The Magician's Bitch, Ch. 5

 

Chapter 5: The Magician’s Bitch

 

Would it be so bad, boy? To submit to me?

His words wriggle about my mind just as his sperm wriggles about in my belly, though at least the latter will have dying movements and ultimately cease entirely.

I half-expect some trap, a hex or curse, but there isn’t one. What happened tonight, between Archaelaus and I, was purely sexual and not in the least magical. It was me, a twenty-year-old man, getting down on my knees and fellating a two-hundred-and-ninety-three-year-old wizard.

For him to be so ancient, for me to do such a degrading thing – no love, no affection, only servitude and lust – defies my self-expectations. I don’t quite know who I am, because I’m certainly not the person who arrived in this plane of reality however many weeks ago. That man wouldn’t have done this dirty deed, but…I’ve slowly fallen from who I was, over so short a time period. Slowly been corrupted by this place, by the initially disturbing and now deeply enticing sex acts I’ve engaged in with Archaelaus.

I’m almost certainly going to give him another blowjob. It might even be tomorrow. Is he going to ask, or command me? I…I want it to happen, I think. As wrong as it is, that most degrading of acts I can picture, the most vulgar of all – and to consume his semen, the semen of such an ancient man, is the vile icing on a depraved cake – is the one that is most exciting and weirdly tempting.

Worse, how much it clearly means to him. That his bloated old balls, liver-spotted and hairy, could produce something that I’d actually find pleasant, actually desire, filled his terribly intelligent eyes with a smugness I’ve never seen equalled anywhere else. It’d be one thing for me to enjoy this act and for him to find it purely a matter of pleasure, because then it would be less dirty, somehow.

It'd be something that would happen and not, in the process, so thoroughly degrade my spirit. But for Archaelaus, there’s something incredibly emboldening about having me here, having corroded my sense of self, and having me not just partake of but actually enjoy the extraction of his ancient and virile sperm from within his clearly potent body.

I lick my lips in the dark of my room, remembering and tasting. Isn’t cum meant to be awful? It’s not like his was strawberry ice cream or the like, but the only gay guy I know, whenever such conversations arise, has always expressed a deep a dramatic dislike of jizz.

So how can Archaelaus, just shy of three centuries old, as clearly ancient as he looks, produce something that I…that I actually appreciate?

I need to sleep. I need to hope that I wake up saner.

I need to wake and up and have this all been a fever dream.

 

In the morning, after washing and clothing myself, I go into the kitchen area to find the old man sat in his dressing gown at the little round table.

Archaelaus smirks at me as I walk through, his bristly eyebrows hinting at subtle mockery. As if today, as a result of yesterday’s events, I am less than I was. An object of some humour, in the ancient mage’s eyes.

‘Sonny,’ he says, ‘what would you like to eat this morning?’

And before I can reply, he calmy parts his robe, letting his heavy hairy old genitals droops down over the lip of his stool. The sight freezes me in place, familiar though it may be. A large and slightly gnarled penis, hanging low from a thicket of curly grey hairs. Liver-spotted pale flesh, hairy testicles the size of oversized kiwi fruits dangling low.

I run my eyes up his furry pot belly, past his slightly saggy chest, beyond his crooked yellow-toothed smile, to meet his intelligent and rather terrifying gaze.

‘That was just yesterday,’ I say, glancing away. ‘I’m not your on-demand cocksucker.’

‘My morning loads are the largest, sonny.’ Archaelaus winks at me, wholly ignoring what I said. ‘Would it be so wrong, boyo? I was thinking of changing the nutritional rules of the tower, if you want. You’d get all you need from my loins. I am your master, after all.’

Master. I’d forgotten that. A self-degrading other-affirming title. To lower myself beneath him, without actually stating that I am somehow lacking in value. It provokes a shiver, conjures up a chill to the bones of the spine.

It also, unmistakeably, has my cock twitching.

Would it be so bad, boy? To submit to me?

Those words again, echoing through my thoughts. Submission, to the dirty old magus, has a heavy element of oral service. Of kneeling and sucking, of tasting and savouring and swallowing what his fat testicles produce. It says something about how broken I am, how far from my true self, that I find myself tacitly examining the big drooping balls, momentarily forgetting that I’m in his presence.

Archaelaus’s eyes flare blue, and for just a moment, I’m gifted the sight of their insides. Billions if not trillions of his sperm, his genes, swimming about in waiting. In waiting to be extracted from within him, milked from his ancient body.

‘I can simply change the rules,’ the old mage says, ‘if such will make you feel better, sonny.’

‘W-hat?’ I quickly meet his gaze, that smile the height of smugness. ‘What rules?’

‘You’re clearly unable to accept just what it is that you want, boyo. You want to suck my penis, and taste the lineage of my body, just as you did yesterday, but you’ve all these silly reservations that are holding you back.’ Archaelaus lifts a hand, swirling faint blue electricity around its fingers. ‘A gesture, and I can make it so that you need my semen to survive, sonny. And then you can give blowjobs to your heart’s content, knowing that it’s necessary. Knowing that you can hide behind the fact that if you don’t, the world ends.’

A twisted concept, and yet…he’s right, isn’t he? If I had to do it, if I had to blow him, I’d find myself enjoying it. Just like I enjoyed it yesterday.

The contradiction within me, this division of interests, has no easy fix. Archaelaus is old and hairy, distinctively male. Perhaps if he were beautiful, perhaps if he were young, I’d have no issues here. To enjoy sucking the penis of a young, beautiful man, and for that act to be as pleasing as I now know fellating Archaelaus is, would have a dramatically different effect on my thoughts.

‘Please don’t,’ I say, frozen on the spot.

Archaelaus chuckles. ‘No more blowjobs then, is it? Just the one?’

And that thought should be a saviour thing, freeing me from this concern.

It doesn’t. I don’t know how I’m going to wrap my head around the fact that I enjoyed sucking off the old mage, with his liver spots and wrinkles and grey hairs and gnarled crooked cock, but I did. It was an incredibly pleasant, erotic experience.

‘No, but…’

The mage smirks, and hides his genitals. ‘You know where to find me, boyo. I’ll be working on that spell.’

He rises and brushes past me, giving me a pat on the shoulder as he goes. His smell, some mixture of potent maleness, bitter age, and a spark of the arcane, tingles my nostrils in passing. The warmth of his hand, the strength of it, leaves a sensory indent long after he’s disappeared.

And in his absence, breakfast – of the normal sort – materialises for me to feast on.

But my appetite, as a result of his advances and my concerns, is diminished.

What am I going to do, really? Why am I so hung up on this thing, this doubt, that has no bearing on the future? Nobody’s going to know. I’ll get home, and nobody will find out. So why care? Why give a damn?

So what if Archaelaus is just shy of three hundred, and looks old enough to be my grandfather? I can guarantee, without a moment of doubt, that if I ever suck a dick again, if I ever swallow sperm again, it won’t be from a man who looks anything like him. And I can guarantee, in the very same sense, that I’ll never find a cock as big or loads so…so interesting.

Back on Earth, people are just normal. Regular humans. Not ancient world-famous pervert mages with fifteen-inch dicks and balls the size of fat oranges. Old people aren’t so vigorous or virile as Archaelaus, and they certainly can’t do for me what he does.

Would it…would it be so wrong to just…well…

…make the most of it?

I eye the steps leading upwards. A choice to be made. The stairs here are odd, magical, determining your trip by choice. And when I step on the first one, the journey is set in stone. If I want to go to the library, I’ll go to the library. If I want to go to the sitting room, then to the sitting room I’ll go.

And if the steps lead me to Archaelaus, in his alchemy quarters, sitting behind that desk and working away on this grand spell…then that’s my fate, isn’t it? Maybe if I blank my mind, forget everything, the tower’s magics can guide me. Can take me to what my heart truly wants.

My heart starts to race a little when I step out into his study, finding the old mage scribbling away with a series of floating quills, sat behind his desk upon which is overlaid the vast return spell scroll.

‘Sonny?’ Archaelaus says, lifting a bushy eyebrow.

‘Master,’ I say, beginning to blush, ‘I’ve come to a decision.’

He smothers a smirk, thin mouth hinting at smugness. ‘Is that so?’

‘What you said, about my time here, about submitting to you, about it not mattering when I get home…’ I walk over to him, to the front of his desk. The spell, an immense work of sigils and patterns, to my untrained eye, looks a thing of insane geometrical beauty. ‘…I really enjoyed servicing you, yesterday. And I think it would be best if I made the most of my time here, for both our sakes.’

