. I’m straight, I remind myself.

But being railed by the old mage, having him mount me and belittle me, thrusting away into my guts, stirs something pathetically gruesome in the darker parts of my soul. I loathe the man, loathe this place, but…I cannot loathe what he does to me.

‘Ugh. Almost there, boyo,’ Archaelaus will say. ‘Almost…there…’

At least it’s always from behind, since that first time. At least it’s always being taken, and not something where I’d have to be more aware.

Each and every time, when the ancient magus grunts that tell-tale grunt, exhales and hilts himself up to his furry pubes in my arse, I know to shut my eyes and think of anything and anywhere else. His thick, knobbly, mammoth cock will flare and strain and then pump the thickest of warmth inside of me, occasionally shifted back and forth by his efforts, but never resulting in anything less than a rather long, rather drawn-out process of me having my butt absolutely packed with his aged semen.

But it’s strange. With each experience, it’s hard to pull myself away. It’s almost less appealing, somehow, to pretend I’m elsewhere. It makes the orgasm – and I always orgasm – that much less profound.

So, little by little, I find myself staying in the moment. Little by little, I find myself shutting my eyes but not quite leaving. I hear his grunts and laboured breaths, feel his hands knead my breasts or squeeze my hips or fondle my buttocks, and most of all I feel that thick gooey muck swim and slosh about in my bowels.

I know it’s wrong, but…

…I’m just making the most of a bad situation. Right.

That’s it. Just that.

 

It’s becoming harder and harder to pretend that I hate being here, that I hate this. The first month closes, the second begins, and I’m growing more and more aroused. Aroused because, for the first time in my adult life, I’ve an outlet for my sexual urges in close proximity at all times. Fine, yes, I’m his outlet as well, but…

…I can’t believe this is happening.

Archaelaus is an almost three-hundred-year-old mage. An ancient, virile, powerful man, with what must be a fifteen-inch erection and balls the size of large oranges. I should hate him, should hate this, but I’ve never been so satisfied in my life. Nose hair, ear hair, liver-spots, pot-belly.

It’s grotesque, really. I’m aware of it at all times how much I am, in that sane part of me, disgusted. Yet it speaks volumes to human behaviour that I find myself – in moments of self-awareness – almost making myself more available than I’d otherwise be.

I don’t hide from him. If anything, I make myself obvious. And yet when I notice the fact, I…don’t stop myself. So what if I lean my arse a bit too far out, when I could stand up more straight? So what if I purposefully drop things when he happens to be in the vicinity?

It’s not hurting anybody. It’s just…it’s just making the most of things.

So I tell myself. So I have to tell myself.

 

Midway through the second month, Archaelaus mixes things up a bit. After breakfast, instead of simply mounting me, he leads me to my room. The old mage keeps firm hands on my shoulders, a dirty smile on his lips throughout.

‘Something different today, sonny,’ he says, releasing me and sitting himself down on the edge of my bed. ‘I want you to put those big boy-tits of yours to good use.’

‘A titwank?’ I say, and he smiles, nods. I throw off my robe and but he remains seated on the edge of the bed. Doesn’t he want me on my back, so he can do it? ‘Archaelaus?’

‘Do it for me, today,’ he says. ‘I want you to pleasure me, boy.’

Something about the notion of it, the activity of doing it to him, as opposed to having it done to me, makes my cock tingle. Makes me shiver. He parts his legs a little, smiles with that cruel thin mouth. I need him to do it. I don’t want this, regardless of what weird impact it has on my dick.

‘You’re sure? I’ve never–’

He puts a hand on my bare shoulder. ‘Sonny. It’ll come naturally.’ Archaelaus’s robe disappears into nothingness, revealing the pot-bellied old man’s skinny frame, all hairy with grey and white. Between his legs droops his heavy flaccid penis, slightly crooked, its fat mushroom tip shrouded in wrinkly foreskin, an old man as much as he is. His balls look especially pendulous, especially bloated and saggy today. ‘Go on, boyo. You know what to do, I bet. I know you’ll take good care of me.’

Something is…different. I chew my lip, nod, lift my breasts in each hand, and shuffle on my knees to the space between his spread legs. I do, vaguely, understand the mechanics. Lifting my heavy breasts – now less foreign, still strange as can be – I take them to his drooping length and sandwich the thing between them, massaging it, rubbing and teasing with gentle movements of my soft pillowy tits.

‘Good boy,’ Archaelaus says. ‘Get me nice and big for those fat boobies of yours.’

I blush beneath his words and gaze, made worse as the old man’s cock does indeed begin to grow. Something about the hardening, the lengthening, the thickening excites me, widens my eyes, aches my cock. My blush deepens as the ancient penis grows, grows, grows, until it’s upright and dangerously close to my face. The stink, the old-man musk, is incredibly thick. I’ve come, in time, to take guilty enjoyment in his odours. He’s never dirty, always clean, but…potent with sexual smells, all the same.

