Sythyry (sythyry) wrote,
Sythyry
sythyry

The Capture of Rastomil [21 Nivvem 4385]

Mirrored from Sythyry.

[This is not a particularly pleasant scene. If you find rape by mind-control too upsetting to read, skip this entry and take up again with the next one. -bb]

And here is what Rastomil said had become of him in the banquet:

“Have some more pâté, good Prince Rastomil. It is thoroughly delicious — extremely excellent — thoroughly wonderful when spread upon these wafers of crisped rice,” said Lady Noshi.

Prince Rastomil took the proffered delicacy. “I don’t know that I am a good prince, by anyone’s estimation, but it is certainly good pâté. I have never had better, not even in the private dining room of the Duke of Barency.”

“They do not serve such things at the feasts in your home city?” asked Noshi. Her husband Kethji groaned deeply in his wheelchair. Noshi beckoned to her butler, who spooned another dose of the fuming purple drink into Kethji’s mouth. Kethji fell back into a dull quiescence.

Rastomil glanced at the lord and the butler, but no explanation was forthcoming. Every lesson of etiquette suggested that he ignore his host’s oddities. He shook his head. “Oh, don’t go to a grand public feast for tasty food! The chefs are too busy making it look impressive — when they’re not fretting about the logistical problems of serving a hundred people piping-hot cheese souffles all at the same time. Maddening, I’m sure it must be, for them.”

“Maddening, yes,” said Lady Noshi. “Are you not feeling somewhat maddened yourself, just about now?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you might be talking about,” said Rastomil. He realized, suddenly and intensely, that he was a male Rassimel and that Lady Noshi was a female Rassimel, and something appealing could be done with that. “Perhaps you could explain it to me? In private?”

Lady Noshi slid over to him, and started to undo the bright copper buttons on his plum and burgundy waistcoat. “It should be quite obvious.”

Which it was. Rastomil glanced over at Jagraton, but the bodyguard simply sat back in his couch with a lazy smile on his face and gave no signal of disapproval. Probably this was just the sort of dissolute behavior and international disgrace that the mission required. In any case, Rastomil felt as if he must take Lady Noshi — or anyone! — or burst. He had never felt such a stringent need in his loins. Perhaps he had been as eager, early on with his true love, but never with such a feeling of impending punishment should he fail to satisfy himself.

So he drew Lady Noshi to himself, and acted as etiquette, or his peculiarly demanding body, dictated.

It was some minutes, perhaps a third of an hour, before Rastomil was capable of paying attention to anything but the juncture of Rassimel bodies. He glanced at Jagraton, who still seemed unconcerned.

Another thought occured to him, with considerable difficulty, and he looked at Lord Kethji. A husband, after all, might have some concerns about his wife’s behavior.

Kethji was, in fact, staring at him, mumbling something in a vague voice. Rastomil, was seized by curiosity — that tiny fraction of him not already seized by lust. Without disengaging, he guided the compliant Lady Noshi to a position on her back. She seemed glad of the change; probably her thigh-muscles needed the rest.

As if coincidentally, this position put Rastomil’s ears closer to Kethji’s mouth. “That’s how it starts, yes, for me too,” said the lord, in a voice that seemed wrapped in cotton.

“Be quiet, Kethji,” snapped Lady Noshi.

“Noshi,” he mumbled, a vague and pained protest in his voice.

“Butler! More of the lord’s medicine!” commanded Noshi. The butler brought the nacreous cup to Kethji, and the lord drank of it despite his protests.

Rastomil thought she was remarkably aware of the room around her, and even imperious, considering what their bodies were up to. He certainly couldn’t manage it. He could barely think of …

The next time that Rastomil could actually think, he quirked his ears at Noshi, and mumbled, “Aren’t there laws against this sort of thing, in Hanija?”

“Oh! We are far, far above the laws of Hanija!” Noshi’s voice was clear and sharp, though her fur had gotten quite matted. “Now, on your back. Your legs are getting sore, and I won’t have that.”

Other bits of him were already quite sore by this time, he thought. But thinking about which bits of him they were, and why they were so sore, dragged his mind back into the fog of lust. “Which will only make them sorer”, he said to himself, but he couldn’t figure out how to stop.

Rather later, Rastomil realized that his bodyguard was gone. “I do hope Jagraton has been embarrassed away by my amatory prowess, which is quite unprecedented today. Or at least he has gone to the toilet. He is an annoying fellow, but I should be embarrassed to lose him.”

Noshi scowled at the empty couch. “I have no idea. I don’t much care. I am quite busy now; this is a difficult phase. Please don’t interrupt me.”

“That’s a quite odd thing to say to one’s lover, since she is quite busy enjoying my body,” thought Rastomil to himself. “Indeed, it’s a marvel if she’s still enjoying it. I feel as if my member has been rubbed raw, and I can’t imagine her parts are feeling much better.”

But he had no way of stopping his body’s eager movement, and soon enough his mind fell back into the clouds.

Lord Kethji wailed, a harsh burbling cry that barely sounded like a Rassimel voice. Rastomil glanced over. The butler was squeezing the lord’s muzzle shut, around a tube full of that purple drug.

Lady Noshi snarled at Rastomil. She turned his face towards hers. “Look in my eyes! Kiss me! You’ve been fucking me for three hours, you can at least have the manners to look in my eyes and kiss me!”

Rastomil’s mind was too hazy for him to be rude.

Rastomil awoke next in a very dark room. His fur felt terribly matted, and smelled as if it needed a week-long washing. He was one solid cramp from breast to toes. He tried to rise, to take care of certain bodily urgencies of a normal character, but he was tied to the bed with many cords. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I daresay I’ve been kidnapped. Or perhaps Lord Kethji recovered enough to take revenge for my adultery. I rather wish we had been able to take a private room, at least.” His voice sounded queer and high to himself. “Whatever shall I do now?” He had only a few cley, and no useful spells, and could not move; he was helpless.

At least it was more restful and less abrading that the previous version of helplessness.

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