Disclaimer:
SPG rating. Long chapter ahead. Read at your own risk.
Voltaire's POV
"Do you want to learn how to take it into your mouth?" I asked, genuinely uncertain whether he was serious or merely teasing me.
"Mmh," he murmured, looking up at me.
God.
Those eyes—wide, ocean-bright—and that expression so painfully innocent, like a child asking for something sweet. How was I supposed to ruin that mouth when he looked like that? When he was that beautiful?
"Wait," I warned him quietly. "You might not be able to handle it, Aurein. You could get dizzy... choke... or even throw up in the bath." My voice dropped lower. "Or worse... you might drown in what I give you."
"Please, General," he pleaded softly. "I just want to feel it."
Those eyes again. Damn it all.
I could already imagine it—myself inside his mouth, his gaze locked on mine—and I knew I wouldn't last long. Just looking at him like this already made me feel as if I were about to explode. What more if I felt the heat of his mouth around me?
Then his hands came to rest on my thighs.
He was serious.
The prince of the realm, kneeling before someone like me. Royal blood lowered, pride set aside, asking a commoner—me—to teach him something so intimate. Someone of his status surrendering himself so completely.
The more outrageous the thought became, the deeper it pulled me in. The thrill tightened in my chest, sharp and intoxicating.
His gaze dropped to my length, and he parted his lips slightly. I didn't know what was running through his mind, but it looked as though he was gauging how wide he needed to open his mouth. There was something hungry in the way he stared, almost desperate.
For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he might bite me if he lost control. And perhaps that was exactly why he was asking—to be taught properly.
Should I let him?
I had wanted to save this moment, to make it perfect when we finally crossed that line. But if I didn't teach him now, and the moment came when we were already lost in it, stopping to instruct him then would only shatter everything.
If I was going to do this, I had to prepare him properly.
Like a general preparing a warrior for war.
A brutal war.
A war of endurance—of pain and pleasure—and the question of whether he could withstand it.
Very well.
As his lover, and as a general, it was my duty to hone this skill in him. To make sure he was ready.
I drew a slow breath, steadying myself.
Let's begin.
* * *
Aurein's POV
"All right," he said carefully, as if stepping onto thin ice, "I will guide you on how to do it, Aurein."
"Thank you, General!" I said far too eagerly. I could already feel my excitement bubbling over. At last—I will finally understand what it feels like when it is in my mouth.
"First," he continued, suddenly serious, "I want you to understand that this is not a simple task. It requires dedication, persistence, and discipline. Do you understand?"
I blinked.
Why did this suddenly sound like sword training? Or one of those long lectures before competitions where he stared at us as if our lives depended on remembering every word?
Why did it feel like he was preparing me for war?
Then again... maybe that was just how he was. If anyone was going to teach me properly, it would be him. And if I was going to learn, I wanted to learn it from the General himself.
From the best of the best!
I reached out instinctively, both hands lifting toward his manhood—
"Ah," he said sharply, stopping me with a raised hand. "I did not say you could touch it yet, Aurein. We start from the beginning. 'Foreplay.'"
I froze.
"O... okay," I said slowly. "What's foreplay?"
The look on his face was almost impressive. Half stunned. Half deeply, profoundly tired—like a man realizing he had been assigned to teach the most innocent guy in existence.
"I'm sorry," I added quickly. "I truly have no experience with this. It's my first time, so I have many questions that need clarification."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded.
"Very well," he said. "Then I will also teach you the terms." He paused, then added with a hint of confidence, "You know nothing now, but do not worry. Soon, you will master it."
"Mmh," I said firmly, as if that made me brave.
I stared at his manhood.
Not entirely on purpose—my mind had simply stopped working.
General Voltaire noticed immediately, which was unfair. How was I not supposed to stare when he stood there so calm and composed, like we were about to discuss battle formations instead of... this?
"Aurein," he said evenly.
"Yes?" I answered far too fast.
He released a slow breath—the kind he used before explaining complex strategies to warriors who had absolutely no idea what they were doing.
"What you are about to do," he said, "is not something to be rushed."
I blinked. "I wasn't planning to sprint."
That earned me a look.
Not angry.
Not stern.
It was the same look he gave whenever Ton-Ton tried to eat something that was very obviously not food.
"Aurein," he said patiently, "this is the part where one prepares."
"Prepares," I repeated.
"Yes."
"...Like sharpening a sword?"
He paused. "...In a manner of speaking."
That helped absolutely nothing.
Then—by all the gods of Ardentia—he crouched slightly so we were closer to eye level, as if explaining something dangerous to a child who had asked an extremely bad question.
"Think of it this way," he said slowly. "Before a battle, do we charge immediately?"
"No," I answered automatically. "We assess the battlefield."
"Exactly."
I nodded. That part made sense.
"Then we—"
"Wait," I interrupted. "Which battlefield are we talking now?"
He closed his eyes for a brief, prayerful moment. "...Please let me finish."
I swallowed and nodded.
"This," he continued, gesturing vaguely between us without pointing anywhere specific, "is about awareness. Pace. Attention."
