Tyllian tried hard not to look at Ash.
He closed his eyes and clenched his fists tightly.
His lower abdomen vibrated with a throbbing sensation, but he tried not to feel his body’s reaction either.
As a knight who had undergone rigorous training, it was almost impossible for him to deceive his own senses, so it required a desperate effort.
Clenching his fists so tightly that marks were left on his hands, the rapidly circulating blood seemed to slow down a little.
He commanded in a voice that sounded like it was scraping the floor:
“I can reverse it, but I don’t think I should do it…”
“Do it! Please, do it. Please.”
Ash cried.
He urged loudly, then pleaded meekly, afraid his brevity would make his master refuse.
From his throat, a gasping, choking sound was now escaping.
Ash had never known such agony, such pleasure.
Play at night was supposed to be mutually enjoyable.
But why was his master doing this?
Ash resented his master.
But who was he even resenting?
Who should he plead with?
His mind was such a mess that his cognitive ability was plummeting.
The intense sensations were overwhelming, blurring the lines between pain and ecstasy, and the longer it continued, the more disoriented Ash became.
Each pulse and throb from his lower abdomen seemed to resonate throughout his entire being, amplified by the strange manipulations of his master.
His body was a battlefield of conflicting signals, a testament to the sheer force of the arousal his master was orchestrating without direct contact.
The air in the room grew thick with Ash’s ragged breaths and the scent of his own release, a potent combination that further muddled his already chaotic thoughts.
He was caught in a cycle of desperate pleas and involuntary physical responses, a prisoner of his own heightened senses.
The inability to fully comprehend his master’s motives, coupled with the profound impact on his body, left Ash in a state of unprecedented vulnerability and confusion.
His master spoke, looking troubled.
“But if I touch Ash, I’d become a master who lays hands on his disciple.”
What was he saying, when it was already too late?
The very notion of “not laying hands” seemed a cruel jest, a twisted interpretation of intimacy when Ash’s body was already so thoroughly possessed by sensation.
But if he said that, his master might not touch him.
A glimmer of desperate hope, however illogical, sparked within Ash.
He desperately defended his master, his voice a frantic whisper.
“No, you wouldn’t. You haven’t touched me at all. Yes, it hurts, Master, I’m hurting. Quickly, please, heal me quickly.”
The words tumbled out, a flimsy shield against the perceived rejection, a desperate attempt to frame the agonizing pleasure as something beneficial, something his master could legitimately provide.
He clung to the idea that by defining the act as “healing,” he could bypass whatever strange ethical boundary his master had erected, allowing the desired touch to finally come.
The pain, though immense, was also a plea, a raw manifestation of his urgent need for relief, a need that he believed only his master could satisfy.
The unspoken desire for touch, for direct engagement, was a silent roar beneath his strained pleas, hoping that by acknowledging the “hurt,” his master would be compelled to intervene in the most direct way possible.
Ash had thought of a good word.
A hint of laughter, light and almost cruel in its detachment, entered his master’s voice.
“Ah. Is that so, this is a healing act?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes! It’s healing. Master isn’t laying hands on me.”
Ash affirmed with fervent desperation, the words tumbling out in a rush, each “yes” a prayer, a desperate plea for his master to accept this convenient fiction.
He clutched at this fragile justification, hoping it would be enough to override whatever internal conflict his master was experiencing.
The irony of calling this agonizing pleasure “healing” was lost in the immediacy of his need, his mind scrambling for any acceptable framing.
“Right? It pained me to be denounced as a shameless master.”
There was a playful, almost mischievous tone in his master’s voice, a subtle undercurrent that Ash, in his current state, couldn’t fully decipher.
It was a statement that seemed to mock the very concept of shame while simultaneously acknowledging its existence, a paradox that only deepened the bewildering nature of their interaction.
His master took a handful of Ash’s chest.
“Hiiik!”
Ash arched his body like a shrimp, a violent, involuntary spasm as a torrent of milk spurted forth.
He ejaculated again, the force of it leaving him breathless, his body convulsing with an intensity that was both excruciating and exquisitely good.
It was so agonizingly good that tears, hot and stinging, came to his eyes, blurring his vision further.
His master continued to knead his aching chest, a relentless, rhythmic torment that kept Ash teetering on the precipice of sensation.
The hands would gently squeeze and release, pleasurably slow, drawing out the exquisite torture, making him crave the inevitable climax.
Then, without warning, they would suddenly clench tightly and press on his nipple, a sharp, shocking pressure that sent fresh waves of sensation through his overstimulated nerves, eliciting another strangled cry.
