whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

"As you wish," he murmurs against her lips and sucks in a shaking breath as he draws himself off her pretty black cock.

The sensation is a drag, a glorious aching loss, and he feels so very empty without it inside him. He shudders and feels his hole gape around the sudden emptiness. Her cock settles against his stomach and bends forward, tugging at the straps around her legs, her hips as it does. Fortunately, it is not at a steep angle for long, as he moves down from her mouth and--indeed, steps off the bed entirely

Her long legs are so beautiful and curve so sweetly, he slides his hands down them, settles them against her knees, and gives her a mischievous look, smiling as he peers past that wonderful cock to spy her face. He lifts one of her legs, kisses against the inside of her knee, and settles it over his shoulder--it drags her up at an odd angle as he stands, even hunched as he is, above her.

"Can you tolerate such an angle, my lovely?"

Yennefer sits up on her elbows to watch him pull free. The serum from the vial performed true to its reputation. A small portion running from the glassy black surface like melted honey. She shivers right along with Jaskier.

Watching him with so much attention and yet she did not foresee this development. Is he going to leave? Unfortunately that is the first brief thought. Jaskier cannot bare the burden of so very many missteps of lovers before. She straightens and is about to protest when his hands are on her again. The mischief in his grin and pulling her to splay at his direction settles worry in a blink.

Someday she won't behave like this.

"I can." Her knee bends a little to clutch as a response of this kiss. "Show me what you've got." Because now she is dying to know. The obsidian dick is wet and lays hot on her skin. Her hands reach to pull at his hips. Does he need her guidance? Violet eyes lift to his face.

He keeps her gaze and lets her tug him in, her leg propped on his shoulder. He bends forward to cage her in his arms and, with his shift, her knee is pressed up, stretches and shifts so that he can sink straight down into her warm and waiting cunt. He slides in slowly, firmly, and sucks in a deep breath as his swollen, aching cock is enveloped. The is throbbing as he penetrates her and, when his hips sit snugly against her, he turns his head again and nips at the inside of her thigh.

Jaskier savors a moment, adjusts, and frees one hand to ghost along her side. It settles on one of her breasts and he cranes forward, stretches her just a bit farther, and kisses along the other breast as he withdraws. He sinks in as his hand finds her nipple, and withdraws and again.

The pace he sets it almost jaunty--is certainly bouncing and cocky, a jig rather than a ballad. The spring in the snap of his hips is aided by the knowledge that no matter how overcome he is, no matter how his cock and balls ache and pull into himself, he will not crest again before she does. It will be sweet torture, driving into her like this, and he looks forward to every second of it.

He is a musician at heart and his fingers and mouth keep time with the metronome snap of his hips. He could keep a beat in his sleep, could maintain it with the barest focus, and nothing about his stroke or depth falters as he fucks into her. He could keep this up for long hours, so long as he wore that ring. He wonders how long it will be until she realizes that.

Yennefer could not swallow down the whole of his cock. And feeling him sink into her slick cunt she understands more completely that it was a perfect match to him. Lean, long and a good girth. It's an instrument like his lute and he plays up it's attributes. Standing was a perfect action, driving in deeply, hitting harder. "Darling--yes." She is not so floral with poetry and regularly she is not so audible.

Of course Jaskier proves to be a special case. The perfect friction and now teeth, his mouth, his hands. Yennefer surprises herself with a yelp and incoherent murmur. Once he is close enough, her finger lace into his stylishly short hair.

Moving--bouncing--glorious, breathless work. So diligent. And his eyes are sparkling. Can he be so sure that she's the one with stars in her eyes? Teased and pulled with his motion, her knees feel the tension climbing.

"Jaskier--" she cannot complete her thought. It was a want or a compliment. Maybe both? Each time he drives forward her cunt wants to hold him tighter, deeper. Yennefer's nails scratch his scalp, her other hand clawing at his shoulder to either keep him close or simply because she is helpless to do much else.

He smiles against skin as he works in her, as he drives with mechanical precision, with constant, clockwork speed. His fingers tease, his mouth slides and bites, toying with the flesh of her breasts, with the thin skin of her areola. Her nipple hardens under his tongue and he tugs at it.

