A Machine For Pleasure
Summoning can be dangerous, Ashenivir knows this. But when Rizeth invites him to conjure something to play with, he trusts that his Master will only lead him to a most pleasurable outcome.
He usually ate alone at breakfast. Keszriin’s morning beauty routine took precedence over food, and if there hadn’t been lessons to rouse them, Ashenivir was certain he would never see Dresvan or Pellanue before noonglow. Sometimes Vuzree would join him, and they would read together in companionable silence—though more often than not Vuz would simply give him a nod on his way out of the dining hall, half an eye on his book and barely noticing what he was putting in his mouth.
This was all to the good in Ashenivir’s opinion. He enjoyed the solitude, and it gave him a chance to get ahead on work, which it was impossible to do with Keszriin and the Hyn twins around. Much as he loved them, they could be a little exhausting.
“Message for you, apprentice Zauvym.”
The runner gave him a friendly nod and a smile along with the note, blushing when he returned it. Yevena, he had learned her name was—it had only seemed polite to ask, when she brought him so many of Master Velkon’yss’ missives.
“Thank you,” he said.
“It’s my job,” Yevena replied, blushing harder. For a moment it seemed as though she might say something more, but all she did was bid him a stuttered farewell and dash away, satchel thumping against her hip.
Oh, Mystra, Ashenivir thought with a sigh. Yevena was pretty enough, he supposed, for a girl—athletic, with deep amethyst eyes and her hair always pulled back in a high ponytail. He was no great judge of such things, though, and he shook his head, praying she hadn’t gotten her hopes up too much. He was just unfolding the note she’d brought when he saw Master Velkon’yss crossing the dining hall towards him. Ashenivir cocked his head, frowning, as his Master approached.
“Apprentice Zauvym, I wished to speak with you about—are you well?”
Ashenivir had glanced down at the note, confused as to why Rizeth would have sent for him and then come to find him in person, and had discovered that the message was not from Master Velkon’yss. He folded it back up with slow, deliberate creases so as not to crumple it into his fist.
“I am fine, Master Velkon’yss. You wanted to talk to me about something?”
“Moving you into the senior enchantment class; you are wasting your time with Master Orantyth at the moment.”
Rizeth glanced at Ashenivir’s hand, at the note. The slight raise of his eyebrow clearly expected an explanation.
“It is nothing, Master Velkon’yss. Just a request from Matron Zauvym.”
“I see.”
“If you believe I would do better in the other class, I will gladly move,” Ashenivir said. “I’d like to learn more enchantment anyway—I was considering specialising that way.”
“Last we spoke, you were considering transmutation.”
Was that a reprimand or a tease? Probably it was both, and either way it made him flush, which was no doubt what his Master wanted. Ashenivir tucked his mother’s note into his pocket and stood. Rizeth did not touch him, but a glance was enough to hold him in place.
“You will attend this evening.”
“At once?”
“At once,” Master Velkon’yss confirmed, and left.
Ashenivir watched him go, wishing it was evening already, wishing he didn’t have to deal with the message from his mother. He could just ignore it the way he’d ignored all the others, tell her he was too busy with his studies again. After six and a half years, she was starting to tire of his excuses. The tone of this latest missive made that abundantly clear, and little as he wanted to return to the Zauvym estate, he knew he would soon have to pay at least a cursory visit.
But not now. Not today. Today was for trying to concentrate in class whilst thoughts of what might be in store this evening swirled around in his head. Ashenivir touched a hand to his pocket.
Soon, yes. But not now.
Low candlelight threw abstract shadows across the bookcases and shelves that lined the walls of the sanctum. A sturdy wooden workbench held a neat array of arcane paraphernalia; tall, glass-fronted cabinets held yet more. The Arcanum provided him with plentiful materials and fine enough workspaces, but Rizeth had always preferred his privacy.