The contrast between the slow, teasing caress and the sudden, intense pressure was a masterful manipulation, designed to push Ash to the very edge of his endurance, maximizing the pleasure and the agony simultaneously.
He was a puppet on strings, his body reacting instinctively to every command of his master’s hands, lost in a swirling vortex of pleasure and pain.
His master’s fingernails were always kept short, a meticulous detail that Ash had noticed even in his haze of sensation, so he didn’t feel a sharp, piercing pressure from nails on his nipple.
However, his rough fingertips, calloused and hardened from experiments, were stimulating enough for Ash, each touch a deliberate friction that grated against his hypersensitive skin, igniting fresh currents of agony and pleasure.
“Ah, ah! Ugh, it hurts, it hurts! You said you wouldn’t make it hurt…!”
His voice was a thin, reedy whine, a desperate plea for the torment to cease, a broken protest against the promised relief that never seemed to arrive.
The contradiction between his master’s words and the current reality of his excruciating sensations only added to his bewilderment.
“It’s alright. It will stop hurting soon.”
The words were calm, almost soothing, a stark contrast to the escalating intensity of Ash’s pain.
But Ash shook his head, a feeble movement against the pillow.
His master’s trustworthiness had already hit rock bottom, shattered by repeated promises that had been immediately contradicted by action.
What reason did he have to believe this person’s words, when every assurance of relief had only led to a new wave of intensified sensation?
The deception, however benignly intended, had eroded any remaining faith Ash had in his master’s pronouncements.
“Don’t. Don’t do it. It hurts!”
He begged, his voice laced with genuine anguish, the pleas growing more desperate as the sensations intensified.
“Wizard!”
Tyllian warned, his voice sharp with a hint of concern, a sudden intrusion of a different kind of reality into Ash’s chaotic sensory world.
“Tyllian. Don’t indulge Ash’s capriciousness too much. Ash changes his mind the moment you turn your back. He only tries to get out of situations.”
His master’s voice was dismissive, almost chiding, as if Ash’s cries of pain were merely a childish tantrum.
This further cemented Ash’s frustration, knowing his legitimate distress was being brushed aside as mere manipulation.
“No!”
Ash was truly in too much pain, his chest felt like it would explode from the relentless stimulation and the overflowing milk.
But Tyllian, surprisingly, didn’t contradict his master.
A sliver of hope, however faint, had flickered in Ash’s mind, only to be extinguished by Tyllian’s silence.
‘Did he agree?!’
The thought was horrifying.
Tyllian’s words came out a little late, as if he had been processing the situation.
“Aren’t you screaming?”
He asked, the question laced with a strange mixture of disbelief and accusation, as if Ash’s screams were a performance rather than a genuine expression of agony.
“You just asked me to massage you a moment ago, and now you say you hate it, and you believe that… Isn’t it because you indulge his whims by his side that Ash grew up with such a personality? Look, that’s not a scream.”
His master’s tone was lecturing, almost pedagogical, analyzing Ash’s behavior as if he were a specimen under observation, completely detached from the visceral reality of Ash’s suffering.
The casual dismissal of his pain as mere “capriciousness” stung, and the insinuation that Tyllian was somehow responsible for his character made Ash’s already frayed nerves feel like they were about to snap.
“Hmph, ugh?!”
Ash made a gasping sound, a sharp intake of breath that was cut short.
His master nudged him below, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, and that alone made his penis erect again, springing back to life with an almost indignant force.
No, his master seemed to have merely reconfirmed that it was already erect, the earlier movements having maintained it in a state of perpetual readiness.
Tyllian fell silent again, his previous interjection fading into the background.
His vision was blurred with tears, so Ash couldn’t tell what expression Tyllian was making, whether it was shock, disapproval, or something else entirely.
Only his own panting breaths, “Hmph, hmph,” ragged and desperate, echoed in the room, a relentless testament to his body’s unrelenting arousal.
And then he heard another sound…
Heavy breathing?
He heard someone else’s heavy breathing, not his own, a deep, strained sound.
It was like someone was holding something back, suppressing a powerful urge, a muffled struggle against an invisible force.
It was a sound that somehow made his lower abdomen warm, a strange counterpoint to the burning agony in his chest, and sent shivers down his spine, a primal response to the unspoken tension in the air.
“M-Master. Quickly. Hurry.”
Ash inadvertently urged his master, the words a desperate plea that escaped his lips without conscious thought.