"What is it lovely?" Jaskier asks as she sighs his name, her statement cut short. His own mind is a haze of pleasure and aching, bone-deep want. His hips snap and slide and drive into her. His cock throbs with each wonderful, enveloping press into her body.

"Would you like a change of pace?" He asks, hums really, and shifts back to standing. Her left over his shoulder is tilted away until only her ankle rests against the rise of it. He mouths along her foot, along the shallow places of her calf, and, standing, he should strike a far more tender place inside her.

All he must do is find it.

Legs over his strong shoulders, and the whole of her self to be ravaged does not lend herself to be the most coherent. It's a beautiful madness. Tension drawing tighter in her gut. Every pull and press of his cock and the way her skin warms and prickles to his attention.

When he is more upright again is when their bodies align just so. Yennefer can't clutch him so she has a hand in the bedding and another at her own tit. The next thrust in Jaskier's perfect sense of timing is punctuated by a moan. That's the right place. He's found it. And for every strike there after she is moaning for it. For him. His name has way more syllables than it ever had.

Verbal confirmation is grand but the hold around his cock is a ripple of tension until she is shivering. Her stomach, her legs both tighten and try to hold him somehow. A job well done for a cocksman such as himself.

He smiles as she moans and rocks against him, shivering and tense as he finds the spot he'd sought. His hands rove her legs, sliding and stroking the length of them as he fucks into her, delighted and wholly focused. Well. As much as could be expected.

His cock was so hard it pained him, throbbing and full to bursting--it was flushed an angry sort of red against the slick pink and flush of her cunt. Each gliding stroke is a cruel, torturous tease--each thrust had his balls tense and his cock jerk and no relief came to him. The heat in his gut wound higher and higher, stealing reason and words, and his poetry became little more than hushed compliments and repetition of her name.

The world narrowed and, the fluttering of her around him, the way her head tossed and her hands gripped the bedding, palmed her own breast--this was all he could focus on.

"You are a symphony, lovely," Jaskier praised, tender and awed, and his hand fell between them to rest above her cunt, to press down just so and keep that spot in hard contact with his cock.

There's a kind of poetry in wordless sounds. His voice is obviously more appealing to the ear, crafted and sculpted though the way he guides her through, they make such a duet. Desperate climbing moans and her own that have taken to tumbling free. His cock in it's restricted state may as well be obsidian, so hard.

Her brow furrows and her lips part. Exertion and such kind words heat her skin. The touch of his hand on her body, holding her as a victim to his impeccable tempo also gives her something to cling to. She can hardly rock up to meet his thrusts now. Perhaps it is just as well because Jaskier's tireless focus sends her off. Yennefer's legs try and pull close, either to him or around him, whatever. The rush overtakes her thoughts and her eyes slip shut. Held just so, fucked just right her cunt quickens. Their meditation on spring has so very much more nectar.

She clenches and flutters around him, shivering as a rush of liquid soaks him, makes her impossibly, gloriously slick and wet around him. He shudders as he drives into her, as he works her though, and his strokes shift, gentling even though they don't slow. The angle of his cock is less severe, more idle, and he wonders if she will bat him away or suffer it until he can pull another peak from her.

"Wonderful, perfect, glorious," he murmurs, eyes closed and brow furrowed--between each word he kisses along her leg, along her calf, until her knees are at his shoulders once more.

The poetry he would write about this would be filthy and lilting--a hundred sonnets devoted to how she moves and feels and the clever twinkle in her eye and the glistening of the shining black phallus still mounted to her hips. He is tempted to stroke it, just to occupy his hand, but settles instead for resting his fingers around the base of it and smoothing over the leather straps.

"I would adore an encore, if you would be so kind," Jaskier requests, softly, teasing, against her knee. His teeth graze the skin there and he tries, so desperately tries, not to focus on the aching strain in his loins.

Opening her eyes again, the world is in a soft focus as she blinks away what might be tears or simply sweat. Slick below and the rest of her gleaming in sweat. Jaskier too. Her dutiful, handsome companion.

Still on the move, still gliding. Sweet and thoughtful lover that he is, no longer driving her completely mad though playing over her flayed nerves. Aching and nearly tilting into the most delicious of pains. She would be the kind to suffer through. Half curled up once more, she grabs for him needing to be closer, close enough to kiss and feel his breath.