Ashenivir stood naked in the doorway, twisting the fine silver links of his collar between his fingers. Rizeth kept half an eye on him as he paced around the arcane circle sketched onto the floor, the other focused on double-checking the sigils. Ashenivir seemed more nervous than usual today, and no wonder—summoning was one of the more dangerous arts, not imparted to apprentices in usable detail until they had proven themselves secure in their abilities. From the first, it was impressed upon them to never attempt such a thing alone, to always have at least eight of them present.
Mythen Thaelas was far stricter about such practices than Menzoberranzan had been, and though what they would conjure tonight would be far less perilous than the Masters at Sorcere might have brought forth, he would take no chances. Not where Ashenivir was concerned.
“What will you call forth, Master?” Ashenivir asked. Rizeth, satisfied that all was well, left the circle and crossed towards him. Still fidgeting with his collar, yet there was that eager, curious gleam in his eye, that hunger to know.
“The better question,” Rizeth said, taking Ashenivir’s hand, “is what will we call forth?”
He placed into Ashenivir’s hand the ornate stone he had prepared earlier. Flat and black, etched with geometric patterns interlinking all across its surface in almost maddening detail, it fit perfectly into the centre of Ashenivir’s palm. Rizeth closed his apprentice’s fingers over it.
“I don’t know any summoning spells, Master.”
“Then now is an excellent time for you to learn.”
Rizeth took a metal lockbox from the workbench and placed it at the centre of the binding circle. He brought Ashenivir to the edge of the circle and stood behind him, hands firmly on Ashenivir’s bare shoulders.
“Do you remember how much you enjoyed your toys, Ra’soltha?” he murmured against Ashenivir’s ear, savouring the way it made him shiver. “Today you shall have a new one, if only for a short while. Observe the circle; note your components. What are we summoning?”
He slid a hand to Ashenivir’s throat, laid his fingers over his pulse—his heart was racing.
“A construct, Master,” Ashenivir whispered. “The spirit of one, at least. The components summon it, the circle binds it; it cannot leave the boundaries you have laid out, or disobey commands you give whilst it remains within them. And the marks on the stone set parameters for the shape it will take.”
“Very good, apprentice,” Rizeth sucked a kiss into his neck, enjoying his gasp as much as he had enjoyed the thoroughness of his answer. Such a keen mind. “Are you afraid?”
“No, Master.”
“Your heartbeat says otherwise. Unless, of course, it races for other reasons…”
Keeping one hand curled around Ashenivir’s throat, Rizeth slid the other down his chest, skimming the flat plane of his stomach. Ashenivir began to harden at his teasing touch, arching into his hand. Rizeth held him tight by the neck as he stroked him a few moments before letting go.
Ashenivir whined, of course. Rizeth squeezed his throat.
“You will be receiving as much attention as you could wish for shortly,” he said. “Hold up your hands.”
Ashenivir raised them, one fisted around the stone. Rizeth set his overtop and slid his fingers over the backs of Ashenivir’s hands, slow, lining them up carefully and deliberately.
“Repeat the spell as I speak it,” he instructed. “I will guide you through the somatics.”
“Yes, Master.” Ashenivir still sounded uncertain, breath more unsteady than the brief tease could account for.
“You know how to stop this.” Rizeth grazed his teeth over Ashenivir’s earlobe, whispering low. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course, Master.”
“Then cast with me, Ra’soltha.”
Summoning! Ashenivir had never considered casting such a spell—it was so dangerous, to call forth something that might at any moment break free of your control. If you were not careful enough, if every binding sigil was not precisely perfect, your control not complete and entire…even if it was only a construct and not a treacherous fiend or a wild elemental, there was still so much risk!
Master Velkon’yss was waiting for him to decide. Ashenivir could stop this right now, with just a word. He would not be punished; Rizeth would never punish him for expressing his limits.
Was there not risk in much of what he did with his Master? Bindings, spankings, the artificer’s toys, spellcraft pushed to its limits—none of it was ever wholly safe. Yet he accepted the risks there, so why not here? Did he trust his Master? Of course, of course he did!
He would never let me come to harm. Ashenivir drew a steadying breath and lifted his arms. Master Velkon’yss took the message.