His quills fall still, softly coming down atop the desk beside the work-in-progress. Archaelaus leans back into his grand chair, a throne of wood, cushioned exquisitely for long periods of sitting and working, be it reading or scribing.

‘What do you want, boyo?’ he says. His eyes, light and cunning, eat me up. ‘I don’t want you to be doing something for the sake of it, so be honest with me, son.’

Honest? Well, the stairs took me here. I went where I wanted, so I must want to see Archaelaus. And if I want to see Archaelaus, then I want to pleasure him. And if I want to pleasure him, I’ll do so on my knees. On my knees, with his great old penis tended to by my eager young mouth.

‘I want to suck your penis, Master,’ I say, cheeks hot as hell. ‘I want…I want to pleasure, orally and submissively, the greatest magician in the world.’

The ancient mage sniggers, nose hairs bristling. ‘That so, sonny? Quite the change of heart.’

I glance away from him. ‘What do you want me to say, Archaelaus? I still think it’s weird, still think it’s vaguely gross. You’re still really, really old. But…I’d be lying, to both of us, if I said that I didn’t enjoy yesterday. Every bit of it.’ Turning back to him, I faintly wet my lips. ‘You have…quite the cock.’

‘There’s an appeal to it, isn’t there?’

His eyes glow, and the room shifts. The desk rises up, out of the way, to reveal him sitting on that big chair. Wooden floor changes, becoming a soft pad before him, perfectly suited for resting my knees on.

‘Go on, boyo,’ Archaelaus says, gesturing. ‘Kneel for your Master.’

There is an appeal. As much as I have my reservations, I go to him, kneel for him, down on the cushioning patch before him. And the desk falls back down, as if to lock me in, as if to ensure that I can’t escape, even though I know that I can. I can say the word, and I know that this will cease.

Because I understand this detail, at least, about Archaelaus. This has to be on my terms, or it simply won’t be so satisfying for him. The appeal of this, beyond the merely physically pleasurable, is that I am consenting. That I am dropping to my knees and orally worshipping him, ancient liver-spotted him, simply because I want to.

Could he warp my mind, and make me do this? Could he threaten me? Absolutely.

But he doesn’t have to.

And that greedy smile, set into those thin lips, speaks volumes. A conqueror’s smile, and I am his conquest. I’m going to suck dick again. Suck the dick of a man so old that, were he not a mage, he wouldn’t be alive several times over. But I can’t pretend that I don’t want this. That I won’t, and don’t, enjoy this.

‘Dirty little cocksucker,’ Archaelaus says, giving my head a degrading pat. ‘You’re in the best company, sonny.’ His robes part, though they previously lacked a seam. The folds of cloth fall either side of his torso, revealing that grey-furred pot belly and hairy chest, and beneath his paunch is a forest of silvery curls. ‘Go on, boy. Serve my penis. Submit to my superiority.’

I inhale the potent muskiness, old-man mustiness, of the aged mage’s loins. His cock, so fucking big, dangles across a set of the fattest balls imaginable. All of it is hairy, grey, distinctly wrinkly and liver-spotted and aged. His nuts hang very low, drooping and dangling, the scrotal skin forming noticeable saggy folds where the excess of it pools between them.

And his length itself, gnarled and ancient, a veritable wizard’s staff, slightly crooked and bending towards the bulky and bulbous head, despite not yet being erect, is nonetheless eye-catching. I surprise myself with how readily I collect up its warm weight with both hands and bring the tip to my lips, kissing and lapping at the drooping folds of foreskin.

The old-man stink, musty and bitter, tingles my nostrils. His foreskin, silky and interesting, is already moist with dick oils and a faint tinge of precum. Ancient tastes, for an ancient man. I wouldn’t have it otherwise.

‘It took so little to make you this way,’ Archaelaus says, ruffling my hair. ‘That reluctant boy, now so eager. So smitten with what he thought before was so vile.’

His words are intended to degrade, spoken in a low and cunningly judgemental tone, but I can’t help but appreciate them. I want to be reminded of this, this fall from grace, this twist and change towards such a fate that seemed, not so long ago, unbecoming and undesirable.

‘Keep talking,’ I say, tugging on his length. ‘Tell it like it is, Master.’

Archaelaus chuckles. ‘Are you sure, boyo, that you want this spell finished? I don’t have to work on it, you know.’

That thought is simply one step too far. Oh, it provokes lusts, enables the filthiest parts of me to rise to the surface, but no. No, I want to go home, I want to leave, but I will make the most of my remaining time here. Be it a day, a month, a year, I’m going home. But I’m going to leave with fond memories of servicing the virile ancient mage.

Schlup. Slurp. I roll my tongue around his foreskin, go so far as to slip the tip past the silky folds and touch upon the lustrous lump within. Archaelaus shivers softly, and his member rewards me with a tongue-tingling spurt of salty-bitter precum. ‘You taste so–mhm–slurp–schlap–good, Master.’

‘Oh, sonny. Humph.’

I love how he ruffles my hair, applying playful, pseudo-paternal force. It does something for me, his manhandling, feeling those roughly hairy bony old fingers and their surprising strength as they dig about against my scalp, taking control in some low and subtle manner.

He’s not working. The dirty old mage is watching, watching the entirety of my degrading performance. I smooch his shrouded glans and descend his shaft, kissing the liver spots and the bumps and the bends of the gnarled ancient penis, which grows harder and harder with every passing moment towards its full and prodigious length. Fifteen inches of two-hundred-and-ninety-three-year-old cock, Archaelaus’s cock, and it’s all for me.

‘Smell so–mhm–schlup–smack–good, Master.’

‘Ughn. You’re pathetic, boyo,’ Archaelaus says, patting my head. ‘You’re not a–humph–man. Not with this depraved cocksucking attitude of yours.’ He chuckles, watching me with those darkly clever eyes. His gaze so readily deepens my blush, sends my lusts spiralling. ‘We want the same thing, don’t we, sonny? To see this morning’s particularly heavy–ugh–load splatter across that slutty little tongue.’

‘Y-es, Master.’

The mere thought makes my heart race. What was gruesome is now exciting, enticing. Such an intimate act, to suck somebody off. To smell their body, to taste their skin and the oily juices of their penis. More so, that I press my face against his crotch, all of that old man hair tickling my face, the underside of his pot-belly brushing against my forehead. Archaelaus makes an effort to push out his gut, to rub the mat of grey fur against my skin.

I’m glad nobody can see this. See us. I’d never live it down. Gay doesn’t matter, in the end, but the wizard is ancient. And not some fantasy hentai ancient, where he looks young and beautiful, but genuinely, visually-identifiable as wizened, aged.

‘Mhm. Schlup.’

It makes it better. Makes tasting his skin and running my tongue through his forest of grey pubes somehow superior to what I imagine it would otherwise be, adding a mental component to the purely physical. It highlights, as well, how cognitive the disagreement is. That the old mage’s body is not disgusting, visually unappealing though it may be. Oh, it’s clearly old, and he has a distinctive mustiness to him that suggests centuries, but it’s a warm and pleasant smell. Weirdly grandfatherly.

Though this man could well have been the father of my five-times great-grandfather.

‘Worship my body, sonny,’ Archaelaus says, tussling my hair. ‘Appreciate me. Appreciate–humph–this wonderful thing between us.’

I never, in a million years, imagined I’d kiss the sagging hairy gut of a three-centuries-old man. To press my face against his body while he strokes my head, to inhale his musty aged tang while stroking his parted thighs. To do all of this and be preparing, in truth, to suck his penis. To suck his penis, and receive a particularly large quantity of his semen, his sperm, his genetic material.

Glancing up, our eyes meet. His clearly never left mine, but I got distracted. Lost in the carnal affection doled out upon his ancient frame. ‘I’ll do this every day, Master,’ I say, my voice surprisingly clear. ‘I’ll take very good care of you.’

The words come easily, readily. Dirty urges given voice, playful phrases. It’s simple, scarily fun, to speak like this. To see the pleasure grip his face, to brighten those venerable eyes. And in pleasing him, somehow, someway, I please myself.

‘You will, sonny. It’s how this is. How it should be.’ The old man chuckles, nose hair bristling. ‘I am the better man, boyo. You’ll never be a fraction of what I am.’

