Recovery (Astarion BG3 Fan Fiction)

4: A Little Closer, So to Speak

He bites down with a soft "hmm," and she feels a pinch. First comes an icy sting, then a dull, throbbing numbness.

After a few seconds, he laps her neck, then his own lips, glossy with her blood and kiss-swollen.

Aysla holds his ruby gaze while she tenders her hand forward, fumbling for the hardness at the front of his pants - a move she's usually rewarded for. She hopes he'll take the hint and move on to fucking her expeditiously.

But he doesn't. He halts her hand, moving on to the lacing at the front of her own trousers. "Not yet, my sweet."

She holds back a sigh, steeling herself to fake her way through an inept attempt at cunnilingus. The pretty ones are usually the worst at it, and she never comes anyway - it's just extra work for everyone involved, at the end of the day. But she keeps in character, rolling her hips beneath him alluringly, and holding his gaze as she undoes her clothing.

"Good girl," he purrs, before helping her to peel off her shirt.

Kissing down her naked body, he pauses at her breasts, caressing one while taking the other in his mouth.

She didn't realize she was tensing. Her body steels itself, remembering the mouths that had tried to bite there, rough and clumsy.

But he's exceedingly gentle, handling her lightly, preciously. Relief floods her; then, a strange yearning in her chest, in addition to the novel sensation of her arousal deepening in earnest. A coil tightens in her abdomen - a gear that she never feels turn other than when she's alone.

He switches sides, lavishing her other breast with his mouth now, and leaving open mouth kisses, sucking - still, so softly - on the swells of her breasts as he continues his path downward.

A few light kisses on her navel and he looks up at her. She fixes her face, realizing that she's looking at him with something too close to tenderness. But the expression that meets hers is focused.

He gives one long, slow lick, from the bottom to the top of her slit. When he lifts his face, everything below his nose shines wetly.

Taking his fingers, he pushes them slowly into her. And the tension rises again - she winces at memories of hands aggressively rubbing bruises into her; then relief, gratitude, pleasure - his handling still feels good, still feels safe.

His touch is expert. He licks her once more before placing his mouth over her clit, and then hums into her, his tongue circling, and his fingers moving in and out at a torturously slow pace. She feels her core, surprisingly, continue to tighten.

He looks up again through his eyelashes and says, "Mmm, so pretty darling," and she melts, a little.

"Such a pretty pussy," he murmurs, before putting his tongue back to work.

Gods, she thinks, has head always been good? Is this the first competent man to meet my cunt?

Shuffling through memories, none of her past partners ever made her feel like this. None of them had made her feel particularly good, at all. But she would muster on through it as if it were her job.

His lavishing tongue grounds her back to reality. She usually attempted some show of swirling her hips and moaning, at this point, but now in the thralls of genuine pleasure, her hips stutter and her whimpers come out jagged.

After a minute or two of this, she realizes nervously that she feels close.

She never relaxes enough to get here, let alone does anyone ever touch her like this, just right -

Aysla wracks her brain to find an explanation as to how in the world she is dancing this dangerously close to coming undone. What makes this different?

The answer that she finds is equal parts embarrassing and sad.