“After me,” he commanded, and began the spell.
Ashenivir repeated the words as his Master spoke them, a quiet echo beneath Rizeth’s confident voice. His fingers were manipulated easily into the gestures of summoning by hands far more experienced than his own; he could feel the Weave around them, feel it flex and warp at Rizeth’s command. One day, Ashenivir hoped, he would be as powerful as that. As confident as that.
Their breathing settled into sync as Master Velkon’yss pressed close against his back, lips brushing Ashenivir’s neck as he continued to cast, the words seeming to vibrate directly into his veins.
Ashenivir wanted to cast like this again. Another summoning, an illusion, evocation—Hells, even a divination. It didn’t matter what it was; he wanted to do this again, bring magic this close again. He had never thought spellcasting could be so…intimate. His skin prickled as powerful Weave energies gathered in the room, centred over the lockbox at the heart of the binding circle. The air shimmered like a heat haze as something manifested.
Metal limbs, dark iron and glowing orange at the joints, steam issuing from raised vents along its back, it was a thing with only the vaguest shape of a humanoid. It stood on squat, powerful legs with flat claws for feet and long, narrow pistons where tendons should be. Four dextrous arms span on some mechanism about the torso, each flexing three many-jointed fingers that grasped at the air, mapping the space of its confinement. The blank, featureless head turned towards it’s summoners—no, not featureless, Ashenivir realised. Beneath the metal faceplate there was a faint glow, two circles roughly where eyes might have sat.
The construct spirit hunched in the circle, still a good two feet taller than Ashenivir. The last words of the summons slipped from his lips a few seconds after Rizeth had finished, and then the room was silent save for the faint hiss of steam and the quiet rumble of extraplanar mechanisms.
“Sweet Mystra,” Ashenivir breathed. For a moment he forgot all about the scene and looked back at Rizeth, beaming. “Master! We did it!”
“Indeed.” Master Velkon’yss took the stone from Ashenivir’s hand and pushed him towards the circle. “Go on, Ra’soltha. Examine your new playmate.”
Playmate?
Ashenivir stumbled into the circle, unable to suppress a flinch as he crossed the boundary. The construct loomed over him, no intelligence at all present in the slow, pulsing glow of its eyes. It was so very, very large—just one of those arms could snap his bones with ease. This thing, Ashenivir knew, could kill him.
Heat rolled up his spine. He put a hand on the construct’s leg.
With a whirr and a groan of metal-on-metal, it shifted to look down at him. A new toy, that was how his Master had referred to it earlier, and there was only one thing Rizeth could mean when he called it playmate.
“Begin,” Master Velkon’yss commanded. The construct made a mechanical sound of acknowledgement, and reached down. Metal fingers pulled Ashenivir’s arms above his head, one mechanical hand wrapped tighter than any rope around his wrists. His toes dangled against the floor for a moment, then the construct lifted his legs and spread them apart.
Ashenivir whimpered.
“Oh, Goddess.”
The construct held his Ra’soltha suspended, helpless, as panels opened up on its torso, adding more dextrous appendages to its collection. Rizeth clasped his hands behind his back and watched as it worked Ashenivir open, pushing one warm, narrow finger after another inside until his apprentice was squirming and sweating in its unbreakable grasp.
It moved with steady, precise motions. It did not rush, it did not falter—it had one purpose and it would fulfil it. Keeping Ashenivir’s legs apart, the fingers withdrew and were replaced with something more like the toy Rizeth had used on him some months ago. This was larger, though, and Ashenivir’s head fell back on a loud cry as it entered him.
Rizeth paced around the circle, observing.
Once again, the sight of Ashenivir filled and fucked was in many ways a pleasing one. It was one that had been easier to endure when it had been him doing the filling and the fucking. The construct might only be a spirit-thing, a conjured machine, but it was still too close to being another party, too much of it that was not him touching his apprentice.
