Chapter 8: The Itch Begins
The walk back to the Drunken Basilisk was a blur of shadow and stone. Elias moved through the pre-dawn lanes like a ghost, his body operating on a dampened instinct separate from his mind. The latter was a tangled nest of static and shame, thoughts slipping away before they could fully form, chased off by the deep, warm lassitude that clung to his muscles. His throat ached with a familiar, raw tenderness. His lips felt swollen. Between his legs, a different, stranger awareness hummed—a faint, tingling memory of pressure and slickness that made him clench his thighs as he walked.
He slipped into the inn through the kitchen entrance, the smell of yesterday’s grease and cold ashes filling his nose. He nearly collided with Onyx, who was rolling out dough for the morning’s pies, her arms dusted white with flour.
“Elias?” She blinked, her dark eyes sharp and too-seeing in the predawn gloom. She looked him up and down, taking in his disheveled hair, the unusual neatness of his tunic—Asterion’s doing—and the hollow, distant look in his eyes. “You’re back early. Or late. Which is it?”
“Early,” Elias rasped, then winced at the sound of his own voice, rough from use. He cleared his throat, a weak attempt at normalcy. “Couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk. To train.”
Onyx’s gaze lingered on his throat. A long beat of silence stretched, filled only by the soft thump of her fist on the dough. “Right,” she said finally, her tone flat. “Well, your ‘walk’ left you looking like death warmed over. Tommen’s already in the yard. Don’t expect him to go easy on you.”
He didn’t. For the next seven days, Elias threw himself into the grind of blade and strap with a fervor that bordered on self-punishment. He trained until his muscles screamed and his lungs burned, trying to scour the feel of coarse fur and the taste of bitter salt from his skin. But his body was no longer just his own. It had become a traitorous archive of the cavern.
During drills, Tommen’s critical bark would snap through the air. “Focus, lad! You’re leaving your right side open!” Elias would jerk his shield up, his face hot. He hadn’t been daydreaming, not exactly.
He had been clenching. A sudden, involuntary tightness low in his gut would steal his breath, a phantom echo of that thick thumb circling him, and his focus would shatter. It happened while hauling water from the well, a sharp internal spasm making him slosh cold liquid over his boots. It happened in the silent dark of his rented room, his body twisting in the coarse sheets as he slept, his dreams a fevered jumble of being held down and filled.
He washed obsessively at the basin each morning, scrubbing his skin pink, but the feeling of being marked wouldn’t leave. It was inside him. By the fourth day, a different hunger began to cut through the post-cavern fog—a sharp, needy craving that made his hands tremor during sword maintenance.
A phantom taste would flood his mouth, thick and chemical, and his knees would weaken.
“What in the seven hells is wrong with you?” Tommen grunted one afternoon after Elias had dropped his practice sword for the third time. The older man’s weathered face was etched with genuine concern beneath the irritation. “You’re jumpy as a cat. And you look like shit.”
“I’m fine,” Elias snapped, wiping sweat from his eyes. It was a lie that tasted like dust. “Just tired.”
Onyx, witnessing this from the kitchen doorway drying a pot, didn’t comment.
By the seventh night, the hunger was a screaming animal in his ribs. It scraped at him from the inside. The bland inn stew tasted like ashes. The weak ale did nothing. Lying in bed, the coarse sheets were agony against his skin, every twitch of fabric a maddening whisper. He tossed, hot and frantic, until his own hand slid down his belly, fingers wrapping around his stiff, aching cock.
He stroked himself with rough, furious pulls, trying to chase the feeling away. It was no use. His mind offered only the cavern: the smell of hot hide, the sound of a low groan, the crushing, glorious weight. He imagined his own mouth, stretched and used, and the image made him piston his hand faster. But his climax, when it came, was a dry, unsatisfying shudder that left him emptier than before. A pathetic gasp escaped him in the dark. He threw himself onto his stomach, pressing his face into the thin pillow.
His hips rocked, a slow, grinding motion against the mattress. The pressure was wrong. It was nowhere near enough. A ragged whine tore from his throat. He needed—he didn’t know what he needed. But his body did. It remembered the slick, invasive promise of that thumb, the shocking heat of seed smeared against him. He shoved a hand beneath his hips, fingers fumbling blindly behind his balls.
His own touch was clumsy, alien. He pressed a single finger against the tight, forbidden pucker, and his whole body seized. A bolt of pure, electric sensation shot up his spine. It wasn't pleasure, not exactly. It was a deep, resonant need, a hollow ache shrieking to be filled. He cried out, the sound muffled by the pillow, and came again untouched, his cock jerking against the sheets as his finger merely trembled against that super-sensitized ring.