"Attention," I echoed faintly.
"Yes. You listen. You observe. You ensure the... situation is ready."
Ready.
Ready for what, he did not say—and somehow that made it worse.
"And most importantly," he added, his voice lowering just a little, "you do not treat it like a task."
"Oh," I said nervously. "What then?"
That earned the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"This is not something you do," he said. "It is something you allow. Something you surrender to.
I stared at him.
"...So I shouldn't just... jump in?"
"No," he said immediately.
"Oh."
"No jumping," he repeated.
"...What about leaning?"
"Aurein."
"Sorry."
He straightened again, returning to his usual imposing height, though his tone remained careful—controlled—like he was restraining something far more dangerous than any battlefield.
"Foreplay," he said, clearing his throat, "is simply the art of taking care."
I blinked.
"That's it?" I asked. "Like feeding someone, dressing them up, tucking them to sleep? Is that foreplay?"
"No." he replied in the most deadpan manner like I just said something foolish.
"...I think," I said slowly, "I may need a manual for this foreplay."
He actually chuckled—quiet, low, brief.
"I am explaining it to you," he said. "Very slowly."
"...Like a child."
"Yes."
I flushed.
"General," I muttered, "this is deeply embarrassing."
"And yet," he said calmly, "you are still kneeling there."
Unfortunately, he was right.
And somehow—despite the panic, the confusion, and the fact that my dignity had already fled the room—I realized something far more dangerous than anything he had said.
I trusted him.
And that, I suspected, was the most perilous part of all.
General Voltaire cleared his throat.
That was my first warning.
The second came when he folded his arms behind his back—not crossed, but placed there with the rigid formality of a man about to address an army before a siege.
"Aurein," he said solemnly.
"Yes," I answered at once, straightening my spine because apparently my body had decided this was a drill.
He nodded. Slowly. Gravely.
"What we are about to discuss," he continued, "is... a preliminary step."
I waited.
He waited longer.
I waited harder.
We were staring at each other. Should I say something?
"...A step," he added at last, "that exists so no one does anything foolish."
"I am extremely skilled at being foolish," I offered helpfully.
He closed his eyes and exhaled sharply.
Oh no. That was never a good sign. This was the exact expression he wore before ordering someone to run themselves halfway into the afterlife. I braced myself for the possibility of aquatic punishment—perhaps one hundred laps, back and forth, while reflecting on my life choices.
"Which is precisely why," he said calmly as he reopened his eyes, "I will explain. So don't cut me off."
He inhaled.
Not a romantic inhale.
A responsibility inhale.
"Think of this as training."
Of course he would.
"You do not charge the enemy without preparation," he went on. "You do not seize a weapon without understanding its balance."
"...Is the weapon alive?" I asked quietly.
He paused.
"...For the sake of this explanation," he said, "yes."
I nodded.
That somehow made everything worse.
"Foreplay," he said carefully, as though the word itself might detonate, "is the act of preparing the moment."
"The moment," I echoed.
"Yes. The moment. The situation."
"Am I the situation?"
He stared at me.
"...You are part of the situation. You are the situation. We are the situation. This," he emphasized as he pointed at his manhood, "... this is the situation."
"Oh. Good. Because I was beginning to feel a great deal of pressure."
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Foreplay," he continued, forcing himself onward, "means you do not rush. You pay attention. You ensure comfort. You create readiness."
I swallowed.
"...Readiness for what?" I asked.
He looked at me.
Long. Serious. Focused.
"...For whatever comes next," he said.
That did not help. Not in the slightest.
"So," I said slowly, "this is like when you make me run laps before training, even when I desperately want to skip them?"
"Yes," he replied immediately. "Exactly like that."
"...But this one is emotional?"
"And mental."
"And potentially fatal to my pride?"
"Yes."
I sighed. "General, I believe I am already failing."
"You are not," he said firmly. "You are listening."
I considered that.
"...So I should not just—" I made a vague forward motion with my hands. "—do something?"
"No," he said, almost alarmed. "You absolutely should do something."
"Oh."
"You should feel first."
"...That sounds worse."
He almost smiled.
"Foreplay," he concluded, straightening as though finishing a lecture, "is patience, Aurein. Nothing more."
I stared up at him.
"...You explained that as if you were teaching me how to wield a sword."
"That," he said gravely, "is an accurate comparison."
I nodded.
"...I am still terrified."
"That," he replied, "means the lesson has begun."
And somehow, that was the most alarming thing he could have said.
General Voltaire inhaled again.
Slowly.
Deeply.
Like a man about to explain a very dangerous concept to someone who absolutely could not be trusted with it.
"Aurein," he said steadily.
"Yes," I replied, already sweating.
"This will require your full attention."
"...I regret everything already."
He ignored that.
"Foreplay," he began, enunciating the word as though it were a foreign tactic from an enemy nation, "is not about speed. It is not about force. And it is certainly not about enthusiasm without direction."
"Why does foreplay have so many meanings?" I asked "Which one are we discussing?"
His right eye twitched.