He had enjoyed the idea when he had first conceived it, and had very much enjoyed the casting. He had especially enjoyed the look on Ashenivir’s face when said casting had been successful. Such rapture, such pure joyous delight in working the magic. This had been worth it, if only for that look. The next time he tried something like this, however, it would be with a spell he maintained much more control over—he did not like letting his Ra’soltha’s pleasure out of his hands so much.
Rizeth continued to pace, hands clasped tight behind his back, irritated with himself at just how strongly they ached to be upon his apprentice. Just an issue of his need for control, he told himself. Just his selfish nature asserting itself.
He squeezed his wrists tighter and watched as the construct took Ashenivir apart.
In the inescapable grasp of the relentless machine, Ashenivir stuttered out moans of delight as the construct rammed into him again, and again, and again. All he could do was hang there in it’s powerful grip as it fucked him, and know that it would not come, it would not tire, it would not cease until his Master commanded it or the spell failed.
And his Master’s spells did not fail.
He was dimly aware of Rizeth watching him at the edge of the circle, and wondered how he looked, if his Master enjoyed seeing him so helpless.
The grip on his wrists shifted and Ashenivir looked up, panting. Another appendage, this one a flexing tube of smooth metal, descended towards him. His eyes went wide as two thinner prongs emerged from it, darting down to grasp his jaw and hold his mouth open. It pushed into his throat, utterly indifferent to his desperate cries. It was a strange sensation, the thing not entirely solid yet nothing like the softness of flesh.
Ashenivir could not see around it when it began fucking his mouth, and so he learned the construct’s next trick by touch alone when something grasped his cock. Warm, almost too warm—just the right side of pleasure-pain to make him shout—and pulsing against him. The metal grasp that now held him tight began to stroke with the same methodical motion as the parts that penetrated him.
Pleasure rocketed through him, and Ashenivir writhed in the construct’s grip, thrashing as much as he could—which was not much. He came, his shout muffled by the metal in his mouth, and still it did not stop. He squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed with sensation, and when he opened them again he met his Master’s intent stare.
Master, Master, please, I can’t—
But he could. He was. If he wanted out, he could still move his fingers, still signal for an end, and although it was too much, it was the most pleasurable agony. Ashenivir didn’t want to stop, he just wanted to scream.
And so he did. As the construct continued its mindless, unstoppable motions, Ashenivir screamed and screamed and screamed.
It was cheating, Rizeth knew that, but a little magic to speed Ashenivir along was pleasant for them both. Just a flex here and there, enough so that Rizeth could enjoy him finishing again, and again, and again. Such desperate sounds he made, such unrestrained pleasure…it was almost primal, the way he screamed.
Rizeth stored the sound away to muse on later. There were many ways to make a Ra’soltha scream, after all.
And while he might have preferred to be the more direct hand drawing those delicious sounds from Ashenivir’s throat, it was still gratifying to hear them. It was still satisfying to watch Ashenivir at last go utterly limp in the construct’s grasp; beyond sense, beyond speech, totally pliant as it fucked him into yet another release.
He would not have been able to call a halt even if he had wanted to at this point. Rizeth watched a moment longer, then dismissed the construct with a sharp word. It went easily, an obedient machine to the last. As it vanished away in a curl of smoke and a fading glow, Ashenivir dropped limply to the floor, panting, whimpering, shuddering all over. Lying there ruined and spent in the circle, it was as though he were the thing Rizeth had summoned, brought forth to serve for pleasure and bound by the collar still glinting against his sweat-slick skin.
No matter what fucked him—no matter who fucked him, for Rizeth had not demanded exclusivity—so long as he wore that collar, he was Rizeth’s. He had not taken it off since Rizeth had given it to him, and that knowledge was as gratifying as any orgasm could have been.
“I don’t think I can walk,” Ashenivir groaned, sinking deeper into the bath. The perfectly heated water soaked into his aching body like a liquid blessing. The mage hand continued to massage his shoulders and neck, working a balm into his skin that burned like a flame where first it touched and left relief in its wake.