He lay there, panting, slick with sweat and his own release, more disgusted and terrified than he’d ever been in his life. The craving hadn't been sated. It had been fed. It yawned wider inside him, a dark, empty well. He didn't sleep. He stared at the water-stained ceiling until the gray light of dawn crept through the window.
He was at the forest edge by mid-morning. He told Tommen he was scouting for a rumored troll in the southern peat bogs. The lie slid out with an ease that frightened him. His boots carried him, not south, but up. Up the familiar, winding game trail. Up toward the black basalt cliffs. His heart was a frantic bird in his chest, but his hands were steady. A terrible, inevitable calm had settled over him.
The cavern entrance was a darker blot in the shadowed rock. He didn't hesitate. He walked inside.
The humid, musky air hit him like a wall, and his knees nearly buckled with a relief so profound it felt like dying. He took two more steps into the gloom.
A massive shape detached itself from the shadows near the far wall, where a small, clear spring pooled in the rock. Asterion was washing his fur, water sluicing down the powerful expanse of his chest and back. He turned, amber eyes locking onto Elias. A slow, knowing smile spread across his bovine features.
“Back so soon, little rabbit?” he rumbled, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “Couldn’t stay away?” He shook himself, sending a spray of droplets through the torchlight, then began to towel his thick fur with a coarse cloth. He made no move to approach, just watched, the insolent, hardening length of his cock beginning to stir between his legs. “Did you forget something?”
Elias’s mouth went dry. The words lodged in his throat, caught between pride and that screaming, hollow need. He watched a bead of water trace the heavy curve of Asterion’s cock, dark against the fur. “No,” he managed, the lie brittle. “I just… I wanted to fight.”
Asterion’s laugh was a low, rolling sound that vibrated in the damp air. “Liar.” He dropped the cloth, taking a single step forward. The movement was casual, but it made the torchlight dance over the defined muscle of his thighs. “You didn’t come for a fight. You came for this.” He gestured lazily at his own erection, now fully thick and jutting from its thatch of coarse hair. “Admit it.”
Elias shook his head, but his eyes were locked on that flesh, wide and starving. He took a step back, his heel scraping on stone. His body trembled with the effort to stay upright, to not just fall to his knees. “I don’t—"
His denial vaporized into a raw, guttural scream of fury. Shame crystallized into a white-hot spike, and he launched himself forward, not with a warrior's grace, but with the wild, clumsy rage of a cornered animal. His sword, forgotten in its scabbard, was irrelevant. He swung a fist at Asterion's jaw.
The minotaur caught his wrist easily, the impact a jarring stop of bone against immense, padded flesh. Elias twisted, driving his other fist into Asterion's ribcage. It was like punching seasoned oak. A pained grunt escaped the minotaur, more surprise than hurt, and his playful amusement vanished.
"Alright, rabbit," Asterion growled, his voice dropping into something dangerous. "We'll do it your way."
Elias was strong from relentless training, and fueled by a week of tortured craving, he was faster than expected. He landed a few more glancing blows, his knuckles scraping against coarse fur. He dodged a swipe of a massive arm, the wind of it brushing his hair. For a few frantic seconds, it almost felt like a real fight.
Then Asterion stopped playing. A hand like a stone maul clamped onto Elias's shoulder, fingers digging into the tendon beneath his tunic. He was spun, wrenched off balance, and the world tilted. His back collided with the cavern wall, the breath slamming from his lungs in a choked gasp. Before he could slide down, Asterion's other arm hooked under his thigh, lifting him clean off the ground.
Elias kicked, thrashed, his boots scraping uselessly against Asterion's shins. He was pinned there, suspended, his spine against the cool rock and the minotaur's immense body caging him in. "Get off! Let me go, you fucking beast!" he spat, the words tearing from his raw throat.
Asterion leaned in, his warm, grassy breath washing over Elias's face. He ignored the struggling, his free hand snaking down. It gripped the waist of Elias's trousers and the linen beneath, and with one brutal, downward jerk, ripped the fabric apart. The sound of tearing cloth echoed sharply in the chamber, and the cool, damp air hit Elias's exposed skin.
The sound of tearing cloth echoed sharply in the chamber, and the cool, damp air hit Elias's exposed skin. He froze, his thrashing ceasing as the vulnerability became absolute. His ripped trousers and smallclothes hung in rag-tag flaps around his thighs, baring him from the navel down. A high, wounded sound escaped his lips.
Asterion’s breath huffed out, hot and interested against his neck. The minotaur didn’t lower him. He adjusted his grip, hiking Elias’s leg higher over his hip, spreading him wider against the unforgiving stone. Elias squeezed his eyes shut, trembling violently, his fingernails scrabbling for purchase on the slick basalt.
“Let’s see that pussy,” Asterion said, the words a dark, casual rumble.
