Tabletops and Tablebottoms

Welcome to another chapter of this silly thing. I think our hero could stand to get his dick wet this time around.

Tabletops and Tablebottoms, 2: Barebacking the Bard

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Apprentice! Beware the bard, who kills not with a sword but with a silver tongue, and whose occultist magics are meant to befuddle, distract, and delude. He is a traitorous one, a seductive one, and if you are not wary, you will be begging him to take your coin purse, or worse still: something even more precious than gold...

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The capital city, one of the biggest on the continent, had promised a great wealth of entertainment, and you are pleased to learn that it delivered in droves. Arriving at the entertainment district just outside of the nearby market, you become somewhat more alert. The night is still in full, colourful swing, even though you are convinced it's at least midnight. What kind of a place was this that didn't sleep at night, but in the morning? Perhaps, you surmise, that that's just the nature of this district, somewhat seedier than the rest.

Following the friendly bellowing of sign-spinners, each enticing you to come visit their establishment, you keep an eye peeled for something different. Something that promised more than a short, good time. That was when you happened across a modestly-sized bar at the corner of an alleyway: The Pink Orchid. Lewd! But what really drew your eye was a gaily-dressed man out front, soliciting passersby.

"Tonight only," he says, his grin hazy and wide. "A performance you won't want to miss! From the wild lands of the Golden Road, Zinnian the Magnificent is here at the Pink Orchid for tonight only." That all flew by you, save for a snippet: "generous tippers may meet the man in the flesh." That sounds promising. So you enter the Pink Orchid, full of expectation.

Flatly disappointed at the everyday--and honestly, kind of dumpy--interior, you try to find a table. In the middle of the bar, you saw that the centre had been cleared away, and gauzy bolts of a shimmering purple fabric had been hung from the ceiling. Burning frankincense gave the room a mysterious, exotic air. All the tables had been pushed to the walls, leaving a wide berth for the stage in the centre.

And yet surprisingly, this place was packed! Whoever this Magnificent was, he commanded a crowd. You buy yourself a pint of the watered-down grog and, navigating the maze of smoke, you stand in the pit, waiting for something to happen. Before long, the growing crowd--of almost exclusively men, you note--begins a tentative applause. Then they burst into a full cheer, and you crane your head around this bar to try and find what was going on. Men pounded their fists upon their tables, clinking their pints together, and shaking each other in palpable anticipation. What did you just walk into?

You see him then, emerging from a short, somewhat-concealed walkway from beyond the stage. A figure shorter than your average man strode into the clearing carrying one of his land's curiously short, bulbous guitars. He was an elf; you see that his long, curiously pointed ears were decorated with earrings, jewels, and golden sheaths. Long brown curls tumbled to the middle of his back. A very pretty elf, you decide.

You blush when you notice that besides his many gilded accessories, he wore little, and his clothes were made of the same, translucent fabric the curtains were. So little was left to the imagination. He carries himself with the coy panache of a courtesan, his hips swinging slightly as he goes.

He stares deeply into the eyes of the cheering men as he walks past, though his face is veiled by a jingling mask of hammered gold coins. He plucks guitar strings at random as he walks, and circles his gauzy purple stage in a slow rotation. Every man he aims a swing of his hips at lets out a raucous roar.

You feel yourself become hot. A distant thrumming of something like a thousand bees presses against your skull. You stare at this man, this Zinnian the Magnificent, with the goggling eyes of a teenage boy. That's when you realise that the pressure in your ears is desire. You suddenly want to know everything about him. What he ate, what his day was like, what he believed...what he felt like--

You brush away the strange thought, chiding yourself for thinking it. He's just a performer! This is what they were paid to do! Right? He comes to a stop in the very centre stage and begins plucking a few pensive notes of a hazy, exotic melody. Ghostly percussion accompanies him from somewhere in the dark. The cheering becomes hushed, the bar becomes still. And he begins to play his song.

You couldn't understand a single word, but his rich, throaty voice lets loose a plaintive melody into the air. The men are entranced. So are you. The expression on his face changes between pained to lascivious as he sang; as if his torture were so exquisite. You feel that pounding in your ears as his voice drifts in and out of your very soul.