His erection at full size is a sight to behold. An obviously old, darker-than-the-rest-of-him, liver-spotted and slightly knobbly, crooked-to-the-right cock. Yet the tip is so fat and plump and the power of the thing which is as long as my forearm, as thick as my wrist, is intimidating in a strange and emasculating manner. It threatens to bounce off my nose or smack my mouth, if not for the forwards protrusion of my heavy tits against which it leans for the moment.

‘You look pleased, sonny,’ Archaelaus says. He chuckles crudely. ‘Funny, how things change.’

‘I’m just doing this because I have to,’ I say. ‘Don’t read into it.’

But the old man just sniggers, and pats my head. ‘So you say, boyo. So you say.’

I ignore him, and focus on the heaving erection before me. The tip is too close to my face so I sit up on my knees, but even in doing so his length reaches up to my chin. Fuck’s sake. He’s too big, but it can’t be helped. I spit down the cleft between my breasts, mimicking as best I can the way I’ve seen women in porn do it. No girlfriend of mine ever had boobs big enough.

Spreading my tits with my hands, his length falls against my chest between them. Already it’s throbbing angrily, needily. Big as he is, my awkward boobs are nonetheless enough to engulf his hot staff. So begins the first act I’ve done for him, for another man, that doesn’t involve being passive.

Up and down, up and down. I squeeze together my full and soft breasts, wrapping them around his crooked, gnarled, lumpy pole. His smell strengthens, his arousal grows, and before long leakage drools down his shaft. The lubricant stinks stronger still, exposed to air. It makes it easier, when it reaches my tits, to glide up and down his length. The old mage throbs powerfully, pulsing against my tit flesh.

He lets out a groan, and I briefly glance up. I’m being watched, of course. Watched intently, with such perverse glee. How far I’ve fallen. How happy he looks, to be so aware of my descent.

‘Good boy,’ Archaelaus says. ‘So obedient. Humph. So dutiful.’

It makes me shudder, hearing that. ‘Just doing what you asked.’

‘Without complaint.’ He sniggers. ‘Look at me.’ I do. ‘Does it feel good, having my penis between your breasts?’

I want to say no. I want to tell him how disgusting this is, how wrong it is, how badly I want to go home. But the mixture of that strangely exciting scent wafting from his manly genitals and the slickness leaking from them, the way his cock is so hard and so hot, the way he commands me so readily, all combine to undo sanity. To make the awful into the acceptable. If not…if not worse.

Slowly, I nod. ‘Y-eah.’

‘Your face says so, sonny. Ugh. But your honesty is appreciated, my boy. It’s a wonderful penis.’ Archaelaus pats my head again. ‘You take such good care of me, son. Such good care. Ughn.'

He leans his head back, basking in the pleasure of my transformed body. This is slower, far more a wank than a fuck, far more intimate and passionate. A filthy instinct has me make patterns, adjust the squeeze and tightness, rub his slowly becoming exposed helmet with especial attention. It dawns on me why he wanted this. This is service, this is different, this is a kind of worship. I’m…I’m doing it, and it’s strangely good.

I’m dragging my heavy strange breasts up and down Archaelaus’s fat turgid staff and he’s groaning, twitching, moaning. Our bodies are connected in this intimate kinky fashion, me on my knees and him sat upon the edge of my bed, and I’m doing this dirty thing to this dirty old wizard. This dirty old wizard and his fat fucking cock, wedged between my unwanted yet pleasant titties.

And as much as I hate to think it…it is a wonderful penis he’s got. Beyond being massive, its tip entices, amazes. The wispy pubes are soft, their silvery colour a constant reminder of his advanced years. The lumps and bumps, the slight crook, the occasional irregular bulging of it this way or that, all contribute to a tool more than capable of delivering great pleasure.

What on Earth am I thinking? It’s a cock. I’m not gay. I’m doing this…I’m doing this because it gets it over with, no arguing. Right. Sure.

Up, down. Up, down. Slowly but surely his foreskin peels back, glistening with precum, a ruby atop the wizened staff of the old mage. It stares up at me from between my breasts, almost requiring me to cross my eyes to look down at the thing that juts up at my chin and threatens so easily to lunge up at my face.

I can’t stop staring at it. The way it glistens, the way it crests outwards, fat and thick and firm. The big eyelet at the front, a sizeable slit that drools precum. A cleft beneath, a fibrous band within two ruby bulges, connecting his foreskin to the swollen head.

A big, swollen lollipop. No. Not a lollipop. That would mean…where’d that thought even come from? Stop being weird, brain! I gulp, glance up at him, find him smiling. Something about him being so old, so powerful, makes this worse and better. Dirtier, definitely.

