Chapter 1: The Strategic Cuckolding
The war chamber smelled of wet stone and something deeper, fouler – sulfur clinging to the back of Rowan’s throat with every breath he tried to keep steady. Torchlight flickered erratically across maps of conquered territories pinned to the rough-hewn walls. Astarte’s borders, once proud, were now just another patchwork under the twins' dominion, marked with brutal efficiency. The air vibrated, not with the distant clang of battle he craved, but with a low, wet, rhythmic sound that seemed to emanate from the very shadows pooling around the massive obsidian desk dominating the far end of the cavernous room.
Andras lounged back in a throne carved from what looked like fused bone and volcanic glass. His crimson skin drank the torchlight, making him seem like a malevolent ember. Black hair fell carelessly over a sharp, aristocratic brow. His eyes, burning like banked coals, were fixed on Rowan, a faint, unnerving smirk playing on his lips. He was utterly relaxed, one hand resting casually on the arm of the throne, the other… disappeared beneath the desk’s shadowed lip.
"Report," Andras commanded, his voice a low rumble that resonated in Rowan’s chest, oddly intimate against the backdrop of that persistent, slurping noise.
Rowan snapped his gaze away from the unsettling void beneath the desk. He focused on a point just over Andras’s shoulder, on a map depicting the ravaged plains of his homeland. For Alexia. Just breathe. For Alexia. The mantra was brittle, crumbling faster every day. "Third Legion secured the Iron Pass, Lord Andras," he stated, forcing his voice level, professional. The damp leather of his worn vambraces felt constricting. "Minimal resistance. They hold the choke point. Scouts report the remnants of the Dawn Brigade are scattered, heading south towards the Salt Wastes."
"Scattered," Andras mused. A slight, almost imperceptible shift in his posture. His broad chest expanded with a deeper breath, the muscles in his bare torso flexing. Beneath the desk, the wet sounds intensified for a moment – a desperate, gagging gulp followed by a low, satisfied hum from Andras. "Or regrouping? Could they pose a threat from the Wastes, Rowan?"
Rowan clenched his jaw, the familiar tang of betrayal sharp on his tongue. He asks me how to hunt down my own people. "Unlikely, my lord," he ground out. "The Wastes offer little shelter, no water. It’s a death sentence. More likely they’re hoping to cross into Thessalia." He risked a glance downwards, drawn by a sudden, muffled whimper. Nothing but darkness under the desk, thick and impenetrable. And Andras’s large hand, knuckles white where they gripped the obsidian armrest.
"Mmm," Andras sighed, the sound rich with dark amusement. His hips shifted minutely. "Thessalia. Weak. Ripe." His smirk widened. "Your assessment of the garrison strength at Stormhaven? Jezera finds their defiance… tedious."
Rowan swallowed, the sound loud in his own ears. The slurping had become a frantic, sucking rhythm. He could almost feel the vibrations through the stone floor. Focus, damn you. "Heavy fortifications, my lord," he reported, sweat trickling down his temple despite the chamber’s chill. "But undermanned since we routed their main force at Greywater. Their commander is capable but cautious. A sustained siege, or a targeted assault on their granaries–"
He broke off as Andras suddenly arched his back, a sharp hiss escaping his lips. His crimson eyes fluttered shut for a second, head tilting back against the throne.
Andras shuddered, a tremor running through his powerful frame, his groan echoing off the cold stone. Beneath the desk, the frantic sucking sounds intensified, accompanied by a muffled gagging cough and a wet, desperate gasp for air. Slowly, his crimson eyes opened, locking onto Rowan’s with predatory amusement, the smirk returning sharper than before. "Closer, Rowan," Andras commanded, his voice thick with exertion yet utterly controlled, the fingers of his free hand curling in a beckoning gesture towards the edge of the obsidian slab. "Come. Sit down."
It wasn't the first time his demonic Lord had been serviced during their meetings. 'Must be Zahira again.'
Rowan’s boots scraped stone as he stiffly obeyed, each step echoing like a hammer blow in the sudden, thick silence broken only by those wet, rhythmic gulps. The sulfur stench deepened near the desk, mingling with a sharper, muskier odor that made his stomach clench. Andras watched him approach, that predatory smirk widening, his hips lifting slightly off the throne as the desperate sucking beneath intensified into choked, gagging sounds. Rowan flinched as a low, satisfied groan tore from Andras’s throat, the demon’s head lolling back, his hand vanishing completely under the desk’s lip – followed by a muffled, feminine cry of effort and the unmistakable, slick pop of a mouth releasing thick flesh. His gaze, drawn unwillingly downward in the flickering torchlight, caught the desperate flutter of small fingers gripping Andras’s bare, crimson thigh.
'Hmm the hand is too pale to be Zahira, must be one of the nobles they captured during the battle.' Rowan thought. "How did the goblins perform in the West?" Andras asked, pulling Rowan from his thoughts on who was servicing his master under the table.
"They performed... adequately, my lord," Rowan forced out, his gaze fixed rigidly on the map behind Andras as another wet, desperate gag echoed from beneath the desk. Sweat slicked his palms inside his gauntlets; the rhythmic slurping, the choked gasps, the smell – thick musk and salt and something cloyingly floral – threatened to drown his focus. Andras's low groan vibrated through the stone floor as he shifted, the obscene shlick-shlick-shlick of fingers working a slick hole joining the cacophony beneath the obsidian slab. "Their savagery… compensates for their lack of… discipline in open battle."