Without realising it, you push yourself into the throng of men and now stand at the edge of the stage. No one minds much as the elven performer struts around in a seductively languorous way. And when you arrive there, you see yourself reaching out to him. With some gold pieces in your hand.

He scans you with his green, fox-like eyes, and bends down to take them. Your hands brush together, and his was calloused, but soft. He lingers on yours for just a moment, but it feels like forever. Eventually, his performance ends to thunderous applause. Men throw coins and even flowers onstage as he bows. Still, he remains unreadable under that golden mask. Someone from the crowd claps your shoulders in triumph.

His performance ends. As if freed from a strange fugue, a lot of the men stumble, and wander out. A few linger for a few moments more, as if wanting to talk to him, but he dismisses them as courteously as he can while accepting their gifts of silver and--from the most desperate--copper. It was only you that was left. He makes it halfway down the walkway when he sees you.

You lock eyes. For a brief, tantalising moment, you feel that pressure at your skull, and your thoughts rise up in a flurry, as if summoned. He plays a single note on his guitar, his eyes glinting in the relative dark as he stares at you. The signal, you know instinctively, was to follow. So you follow.

You trail the performer back to the end of the walkway, where a hidden hallway leads to a just-as-hidden room. All the while he hums snippets of a song he had played earlier, the sound of it now familiar. His smoky voice nestles in your ears amidst the pressure in your head. He leads you into a nondescript room. Lit only by candlelight, you barely take stock of the room when, as if by ritual, he takes your wrist, leads you in farther, and eases you down onto the floor in a sitting position. Soft rugs and cushions are piled up here, and the scent of jasmine proliferates the room.

He says something in the local language. You mutter that you don't understand. He cocks his head and switches to Common, then.

"You don't seem like the other men," he says, a lilting accent colouring his phrase. "Are you from here?" You answer no, you're from a country across the sea. "Ahh. So you don't know?" Your questions and protests die on your tongue as he straddles you. He doesn't weigh nearly as much as your common man. You gawp at him as he takes both of your hands and wraps them around his slim, toned frame. And when he touches your face, you catch the smell of scented oils on his fingers.

"Whoever gives me the biggest tip of the night," he was saying in a slow, lovely drawl; "gets to come back here with me, and I'm his." He traces a line down the side of your face. "Tonight, I'm yours." And as he says it, his eyes glimmer briefly. His words echo, all around the room, and into your very bones. He's mine. He is mine and nobody else's.

You let your forearms rest on his hips as he continues to stare into your eyes. You drink deeply of him, becoming lost in his gaze. That pressure in your ears increases; your heart begins to pound faster in strange anticipation. He was whispering something to you--you didn't catch, nor care what it was. You run your hands along his inner thighs, and he trips, letting out a shudder at the sensation.

--take off the mask--The thought comes to you unbidden. You reach up to the back of his head, running your arms along his broad, tapering back. He's so soft. He smells so mind-numbingly good. You reach up to remove the mask, gently parting his curls.... And the mask becomes uncinched in your hands.

You stare at him, taking in his face; you're dimly aware of a thought prodding in your head: you'll never see him again! So you cup his chin in both your hands. Full pink lips smile and push his green eyes up into a sincere squint. The deep brown of his skin is so appealing in the ruddy candlelight of this small, cramped room. You think you should kiss him...so you lean in for it.

"Mmm...." He sighs against the touch of your lips to his, and he accepts you fully. He tastes sharply of mint and candied fennel. Damn. He's delicious. He puts his arms around your shoulders as you drift down his nut-brown body, panting into your kiss. He's thumbing your nipples through your shirt; you grunt as you feel your erection bump against your pants. You pull apart what little he had on, feeling fabric crush under your hands, and then nothing as you discard them, tossing them aside.

All that remains are his cotton briefs. You steady him with your hands on his back as you lay him down on the carpet, and he is sprawled out beneath you. You scan his trim, toned body while you drunkenly go through the motions of taking off your top. He, meanwhile, works on your pants, his slim fingers unlatching your belt, and then finally, reaching into the pouch that contains your growing cock.