He had been vaguely conscious of Master Velkon’yss carrying him to the bathing room when he could not so much as stand after his ‘playmate’ had finished with him. He was utterly drained and thoroughly satisfied.
“You ought to rest for a few days,” Master Velkon’yss agreed. “You did well, Ra’soltha, in casting and in service.”
Ashenivir glowed, and hid his smile beneath the water on the pretence of ducking his head to wash his hair. His braid had, of course, come thoroughly undone—Ashenivir thought his Master enjoyed seeing that happen.
“I liked it, Master,” he said when he resurfaced. “I prefer your touch, but it was certainly interesting. And I very much…very much enjoyed casting with you.” He hoped the heat of the bath would hide his flush at that last, though he was certain his Master noticed it anyway.
“I am certain there are more spells you require tutelage in,” said Master Velkon’yss. Ashenivir could think of plenty; he was not even seven years into his studies, there was still so much more to learn. He would happily submit to Rizeth’s teaching for as long as it took.
Dresvan’s voice echoed in his head again: tell him about your crush! No, no, it wasn’t like that—he liked to learn, and he liked to serve, that was all. He was coming off of a particularly intense high of the latter, his thoughts were running away with him.
“Might I inquire what your Matron wants of you?” Rizeth asked, and Ashenivir blinked, grounded in an unpleasant rush as he remembered her letter. “I hope it will not interfere with your studies.”
“It won’t,” Ashenivir said, quietly. Could he play up his exhaustion from tonight as an illness, put off her request even longer? He sighed, and slid down into the bath again to hide his face and its treacherously readable expressions. No need for his Master to know how he felt about his Matron. “She just wants to see me, that’s all. I’ve been somewhat busy at the Arcanum these past few years.”
“You should not avoid your family purely for the sake of study,” Master Velkon’yss said. “I have witnessed far too many apprentices run themselves to ruin, giving up all else in the name of progressing their abilities.”
“I know, Master. Balance is important, as is family.” Ashenivir pretended to stretch out a cramp in his leg to avoid looking at him. Yes, family was important, but his mother…
Rizeth didn’t know her. There was no reason for him to know her, and Goddess-willing there never would be. Submitting to him was one facet of Ashenivir’s life that his mother had no knowledge or control over, and he intended to keep it that way. She wouldn’t understand it if she knew, and even if she did she’d only try to make decisions about it for him.
He straightened up, pushing the thoughts away. She couldn’t reach him here, and he had a Master to be more immediately concerned about.
“Would you like me to service you, Master?” he asked. Rizeth raised an eyebrow.
“I have a hard time believing you are still hungry after all of that, Ra’soltha.”
“I must offer. At the very least as thanks for what you gave me.”
“Your manners continue to be exemplary. But no, you need not service me today—you have done plenty.”
“Thank you, Master.”
Ashenivir remained in the bath until Rizeth dragged him from it, protesting, to apply yet more balms to ease away his aches and heal his bruises—in short, to remove every trace of the encounter. All of it vanished by the time he was done, except for the residual thrum of satisfaction in his tired body and the collar around his neck. Rizeth toyed with the links with a mage hand as Ashenivir dressed, letting go only once he was fully clothed and needed to tuck it beneath his shirt.
“Tomorrow, I want a list of spells you wish me to teach you,” Rizeth instructed him before he left, adding, “and do not list ones you already know.”
“I would never consider such a thing, Master,” lied Ashenivir, who had been planning to do just that. Rizeth hummed, disbelieving, and Ashenivir ducked his head to hide a smile and avoid a punishment.
His Master bid him goodnight, and Ashenivir stepped out into the cool halls of the Arcanum. The continual flames burned low in their sconces at this late hour, matched to the fungal bioluminescence that illuminated the cavern outside. He slid his hands into his pockets as he levitated back up the stairwell, and his fingers brushed against the folded note. He sighed.
He would reply tomorrow and arrange a visit sometime next month. That was as much as he could realistically delay, and it was better to get it over with.
Family was important, after all.