"Of what sort? For you? For me?" There is no losing party. And truly to fuck him or be fucked is a delight. Right now this side of a release, she wants more. Always more.

Before she gets distracted again, she must speak. "You are still bound, dearheart." In a lesser state of movement he feels hotter, almost throbbing and in case he needs any persuasion, Yennefer wills cunt to clench as tightly as she can manage.

"For you, I had imagined," he tells her, bent low as he is. He lets her legs drape down to his elbows, holds them so he does not fold her entirely in two as he leans to kiss, to taste her mouth and press his lips against her chin and cheek and brow. She clenches around him and his eyes flutter closed, a shivering sound turned laugh leave him against her mouth.

"And yes, I am," he confirms, his own need driving and distressingly hot, tight between his legs. The metal of the ring digs into him, a tight, blunt tether holding him right on that edge and allowing him no further. He swallows and snaps his hip forward in response, his thrust harder, more jarring, though still in time.

"Were I not, I...doubt I could make the request." He sounds just this side of strained but certainly not unhappy about it. No, he couldn't be unhappy about this.

Finally able to pet and paw at him she combs her fingers through his hair. It's lifted and more wild than she has ever seen. Yennefer can almost feel his heart beating through his chest. Magic sensitivities or Jaskier has worked himself up so very much. Or both. Each breath and each kiss a gift. She feels rich with them. Her fingers leave his hair to cup his cheek. Feeling, hearing and tasting his laughter it is like she has never sobered up.

"You are the sweetest of creatures," so thoughtful and so giving and content with his pains. They say artists like to suffer. This is likely not the situation intended for idioms. Is it truly suffering? He is so flush again. Perhaps when they are truly spent and are not laying in ruins she can ask of his artistic process. What does and does not make its way into song?

Yennefer's legs press in a kind of embrace to his arms. "Take me again." A man with not only a good sized manhood but time, attention and awareness to what makes a lady swoon? That renewed energy, snapping forward has her shiver and fight not to roll her eyes back."However you like. For you. I have seen enough to understand that it will be pleasant." With the ring, without the ring. She wants everything he is willing to give.

Her hands rove and slide over skin and through the hair on his head, then across his chest. She revels in the glow of orgasm and he is taken with her. He leans into the touch of her hand on his face, brushes his lips against her wrist, and stills only briefly as he awaits her answer. His movements do not seem to bother her, but the preception of comfort and permission are separate--and slowing helps aid his frazzled nerves.

She squeezes him with her knees and he letso ut a heady sound of delight. Permission and a desire to know his preference. He cannot possibly begin to explain how he likes--he is too overcome to start that conversation, but he will continue how best pleases him. He settles her legs about his waist and hips and moves to cage her in with his arms. This is easiest, this lets him bed and shower her chest, her neck, her face with attention.

His hips snap forward hard, shaking the bed and her atop it. They move fast and punishing--a furious stacatto beat--and his mouth slants across hers, gentle and tender as he fucks into her. The glide of it, the smoothness of his thrusts, the sounds of their flesh as he delves and slaps and bottoms out are all obscene and divine. He will last until that ring is removed, he knows, but he is so sensitive, so twisted up, that he will lose his rythym if she does not crest soon--and he will be terribly embarassed to have failed to keep that.

The trim lines of his waist let her hook her ankles and they dig lightly into his lower back. Her smile has not yet waned. And being able to sink in the new waves of attention she will fall asleep grinning like a brainless fool. Closer, deeper and his sense of timing renews the ebbing feeling of pleasure and ache in her cunt. Yennefer's cries are sharper. In case there is a doubt or wonder that this is the method Jaskier should take, she has a tight grip on his bare back.

She could claw him up like a wildcat. So perhaps she is not so brainless to be inconsiderate. Her heels will undoubtedly bruise, digging into him, urging his ride. The bedding is soft and the best she can offer is to roll back her own hips to bring them to his own. The leather and the neglected black cock jumble and rub against him. A tease between all the skin to skin contact.

