The stories that are posted are ones that have been written between two partners that enjoy roleplay. This particular story was sparked while the elf was away, and her Prince wished to surprise her with a piece. We welcome any feedback, after all, it’s how we grow as writers. We hope you enjoy this submission.
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Plop. Silence, save for the rain. The sound of a reel taking up slack. The splashing fight of a mighty adversary. The disappointment of seeing the line snap as your quarry manages to break free.
“Hmmph!” you exhale, frustration plain on your face as you flick your tongue stud against one of the rings piercing your lip. The click is loud in the otherwise quiet environment of the edge of the stream. Then you sense Him. “My Prince, you’re awake!” you excitedly think to Him, even as you feel yourself start smiling despite your disappointment in your line’s ability to stay strong.
“Good evening, my dear Snackling,” echoes back in your mind, His response filling you effortlessly to your depths. Just the sound of His voice has you exhaling softly, nipples hardening under your issued uniform. “What mischief are you managing this week, dear love?”
You giggle to yourself, pondering how to phrase having visited the mines and nearly getting yourself killed by a pack of four eld, then running the usual errands for Saaik and Hagraphim. Then a smile as you choose just the right thing to tell Him. “Well my Love, I managed to evade a pack of ravenous eld that seemed to be quite intent on having their way with my flesh and their tentacles,” a shudder as you think of His tentacles, “and now I’m sitting on the shore wondering why I bother fishing for that drunk and layabout when they don’t send me after anything exciting from the ocean!”
“It is quite irritating, isn’t it?” He answers with a question, the sound of His slow laugh reverberating through you sending a chill up your spine. “The last time, they sent me after a catfish and those little anchovies…a massive waste of both of our talents, eh Snackling?” Silence for a moment, before He asks, “Are you nearly finished? Or should I come sit and fish with you?”
Fishing with Master! It’s been forever! So, you craft your cunning plan. “I just started with pulling in lakefish…another twenty or so to go,” you lie to Him, sounding mournful and eyeing your bucket that’s teeming with twenty-four of the required fish. You decide not to tip the contents back into the lake, greed overcoming the slight apprehension of possible discovery. It’s not like He’s ever really taken a close look at your fish bucket anyways. “Please, come to me Master. I’d like to work on my rod handling and could use some critique.” A slight blush comes over your cheeks at the double entendre, before you laugh and cast out again.
You feel a touch against your neck, twin pricks of needle points, and instead of jumping and whirling you lean back into His chest. “Mmm…hello my Prince,” you murmur quietly to him, one hand leaving your fishing rod to stroke His rod through His pants. “I’m so happy to see you brought your rod,” comes your next sultry quip as you feel His already hard cock twitch under your attention.
He bites down slightly, just piercing your skin and sending a shiver down your spine, two tiny pinpricks of blood welling to let Him lick your taste from your skin. “Hello, my Snackling,” He echoes back to you, also quiet, as if He doesn’t wish to disturb the peace of the lakeside. As if sensing your earlier thoughts, He glances at your fish bucket, and an eyebrow raises as He notes the contents of it. “Seems like you caught quite a few fish in the few moments it took me to arrive,” He observes dryly, sounding as if He might be slightly amused by your antics.
“They just started jumping into my bucket!” you protest quickly, keeping your focus on the line disappearing in front of you into the water. “It was the oddest sight, as if they wished to make a liar out of me!” You feel His thoughts stroke yours, and despite your best efforts, you feel Him ascertain the truth.
“Jumping into your bucket you say? So you didn’t lie to me to have me come sit, and fish, with you? I’d have done so if you’d merely asked without having to lie about it,” He answers back, clucking His tongue with a shake of His head. “Whatever shall I do with you, Snackling?” He sounds almost mournful as He gathers you up into His arms, your rod abandoned as He moves to sit on a flat boulder. He dandles you on His knee, the rocking up and down motion doing more to stoke the fires of your core than anything else. A glance back at Him, and you can see that He knows exactly what He’s doing to you. You ponder, briefly, sticking your tongue out at Him in a fit of pique, but decide that you might already be in enough trouble that needling Him further would be a bad idea.
He stops bouncing you on your knee, an idea apparently occurring to Him. Smiling, perhaps a touch grimly, He stands you up in front of Him and undoes the clasp of your pants, the swish of fabric accompanying them exposing you from ass to ankles as He tugs them down. Shifting Himself, He points at His lap and commands, “Lie down, Snackling.” Something capricious inside of you answers the order, and you lie down across His lap. On your back.
He looks down at you, a glare on His features even as you see His hands flex. He stops Himself, before speaking slowly to you. “Turn. Over. Onto. Your. Stomach.” His voice is low, the words slow with significant pauses between them. You gulp, knowing when He takes that tone of voice that He’s serious about what orders He gives you. You nod, the picture of obedience and roll from your back onto your stomach slowly, taking the time to grind yourself against the rigid length under His clothes.
He runs a finger up your leg, starting at your ankle, moving to the inside of calf and thigh, and lightly traces up the inside edge of your crack. “You know I dislike you being dishonest with me, Snackling,” the words cause you to shiver. His voice is low, that odd pitch that’s above a whisper, but makes your ears strain to hear what your Master has to say to you. The same voice He uses in your room. “You’ll count off as we go, until I am satisfied that you are sufficiently apologetic. Do you understand?” He gives you a light tap against your ass cheek with index and middle finger, the slight noise it makes drowned by the rain.