You let out a sigh as he cups your cock and balls in his hands, tickles gently under your cockhead and drags his fingers to your taint. He sighs and giggles his appreciation of you; and you appreciate his light and slow strokes on your cock. Panting, you stare down at him, watching him stroke you; watching his head become close to your rapidly-growing erection. You reach your full length and angry heat pours off of you; precum begins to ooze out of your engorged cock head.

"Does that feel good?" he asks, his voice guttural. You throw your head back in a groan, luxuriating in his handiwork. "Mmmm. Good." And then you feel it: the hot, familiar stab of wetness that was a tongue licking your cockhead. Tasting your arousal. You groan through a shudder as he bathes your erection with his tongue and mouth.

For long, long minutes he sucks on your throbbing cock, at first gently and gingerly. At some point he switches to a more aggressive style, engulfing you fully with his warm mouth. Your hands are buried in his hair; you feel soft curls under your fingers and the smell of jasmine rises up from beneath you. Your fingers twitch, and he says the magic words:

"You can be rough with me, y'know. I don't mind." Like it was a spell to take over your very being, you close a fist around his hair, and plunge your entire length down his throat. He gags only briefly, then goes back to massaging your dripping dick with his throat, humming in arousal the whole way. With your other hand, you cup his chin, as if caressing it. And when you stick your thumb in his occupied mouth to prise it open, he groans in surprise.

Words become a gargle. You're fucking him with harried, barely-controlled thrusts into his mouth; your thumbs are in his mouth, making him smile around your cock. Drool drips slowly past his lips; spit and precum. He's staring up at you with watery eyes, his pleading gaze locked into yours. He looks like he's in exquisite pain. The way his tongue is dancing around your cock...fuck.

Deep in your balls, you can feel your orgasm warn you of its approach. Slowly, regretfully, you withdraw your cock out of his mouth, but he hangs onto the top with his sucking lips. A soft pop! sound, and his mouth is empty. What a goddamn mess he is; his lips are red and swollen, and he's wiping spit from his mouth, and tears out of his eyes. And yet, an obscene tent has formed in his briefs. A translucent spot where his own cock must've been leaking.

You reach for his hardness. He protests--"you don't have to...." But you're desperate to see him. You pull the fabric off of him and he acquiesces.

So this is elven cock, you think idly to yourself. His cock is long and slim, like the rest of him, a darker shade of brown and ends in a flared purple head. It twitches attractively at your curious touch; his stream of precum glints in the candlelight. He sighs, almost cries in appreciation as you sink down onto his cock with your mouth. The smell of him swims around in your head, filling your senses with nothing but him. A moan bubbles up out of your chest as you devour your elven lover.

"By the gods--wow," he groans as he arches his back up to get more of himself into you. "You're--amazing at that." His words are pricked by his little whimpers which land on your ears and drive your libido up. Your hands are exploring his lithe body, stopping to massage his little ass. You slip a finger into his crack, only to find that he's been oiled there, too. He moans as you prod his private entrance. Numbly, you wonder how many men had already been inside him.

He tweaks his own nipples as you begin to finger him. His breath grows ragged, coming in desperate bursts and dragging squeals. He mumbles strings of expletives at you as you suck and finger him at the same time, delivering pleasure to his front and back sides. Seven inches of his slim, but hot cock, like a blunt fire poker, throb and leak into your throat. Unlike you, he doesn't force his way down your throat, but rather lets you suck him at your own ravenous pace. He tastes like everything you craved tonight.

"Please, sir..." he manages to squeak out; "I need you...." As he says it, his hole squeezes around your digit. You press back. He moans and arches his back deeper. More of his cock into your throat. He's had enough, you think; so you insert your first finger into him, and he gasps as you do it. You dig around in his entrance, feeling the hot tightness eclipse your finger. Soon, you discover the hard nub within.

"Oh, gods!" Losing composure, he thrusts a few times into your mouth. You feel his cock throb, at first simply in frantic arousal, and then you taste him. You suck back up his cock, desperate to catch his cum in your mouth as he shoots. When you look up at him, he is straining, writhing against himself; the light dances across the sweaty ridges of his chest and torso.

He shoots into your mouth; some of it, you're desperately swallowing to keep up with the volume of cum he's dumping into you. He's practically crying as he comes down from his orgasm, his whimpers melting into your ears.