I nod, lusty, insane. ‘Yes, Master. I can’t compete.’

His eyes flare blue, and I see what he wants. See those big productive testicles, utterly packed with billions upon billions of his little white tadpoles, thick-tailed virile things, brimming with recipe and lineage. Finer seed, I imagine, cannot be found elsewhere. Archaelaus is one of a kind, and I desperately want to taste him again. To taste that which is undeniably, completely and wholly, him.

‘Will you submit, sonny?’

‘Yes, Master. I submit. I will do as you command.’

He sniggers. ‘You understand, don’t you? How submissive an act this is, to fellate me, to pleasure me, to consume what my body produces.’

‘I do, Master,’ I say.

‘Describe it. Tell me why it matters.’

‘Because…’ I pause, leaning back. His hand still plays with my hair, but the words are slower than I’d like. Not because I don’t know, but because to think of it is rather dirty. It relies on those most vulgar parts of my head, those parts that seemed before so embarrassing and now have a great deal more control than I ever thought they would.

‘Well, sonny?’

‘It’s because it’s something of an affirmation,’ I say, eyes aflutter, cheeks red and hot. ‘An admittance, that my own body cannot produce sperm anything like the quality of yours, Master.’ My gaze goes down, taking inventory of those titanic testicles, sagging immensely low over the lip of his chair. So much excess scrotum that it forms dense wrinkly folds below and between each of the fist-sized seed factories. ‘I’m a man, and you’re a man, and this is no act of love…I’m simply in awe of your status, Master, as the superior male. With such a large penis, and such heavy testicles, and such strong and healthy sperm.

‘And I realise, on some level, that the only way I’ll ever know what it’s like to possess such strong-swimming seed is to receive it from a man like yourself,’ I go on, heart racing, cock throbbing, mouth vaguely watering. ‘And that could obviously be in many ways, many forms, but…but…’

Archaelaus runs his hand across my scalp. Our eyes meet, his dark devious intelligence on full display. A dominant, ancient, extremely powerful man. ‘But what, sonny?’

‘The only way that comes to mind, to be as close to experiencing the superior nature of your sperm, would be to taste it,’ I say, blushing, trembling. And his smug, dirty, proud smile grows deeper, bolder. ‘To taste you, Archaelaus, my Master. To taste your two-hundred-and-ninety-three-years, to taste your successes and failures, to taste your wisdom and cleverness, your cunning and deviance.’ I glide my eyes across him, across his saggy parts, his aged form. ‘To taste your hairy body and your pot-belly and your liver-spots, to taste your worst qualities and your best, to present my tongue as some welcome mat for your seed to splatter upon and swim freely inside of my mouth where I might taste them, taste you, and then consume your ejaculate, thereby taking your superior semen inside of me, thereby absorbing it into me.’

To say such a dirty thing comes so naturally. Because it’s true, isn’t it? And it turns me on like nothing else has ever done. This isn’t love. This isn’t two men, two people, pleasuring one another because of some affection shared or a give-take arrangement. If I want to pleasure him, it’s because it feels like it’s my place to do so. And if I want to taste him, it’s because it feels like it’s my place to do so.

And in staring at that immense cock, fifteen inches of gnarled old man-meat, all of those past moments of confusion suddenly make sense.

I didn’t enjoy what was happening to me in spite of Archaelaus. The feeling of his cock inside of me, the presence of his musky semen on my face. It wasn’t some miraculous thing to enjoy, something that shouldn’t have been good yet was.

I enjoyed, and continue to enjoy, my sexual liaisons with this ancient mage because it’s Archaelaus. Because it’s him. Because this man triggers, in me, some primal urge to submit and debase myself, solely for his enjoyment. And what is more fitting than fellating him, using my mouth like a pussy, willing his body to impregnate my gullet with his seed?

‘Good,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Very good.’ He pats my head, running gnarled fingers through my hair. ‘Wrap your breasts around me, sonny. Nurse on my glans. We want the same thing here. You, to consume my seed. I, to have you consume it. This is how it should be between us, boyo. You’re a shadow of the man I am…but you can fill your belly with me, and savour my distinctive taste.’

‘Thank you, Master,’ I say, moving frantically. ‘Thank you.’

I’m licking my lips, starved and slutty, pathetic but pleased. I scramble, resting his weighty erection against my forehead as I bring up my breasts to engulf it as best as I can. All the while Archaelaus watches, smirking with smugness, a low-effort look to bask in the sight between his knees.

It must be an incredible thing, to be him. To know that this youth, a fraction of his years, is clamouring not merely to make him ejaculate but to gorge himself on the ejaculation itself.

‘Weak and young,’ Archaelaus says, tussling my hair. ‘Let us fill you with both strength and years.’

His cock throbs powerfully against my chest when I lift my breasts against it, a thing of iron-rigidity and terrible heat. Its veins bulge, a criss-cross lacing of thick protrusions that pulse with every beat of his ancient heart. It stinks divinely, of old man and mustiness, musky animalistic vigour, and Archaelaus’s unique sexual tang.

I wrap my tits around it, squeezing tight around its thickness. The warmth of his body is wonderful, the way his shrouded helmet rests against my chin, just before my lips. Our eyes meet, and I tremble beneath his gaze.

‘Please, Master. It would be an honour.’

The ancient mage pats my head, and chuckles. ‘Dutiful little slut, aren’t you, sonny? Milk me, boyo. Pull out my pride.’

Fup, schl-fup goes the sound of my boobs around his mast, the gnarled bulging monstrosity oozing from its tip a slickness that begins to lubricate the wrinkled folds of his foreskin. Fup, schl-fup every time I lift and lower my breasts, pushing them tight around his massive manhood. It pulses and shudders, pushing back against my soft pillowy chest. Fup, schl-fup, schplup!

I cannot help but marvel as his helmet bursts into view, springing free of its hooded confines. The huge purple crown atop his aged pole is forever wonderful, so fat and bulky, thickly-crested, gooey and slimy with pre-seed, stinking of ancient male mustiness and musky sexual tanginess.

The sight of it, the smell of it, the radiant warmth of it, have me lick my lips. ‘Pathetic, sonny. Is it really so appetising, the sight of an old man’s cock?’

I nod, stupidly, swiftly. ‘Yes, Master. It’s…it’s incredible.’ Mlep. Schlep. He trembles as I stick out my tongue, lapping at his glans. At the cum-slit, oozing stickiness. It’s so hot against my tastebuds, with a lustrous spongy texture to it. Firm and fat, rock-solid. And Archaelaus, virile and venerable, tastes good. ‘It’s better that you’re so old, Master. It’s right. You have needs, and…I want to take care of them.’

Schlup. Schmack.

‘Humph. Sonny.’ He strains, presses his hand atop my head. ‘By Azarlia, boyo.’

I push my lips over the front of his glans and stuff my mouth with it, all the while continuing the fup-fup-fup of my big bouncy breasts up and down against his turgid shaft. The ancient mage’s helmet is a gobstopper thing, straining my capacity to suck on it. Its contours are vast, bulky, pressing up against the roof of my mouth and flattening my tongue, upon which it spits a near-endless quantity of sticky oily salty-tangy precum.

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

Archaelaus weaves that curious magic, giving me a good view of the process internally. To witness his fat plum-purple prick’s bloated bell-end stuffed in my mouth, sitting there upon my tongue and constantly spurting his richly tasty pre-ejaculate, provokes a shiver up my spine. I glance up to find the old man’s eyes bright with blue light, and the smuggest smile upon his thin lips.

God, I want nothing more than to suck him off. To taste his semen.

Feed me, is the thought, as I mash my tits against his throbbing titan. Feed me, the urge that is so dirty and so perverse and yet so natural. Feed me, because the act of sucking cock and serving his sexual needs is somehow stupendously more satisfying compared to being fucked by him.

If he fucks me, yes, I get to orgasm.

And if I suck him, only Archaelaus gets to orgasm.

But somehow that’s…that’s better?

‘So young,’ he says, tussling my hair. ‘So young, when I’m so–humph–old. Azarlia truly is a sweet goddess, to grant me you. To give me a–ugh–bitch to use as I see fit.’

Fup-fup-fup. Schlup-schlick-schlap.

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

I bob my head, marvelling at the sight of his helmet slipping closer to my “camera” and then drawing backwards, convulsing faintly, its spongy silkiness straining and swelling with unspeakable need.