He thought his chest was about to fall off, every muscle screaming in protest, but the thought of complaining had somehow vanished, replaced by an overwhelming urgency.
If he didn’t finish quickly, something bad felt like it would happen, an ominous premonition that fueled his desperate pleas.
“It would be nice if you always behaved this nicely.”
His master pinched Ash’s nipple, a playful, almost affectionate gesture, as if finding him cute in his distress.
The casual cruelty of the action, the way it intensified his pain while simultaneously treating him like a pet, sent a fresh wave of conflicting emotions through Ash.
“Ah! Uuugh… Don’t do that…”
His voice was a broken whimper, a plea that went unheard or unheeded.
Why was this person such a pervert?
Ash’s eyes welled up for a different reason now, a bitter wellspring of tears born of frustration and bewilderment rather than pure pleasure or pain.
The sheer oddity of his master’s actions, the perverse enjoyment he seemed to derive from this indirect torment, was truly maddening.
Even though his master clearly saw Ash was erect, straining against his clothes, he didn’t touch him below again, stubbornly adhering to his bizarre ethical code.
He always did strange things, these indirect manipulations, and never directly touched the parts that felt good, the parts that screamed for release.
‘Should I count being touched with his foot as being touched?’
The question was absurd, a desperate attempt to categorize the incomprehensible.
But isn’t that usually described as being stepped on?
The thought further highlighted the outlandishness of his master’s behavior, the way he redefined interactions to suit his own strange preferences.
Ash didn’t want to describe that earlier act, which he couldn’t tell if it was foreplay or perversion, as normal sexual activity.
It defied all understanding, all conventional notions of intimacy.
Every time his master’s hand grasped his chest, he felt milk flow over the back of his hand, a warm, slick sensation that was both repulsive and a confirmation of his body’s strange state.
His master caught the powerfully spurting milk with his tongue, a casual, almost animalistic gesture that sent a fresh shiver down Ash’s spine.
He rubbed his lips against Ash’s chest, smiling, a slow, predatory grin that was both terrifying and mesmerizing.
“Hmph, hugh, uugh… It hurts…”
Ash was sobbing, his body wracked with tremors, yet a strange sense of puzzlement crept into his mind.
‘Doesn’t Master feel anything?’
The thought was chilling.
If he didn’t feel anything while doing this, if he was truly devoid of any reciprocal sensation, that would be even scarier, more terrifying than the pain itself.
It would mean his master was not merely eccentric, but something fundamentally other, something inhuman in his detachment.
But the thought that his master might actually be like that truly terrified him, a cold dread seeping into his bones.
At least he should confirm that his master was human, shouldn’t he?
Ash lifted his foot, a weak, trembling movement, and gently pressed it between his master’s legs, a desperate attempt to elicit some tangible, human response.
His shoes had long since come off and were tumbling somewhere in a corner of the room, forgotten in the chaos, so his bare foot, soft and vulnerable, touched his master’s groin.
“Ah.”
His master let out a short sigh, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, but it was there, a fleeting acknowledgment.
Ash, emboldened by this small sign of life, wiggled his toes, a silent, tentative exploration.
“It’s standing, isn’t it?”
Ash thought, though the words weren’t spoken.
His own erection was rock hard, almost piercing through his pants, a testament to the unyielding nature of his arousal despite the unconventional methods.
But his master was only sucking on Ash’s chest?
This, in itself, was just as strange, a bizarre deviation from what Ash instinctively understood as the natural progression of such interactions.
‘Seriously… this person… what is he?’
The question echoed in his mind, a bewildered refrain that had no answer.
“Indeed, it doesn’t hurt much. You even have the spirit to please others…”
His master’s voice was a low murmur, almost a purr.
What did he mean by “please”?
By stepping on him with his foot?
The idea was repulsive.
Ash hoped his master hadn’t been pleased by such a thing!
The thought alone made his stomach churn, a mixture of disgust and shame.
“Master… seriously… you’re a total pervert!”
He couldn’t hold back and spoke his true feelings, the words erupting from him in a desperate burst of honesty.
He had been sugarcoating his words until now, attempting to navigate the bizarre landscape of his master’s whims with some semblance of diplomacy.
But he couldn’t think of anything else to hide, no more polite euphemisms to shield his raw frustration.
The barrier of respect, thin as it was, had crumbled under the weight of his torment.
“Just insert it then! You’re not going to make me ingest that, are you? If you really do that, Master… Master… you’re going to devour me!”
Did that even make sense?
Ash didn’t know, but he said whatever came to mind, a desperate, disjointed plea for a more conventional form of release.