‘You’re doing great, boy. Humph. I love being milked this way.’

Milked. Always some reference to that. ‘You’re, uh, welcome.’

‘I’ll come well, certainly.’ He sniggers. ‘Bring it forth, sonny. Bring out my power.’

Blushingly I look away, work my breasts about his thick erection. His knees start to shudder, and I know it won’t be long. I drop lower, go higher, make big sweeping sliding motions, greasing his pole from furry base to gooey tip. He grunts, shudders, and it’ll be any moment now. I’ll rise a bit higher and catch it on my–

‘Ughn. Ugh.’

I don’t get high enough. His glans spits at chin height, and I barely have time to shut my eyes. A fat, hot, sticky rope of semen splashes my face, from cheek to forehead. Another follows, a heavy spurt. So musky, so stinking of age, of years, of power. I find myself groaning, find myself…enjoying it. To be marked like this, to be…dirtied like this. Instinct…instinct has me continue to milk him, to drain his old nuts directly onto my face. Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I let him mark me like this? The heat of it, the weight of it, the stink of it, is all too much to resist.

‘Oh yes, sonny. It’s all for you. So much seed to paint that cute face.’ Archaelaus chuckles, warm, weirdly paternal. He pats my head, grunts, shoots another fat rope. ‘Ughn. Lucky boy. My slutty, lucky boy.’

I tilt my head and massage him with my breasts, extracting more thick musky cream from the vast wells of those ancient balls. Splatter, spurt, squirt. It coats, it plasters, it hangs, drools, thick knotted cords and cables of off-white ancient semen coming in volume. His semen. It feels so natural, to let this happen. So right.

‘Ughn. Take it. Humph. All of it.’

More, more. All I can smell is his cum, all I can feel is his cum. All I want is his–

I shiver at a guilty, pleasant thought. No. This is…right and wrong and both and everything else besides. Just let it happen. Let it end. Spurt, squirt, splat, sputter. It drools onto my breasts, drools onto my shoulders, drips onto the floor. He starts to soften between my bosom, the end at last, and chuckles warmly.

‘By Azarlia, sonny. You really are my bitch, aren’t you?’

I try to speak, thankfully recalling my coated lips.

‘Clean up, boy. Clean up all of daddy’s pride. You earned it.’

He pats my head one last time, then goes about his business.

 

It happens again, later in the day. And again tomorrow. And again the next day.

Under his desk, in the library, in the sitting room before bed. I protest but he says, smilingly, ‘You’ll catch it all on your face, won’t you? It won’t be so messy. For the tower, I mean.’ Laughing at me, laughing at this, and…I do as he asks.

Squirt, spurt, splat, splatter, sputter.

It feels profound, to have Archaelaus’ genetic payload on my face. Filthy. Worse, I don’t finish, because the titwanks are all about him, nothing about me. There’s no savaging of my breasts, pumping in and out. Just me milking him, and I can’t seem to get the pace right to feel that same weird pleasure I felt before. I try my utmost, but it doesn’t occur.

And yet, as awful as it is to think, receiving his sperm on my face is satisfying beyond words. The most powerful mage in the world he says, and all the tomes in his library agree, and he shoots his potential children all over my face. Jesus, I can’t escape this. I’m weird, I’m horny. I masturbate myself three times before going to sleep, and twice when I wake up from the dirty dreaming.

He doesn’t lie. Either the books are fake, or he’s all that he says he is. They don’t seem fake. There’s too many idiosyncrasies, too many author stylings, for this one man and his forthright, brazen approach to things. He is who he claims: the most powerful mage in the world, disgraced for being a pervert without remorse. And I see that all day, every day.

This same old pervert of a mage who occasionally mounts me but mostly has me service him with these fat stupid unwanted tits, milking his massive dangerous cock and spilling the contents of those pendulous wispy-haired balls all over my face.

Somehow it feels better, to think him who he says. At least if I’m doing this for the greatest mage of all time, it’s not as bad, somehow? It’s not as embarrassing. Or maybe it is. Or maybe I’m just trying to wrap my head around all the filthy thoughts so that I don’t feel quite as alien to myself.

And maybe it’s a continuation of that dirty line of thought or maybe it’s what we’ve done, or maybe it’s something else entirely, but I keep returning to this really quite disgustingly perverse curiosity.

…what exactly does two-hundred-and-ninety-three-year-old sperm, from the fat swinging testicles of the world’s most powerful mage, taste like?

It’s one of those night-time thoughts, ones you entertain and forget. But it always returns after a day of pleasuring him with my tits, of taking his healthy, warm, aged loads upon my face. And even when fucks me, mounts me, he takes to unloading on my face at the end. It satisfies him to mark me like a slut.

It…it definitely satisfies me.