‘Such a beautiful thing, that my seed is so–humph–craved, boyo. Nothing else is quite so satisfying as having a sweet young–ughn–slut crave my ancient virility. Unenchanted essence, to be savoured and swallow.’ Archaelaus pats my scalp. ‘Slut. Whore. Cocksucker. An old man’s young, cum-crazed cocksucker.’

He applies that hand and pushes, urges at first gently and then forcefully, to deepen the bobbing of my head. The immensely plump purple head of his gnarled wizard’s stave threatens to prod at the “camera” in my throat, brushing up against my tonsils each time I complete the back-forth motion.

Fup-fup-fupf. Schlup-schlick-schlap.

I know what he wants. Know what he intends, what he’d hope will come to pass. The ancient wizard wants to use my throat like a cocksleeve, to treat my face like a pussy. And as much as the idea scares me…I’m curious, besides.

‘Deeper,’ Archaelaus says, pushing, guiding, urging. ‘Go on, sonny. Take my–humph–length. Take every inch, you little slut.’

The plum-purple crown fills up the entirety of the inner “camera”, preventing me from seeing anything else. And that third eye slides down, pushed aside, descending into my throat ahead of the huge precum-drooling glans that is just on the cusp of pushing into my gullet. Darkness has no impact, for the magical vision reveals all.

But the heat and presence of such a fat lump, so bulbous and grand, has me shiver and writhe. I should gag, shouldn’t I? But I don’t. The fact that I’ve got the ancient mage’s massive member jammed against my tonsils, the little dangling nub at the entrance to my throat resting against the fat gooey helmet of his gnarled and weathered pole, doesn’t seem to provoke the expected response.

I meet his gaze, those darkly intelligent eyes rimmed with a haze of blue magic. Archaelaus smiles at me, smug and proud, knowing that he’s going to get what he wants. Knowing that I’ve fallen so far from my initial rebellious state, and that resistance is an afterthought.

‘Go on, sonny. Let me use your mouth.’

He puts both of his hands atop my head, holding the sides of my scalp, thumbs across my forehead. A jilted crown, a twisted honour, to be held by such warm ancient fingers and palms. And when Archaelaus begins to push, to urge, I don’t resist. Resistance is something that no longer makes sense, no longer seems rational.

I’m struck by several converging sensations.

First is the incredibly illicit sight of the ancient mage’s member pushing past my tonsils and squeezing into the tightness of my throat, where that “camera” descends ahead of it, per Archaelaus’s mental command, so as to give me a proper view of what’s transpiring here. My gullet sucks upon it, grips down, such that its mushroom tip barges aside the silken pink flesh of my insides as it advances deeper and deeper into my torso.

Second is the physical consequences of this, the intense pressure and vulgar heat of having my throat stuffed by something so hugely fat and throbbing, radiating the powerful warmth of the old man’s body. It makes me feel so full, so utterly packed with something foreign. My lips are strained by his bumpy shaft, by the thick veins that run along it, and my tongue is pressed flat against the base of my mouth by his bulging cum-canal on the underside of his tremendous pole.

But thirdly, and most esoterically, is the mental realisation. Because as he penetrates my throat, Archaelaus seems incredibly pleased, and the sight of that pleasure – his contorted mouth, his widened eyes, his unbearable smugness – touches upon parts of my head that sorely long to worship him and tend to him and do the unspeakable. To submit, to belong to this old mage, to be nothing more than a toilet for his dick and his loads.

‘Humph. Go on, sonny. Swallow the whole damned thing.’

To view his cock as it slides into my gullet, to feel the strain of it, to hear the dirty pleasure in his voice, provokes a lust in me that nothing else ever has. This is right, so wrong as I might think it. Being here, being with him, feels normal. Feels nice.

For the first time in my life, my sexual needs are being met. Not in the way I ever imagined they would, but met all the same.

Glupg. Glugp. Glugp.

My throat produces a sordid sound as he penetrates it, as that thick gnarled length drives itself down into my torso. The captured helmet, its cum-slit wide and forever drooling, looks no less awfully appetising swallowed into my gullet than it did out in the air, though it possesses a distinct eroticism about it that previously was fainted, vaguer.

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

I groan around his shaft, half of it now stuffed into me. To look up at the old man, at his pot belly and hairiness, his saggy skin and liver spots, is to be awash with feelings of dirty depravity. Unconventionally attractive, and yet appealing because of his age, his maleness, his dominance.

‘Ugh. Good boy. Good cocksucker.’

And Archaelaus’s hands atop my head, fingers fondling as his aged grip commands me to bob my head and swallow inch after inch of his turgid throbbing thickness, provoke a sense of being wholly controlled, beaten, ruled over. Like I’m meant to be on my knees for this ancient mage, meant to submit to him, to service him, to belong to his whims.

His musky manliness grows richer, more pungent, as inch by inch my face slides further towards the hairy haven between his thighs. The twin vision of things, of the huge cock boring into me and the old male body ahead of me, provokes carnal wonder and strange appetites.

I want him inside of me. Want to bury my face in his pubes and balls. Long to be truly speared on Archaelaus and his great ancient stave.

Glugp. Schlup. Glugp.

‘Mumph. Mhm-hm.’

‘Dirty little slut,’ the old mage says, mussing up my hair. ‘Humph. This whore mouth is fit for–ughn–nothing more than using like a pussy.’ He trembles, shudders, but I can no longer look up at his face. His aged gut, growing and shrinking as he breathes, is the limit of my world with my eyes. ‘By Azarlia it wants my seed! You’re bloody–humph–milking me, sonny. Craving what only I can feed you!’

It's true. Filthy and fantastic and ever so true. I want sperm, want Archaelaus in his most concentrated and sensual form. God, once it seemed so wrong but it’s just natural, isn’t it? I am submissive, and he is dominant. He is the master, and I am the cocksucking slut. Maybe we’ll barely do anal, going forwards. Maybe it’ll just be lots and lots of blowjobs.

Maybe I should ask him to change the rules, so I can eat his semen for sustenance.

Glugp. Schlap. Glugp.

My throat produces a continued raucousness and I inch closer and closer to being smothered against his groin, those big virile nuts threatening to bounce against my chin and that musty old-man hair soon to engulf my nose. I put my hands on his hairy thighs for support, massaging them gently as his pubes tickle my skin. His potent manly musk is rich to the point of suffocating me, a perversely welcome fragrance.

And inside my throat, that third eye witnesses it all. The ancient mage’s monster member, sliding back and forth, being thoroughly tended to, sucked upon by my hungry gullet, radiates heat and pulses and throbs, and looks at once so enticing and so fearsome.

‘Humph. Sonny. Oh, my.’

My lips press against the hairy base of his liver-spotted length, and his warm pleasantly smelly nuts wobble against my chin, their weight and potency undeniable. Archaelaus’s balls shudder, rising and falling, taunting me in a fashion. Hinting, in some darkly beautiful way, that they’re packed with that thing I so hungrily crave.

The old mage pats my head, and plays with my hair. ‘Remarkable, boyo. Truly remarkable.’

His words, his grandfatherly voice, provoke a carnal fuzziness. There’s something vulgarly charming about the ancient man, with his peculiar manner of dominance. Roughness isn’t needed here, because I’m too far gone. This man could warp reality, could change my mind, but he doesn’t have to.

I’ve naturally, instinctually, succumbed to his powerful lusts.

Exemplified, I’m sure, by nothing greater than the presence of his erection jammed right down my throat. To breathe now is to inhale through the filter of his furry crotch, to smell old man and virile vigour. Any movements of my mouth and face result in a feeling of being overtly stretched, and the warm embrace of those enormous testicles that dance and shift against my chin.

That his little old-man paunch presses against my forehead, more prominently each time he takes a slow and satisfied breath, only enhances the exciting eroticism of the scene. Of this choice I’ve made, to become a shadow of my former self.

A cocksucking whore for a man aged beyond reason.

‘Mumph. Mhm.’

Schlup. Schlap.

I move my mouth and continue to suckle, nursing on that immensely salacious spear that has taken claim of my face and throat. Archaelaus trembles, shivers, all the more so as I begin to slide my hands up his thighs and touch, for the first time, that slight overhanging gut. I’m engulfed by this filthy notion to touch his hairy belly, to play with the old man’s form, despite finding him in a sense so straightforwardly unattractive.

‘You like my body–humph–don’t you, sonny?’

‘Mhm-hm.’