Elias whined, a frantic, animal noise, and began thrashing again with renewed, helpless strength. It was useless. Asterion’s hold was immovable. The minotaur simply craned his massive head, his amber gaze dragging down the length of Elias’s trapped, exposed body. A low, approving hum vibrated through his chest.
“My cum did good work,” Asterion observed, his tone one of clinical pride. “Look at that."
Elias sobbed, shame flooding his system hotter than any desire. Asterion brought his other hand down, not to strike, but to cup him. His broad, rough palm enveloped Elias’s entire slack cock and balls, warming them, weighing them. Then a thick finger slid further back, through the damp cleft, and found its target.
Asterion rubbed slow, deliberate circles on it.
The touch was electric, a jolt of pure, shameful sensation that arced through Elias’s spine. His back bowed, his head cracking against the wall. “Stop—please, don’t—”
Elias’s plea dissolved into a shattered gasp as Asterion’s calloused finger pressed more firmly against him. The resistance of his own body was a thin, futile barrier. The minotaur’s breath was a humid snort against his temple. “Don’t?” Asterion mocked, his finger circling with relentless, slow precision. “Your body is begging for it, rabbit. Look at you.” He squeezed the frail cock trapped in his other palm, and a weak dribble of precome seeped out onto the coarse fur of his hand.
Elias’s hips gave a traitorous, minute jerk, seeking more of that shocking pressure. A sob clawed its way out of his chest. Asterion chuckled, a dark, delighted sound. He removed his hands suddenly, letting Elias slump, held up only by the pinning arm under his thigh. The cool air bit at his wet, exposed skin.
Asterion stepped back, allowing Elias to crumple to the stone floor in a heap of torn fabric and trembling limbs. He looked down at him, his own thick cock standing obscenely close to Elias’s face. The musky, animal scent of it flooded Elias’s senses, and his mouth flooded with saliva immediately, a deep, craving ache opening in his gut.
“You came here desperate for it, didn’t you?” Asterion murmured, palming his heavy girth, smearing a bead of precome over the head. His amber eyes were unnervingly perceptive. “Thought you’d play at fighting, get your ass handed to you, and then I’d reward you. Fill that hungry throat of yours.” He tapped the slick tip against Elias’s lips.
Elias flinched back, but his tongue darted out instinctively, catching the bitter salt. A shudder of pure need wracked him.
“Oh, you just came so I would feed you, huh?” Asterion’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with malice. “Wanted to suck me, take my cum, feel all good and fuzzy so I could make you take it.” He dragged the head across Elias's cheek, leaving a wet, hot stripe. “But what if that’s not what I want today?”
He pulled his cock away, leaving Elias straining forward for a second before catching himself, horror in his wide green eyes. The addictive musk was a tangible fog in the air, working on his nerves, softening his will, making every inch of him hyper-aware of the massive creature before him. He didn’t understand the chemistry, only the crushing, hollow need.
“Today,” Asterion said, kneeling with a creak of tendon, his bulk towering over Elias’s sprawled form, “I want to wake up this tight little pussy.”He ran a single, broad finger down Elias’s sternum, over his trembling belly, through the fine hair, and back to that clenched, pink furl. Elias jerked, a full-body spasm.
Elias jerked, a full-body spasm. His heels scrabbled against the gritty floor as he tried to push himself back, to become one with the unyielding wall. "No, no, no," he chanted, the word a frantic, breathless mantra. His hands flew down in a useless attempt to cover himself, his fingers trembling over his exposed cock and the vulnerable clench of muscle behind it.
Asterion watched the panic with detached interest, his amber eyes gleaming in the low light. He caught Elias’s wrists in one massive hand with infuriating ease, pinning them above his head against the stone. The position arched Elias’s back, thrusting his hips upward, leaving him utterly defenseless. "Such a fuss," Asterion sighed, his tone one of exaggerated patience, as if dealing with a skittish colt. "All this squirming. We’ll get nowhere like this."
With his free hand, Asterion reached toward a shadowed niche in the cavern wall Elias had never noticed. His fingers closed around the stem of a simple, tarnished metal chalice. He brought it into the torchlight. The vessel was half-full of a viscous, opalescent fluid that glistened with a sickly sheen. The familiar, musky-bitter scent hit Elias’s nostrils, and his stomach twisted with a potent mix of revulsion and raw, undeniable hunger.
"You need to relax, little rabbit," Asterion murmured, shifting his grip. He freed Elias’s wrists only to clamp a hand around his jaw, forcing his head back. The bones ached under the pressure. "Drink. It’ll take the edge off." He brought the rim of the chalice to Elias’s tightly sealed lips.
The cool metal dug into his lips. Elias clenched his jaw, sealing his mouth shut, a last defiant tremor running through his body. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to block out the scent that curled into his nostrils, thick and warm and familiar. It was the smell of the cavern, of Asterion’s skin, of the bitter salt he’d swallowed last week that had haunted his dreams and twisted his guts for days.