A sharp, muffled cry, high and feminine, cut through Rowan’s report, followed by Andras’s deep chuckle – a sound like boulders grinding together. "Discipline," Andras mused, his voice thick with exertion yet perfectly controlled, his crimson eyes burning into Rowan’s while his free hand gripped the armrest, knuckles white. Beneath the desk, the sounds intensified: frantic, open-mouthed sucking, desperate whimpers punctuated by gags, and the slick, rhythmic squelch of fingers pumping hard and fast. "Something you understand, do you not, Rowan?" Andras hissed, his hips jerking upwards as a tremor ran through his thickly muscled frame. "Tell me... the disposition... of the Sky-Captains." He punctuated the demand with a sharp thrust downwards, drawing a choked sob from the unseen woman whose small, pale hand scrabbled weakly at his thigh, a thin band of gold glinting dully on one finger in the flickering torchlight before vanishing back into the dark to resume its frantic work between her own spread legs.
"The Sky-Captains remain fractured, my lord," Rowan reported, his voice tight as he stared fixedly at the map, oblivious to the wet, sloppy gulps and choked whimpers intensifying beneath the obsidian slab. Andras threw his head back, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as Alexia's throat convulsed wildly around his thick, pulsing cock, her desperate fingers plunging deep into her own soaked cunt, milking his ecstasy as Rowan detailed the enemy's weakness.
Andras just barely manages to not cum in Alexia's throat. "Perhaps we should continue this another time my lord? Who is under the desk anyway?" Rowan asks.
"Your wife." Andras answers, a devilish smirk upon his features.
"Funny." Rowan answers sarcastically, used to Andras' antics.
Alexia froze beneath the obsidian slab, Andras's thick cock lodged deep in her throat, her frantic fingering of her swollen cunt stalling mid-thrust; Rowan's dismissive sarcasm echoing above her was a jagged ice pick straight to her heart, tears stinging her wide, horrified eyes as she struggled not to choke. Then, with a desperate, muffled whimper swallowed around the demon’s girth, she resumed her obscene worship, sucking greedily, her wedding band glinting as she plunged three fingers knuckle-deep into her soaked pussy, the wet squelches and gagging gulps louder now, frantic proof of her new allegiance.
Alexia yanked her fingers from her dripping slit, slick juices gleaming on her knuckles, and slammed both hands onto Andras's thick, throbbing thighs, shoving her face down harder onto his monstrous cock until her nose was buried in the coarse hair at his base. Her throat stretched obscenely around his girth as she sucked with desperate, sloppy intensity, hollowing her cheeks, her tongue frantically rubbing the pulsing vein underneath his shaft, gagging sounds torn from her with each brutal downward shove of her head. "Mmph... cum... please... give it to me... my lord," she choked out around him, the words vibrating against his flesh, her eyes squeezed shut in fervent, filthy prayer. Andras groaned, a deep, rumbling sound of pure dark pleasure, his fingers tangling viciously in her fiery hair, holding her impaled as his hips twitched upwards, driving himself deeper down her convulsing throat. Oblivious, Rowan shifted his weight, his gaze fixed on the map of the Salt Wastes, his mind already strategizing the Dawn Brigade’s inevitable demise.
Alexia took the thick, veined demon cock impossibly deep into her throat, her nose crushed against the wiry black hair at his base, as her left hand massaged and rolled his heavy, sweaty balls while her right hand, slick with her own juices, shoved two fingers knuckle-deep up his tight, clenching asshole, rubbing firmly against his prostate. Andras threw his head back against the obsidian throne with a guttural snarl, the armrest groaning under his grip, hips jerking as her triple assault milked him. The sounds beneath the desk became a wet, gagging symphony – desperate slurps, choked whimpers, and the obscene squelch of her fingers pistoning in his ass. "The Sky-Captains lack coordination, my lord," Rowan stated flatly, his eyes tracing supply routes on the map, oblivious to his wife's muffled cry as she swallowed convulsively around the demon's shaft. "If we cut the Sky-Gate pass, their southern wing starves within a week," Andras growled, shoving Alexia's head down harder onto his cock, his voice thick with the pleasure her fingers were wringing from him.
Andras’s hips snapped upwards, driving his thick cock impossibly deeper into Alexia’s straining throat as a guttural roar ripped from him, shattering the chamber’s oppressive silence. Thick, hot ropes of demonic cum erupted straight down her gullet, pulsing violently with each choked, involuntary swallow she managed around the relentless girth filling her mouth. "Fuck! Take it all, slut!" he snarled, his crimson skin gleaming with sweat, fingers knotted brutally in her fiery hair. Halfway through his brutal climax, he yanked his slick, throbbing cock free with a wet, obscene pop, aiming the still-spurting head directly at her upturned, tear-streaked face. Thick, pearly white seed splattered across her closed eyelids, her nose, her open, gasping mouth, painting her dusky gold skin in glistening streaks that dripped onto the cold stone floor beneath the obsidian desk.