He chuckles. ‘It’s real, isn’t it, boyo? If I were some pretty young thing, this wouldn’t be so primal. Ughn. So natural.’ Archaelaus pats my head. ‘But you can’t pretend this isn’t an ancient male body, can you? You’re just a slutty young man, worshipping me. Treating me like a god.’

He’s right. God, he’s right. It’s so weird and so wonderful, praying to him in this fashion. Basking in his smells and his warmth, throat thoroughly stuffed with an enormous wizened male member, aware that this thing turns me on like nothing else on Earth. But…I’m not on Earth, am I?

What a powerful notion. All of that reluctance, ultimately, stems from a place of fearing the judgement of others. But what others? The only person here, the only other mind, is that of Archaelaus, who is at his sheer happiest, is most pleased with me, when I’m on my knees and tending to him.

Schlap. Schlup.

I suck on him as best I can, orally skewered on his prodigious stave. The old man plays with my hair and chuckles lustily as I begin massaging his hairy gut, relishing the aged roughness of his skin and the wiry nature of his iron-grey body hair.

‘That’s it, sonny. Humph. Enjoy my body as much as I–ugh–enjoy yours.’

‘Mhm-hm. Mumph.’

Without that reservation holding me back, I can. I can enjoy the ancient wizard’s flabby weathered form, and relish the way it sets my loins aflame and fills my head with the most lurid of possibilities. Soon, Archaelaus is going to produce a big batch of baby batter. Soon, his ancient testicles will release billions of ancient sperm, and so what if I want to taste it?

Of course, I want to taste it! I want to taste him, want to taste this body, want to taste his age and power, his insane virility. I want to affirm him as my master, and myself as his bitch.

And as soon as that thought occurs, Archaelaus releases me.

‘We’re right where we need to be, sonny,’ the old man says. ‘Forgive me for intruding on your thoughts, but I don’t want to ejaculate into your belly if I can avoid it. I want to see my soldiers on your taste buds, boyo. I want you to taste my lineage now, and later today, and several times each and every day before you leave me.’ He sounds almost…severe? Sad? ‘I want you to choose, sonny. Do you want to taste the semen of a two-hundred-and-seventy-year-old man again, or do you want it in your belly? Release and intimacy of the highest order, or release and some degree of separation? Take your pick. Be honest, or lie.’

Funny. Just a few minutes ago, I’d have stayed put. But I’m not on Earth, am I?

I’m not on Earth at all!

‘I do so love it when you’re–humph–bold, boyo.’

There’s a wet sound, a schplop, when his huge helmet slips out of my tightly sealed mouth. His entire shaft is glistening with spit, slathered in saliva. Holy shit, I took it all. Holy shit, I had his gut against my forehead and his balls against my chin. Wow.

‘Change the rules, Master,’ I say, taking hold of his member. Archaelaus looks surprised, bushy eyebrows raising. ‘Please, Master. Make it so that you can feed me. I want to enjoy our time together to the fullest, and I want to be fed from your body. I’m your cumdump bitch, Master, so please feed me. Please change the rules.’

The old man’s face shifts, surprise becoming carnal glee, unbearable smugness of a sort that only Archaelaus has ever managed to wear. Nobody else, in all my life, has ever presented such a resolute expression of vulgar arrogance.

His eyes momentarily flare, and he chuckles. ‘There, sonny. It’s done. Go on, boyo. Suck out that heavy ancient load.’

‘Thank you, Master. Thank you!’

He trembles the moment I press my lips to his huge purple helmet, the fat lustrous plum salty-sticky and delicious as it slips inside my mouth to be nursed on, to be suckled, to be worshipped. I take hold of his gnarled stave and begin to stroke him, massaging his wizened pole with lurid intensity.

‘Humph. Oh, sonny. Oh, how right this is.’

Archaelaus parts his skinny knees, which tremble periodically as my efforts cause his pendulous testicles to wobble and sway. A powerful throb shudders up his erection, some foreshadowing of the inevitable eruption that is shortly to arrive. And as our eyes meet, his wet with pride, mine doubtless alight with perverse hunger, the old wizard does that thing again, reveals the contents of my mouth to me.

God, his bell-end looks insanely impressive, sat there at the mercy of tongue and cheeks, to be worshipped and tended to and treated like risqué royalty.

Schlup. Slurp.

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

I can’t believe how much this turns me on, how exciting it is. Any moment now, the old mage is going to ejaculate, and that prodigiously plump penis-head with its noticeable cum-slit is going to shoot out something thick and undeniably delicious. The semen of an older man, a better man than I’ll ever be.

And where before this seemed so shameful, now it seems so right. This is the utmost degradation, the utmost humiliation, to be captive in this mage’s tower and now having consented to him feeding me his jism in lieu of food.

Schlap. Schlurp.

‘Mhm-hm.’

Archaelaus rests a hand atop my head and plays with my hair, looking serene. As pleased as anyone can possibly be. What glory it must imbue in him, to know that I’ve fallen so far, to know that I’m at this point where I enjoy this act, this loveless but lascivious deed, so thoroughly that I want to be fed from his ancient sagging liver-spotted loins.

‘Good boy, sonny. You’re such a good–humph–filthy young man. By Azarlia, how I’ve wanted this. All these years I’ve–ughn–wanted a servant just like you, who asks only to please me, only to worship me.’ His eyes are mad, with arcane fire and unbound perversion. ‘And here we are, boyo. Here we are, right where–humph–each of us belongs!’

His pendulous nuts pulse, and his rhythmic bodily convulsions suggest that my filthy feast is rapidly approaching. I stare at his face and stare at his engulfed glans, witnessing with lurid marvel how the latter flares and fattens while I tend to his girth. Something shudders up his length, a bulge real or imagined.

And then the eyelet of his helmet expands, releasing a dense quantity of creamy white.

‘Ughn. Sonny!’

Archaelaus’s first rope of ejaculate gushes out across my waiting tastebuds, his healthy ancient sperm swimming freely inside my mouth. They bring with them a pungency, an aged flavour. Somewhat salty, somewhat tangy, extremely rich and unmistakeably creamy. Virile and hot, brewed up in the old wizard’s loins.

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

I swirl his seed around, lavishing in its presence. The mental image of this viscous nut butter churning with billions of fat-headed white tadpoles is quickly made redundant, the mage doing his thing and giving me a good look at the little sperms as they dart about across my tastebuds.

He releases more in spurts and shots, utterly covering my tongue in his pride. And pride is the word, because Archaelaus looks ever so pleased with himself. Knowing that his lineage is slathered across my tastebuds, burning its distinctive old-man flavour into my head. Clearly so virile, so strangely delicious.

‘Never going to–humph–go without again, sonny,’ Archaelaus says, patting my head. ‘I want you on your slutty knees as much as–ugh–possible, from now on. Whatever dreams you had, forget them. Your place is here, boyo. Here, on your knees, consuming what only I can–humph–give you.’

And as I begin to swallow the first heaving mouthful, I find it difficult to doubt him. What have I really done with my life? What have I really achieved? What do I really want?

A girlfriend, a job, a house, kids, retirement, death?

Schlap. Slurp.

I keep sucking on his helmet, and Archaelaus rewards me with three-century-old baby batter, thick and rich and ropey. One shot hits the side of my mouth, covering my teeth. Another completely blasts my tongue, drenching it in carnal custard. A third hits the roof of my mouth at the back, dangling low. All of it’s full to the brim with little swimmers, billions of gene carriers, all of them seeming to be right where they belong.

‘Ughn. Damn, sonny, you just keep–humph–sucking!’

Is it so wrong, that I find this so satisfying? I’m in a fantasy world, in the presence of a tremendously powerful man, and yet in some strange sense he’s at my mercy. Oh, I’m degrading myself, humiliating myself, rendering myself some cocksucking cumdump, but with Archaelaus I’m not just somebody on the street. Somebody a sneaky demon swapped to save itself from ending up here.

I’m Archaelaus’s suck-slut bitch, and the apparent centre of the world in the eyes of this great and terrible wizard.

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

Schlurp. Schlup.

It gives me no end of pleasure to watch his swimmers tangle and clump across my tastebuds, knowing that they carry his strong and healthy genes. I can’t compete with the mighty old mage, I’m a shadow of him.

But fuck, can I eat his loads!

