Patreon Compilation – Fic#297 – Astarion/Vellioth – cuckolding; fisting; overstimulation; exhibitionism/voyeurism – Vellioth's Iron Fist 2

Astarion/Vellioth – Cazador's punishment is not over with yet. Vellioth makes sure to torment him in every which way. Astarion is just a sweet little thing in the middle.

Part 1 (Patreon Link)

Part 2 (This Part)

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Cazador is allowed to sit and imbibe some of his own wine as he has to watch Vellioth play with Astarion. What Cazador had thought to be a one-time affair… a sheer novelty that surely would wear off within the hour, has turned out to become quite the obsession for Vellioth.

He has spent a week in Cazador’s villa and this week has been filled with him giving his attention to Astarion… and forcing Cazador to bear witness to it all.

Cazador does not know what to think of the situation. Other than that he hates it. He loathes that he is made to sit like an unloved wife in the corner to watch his Master make… make… make love to the idiot spawn that he unwittingly put into this world.

Nevermind that Astarion has brought him many boons over the years with his looks and silver tongue. For the past week, Cazador has wanted nothing more than to rip said tongue out and skewer the idiot in a way that would not make him sing. Not like this, at least; as he sits on Vellioth’s hips and bounces his wet little cunt along his cock with abandon.

They look good together. And Cazador hates that too. They look like they were made for each other. Like they had been born from the same womb and just had not known about it until just now.

Vellioth plays his role as older brother beautifully. As Cazador watches, seething, holding his wine glass in a death grip, Vellioth reaches up and cups Astarion’s pecs like a pair of breasts, gently squeezing them and dragging his thumbs across the small peaks of his teats.

He does this for a moment or two before sliding his hands down Astarion’s ribs and what he leaves behind is… nothing. Not even the imprint of a single finger because he is touching the spawn with such gentleness. With such reverence-

Cazador lowers his gaze and glowers into the dark red wine until he suddenly hears Vellioth’s acidic voice: “Eyes on me, maggot. My orders were clear, were they not?”

Cazador’s attention snaps back to the pair even before he has really understood what Vellioth said to him.

“...Of course, Master,” he grits out through his teeth, his eyes burning into the back of Astarion’s neck. As if he could feel it, Astarion whines and suddenly leans forward, bringing his throat so very close to Vellioth’s half-open, panting mouth.

Further down, his hips lift just enough that Cazador can watch their union; how Vellioth’s cock is spreading the young spawn’s rim. How it glistens wet and eager. Cazador’s sight is impeccable; and he hates that too because it means he can see in perfect detail how the fat vein running along the bottom of Vellioth’s proud erection is throbbing with blood. Fat and virile. So eager to pump yet another load into the whore he must have grown quite fond of.

Or mayhaps it is simply Cazador’s obvious loathing that brings him so much unfiltered joy.

“Sit up, pet,” Vellioth croons. His voice is that of a lover. He helps Astarion kneel up until his cock slips out of the warm, delicious grasp of his body, then proceeds to look right at Cazador as he reaches a hand between those slim, muscular thighs and starts to slowly feed two fingers into hole.

Cazador inhales through his nose, just shy of uttering a long-suffering sight. He forces himself to hold Vellioth’s intense gaze… but can’t help and look down the moment Astarion whimpers sweetly as only a maiden could.

Cazador can’t look into the spawn, of course, but the way Vellioth’s knuckles move and how Astarion angles his ass back and down, trying to hump the air, he can only imagine how his prostate is getting massaged; deep and intimate and with just enough gentleness to the pressure that it doesn’t make him claw at Vellioth’s shoulders and desperately beg for a reprieve.

“You are doing so well for me.”

Cazador sits ramrod straight at those words. His mouth opens slightly in indignation as he stares at Vellioth, praying, if only to himself, that he is not hearing what he is currently hearing. Vellioth is not whispering sweet nothings to this worthless spawn. He is not doing it while Cazador has to sit there and listen, remembering all the pain and suffering he’s had to endure by the hands of his master.

