Heretical Date Night! Romance is alive and well! A commission for everyone's favourite Warsmith, Plus-Departure8479 and the adorable Paranoid_Nihilist over on Reddit.
Konrad getting eaten out? I see him being a wiggler.
This has been in my inbox for literal months, I'm so sorry! @darhencake
This drabble involves transmasc!Konrad Curze in an NSFW setting. Please click away if that's not your flavor.
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It's hard to hold down a Primarch. Their strength alone makes it a herculean task; a squadron of Astartes would struggle to accomplish such a feat.
It is impossible to hold down a wiggly Primarch when you're trying to eat him out. Konrad thrashes under you, nearly kneeing you in the face when you suckle on his clit. You have to pull away in order to duck, but he grabs your hair and shoves you between his thighs.
"I didn't say you could stop," he hisses. You glare at him.
"And I didn't say you could knee me in the face." That seems to mollify Konrad, and he lowers his leg. With another glare over his mound of dark, wiry pubic hair, you wrap your arms around Konrad's thighs in an attempt to anchor yourself before diving in.
He's still wiggling, but now his movement is more purposeful as his cunt grinds against your face. Konrad's clit rubs your nose, and you can feel Konrad's heart pumping through the swollen nub.
Briefly, you abandon the lips of his pussy in favor of plying his clit with your tongue. You expect Konrad to growl, but a high pitched keening leaves his throat.
Something wet splashes across your jaw, but Konrad keeps you there, buried into his mound.
Magnus realized something had gone terribly, irreversibly wrong the moment the padded leather collar clicked shut around his neck.
"Sir?" the hostess purred from behind the velvet counter. "Is that tight enough?"
"Yes," Magnus replied, voice cracking slightly as the leash was clipped on.
He didn’t mean to say yes. Or maybe he did.
He couldn’t remember anymore.
Everything had moved too quickly. First, Fulgrim dragging him past the looming iron gates of the sex club like a glitter-drenched demon on a mission. “It’ll be fun, brother,” he’d said. “Live a little.”
Then the moment they stepped past the double doors, a sea of whips and latex and people on leashes flooded his senses. Fulgrim vanished immediately, swallowed into the crowd like a silk-shirted mirage with a laugh and a wink.
And now Magnus stood in a dimly lit corridor, cheeks flaming, dressed in black leather harness straps that accentuated the thick curve of his chest and broad shoulders. A crimson blindfold rested in the hostess’s gloved hands, about to be secured over his eyes.
“You said you wanted Level Three,” she cooed.
Did I?
“I-yes,” he said. The lie slipped past his lips like oil. Or maybe it was the truth, deep down. Maybe something about the scent of incense and rope was waking something ancient in him.
He could back out. But he didn’t.
The blindfold slid over his eyes. Darkness bloomed.
Then silence. Soft hands guiding him forward by the leash. Doors opening. A cool gust of air against his flushed skin. The sound of heels. A click. Locking.
And then your voice.
“Well, well. What do we have here?”
He stiffened instinctively. Your voice was confident, amused, rich like velvet and laced with control. Even without seeing you, something about your tone sent a shiver down his spine.
You circled him. He felt it, your steps soft against the padded floor, your presence a furnace beside his bare skin. He felt your fingers trail down the front of his harness slowly, almost lazily, like you had all the time in the world.
"You’re a big one," you murmured.
“I didn’t–” he started, but his words stopped dead in his throat when he felt you tug the leash.
Silence.
“I didn’t ask you to speak,” you said, gently, with terrifying calm.
He swallowed hard.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You rewarded him with a pat on the chest. Then the sound of rustling, something heavy, coiled rope perhaps, being prepared.
"You booked Level Three. That means full submission, full restraint. You understand that, don’t you?"
He nodded. You stepped in close enough that he could feel your breath against the corner of his mouth.
"Say it."
"I… I understand."
You made a thoughtful noise. “Good boy.”
Magnus made a strange, low sound at that, half embarrassed, half aroused. You chuckled.
“On your knees.”
He obeyed, heart pounding. You moved quickly after that. Thick ropes, silk-wrapped but firm, were wound around his arms, pulling them behind his back. Each knot pressed tight against his muscles, locking him in place. He tested them once. Twice. Couldn’t move.
A moan escaped him.
You hummed again. “You like that, don’t you? Being helpless.”
He hesitated. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Louder.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The ropes climbed up his chest, crossing tight over his pecs, framing them like a gift. You pushed him gently, and he followed your guidance, kneeling lower until he rested on his thighs, wrists immobilized behind him, ropes biting into his shoulders, blindfold still in place.