‘By Azarlia, sonny, you’re perfect,’ he says, roughly tussling my hair. ‘Dick-guzzling little cretin, that’s what–ughn–you are.’ The old mage chuckles coarsely, whole body wracked with tantalising tremors. More of his rich elderly man milk is always on its way. ‘That demon did us both a favour! Giving you–humph–purpose, and giving me a hungry man-whore. Barely a man as you are, all the same. Fit only to–ugh–gulp down ancient lineage.’

‘Mhm. Mhm-hm.’

Slurp. Schlack.

My belly starts to bulge with his endless quantities of seed, and he periodically shows me the interior of my stomach, completely swarming with his fat-headed white soldiers. I’m a toilet for his ejaculate, a dumpster for his loads. And fuck, nothing could be more perfect. No other flavour is so wickedly wonderful, and no other sensation so satisfyingly sordid.

I swallow, and he produces. I swallow, and he produces. I swallow, and he produces. It just keeps coming, and it’s so sating. His pendulous hairy testicles keep rising and falling, releasing mouthful after mouthful of satiating sperm, and my belly keeps growing heavier with his richly aged tangy cream.

Yet when at last the old mage is done, and he sighs in pleasant relief, I’m still sucking. Still lavishly applying my attention to his bell-end, the beautiful and intimidating lump of purple cockmeat which so thoroughly fills my mouth. Archaelaus grunts and shivers, sensitive and softening slowly. He pats my head, and chuckles.

‘You can have seconds, sonny,’ he says, smirking down at me. The smug certainly of the look bristles his nose hair. ‘But I don’t imagine I’ll be getting much work on the spell done today, if any. Is that what you want, boyo? An extra day here, to enjoy my semen?’

With great trepidation – both wary of what to say, and also not wanting to take his cock from my lips – I slowly pull backwards, freeing his helmet. It’s a little bit hard to look at Archaelaus properly, because it reminds me that I’ve passingly lost myself. Lost control. If he phrases it like that, it sounds…pretty bad.

It sounds like there’s an actual degree of choice, that for some insane reason I could actually choose to service him instead of going home.

Going home to that world where…where I’m nobody.

Leave this world, where I’m Archaelaus’s bitch.

‘A day wouldn’t hurt, Master,’ I say, licking my lips. ‘Would it?’

‘No, sonny.’ He gives my head an affectionate pat. ‘It wouldn’t hurt at all.’

 

Schlup. Schlack.

‘Humph. That’s it, boyo. That’s my–ugh–boy.’

It’s the first time I’ve ever been this high up the tower, to the old mage’s bedroom he never uses on account of being – so far as I know – sleepless. The round room is large and spacious, with a four-poster bed in the middle, exposed on all sides. The north and sound walls are arcane in nature, open to the elements yet possessing a magical barrier on each that prevents the outside frigidity from creeping in, though the perpetual snowstorm adds a certain aesthetic that I find very pleasing.

Not as pleasing as his ancient liver-spotted testicles, however.

I’m on my knees, as I should be, and Archaelaus is laid across the bed with his legs hanging parted over the edge of it. Slowly but surely I tug on his massive member, keeping it rigidly aroused while lapping at the hairs of his sagging loins and tracing out the wrinkles of that aged sack with my tongue, all the while preparing his body to feed me another enormous bellyful of rich old-man nut butter.

How many has it been now? How long has it been? Archaelaus didn’t simply change the rules such that I could consume his cum as sustenance, but he’s done something to how my body copes with the sheer quantity of his spooge as well. Like my stomach is now some gastric bag of holding, ensuring that while my belly is distinctly bulging with his endless ejaculate it will grow no larger, despite the interior receiving more and more and more.

‘Mhm-hm.’

Schlap. Slurp.

From time to time he’ll lift his head and smirk down at me, all perverse with pride, but for the most part he’s happy to just lay back and be tended to. It’s clearly what he likes, this act of worship, this attendance to his sexual needs without any regard for myself. We both clearly enjoy, in our disparate ways, this idea that I’m an outlet and he’s a virile male in need of service.

I simply adore his balls, to the extent that I could suck on either one for hours. The wrinkles, the hairs, the potent old-man mustiness of them, and the suggestion of tremendous masculine might that each of them exudes is altogether wonderful. And so readily do they produce replacement tadpoles for those sent into my belly, which can thankfully hold a seemingly infinite volume of his virility.

‘Ughn. Wonderful,’ Archaelaus says, trembling. ‘Simply wonderful.’

I’m so filthy, so sordidly smitten with this. With this most incredibly illicit of relationships. It feels like such a strange honour to be basking in this old man’s body smells, to be tasting his heavy hairy hangers, to be working to please him and to receive his clearly tremendous genes right across my insatiable tongue. Age has clearly done wonders to the quality of his ejaculate, making it perversely perfect, dangerously delicious.

I realise that as much as I enjoy this sublimely sexual act with him, this is as far as it goes. Archaelaus sees me as I am starting to see myself, as a tool, as a pet, as a cocksucker. Not that I’d ever want to love him, not that I’d ever find him conventionally attractive, but…if I stay, then I have to accept that this will be my nourishment, physically and emotionally.

That intimacy, forever more, will consist of slutty oral service.

I’m thinking about it, aren’t I? I don’t have to go back. Go back to what, after all? Being nothing, being nobody. Not like I am here, clearly valued. Clearly possessing a purpose.

Schlup. Schlurp. ‘Mhm.’

As I nurse on his bloated balls, which rhythmically pulse and shudder, his hairy pot-belly rises and falls, and I find myself following it with my gaze. My tugging hands produce a continual schfup, schfup, schfup from the wetness of his foreskin-clad helmet, and the sloppy sounds of my lips and tongue, working hard to pleasure his sagging loins, fills my ears enticingly.

When Archaelaus lifts his head, our eyes meeting again, I don’t shy away. I blush beneath his smug smirk, of course, but I don’t cower. The old mage chuckles warmly.

‘I’m going to miss you, sonny,’ he says, going so far as to reach for my scalp and passingly play with my hair. His touch provokes, as it ever does, a low trembling. ‘Will you miss me, boyo?’

I pause, leaving his left nut with a kiss, a lick, and a brief suck. ‘I’m not going yet, Master.’

‘But you will, won’t you? You want to return to that world of yours. I bet if I had the spell ready right now, you’d stop what you’re doing and leave.’

For some reason, that thought seems an enemy of sorts. Something to reject, and refuse. If I were to leave now, mid-act, I wouldn’t get the lurid luxury of fellating the old mage’s prodigious penis, experiencing again its heat and hugeness, its salty-bitter precum, and of course, Archaelaus wouldn’t flood my mouth with his geriatric sperm.

‘I’m…I’m not so sure about that,’ I say, leaning forwards, resting my face beside his upright turgidity. His pubes tickle my skin, wiry and wild, silvery grey. ‘I don’t want to stop, Master.’

The old mage pats the back of my head. ‘You really do like it, don’t you, boyo? Serving me. Tending to my needs.’

I slowly nod. ‘Yes, Master.’ Mwah. I dip forwards, kissing his furry mound, inhaling deeply of his rich masculine scents. ‘I…really do.’

Pressing my lips against the base of his perverse pole, filling my nose with his smells and wispy curls, I begin smooching my way up. Smack. Mwah. Wet sounds, carnal affection, delivered upon the old mage’s gnarled, liver-spotted member. All the while he plays with my hair, all the while I find myself at ease with this situation, at ease with this state of affairs so far away from what I originally hoped for.

And as I near the hooded crown of his gargantuan male organ, the old-man tang of precum and seniority wafting into my senses, I hesitate. Hesitate, and smile like the slut I am, wanting that thing which seemed gruesome before. I behold the old mage, with his pot belly and wrinkles and marks of years, with his salt-and-pepper hairiness, with his wicked smile and yellowing teeth between those thin vicious lips, and I really do want this.

I really do want to taste his body, again, and again, and again. All the better that the altered rules can do something as perverse as make a meal out of what is otherwise considered wholly vulgar. To hold his rod upright with one hand, to fondle his spit-slick balls with the other, invites that illicit insight into the fact that sooner or later, Archaelaus is going to be ejaculating in my mouth again. Sooner or later, I’m going to be swallowing his thick, ancient load. And for my sperm-crazed slutty self, little else is half so arousing.

‘Stay,’ he says, as I reach the tip. ‘Become my apprentice, sonny.’

‘What? I thought I was…I thought you just wanted a cocksucker?’