Vellioth is not capable of emotions. Not like this. But he does sound damn convincing right now as he has his head tilted up to look at Astarion’s face; watching him writhe for him as he pushes the sweetest little cries out of him with just a couple of fingers.

He’s been taking good care of the spawn over the past week. Cazador can’t remember the last time Astarion had looked so… juicy. So full of spunk. He is making a right scene for them; making a show out of arching his back and letting them see his fine muscles.

Out of letting them see how impossibly he can arch his spine to offer up his body like the easy little tart that he is.

Is he… mocking Cazador?

The thought has hatred bubbling inside him so thick that he can feel it pumping through his veins like sludge. He will eliminate Astarion after this; slow and painful and so viciously that he will be dreaming about the months he’s spent starving in his underground cell. He will-

“Cazador.” He sits up straighter, looking at Vellioth like the well-trained, cowering dog that he is. “Come closer. I think you deserve a better look.”

Vellioth’s expression is calm, almost congenial – but his eyes strike the fear of generations into Cazador as he mechanically stands and walks closer on wooden legs.

Vellioth points with an imperious hand and Cazador lowers himself onto his knees in front of the bed, eyes obediently lowering to watch as once again Vellioth starts to fit more and more fingers into Astarion’s shockingly receptive body. He pushes his knuckles into him one by one, folding his thumb against the palm of his hand… and within moments he’s got the spawn speared on his fist yet again with Astarion sounding like he is choking on his own tongue.

He even folds forward and curls his arms around Vellioth’s neck.

There’s a moment of stillness as Cazador holds his breath, waiting for his master to rip the spawn’s arms clean off his shoulders. From the look on Vellioth’s face he seems taken aback for a second himself which is… new. Just a second later, though, he keeps going as if nothing had happened. If anything, his face softens into something akin to affection as he slowly angles his wrist and pushes more of his fist inside Astarion.

His other hand is patting Astarion’s back, fingers briefly, idly drawing along the scars that Cazador has artfully left there.

“Do not look at me, maggot. Look at what he can do.”

His voice is so much colder when he speaks to Cazador who obediently lowers his gaze to watch him fuck Astarion. He watches at how the glistening rim stretches nice and supple around Vellioth’s wrist. He watches how Astarion’s slim, nervously fluttering belly starts to distend as Vellioth presses his knuckles against it from the inside.

 “Wonderful,” Vellioth’s voice floats through the thick air of the room. It’s pitched low and soothing and obviously not for Cazador as he kneels on the hard ground and watches up close how Astarion is getting… is getting…

“You sound downright angelic, you gorgeous little treat… can you sing louder for me?”

…loved on.

Astarion does sing louder. He always has had that snobbish little lilt to his voice; the nasally cadence that made him sound as if he thought he was something better than everybody around him. Something that made it so easy for Cazador to throw him down into his hole and punish him.

He’s losing that nasally whine now, though as he pants like a dog with his tongue lolling out and drool slowly dripping from its tip and onto Vellioth’s chest.

He whines. He whimpers. He even cries out once Vellioth starts to twist his hand in a way that looks uncomfortable, undoubtedly pressing into Astarion’s prostate again. And again. And yet again until the spawn is nervously rutting his hips back and forth in tiny increments, his cock drooling just as generously as his mouth.

Just before he comes, Vellioth’s free hand shoots out and grabs Cazador by the hair. He had already thought himself to have been forgotten… but apparently not so. Vellioth is nothing if not persistent in his punishments as he drags Cazador close enough that droplets of Astarion’s cum splatter his skin as he starts to reach his peak with a sharp little cry of his own, head thrown back, sweat flinging glittering and beautiful into the air.

All while Cazador has to grovel at their feet, pushed into the dirt and reduced to nothing but the filth underneath their boots.

He is choking on his own hatred – and burning jealousy.