All air from her lungs is being used to sound her pleasure. She hopes in it is the sentiments of before. He's so good to her. Such a motion. Such a tempo. Surely not all bards are talented. Yet how could she ever think to bed another after the Jaskier? Their bodies a wonderful, near violent clash and the kisses so very sweet.

A poor and dutiful maid working the in knocks at the door gently. "Everything good in there, miss?"

Maybe, just maybe she could put magical sound restrictions. But then she would remove herself from the mischief of moaning a response. An "oh dear me" and "right then" come from the other side of the door. The awareness or perhaps the shame with Jaskier's committed to rhythm and that perfect cock of his own sends Yennefer once more. She clutches him tightly and presses her face into his neck. Apologies to his ears, his skin for what it is worth. Nothing good comes without a price.

Edited (there we go.) 2020-03-22 02:31 (UTC)

Her cry is the sweetest agony and his hips nearly stutter with his laughter as the maid makes her excuses through the door. Yennefer squeezes him, her cunt drawn tight and quivering and, oh, Jaskier can only groan as he finally begins to lose rhythm. He thrusts through her peak, hips jerking and desperate, but as she calms it is all he can do to keep from gasping.

His cock aches furiously, nearly crossing into actual, appreciable pain. He is sure that when he withdraws it, it will be some strange and worrisome color--but oh, how sweet the music they had made.

"Aaaa--" He whines softly and his head presses against her own. His hands are fisted in the sheets beside her.

"My dear--if you would--please, please--"

He is plaintive, he will admit. His begging is shameless--he knows he lacks the dexterity to free himself and, besides, he is certain that Yennefer would prefer to undo him, herself. Unfortunately he cannot quite bring himself to leave the soft and velvet embrace of her, even if he can no longer thrust, overcome with the sensation of it all.

After all this time and effort, he only now has fallen out of pace? A true hero. Her heart is beating so fast and she will not let him go from he, no matter how he wriggles. The rippling feeling resonates still in her spine up from her cunt and back down again. Blessed Melitele, seems as though she is the only one that ever listens. Yennefer returns fire, lazy and as erratic. Her limbs feel so pleasantly limber.

There is a way to undo the ring. There always is. And a ring conjured by her magic? Best believe there is a remedy without having to withdraw.

"Ssshhh." Her nose nuzzles close to his ear. Breath shifts his hair and his jaw close to his ear gets a messy set of kisses. "I've got you. Never fear." Fear is not the motivator. Jaskier trembles and his whole body tense as a tuned chord on his lute.

"Thistledown." That is the chosen word that operates the latch of the silver ring. It opens and drops from his cock and balls. Yennefer's arms and legs clutch on him, wanting to feel each and every movement of his body.

Jaskier gasps and grinds against her, the rush of blood is its own sweet release. His eyes slam shut as he withdraws just so and then, as he snaps his hips forward, he comes with a shivering groan. His cock jerks and overflows, pulsing in her for a short eternity--at least that is how it feels to the bard.

His vision is white behind his eyelids and his forehead falls against the bed by the side of her head.

He grinds his hips in parody of thrusting, rolling them as he shakes, and then eventually he stills, all but boneless above her, held on shaking arms so that he doesn't twist the phallus between them and jar the straps. He kisses her against the side of her head, lazily, sloppily, with no clear path or purpose but the action itself.

Suddenly, he cannot seem to catch his breath, but still he smiles.

"I shall--" he pants very softly. "Never--be able--to hear--that word---again."

Her senses are keen and oh so alive and aware. She can actually feel him pulsate and release. Or at least it seems so with the way that he moves. Her hold on him, even with her limbs wanting to lay boneless and slack, remains. No longer held back and not a time keeper with movement there is still such a steadiness. Continuing and flourishing with his release.

Rolling and grinding until finally at a stand still. Yennefer slowly unhooks her heels, her knees stay bent and close to him.

"It's a silly word. Forgettable." Except for when you are such a person that travels on foot, sometimes horseback, all over the highways and byways of land. All that flora and fauna. Jaskier will not find himself so cross with thistles or their downy portions any longer. She laughs softly and gently pulls herself to make space to try and see his face. Moving this much causes a residual shiver in her too. "I hope I've given you things worth remembering." Such a tease she is. Jaskier gets another little peck. His shoulders and chest still are heaving. "Never one to speak openly of my trysts I will at least never refute that you are....magnificent."

