Chapter Seven #3
Ethyr curled his lip. Yorith turned to walk out, pausing in front of him and peering down with those severe eyes. “You will learn how to control your expressions and emotions as well,” he said. “I will see you tomorrow. Good night.” He walked out.
Ethyr stared after him for a stunned minute, then scrunched his face harder and stuck his tongue out at the space the priest had been. He closed the door and flopped onto his bed, burying his face into the quilt with a groan.
After a moment he rolled to his back and stared at the purple veil covering the top of the bed. It was well past dark now, but having woken so late, he wasn’t tired at all.
He thought of the previous night, put on display, legs held open…
his face burned and he grabbed a pillow to shove over it.
It hadn’t been at all like the eyes in the palace, waiting or judging or critical.
The gods’ eyes on him had been soft, savoring, hungry.
The memory shot a spark down his stomach into his groin.
He slowly pulled the pillow from his face and glanced at the door, shut and silent. It was late enough now that most of the palace was probably asleep. He retrieved the book from the chest and sat to look through it again.
The depictions were certainly creative. It seemed if something fit inside a hole, it would eventually go there. He couldn’t even imagine what it might feel like to be entered like that.
His face was burning again. He put the book away, changed into the nightshirt, and got into bed, staring at the dancing light from the fire and willing himself to sleep.
But he couldn’t. The longer he lay there the more his mind drifted to the previous night, and the following—what it might entail.
The book couldn’t have been given to him for nothing, if everything inside was not a possibility.
He dragged himself out of bed, staring hard at the door as he retrieved the book again, heart pounding with a guilty, face-burning thrill.
He laid stomach-down on the bed, propping the book on the pillows and flipping thoughtfully through it.
He stopped at an illustration of two men, one sucking cock on his hands and knees while the receiver reached over the other’s back to stuff his fingers inside him.
Ethyr propped himself up on his hands and knees. He sucked on two fingers until they were coated in saliva, then bit his lip and slowly pressed them into his ass. He didn’t get them in before he hissed in pain. Two weren’t going to fit. He switched to one, and that drove in easily.
What a strange sensation. It wasn’t pleasurable, really, just awkward.
But Ainder had had his fingers deep into Gallus, who had sounded like he enjoyed it thoroughly.
The memory warmed Ethyr’s face again and stirred in his hips.
He squeezed his eyes shut, licking his lips and imagining a room full of gods, enraptured by the performance.
The heat in his face and groin spread out, meeting in his stomach, tightening the muscles around his finger.
He pumped it in shallow rhythm, a dozen greedy eyes locked on him.
He could still feel Varuut’s breath in his ear, Ainder’s fingers at his nipple, Catocus’s hand dragging down his thigh.
His whole body tingled. The finger in his ass wasn’t an uncomfortable foreign object anymore, it was a sensation, massaging against sensitive nerves.
The heat in his stomach demanded more. He brought his fingers back to his mouth, soaking them both again, and this time the pressure against his entrance shot a shiver up his spine that raised his shoulders and curled his toes.
He dropped to an elbow and sucked in a few deep breaths as he forced both fingers inside himself, his controlled breathing quickly dissolving to huffs and sharp inhales. But he got them inside.
He dropped his forehead to the mattress, moving his fingers carefully.
Pulling out grazed a wonderful sensation, but pushing in spread him open with a different kind of pleasure.
He could feel Mikel’s warmth behind him; those calloused, mischievous hands running up his sides, his thighs rubbing the back of Ethyr’s, cock plunged deep into his ass.
Ethyr whined with pleasure, rocking his hips back to meet Mikel’s thrusts.
The man’s soft moans told of his own enjoyment.
Until the hands squeezing him took on a different character. Cool breath brushed his shoulder, an open mouth pressed to his skin. Each thrust was slow, careful, yet filled him completely, not just his ass but his stomach, his heart, his lungs, his blood.
“Fa’harath,” a familiar voice breathed an ancient word. He didn’t know the meaning, but he felt it: tender, aching, realm-shattering love.
Ethyr gasped, sitting up and looking around. The room was empty.
He sank back on his heels, staring forward. He knew that voice. But he couldn’t place it for the life of him. Arousal had been doused under a cold bucket of unease and sorrow, and he couldn’t place that either.
He put the book away and went to sit on the balcony railing, looking up at the night sky drifting occasionally into view between dark clouds.