‘I do.’ Archaelaus grins, ear to hairy ear. ‘But we can pretend, can’t we? You can pretend that one of these days, I’ll release my mana among those big batches of seed you gulp down. It’ll never happen, of course…but we can pretend.’

The fact that I’d know, in that fickle human way, doesn’t bother me. I could ask him to shift my memory, of course, but the fun would fade. Sometimes, orchestrating a game, creating a situation where the lie is known but treated as truth regardless, is a thousandfold hotter than being genuinely truthful. The crux of so many human endeavours.

‘It says a lot about me,’ I say, beginning to gently tug on his foreskin, to reveal the perfect plump plum atop his prodigious penis, ‘that I’m finding it harder and harder to reject the idea that staying here, living on my knees, is actually a more meaningful existence than whatever I’d find back on Earth.’

As his helmet breaks free of the silken folds of his skin, a rich shade of purple, lustrous and glossy and gargantuan, I lick my lips. If I go, I’ll miss this. If I stay, I’ll have it in my mouth most of my waking hours. This will be practically the sum total of my affection, my romantic and sexual needs, met by the risqué release of viscous venerable seed from the weighty hairy testicles of a man older than any other.

‘What it says about you, boyo, is that you realise the quality of the great man before you, and know that you’ll never do better,’ Archaelaus says. He cups my chin with wrinkled furry fingers, brushing gently. ‘Some men are simply born to service their betters, sonny. You can go back to Earth and try to find a man to worship as you worship me, but I don’t imagine you ever will.’ Slowly but surely, he lifts his hand to the top of my head. ‘That mouth should belong to me, that I might feed your slutty body real male semen. Stay and serve me, apprentice. Stay, and serve a better man than you’ll ever be.’

His glans stares at me, for all intents the most powerful presence in my universe. Once it seemed so repulsive, the endpoint of an erection belonging to a very old, and very unappealing man. But to look upon it now, to marvel at its plum-purple prominence, at its broad and noble contours, paired with my appreciation of Archaelaus and his obvious quality as a man…it’s more appealing than any woman has ever been.

I could stay, couldn’t I? I could stay here, and service him, and never go back.

‘Can…can we make a deal?’

Archaelaus smirks. ‘A deal, sonny?’

‘Finish the spell, and let me go home if at some point decide to, but in return…I’ll admit that at this point in time, I don’t want to go back. And that the longer I stay here, the less I want to leave.’ I lick at my lips, glancing between his wizened face and his aged manhood. ‘Is that okay, Master? I’ll suck you off as often as you want, and probably more than that. I might never leave. But I want the choice.’

The old man chuckles heartily, grins toothily. ‘Sonny, do you really think the most powerful magus of all time can’t simply send you back on a whim?’

He clicks his finger and, in the archway leading to the snowy world beyond the tower, a kind of doorway appears. A rift in space and time, looking out upon my house at night. Earth. Home. My old home, at least. Archaelaus even goes so far as to conjure a bird from thin air and let it fly through, disappearing into the vision beyond. It looks so truthful, so accurate, that it’s either a vision of the place or an actual portal.

‘You…lied,’ I say, but without anger. With a kind of humour, actually. How could I be so stupid? This is Archaelaus the Great. I’ve read all the stories in the library, embellished or otherwise. ‘You lied to keep me here.’

The old mage chuckles. ‘You don’t seem upset, sonny. Don’t you think things might’ve been different, if you hadn’t stayed? You might not be about to get another mouthful of ancient tadpoles, for a start.’

I turn from the portal to the wizard, then gaze again upon his glans. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For, lying. It’s so much better this way.’

It’s strange, how effortless my affection for him comes. Mwah. A kiss, upon his huge helmet. Mlep. A lick, as I roll my tongue about its contours, tasting a fresh glaze of salty-bitter precum. Schlup. And then I spread my lips and take his bell-end into the slutty sanctum of my mouth, belonging to Master.

‘Humph. You’re welcome, sonny.’ Archaelaus dissipates the portal and pats my head, musses up my hair. ‘I knew you’d make the right choice. You can spend as much of eternity as you like on those dutiful knees, boyo. There’s plenty more–ugh–of my little white wrigglers for you to rehome.’

Schlack. Shlurp. Schlep.

As ever, he shows me my prize, throat “camera” beholding the bulbous bulk of his bell-end as it bathes in the worshipful ministrations of my tongue and cheeks. Archaelaus’s member releases a heavy dollop of dick juice, of old-man mouth-basting lubricant, salty and oily and bitter, some appetiser for the viscously virile meal his loins are preparing to load my tastebuds with.

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

‘Ughn. This is your true nature, boyo,’ Archaelaus says, widening his legs. ‘I lied, and you reward me for it. You had me change the rules, made sustenance in this place out of my semen. Humph.’ He chuckles, groans, and his hulking helmet swells and strains inside my mouth. ‘I could send you home in a heartbeat, but you won’t go. You won’t ever go, because this right here, on your knees, is your true nature. A cocksucker. A cumdump.’

Slurp. Schlap. Schleck.

Yes! He’s right, oh God, he’s right!

‘Mhm-hm. Mumph.’

‘Work for that–humph–sperm, sonny. It’s all you’re good for.’

I bob my head passionately, in total agreement. I’m nothing more than a masturbatory aid, an outlet for his needs, a prized plaything. The way his mighty manhood slides back and forth across my tongue, so bulky and beautiful, finding no resistance, shows the utter truth of it. Shows that I am, at base, nothing more than a bitch, a slut, a seed-guzzler.

Schlup. Schlick.

His penis is profoundly perfect, ideal for sucking. The glans is just so fat, so appealing, that rich shade of purple and the thickness of its firmly-curved crown. Lustrous tissue, spongy yet solid, that brushes against the roof of my mouth, across my tongue, delivering spurt after dribble of his aged salty-bitter pre-ejaculate, a taste I could happily experience forever. A taste I might well experience forever.

‘Ugh. Good boy. Worship your master.’

‘Mumph. Mhm.’

If he hadn’t lied, I’d be back home. I’d not have these unwieldy tits and curves, not be this dick-sucking shadow of the man I was. But no. No, I’d be less than I am. I’d not be the personal suck-slave of Archaelaus the Great, oldest and mightiest mage of this world that’s now my home. This tower, that’s now my place.

Schlap. Schlurp.

I slide one hand down his pole, using the other to keep its enormity steady while I suckle. Finding a fat testicle, I message its hairy loose sack, fondly fondling the lurid lump beneath with deft and affectionate fingers.

Archaelaus is smiling, and it fills me with pride. Not quite the same pride he’s soon to fill my mouth and stomach with, but pride all the same. A sense of purpose, of duty, dirty though it may be. To worship this powerful man, to be his personal bitch, is a fate finer than any I had ever imagined for myself.

Slurp. Schlack.

God, I want to taste his sperm again, ever so badly. I know I will, I know that it won’t be long, but even so, it affirms my choice. There’s no harm in staying here, in belonging to the perverse old mage, if I can’t think of a finer fate. In bobbing my head, in tasting his salty-bitter precum, in filling my mouth with the plump prominence of his ancient purple plum, I know that this is right. That this is just where I need to be, right about now.

‘Ughn. That’s it, sonny. I’ll feed you plenty of–ugh–old-man milk, don’t you worry your sweet slutty head about it.’

He musses up my hair and I groan low and lusty, with a mouthful of his mighty male organ. We both know what this is, both know what’s coming. Him, soon, ideally. And as his testicle, captive in one of my hands, seems to writhe and ripple with urgency, I realise that it won’t be long until I’m tasting him again. Tasting his strong, ancient, profound virility. Tasting the baby batter of a man with a cock and balls much superior to my own.

God, it feels right to be his bitch.

Schleck. Schlurp. Schlap.

‘Mhm-hm. Mumph.’

‘Oh, sonny. Humph. Ugh.’

Archaelaus’s gait naturally widens, and he grits his teeth together. His breathing is quicker, the throbbing of his prodigious pole becoming that much more forceful. As his legs quiver and quake on either side of me, as his testicle shifts and shudders against my palm and fingers, instinct has me ready myself to flatten my tongue beneath the beautiful plum purple of his bulky bell-end.