Yennefer sighs out the full contents of her lungs. "Shame the girl had gone away. I could have asked her to draw a bath." With her influence and coin she can get a bath at any hour. That would require moving and frankly she is not yet ready for that.

"In an establishment of this quality?" Jaskier asked and shivered as he withdrew. His soft cock dropping between his legs, spreading slick and semen against his thighs. It is a glorious feeling and he sighs. He drops to his side next to her and his arm wraps around her stomach on reflex.

"I should imagine they will bother us again, shortly," Jaskier says and shifts closer, burying his face in her hair and tucking his forehead against her temple.

"If not, I shall venture forth and inquire--once I can walk again."

Empty and splayed open, goosebumps spread over her thighs. They pull closed and it is quite the sensation as she tilts into Jaskier. This was more than enough. A grand night out. Now would be the time for farewells and last fond touches. Except that feels wrong to suggest. He is not some lordling, sell-sword or swain who she will never speak to again. This is her good, good friend. She indulges in touch for a moment more. For him, she thinks. Jaskier is all a-quiver. Though birdlike to Yennefer most times, she has never known a bird to be so affectionate. Maybe he did fuck her mind away. His arm is warm on her skin, they both are hot but he is some how simply--she prefers this touch.

Her hair is a wreck, falling into coils wherever damp. Watching him make a pillow of it pulls her lips to smile. "Probably to ensure that no one has died." In the permanent sense at least. "A murder is a dreadful thing for business."

Changing the name of the place, hoping it wouldn't be haunted thereafter. The stigma hanging over it. Temeria has a better chance of recovering from it than a small hamlet or village. Yennefer cannot for the life of her remember why she thought it was important to come.

Her fingers trace over Jaskier's back. A sigil for peace, a sigil for health. He needs no sigils for talent. "I would think it would be bad service to ignore a patrons needs and have to make them go all the way down the steps and all the way to the innkeeper himself." Each all drawn out for the tedious thing that it is.

He huffs a laugh against her hair and brushes lips over the rise of her cheek before he speaks. It does not even occur to him that she might wish him to leave, just yet, and he does not show any sign of preparing. His thumb smooths over her soft skin, though it is a simpler motion than the patterns she draws against his back.

He cannot recall the last time he laughed so much or so often, particularly during sex. He feels so much lighter--he is not nearly whole, but the wound in his heart has been cleaned, flushed, and the bitter infection in the depths of it purged away. He is not so terribly sad and, for that, he is grateful.

He draws a long, slow breath through his nose, fills his lungs with the scent of her, of them, and then speaks. He sounds both lazy and immeasurably contented.

"Does her ladyship require anything else, once I undertake that harrowing journey?" He says, after a long moment spent with his eyes shut, reveling in the softness of her hair. He leans back then, but only so far that he might stretch up just a bit and peer down at her, sleepy eyes indented at the corners with his happiness.

"Some fine oils and salts, perhaps? Or refreshment of some kind?"

Is this a common occurrence for the bard? Surely it must be to lay and relish in the messy nest of love. Why else would he be so despised by husbands, brothers and so many that stumble into the bedchamber? That is how rumors go, she thinks.

Yennefer slowly blinks and finds that careful kiss and press to her cheek is a private kind of charm or mark of luck. The deeper reserves of sadness have been purged from the well in his eyes. Still brilliant, still blue a might better than before. Perhaps a trick of the light.

Lilac, gooseberries, linen, the fine quality oil with sex all with the unique fragrances of their bodies. Heady, rich and lush, befitting a sorceress. Somehow Jaskier wears lilac well.

"Lavender and rose bath salts." Specifics. She is still laying down but cannot help but reach up to stroke his jaw, his throat, down his neck to his chest. Such a distracting sight he is. Though her eyes are still drawn up to his face, smiling and sweet. "Apple juice. And if there isn't any I can be without." Though the concept makes her lips press together in a pout. "Get whatever you like. Is that a fitting reward for a brave bard forced to embark on such a quest?" Perilous place that an inn in the lazier hours of the night during a peaceful festival.