“Yes Master,” you whisper, wriggling against His lap in eager anticipation. It’s been so long since He’s reigned you in for your behaviors that you thought He’d forgotten how to do so. Another stroke up your leg, the other this time, that ends in a light, full handed blow against your ass. You remain silent.
“I said to count, Snackling,” He growls down at you, sounding both irritated and surprised at your lack of obedience.
“When You actually spank me, Master, I will deign to count,” you respond back with an impertinent tone, trying to draw a rise out of Him, make Him truly punish you. As if your wish were His command, the next blow from His hand lands with a meaty smack, your flesh jiggling for a moment before you feel your skin warm and start to sting. “One,” you count, voice meek as you realize you may have pushed Him just a little too hard.
His hand rests on the curve of your flesh, rubbing softly as He pauses. You feel Him lift it and tense up, awaiting the heavy blow. Just as you relax, the next slap against your flesh impacting the other cheek. It joins its mate in the warm stinging sensation as you whine out, “Two, Master. Thank you, Master.” You look back at Him, enjoying the look of faint shock on His face at your gratitude. Then you see Him smile. A cold smile that makes you shiver on top of His lap, that then lets you enjoy the feeling of His length pressing up into your stomach. A third, fourth, fifth, and sixth blow crack across your ass, the flesh starting to throb as you count and thank Him for each. He pauses now, considering you, before you hear a rustle. He rubs at your flesh lovingly, tenderly, fingers massaging your flanks in a token effort to soothe the stinging. Then you hear something cut the air, and feel the too familiar sting of your fishing rod being used as an impromptu cane across the previously untouched backs of your thighs. You choke off a sob, then remembering that He’s waiting, and that He doesn’t like to wait. “Seven, Master. Th-th-thank you Master,” you manage to utter. As you speak, you feel Him lean forward, folding in on Himself slightly as His lips brush the rapidly rising welt against your pale skin. A soft kiss across the stripes, trailing from one thigh to the other before He leans back. “Eight! Master! Thank you Master!” You control your voice just shy of screaming at lick of metal against your thighs, the stripe perfectly positioned right next to the first. Again, He leans forward to kiss and caress the flesh, lips soothing the sting even as it pulses with your heartbeat.
The ninth is sheer agony, as it spans across the middle of your ass cheeks. Your scream is silent, your voice refusing to make itself heard with the force that you put behind it. “Niiiiiiiiiiine, Master,” you cry out finally, unable to form more words until both of His hands are cupping the globes of your ass, gently rubbing, soothing the angry flesh for as long as He touches it, pain transmuting to glowing pleasure at His touch. When He breaks contact, the pain barges back, a deep throbbing burning that seems more intense in the face of the loss of pleasure. “One more, dear love,” comes the whisper from inside your being, His voice softly comforting as your tears spill onto the surface of the rock. “Just one more, and we can move on from this.”
The last stripe from the rod is laid down atop the one already spanning your ass, the risen welt splitting open to let a thin trickle of blood flow across your skin. The pain is intense, as if a blade had been dragged across your skin. “Ten,” you manage silently, willing your thoughts to be heard by Him. “TEnteneTEnentenTEN THANK YOU MASTER,” desperate now to be sure that He hears you counting, not wanting another blow to be laid down with the same precision.
“Good girl. Good Snackling,” comes the whispered response inside of you, the clatter of the pole hitting the ground breaking through the pain. He runs His tongue across your ass, licking the line of blood from your flesh, the pleasure that the line turns into radiating through the entirety of your body in time with the beat of your heart. Sublime is the only word for it, transcendent pleasure that dwarfs the memory of the pain that His touch produced, His touch now spiraling you to heights that seemed impossible to feel just seconds before. “This is what obedient Snacklings get, love,” comes the silent whisper, along with a small, dark chuckle deep inside of you. You writhe atop His lap, lost in the thought stealing pleasure. You feel yourself lifted for a moment, moved to sit upright, and hear the catch of His fly before you’re lowered. Thick and weeping, His cock easily slides home inside of you, your dripping snatch welcoming Him into the slick, moist tunnel. The fit is perfect, length filling you entirely, girth stretching your entrance and tunnel just right. One hand cups your breast, having wormed its way inside of your coat and shirt to tug roughly at your piercing. Pain, then pleasure alternate from your sensitive nipple, looping over and over at His whim. His other hand rests a finger atop the silver piercing through the hypersensitive flesh of your clit and starts to stroke and tug it, an electric surge of pleasure firing the nerves all through your body. Your climax hits, wild and jagged, wrenched from your flesh and straddling that line between pleasure and anguish.
Then He starts to thrust into you. Short, hard strokes that send jarring jolts of alternating pain and rapture through the whole of your being. His pace is brutal, plundering His own pleasure from your raw core, His control over you seeming to fire at random, transforming the two sensations back and forth. With a grunt, His own climax overtakes Him, His hands forcing you down, shoving Himself up into you as hard as He’s able, your piercings tugged hard to envelope the flesh with pain before gleeful indulgence overtakes your senses and you let out a long, primal scream at the second orgasm pulled from your shuddering frame. It becomes too much to bear, and consciousness slips from you.
When you come to, He’s still inside of you, still hard, still wanting. And with merciless movements, His thrusts start again.