“Open,” Asterion commanded, his voice calm, conversational even.
He increased the pressure, fingers digging into the hinge of Elias’s jaw until pain blossomed sharp and bright. A choked gasp escaped Elias’s lips, and the moment they parted, the thick, cool rim of the chalice was there. The scent flooded his sinuses, overwhelming, a complex blend of sweaty fur, raw animal musk, and beneath it all, that sweet, chemical lure that made his entire body sing with needy recognition.
It smells so good, sweet and heady and musky and oh god..
The thought was a scream in the quiet of his mind, warring with the revulsion tightening his gut. He shouldn't, but his throat convulsed around a dry swallow, betraying him.
He needs it he can't breathe it's not like he's drinking it on purpose Asterion is making him right so it doesn't matter if he just...
The first trickle hit his tongue, cold and syrupy, and his body went limp, all protest dissolving into a desperate, physiological surrender. Asterion tilted the vessel further, a steady, generous pour that filled his mouth, coating his teeth, washing over his tingling taste buds.
Swallow.
He did, gulp after ragged gulp, the viscous fluid sliding down his tormented throat, and a warmth like cheap whiskey spread instantly through his core, softening the sharp edges of his fear.
Asterion pulled the empty chalice away, watching Elias’s throat work. “That’s what you wanted, huh?” he cooed, his voice a grotesque parody of tenderness. He used a thick finger to collect the stray drops from Elias’s chin, pushing them back between his slack lips. “Is that better, sweet thing?”
Elias couldn’t speak. The chemical warmth was a tide, rising, muting the panic into a distant hum. The sharp scent of his own ripped clothing, the mineral chill of the stone beneath him—it all receded. Only Asterion remained, massive and focused, the center of his world. His limbs felt heavy, pliable. A low, shameless moan bubbled up from his chest as Asterion’s finger traced his lower lip.
“Yeah, you’re soft now,” Asterion observed, his hand leaving Elias’s face to return between his legs. The touch was no longer an invasion, but an inevitability. Elias’s head lolled back against the wall, his eyes glazed half-shut.
Elias’s head lolled back against the wall, his eyes glazed half-shut. The world had softened, blurred at the edges by the warm syrup now pooling in his stomach, uncoiling through his veins. His frantic heartbeat slowed to a thick, languid drum. He felt Asterion’s hands moving, lifting him, but the resistance was gone, melted away into a heavy, pliable acceptance.
“There we go,” Asterion grunted, not unkindly, as he easily maneuvered Elias’s limp form. He sat back on a waist-high, flat-topped stone, pulling Elias across his thick, fur-covered thighs. The position was effortlessly dominant, Elias’s hips perched high, his upper body sloping down toward the floor. The cool air of the cavern kissed the backs of his thighs, the tattered remains of his trousers a ruin around his knees.
Asterion’s hand, broad and warm, settled on the swell of Elias’s ass, squeezing appreciatively. “Let’s have a proper look at my investment.” He hooked his thumbs into the cleft and spread him open.
Elias moaned, the sound muffled against Asterion’s leg. The exposure was absolute, brutal in its clinical intimacy. The flickering torchlight illuminated every detail: the vulnerable pucker, twitching under the sudden scrutiny, still faintly glistening from last week’s attention.
“Hmm.” Asterion leaned close, his warm breath washing over the sensitive skin. Elias shuddered violently. “Just like I thought. Tense. Virgin-tight.” He ran a single, dry thumbpad directly over the furl, a slow, maddening circle. Elias flinched, a jolt shooting up his spine. “This needs some more work before it’ll be ready for me.”
He shifted slightly, reaching for the discarded chalice. He upended it over his fingers, catching the last viscous dregs of the spent fluid. It was cooler now, a thick, pearlescent sludge. He brought his slicked fingers back, smearing the cold, sticky residue directly over Elias’s hole.
“Oh, fuck,” Elias gasped into the fur, his hips jerking. The sensation was shocking—the sudden chill, the slick slide, the immediate, tingling heat as the residue seeped into his skin. It was a lurid spark, igniting a nerve-end shame he’d been grinding against in his lonely bed all week.
“It’s waking up,” Asterion observed, his voice a low, pleased rumble. He began to work the mess in with deliberate, circular motions, his thumb pressing just enough to tease the tight ring to clench and flutter. “See? It knows what it’s for, deep down. It’s just shy.”
Elias whined, his fingers knotting in Asterion’s shaggy leg fur. The thumb kept moving, spreading the slickness, painting him with it. Each pass stoked that low, chemical ember in his gut, warming him from the inside out, making his own neglected cock swell and leak against the minotaur’s thigh. The dual sensation—the degrading, meticulous touch there, and the rough friction of his own arousal here—unraveled him.