Her fingers drop from him and fall against her belly. Oh. That's right. She is still dressed for fun and games. The leather is not uncomfortable, the fastens might have little teeth marks. More proof of a time well spent.

"As you wish," Jaskier says, smiling and delighted as he pushes himself up off the bed. It takes some doing and, admittedly, he lets out a sigh of effort--he is tired to his bones and already feeling the soreness her pretty cock has wrought in him. It is something to savor, that lovely burn, but it will be an ordeal come morning. Ah, he is getting too old for such fun.

He pulls on his trousers and fastens the topmost clasp of them. He foregoes his lacing and simply lets his half-open chemise cover the undone stretches of his pants. He shall not be gone long, it seems, because he does not even glance at his lute or doublet as he walks to the door. He does comb his fingers back through his hair, but it is an easy motion that, truly, does little to fix it.

The maid is nowhere to be found, absent entirely from the hall outside their door. He is forced to walk down the steps and to the innkeep at the desk. The man gives him a stern but, frankly, approving look and hums with appropriate seriousness as Jaskier makes his requests. The bathwater will take time to heat, as will the apples to press, so he settles and waits for the latter and (to some degree) the former.

He returns ten minutes hence, a pitcher and two glasses in hand, and the innkeeper respectfully behind. The man doesn't enter their room--it is not hard to guess at the state of undress to be found within, and Jaskier sets the juice aside as he takes over the movement of the tub.

"A maid will be by with water, and with the requisite accouterments, shortly. Until then, your juice?"

Ten minutes is not a terribly long amount of time. Yennefer accomplishes her own goal of sitting up. And that lets her be in an ideal position to remove the cock and it's garter. As suspected there are small bite marks were the fastens rested into her skin. She traces over the first marking the outside of her thigh with a smile. Her feet are not reliable as she stands and holds the bed post.

Jaskier's doublet lays near and she places it over the foot of the bed. And ah. His blue silk small clothes. Truly a splurge, whatever seamstress had made these had an eye for detail as well as a luxurious supply of silk. The bard seems to be operating well without them and she folds them up and places them under her dress. All garments she recovers she drapes over the chaise.

Shame he took his chemise. It would be of a high quality. Yennefer pulls a silk robe from her items. Surprisingly this one is white with embroidered grey swirls of ivy. The belt is there, though she doesn't see a reason why to draw it shut if it is to be removed so soon. The main function is to ward of a peek or a chill when the door is opened again. This is about the most effort she feels necessary to put into clothing. Footsteps sound by the door--without sex it is easier to hear someone approaching.

"My hero returns." And not empty handed. Sitting on the chaise to the side of the collection of clothes leaves her closer to the door. Already Yennefer is smiling to see him again, so rakish and so very fucked is a sight, she smiles even wider to see juice as well as the bath. The Golden Fawn is a quality establishment. "What pains you must have taken." To either hunt down that naughty maid or to endure whatever mood the innkeeper was in.

Has she ever seen Jaskier do manual labor before? Does this count as manual labor? He is doing well enough on his own. "There is good enough." At least enough space to put the large wooden vat. "Come. Come. Sit and drink."

Jaskier sets the tub where she likes and reclaims the pitcher and glasses before finishing his idle stroll to her side. He pours as he walks, a skill cultivated over many years of practice, and offers up a glass before taking a careful seat alongside her. He sets the pitcher aside and, as he bends, two maids hustle in through the open door.

One has two pitchers of water, the other only one but also a tray of delicate containers. They dump the steaming water into the tub, set the salts and perfumes aside, and then hurry out without so much as making eye contact with either of them. Their cheeks appeared to have been burning just slightly.

"I think we might have been loud," Jaskier whispers aside, over the rim of his glass. He does not sound apologetic or regretful in the slightest. Without thinking, his hand comes up and brushes some of her dark hair over her shoulder, uncovering her face so he can see it better from the side.

It is a liberty he never dreamed he would have taken and now he does it thoughtlessly.

"I suppose I shall have to tip them when they bring us breakfast," he muses and takes a sip of the juice in his glass. He glances back as they return with another four pitchers of steaming water and the tub is nearly half filled.

"They certainly earned it."

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