His mind was too clouded by sensation and confusion to construct a coherent argument, but the urgency of his need drove his words.
Because his master, surprisingly, seemed to have his own set of ethics!
The ironclad rule about not laying hands on his disciple –
Ash couldn’t have imagined it!
It was a bizarre, almost ludicrous constraint, especially given the current circumstances.
Still, he didn’t feel admiration like, ‘Oh, our master was a moral person.’
He had long known that his master was a bit off, eccentric to say the least, but he only now realized the full extent of his eccentricity, a profound peculiarity that defied all normal understanding.
“Ah…? If I make Ash ingest semen, I’m devouring Ash…? Something seems off…”
His master pondered aloud, a slight frown creasing his brow, as if genuinely attempting to parse the logic of Ash’s outburst.
This intellectual detachment in the face of Ash’s emotional distress was infuriating, another layer to his master’s confounding personality.
“Lord Ash.”
Tyllian called Ash, his voice sharp and laced with a hint of warning, a sudden, unwelcome intrusion into the strange dynamic between Ash and his master.
What was it this time?
Why was he calling him and not his master?
Ash quickly attacked first before Tyllian could attack him, a pre-emptive strike born of desperation and irritation.
“You think so too, don’t you? I’m right, aren’t I? Why make me ingest semen in a strange place, leaving the place it’s meant for? Don’t you think it’s utterly perverted?! …Ugh!”
Ash demanded, turning his frustration on Tyllian, seeking validation for his outrage.
More milk overflowed from his chest, a fresh wave of involuntary release, as his master spitefully pressed his nipple, as if in direct response to Ash’s outburst.
‘Is he a child?!’
The thought flashed through Ash’s mind, the petty retaliation making his master seem incredibly immature and spiteful.
No, not this. Ash assessed the situation.
This wasn’t the time to call Tyllian for help.
‘I should have made him leave!’
The regret was immediate and sharp.
“Ugh… Stop it, it hurts…”
Ash felt hot all over, a feverish flush across his skin.
Groans escaped his lips, low and guttural.
Meanwhile, he couldn’t wipe away his tears, which streamed down his face, blurring his vision and making him feel even more helpless.
As he blinked repeatedly, trying to clear his sight, the pooled tears streamed down the corners of his eyes, tracing hot paths on his cheeks.
Tyllian’s stiff expression came into his view, a mask of rigid disapproval.
“Do you want to sleep with the wizard? Did you want to ‘play at night’ with him too?”
Tyllian’s voice was cold, accusing, slicing through the tension.
Such an absurd thing came out of his mouth that Ash immediately retorted, his own anger flaring despite his pain.
The thought of ordering him to leave vanished again, replaced by a sudden need to defend himself.
“What do you think I am?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
Ash protested, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“Then what do you mean? It sounded that way to me. Lord Ash enjoyed oral sex with the wizard, and now it seems you just want to properly enjoy the ‘play’ you were having.”
Tyllian’s tone was dangerously calm, a chilling certainty in his voice.
“Then do you want me to have ‘oral sex’ again?!”
Ash bristled, his body coiling with a mixture of anger and shame.
Didn’t Tyllian even know what that really meant?
It was truly a perverted act… ‘Huh?’
A sudden, uncomfortable thought sparked in his mind.
No, did he know?
‘Did I tell him last time?’
Ash regretted it instantly, a wave of mortification washing over him.
What kind of movie was he hoping for, telling a knight who had probably never even seen an erotic drawing such strange things?
The sheer impropriety of it, the breach of decorum, hit him with a fresh pang of embarrassment.
“Whether it’s sexual intercourse or oral sex, there’s no way I would want you to share intimacy with anyone!”
Tyllian slammed his hand onto the bed, a sharp crack that echoed in the strained silence, the force of the impact making the bed frame shudder.
Ash flinched in surprise, his body recoiling instinctively.
Even his master seemed surprised, his teeth biting into Ash’s chest with a sudden, uncontrolled force.
It was indeed a force strong enough to collapse the bed, a raw display of Tyllian’s barely contained fury.
The bitten spot hurt, a sharp, stinging pain, but Ash wasn’t so tactless as to groan right now.
He didn’t want to anger Tyllian either, not when the knight was clearly at the edge of his control. But…
“We didn’t… share intimacy?”
Ash said timidly, the question a weak, almost pathetic attempt to redefine the bizarre events that had transpired, to somehow mitigate the gravity of Tyllian’s accusation.
Tyllian covered his face with his hand, a gesture of profound exasperation and despair.