But you haven't cum yet, and you aren't leaving till you do. You pull off of his cock, feeling his tangy cock juices swirling around in your mouth. With hardly any warning, you heft his lower body up, and press your mouth to his waiting, throbbing pussy. He moans in surprise and continuing arousal as you spurt his own cum onto his hole. You're pushing it into him, prepping his entrance. His cum drips down his back from his hole. You scoop it up with your fingers and work it into him. He covers his face, flushed a deep red with the heat and his arousal. His mouth is twisted open in a quiet, but keening squeal.

Soon, you have two fingers in him, pistoning into his loosening hole. The smell of his ass, his cum and ritual oil mixes together and greets you, and you are delirious with the sensation of him. It's all you can take. You prop yourself up, hefting your dripping cock--electrifying at your own touch--and whack your lover's hole with it. He squirms into your intrusion.

Precum leaks profusely from you as you push your way into him. You don't know how much more you can handle before you burst. But you soldier on, sinking more of yourself into his waiting, grasping hole. It's surprisingly tight; his resistance rises up to greet your invasion. But soon you're fully buried in his guts. He's put his hands on your body, feeling your form as you let him get used to you.

But it's not for long. Once your hips start drawing back, it's all you can do to just start pistoning into him. Then you remember what he said earlier: "you can be rough." And so, taking his words to heart, you pull back and slam into him. He groans at your force, his hair a haphazard spray across the pillows while you fuck him. By the gods, did you ever fuck him. He fit around your appreciative cock like a glove.

You pound into him, your hips straining with the effort. It feels like he'd break your cock off with his grasping, twitching hole. Your hands are firmly planted on his hips, holding him in place while you plunge into him, racing towards climax. No--it's too soon--he feels so good--! But your orgasm tears out of you unbidden. You flood him with your cum, unsure of just how much you just bred him with. Your entire body shakes, him beneath you, catching your droplets of sweat on his body.

"By the gods..." he starts to say, but his cadence is interrupted. By you, continuing to slowly fuck him. You had just cum, and were still cumming, but your cock hadn't had enough of him. This was the last time you were ever going to experience Zinnian the Magnificent. So you thrust, thrust, and thrust, feeling the new, increased slickness in his hole. His face turned into shock, then a mischievous grin.

He palms your neck, pressing your foreheads together. "Fuck me," he whispers before he kisses you, deep and hungry. You moan into his kiss, pounding at a measured, but hurried pace into his ass. Loose and slicked up with your cum as he was, he felt newly amazing. He reaches down and grabs his cock to pound himself off while you try to find a second orgasm inside of him.

Your still-sensitive cock was itching to cum, to release the pressure. As you fuck him, you watch between your bodies as he jacks himself off, the wet sounds filling the room like your combined moaning. Desperation filled your senses as you pummelled him, and he fisted his cock to completion. You felt it then. You were cumming again in him. It was just as good, and almost as powerful the second time. Your cock spurts weakly into his battered hole, and you nearly drown in the overwhelming pleasure.

You look down to see him arrive at his second orgasm too; his body clenches, flexes and arches, sending waves of new pleasure down your triumphant dick. "I'm--I--ah--!" His words come out as a choppy mess, lost in his ragged, breathy groans as he shoots. Small white ropes decorate his tight body. In the low orange light of this small, dark, and heady room, he was a portrait. An avatar of lust. Hanging onto your cock as stiff as a sword.

The two of you come down from your orgasms together. You pull him up, and meet him halfway to kiss. For long minutes you kissed, tasting the fennel, mint, and your own cock on his tongue. Even as his cum cooled on his body, and yours no doubt trickled out of his hole onto the carpet below you. He tastes so good. You don't think you could go without him....

He pulls away from you, his eyes hazy with lust, and what you might guess was happiness. The green of them.... He leans in, as if to kiss you again, but stops short, resting his head into the crook of your neck. You embrace him, and he whispers...something--

All at once, your body feels like it unclenches. The pressure that pounded at your ears and closed around your chest dissipates. You take a clear look at this room for the first time. It's a storage room, a rug and some cushions haphazardly thrown down into it. Your clothes and his, in complete disarray, thrown to the side. You still had no damn idea what time it was.