With that inner eye I stare at it, stare at the opulent organ which dominates my mouth, asserting itself over this dirty domain that belongs to Archaelaus, belongs to his penis, belongs to his rich, creamy, mature seed. To watch as the cum-slit of his glans drools and begins to widen in the most infinitesimal of manners fills me with a gruesome hunger, a pathetic passion for what is most primal and perverse about this whole ordeal. This contended admittance that yes, Archaelaus is a better man than I am, and that yes, I will prove it to him day-in, day-out, by eagerly working his penis for a taste of his semen, and to fill my belly with his superior sperm.

‘Humph. It’s coming, boyo. Your purpose in life is–ughn–coming. You cocksucking cumdump. You–guh–wretched young man. Here comes the meaning of–argh–life!’

I flatten my tongue low, and inwardly smile. His nut pulsates proudly in my hand, cupped against my palm and between my fingers. The surge of salty-tangy creaminess is on its way, I can feel it. A trillion sperm mixing with the dense ropey stuff produced by his ancient form, ready to spurt out across my hungry slutty tastebuds. The taste of the world’s greatest magus, Archaelaus. The taste that has, without any magic or hex, turned me into his personal cocksucking cumslut bitch.

His huge helmet flares, and then spits. A dense squirt of ancient seed splashes forth across the pink blade of my tongue, hot and heavy, richly creamy. ‘Mhm-hm.’ I moan instantly around his member as the voluminously virile sperm of this older, stronger, wiser, better man than I’ll ever be swim about my tastebuds. That he’s allowing me the luxury of tasting him is an honour in itself. That I’m going to taste every single fat-headed tadpole produced by his balls, going to be the source of every climax he succumbs to going forwards, and going to be sated only by his rich aged semen, provokes a mad fluttering of my eyes and a perverse madness through my thoughts.

‘By Azarlia, boy, you’re perfect,’ Archaelaus says. ‘The perfect–ughn–cocksucker.’

The old man’s plump purple bell-end swells and produces another dense deposit of musky man milk, causing me to quake and quiver as it completely covers my tastebuds. A tremble courses through me as it becomes undeniable, that again I am tasting the ejaculate of a man several hundred years older than me. The eyelet of his glans, sat atop my tongue, has a string of seed oozing from it.

With a quiver it expels that residual rope, and shoots a new, fatter spurt of my master’s would-be heirs. The way he trembles, moans aloud, venerable and victorious, sends chills down my back. His flavour is exquisite, so erotic, so distinctly dirty. With his magic in full swing, I get glimpses of the contents, the sperm cells, which are both endless in quantity and doubtless of the finest quality.

‘Humph. Oh, yes.’ Archaelaus lifts his head and looks to me, grinning from ear to hairy ear. I shiver at the strength of his gaze, the smugness, the possessive pride. That I’m tasting his genes is a wonderful thing. That this man can feed me from his loins, can produce such stupidly heavy loads, is insane. ‘Some more of your lord and master for you, boyo. Ugh.’

He grunts, thin lips twisting. His helmet strains, swells, delivers a thick string of semen that launches from it and lands among the growing pool upon my tongue, utterly swimming with his lineage. My eyelids flutter, and Archaelaus seems stupendously satisfied. Fuck, I love his cock, and adore his sperm. Feed me, Master! Feed me!

To my surprise, the old mage laughs. ‘I will, sonny.’ He winks at me. ‘You have your place and I have–ugh–mine. So swirl that muck about and get a good proper taste, boyo. You’re a cumdump, now. Humph!’

Archaelaus the Great thoroughly explodes, halfway filling my mouth with his recipe. The lower half of his helmet disappears into the sea of swimmers, but continues to erupt, some carnal caldera capable of producing a vigorous volume of virility. My eyes roll back into their sockets and, somehow, I begin to orgasm. Out of the blue, my body, so subservient to this wizened and wicked man, decides to send me over the edge of bliss.

Master chuckles as I cum into my robes, his sperm rolling about in my mouth. ‘Good slut. Good cocksucker. Ughn.’

‘Mhm-hm. Mhugh.’

His taste is distinct, as ever, but I love it. Crave it. Thick, in some parts knotted, jelly-like, and it all gives way to saltiness, to mature agedness, to richness and buttery creaminess, a faint nuttiness in parts. The taste of an old man’s seed, the taste of his genetic payload, the taste of his orgasm in semi-liquid form. And yes, I swirl it about, do my best to get it all around, but ultimately he loads my mouth to the point that swallowing is a necessity.

Archaelaus trembles as I gulp down my first full mouthful, relishing the gooey thickness as it slides down my throat in globules and sticky bursts, warming me throughout its passage towards my belly. Naturally, the aged magician grunts and releases another banquet of perverse proportions, splattering my tastebuds in his marvellous man milk. A second orgasm hits, or perhaps the first simply rises to greater glory, and I squirm about just as his tadpoles do upon my tongue. The sight of his gargantuan glans, so mighty and massive, spewing freely, instils a profound sense of awe. This man so naturally dominates me, and it simply seems right that he should do so.

‘By Azarlia, boyo, nothing comes close to the satisfaction you’re giving me,’ Archaelaus says, as I swirl my tongue about his big batch of baby batter. ‘Swallow, sonny. Swallow, and absorb my essence into your body.’ He grins at me, cheeks flush, eyes mad with carnal contentment. ‘That look on your face, cocksucker. Humph. You look ever so pleased with yourself.’

As his glans dispenses another excessive eruption of jelly-like jism, filling my mouth to the point that I badly need to swallow, I’m sure I look stupidly happy. His helmet is so huge and hot between my lips, against my tongue. His titanic testicles tremble excitingly against one of my hands, just as his throbbing thickness pulsates the other one.

Schlup. Schlurp.

‘Mhm. Mumph.’

Nothing is so intimate as being fed, fresh from the old man’s balls, his most illicit of substances. Every burst of seed, savoured then swallowed, makes my belly that much plumper, some larder of lasciviousness. Archaelaus grunts and groans, and all I can do is watch and relish him, honour him in this most perverse of ways, loving every moment of it.

I’m not sure how long it goes on for, but I am well-fed by the time the last sizeable squirt lurches forth of his helmet. All throughout the old mage strokes my head and plays with my hair, smirking away. He’s won, and that’s okay. He’s won, and I’m rather glad that he did.

‘Good boy. Humph. Good cocksucker.’

I meet his eyes as he speaks so dirtily, and accept this fate. Something about the way he touches me, the way he considers me with such dominant affection, makes everything better. I’m in his thrall, in his service, and I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Schleck. Slurp.

With every mouthful and swallow, I’m alluringly aware that his sperm are swimming out of him, onto my tongue, into my belly. My gut bulges with his pride, my insides some final resting place for yet another of his large, lurid loads. Even on the fourth mouthful, the seventh, the tenth, his flavour is still so rich and distinctive, so carnal and creamy. Man milk, male essence, a virile vintage fresh out of Archaelaus the Great.

But, of course, sadly, all things must come to an end.

‘Ugh. There, sonny. I think that’s it for now.’

The ancient mage sighs comfortably as his last mouthful splashes forth, no less dense than those which came before it. To witness the final spurt, to witness as my tongue yet again is clad in his cum, provokes a shiver that suggests I am not in the least used to this. All the better for it, really. If I’m going to get this much pleasure, each and every time I blow him…

I swirl the stuff about, getting a passing glimpse – via his magic – of the fat-headed tadpoles swimming across my tastebuds. So much thick baby batter, lineage in distilled form, churning about in my mouth. And this time, at least, I don’t swallow straight away. This time, I pull back and leave his proud plum glistening with spit, its last generous gooey gift barely diluting with spit.

‘Come, boy,’ Archaelaus says, urging me towards him with his hand on my head. ‘Come and rest. I’ll feed you again, very soon.’

It’s a weird sort of intimacy, to be brought forwards. To have my face come to rest against his body, partway between his hairy crotch and his furry pot-belly. His aged flesh is warm, old-man fragrant, and surprisingly comforting. My breathing slows, and I keep tasting his healthy genes, keep relishing the reward delivered hot and heavy from his big balls.

‘You stay here for so long as you want, sonny. This is your place, boyo. This is where your life has meaning. You know it to be true.’

I glance up at his gaze and find, despite the smugness and veiled mockery – albeit of a peculiarly affectionate breed – something that suggests he, at least, finds his own words to be truthful. That beyond self-interest, I am indeed appreciated here.

And…if I can leave at any time…and if his sperm tastes so good, and is so satisfying to pull out of his clearly potent body…

…then perhaps it won’t matter to stay for so long as I want?