Then came the mask.
He felt the leather first, cool, thick and pliant as you slid it over his face. You adjusted the straps expertly, and the world narrowed even more. His breath echoed in the small mouth hole. A faint leather scent clung to his nose. He whimpered, trapped now in every sense.
“Poor thing,” you crooned. “All tied up. Can’t see. Can’t move. Just mine.”
Something about your voice saying that made his cock twitch violently against the confines of his pants. You must have noticed, because your next breath was a delighted little sigh.
You dragged your fingers across his clothed thigh. “You’re such a big man,” you said. “But I think you need someone to bring you to your knees. Keep you there.”
You leaned close, lips brushing the edge of his mask’s jawline.
“Doesn’t that feel good? Having someone else take control?”
“Y-yes, ma’am.”
“Beg.”
His breath hitched.
“I need it,” he whispered. “Please… keep going.”
“That’s a start.” You stepped behind him.
He heard the rustle of more rope, and then something thicker looped around his chest. You began tying his upper arms together, wrapping a dense harness across his shoulders and torso that cinched down like a second skin. One by one, the loops locked into place. When you tugged the rope and he couldn’t even rock forward, he groaned.
You weren’t gentle.
You adjusted every knot until it pressed perfectly into his pressure points, ensuring no slack remained. You bound his legs too, thighs spread and locked in place with a long stretch of rope around his ankles and knees. When he tried to shift, the sensation of restriction made his cock throb again, painfully hard now.
You didn’t touch it. You didn’t need to.
The sound of your heels echoed as you walked around him, inspecting him like art.
“Gorgeous,” you murmured. “And all mine to play with.”
He moaned.
“I could do anything I want to you right now,” you said, circling back. “You can’t even see what’s coming next.”
Your hand smacked his inner thigh lightly, then trailed upward, teasing but avoiding the place he needed you most. You reached the leash still clipped to his collar, giving it a sharp tug. He gasped and swayed forward, unable to catch himself.
“Good pet,” you said, praising him like a dog. “So responsive.”
You crouched down in front of him. “What do you think I’m going to do to you now?”
“I-I don’t know,” he whispered, voice thick and shaking behind the mask.
“You want me to use you, don’t you?”
He let out a desperate noise, nodding furiously.
“I’ll think about it.” You ran your nails down his chest through the harness, dragging over his nipples until he arched into the touch despite the bondage. You pinched one lightly. He hissed. Then moaned again when you tugged it harder.
The mask made it worse. Or better.
Every touch came with no warning. Every sensation was amplified. He couldn’t see your expression, your movements, your hands until they were already on him. He was drowning in it. You. The rope. The mask. The scent of leather. His own shallow breath.
You teased him for what felt like hours. Feather-light strokes. Slaps to his thighs. Pinching his inner legs. Tugging the leash. Running your nails down his bound spine.
But never touching his cock.
You leaned into him again, whispering against his masked ear. “Do you regret it now? Saying yes to Level Three?”
He shook his head wildly. “No. Never.”
You laughed, low and wicked. “Filthy thing.”
Then finally, finally, you cupped him through his pants.
He cried out.
You squeezed once, slow and firm. Then let go. His hips bucked involuntarily.
You clucked your tongue. “Down, pet. No humping.”
“I’m sorry–ah—please…”
You slowly began to undo his pants, dragging the zipper down with maddening slowness. His cock sprang free, hard, flushed, leaking, twitching in the cold air.
“Look at you,” you whispered. “Desperate little slut in a big man’s body.”
He whined.
You wrapped a hand around him, tight, merciless, and began to stroke.
He choked on a moan, body trembling in the ropes.
You kept it slow. Cruel. Precise. Every time his hips tried to move, you stopped. He had to beg you for every stroke.
“Please… please, ma’am… I need—”
“You’ll take what I give you,” you said sternly.
“Yes, ma’am…”
You tightened the grip, twisting slightly at the head. He let out a strangled cry.
“Louder.”
He obeyed. His voice echoed in the room, masked and breathless, words slurring into moans and groans and gasps. His whole body was flushed, trembling, barely held up by the tight bondage.
And then you stopped.
He almost sobbed.
“Please—!”
“Not yet,” you said sweetly.
You began stroking again, but slower this time. Less to satisfy, more to torture.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t do anything but beg.
When you finally leaned down and licked a slow stripe up his shaft, he shuddered like he was about to come undone right there.
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