"Okay," I said quickly. "No more foolish questions. I will begin the foreplay now."
I opened my mouth.
He raised one finger.
"Do not interrupt. I am not yet done."
I closed my mouth.
Immediately.
"Good," he said. "Now. Imagine you are holding something valuable."
"...I am the valuable thing, aren't I?"
He sighed.
"No. It is my sword. This sword," he said, gesturing downward with unmistakable clarity with both hands. "Imagine," he repeated patiently, "that you are holding something delicate."
I nodded.
"Something that reacts to how it is treated."
I nodded again.
"Something that does not appreciate being startled."
"...I feel personally attacked." I uttered as I held my chest with both hands.
He shot me a look.
"Foreplay," he continued firmly, "is the process of ensuring calm."
Another meaning. How many meanings did this word have? I was fairly certain no one had warned me there would be this many.
If only I had brought something to write on. There was no way I could store all of this in my head. It was too much. Entirely too much.
"Calm," I echoed.
"Yes. Calm," he said. "You begin gently. You do not rush ahead. You do not assume readiness."
"...Even if your 'sword' appears ready?" I asked carefully.
His jaw tightened.
"Aurein."
"Sorry. Sorry. No assumptions."
"Correct," he said. "You observe. You listen. You respond."
I frowned. "...Listen to what? Respond to what? Does your sword talk? Can I hear it speak?"
He exhaled sharply, as if trying to contain himself from scolding me.
"...To cues."
"What kind of cues?"
"...Subtle ones."
That made my ears burn.
"Let's forget about the sword. It seems it is confusing you, let's think of it this way," he said, retreating into familiar territory. "If a horse is tense, you do not mount it, right?"
"...That is a very specific image, General. But okay, let's go to horses this time."
"You calm it first," he pressed on. "You speak softly. You allow it to adjust to your presence."
"...Am I calming you or myself—"
"Aurein."
"Right," I said quickly. "I am calm. I am listening."
"Foreplay," he said again, "is where trust is established."
Again?
Another meaning?
How many were there already?
Something in my chest tightened at that.
"You take your time," he continued. "You do not rush toward an objective. You remain present."
"...Present," I muttered.
"Yes. Not thinking two, three—" he paused, clearly directing this at me, "—or even five steps ahead."
I stared at the ground.
"...I usually think ten steps ahead," I admitted. "Because I assume too much."
"Then," he said flatly, "you will have to stop."
I looked up at him.
"You do not think," he went on. "You feel. You pay attention. You allow the moment to unfold naturally."
"...Naturally," I repeated weakly.
"Yes."
There was a pause.
A long one.
I shifted my weight.
"...General," I said quietly, "I feel like you are describing something extremely important, and I am afraid of failing the test. Will there be a written examination after this? May I review beforehand?"
He looked at me then—not stern, not commanding. Just steady.
"There is no test," he said. "Only awareness."
"...And if I do something wrong?"
"Then," he replied calmly, "I will stop you."
That did not comfort me at all.
"And that," he concluded, his tone final, "is how foreplay begins."
I stared at him.
"...That was the beginning?"
"Yes."
"...I thought that was the warning."
"That was also the warning."
I exhaled slowly.
"I see," I said. "I didn't know it's too much before starting."
I absolutely did not see anything clearly.
But one thing settled in my mind with terrifying certainty—
General Voltaire was treating this like a war lesson.
And I was profoundly unprepared for the next chapter.
"Wait," I blurted, "do we have another meaning of foreplay? Because you have already said quite a lot."
His eye twitched.
"Okay," I said quickly. "I am closing my mouth now."
I physically covered it for good measure.
Alright.
I could do this.
I straightened my spine the way I did before sword practice—
Then immediately relaxed because he had explicitly said not to be stiff, and now I was already failing.
"Okay," I said softly.
General Voltaire did not move.
He only watched, hands resting on his waist, his expression stern—fully in general mode.
Which somehow made everything worse.
I remembered his words.
Be gentle.
Do not rush.
Observe.
So I stared at it.
Observing.
Very intensely.
It was right in front of me—only inches away—looking as though it might strike at any moment.
"...Am I observing correctly?" I asked after several seconds.
"Yes," he said calmly. "Don't panic."
I took a slow breath.
Calm, I reminded myself. Create calm.
I reached out—then stopped.
Paused.
Looked at him again.
"...I am not supposed to just do something," I said, mostly to myself. "I have to feel it."
"You are doing well."
That encouragement nearly undid me.
I tried again.
This time, I focused on awareness.
Instead of moving, I spoke.
"So... how long should I stare at it?" I asked quietly. "Twenty seconds? Thirty? Will something happen if I stare too much?"
He exhaled—deeply. Disappointedly.
"You do not simply stare," he said. "You deliver the proper amount of feeling. You do not need to talk. And you certainly do not announce it. Your eyes will be the one to speak for you."
"Oh," I said. "Right. Silent awareness."
I nodded to myself.
Then I leaned forward slightly.
Not too much.
Just enough to show intent.
My heart pounded like I was about to charge into battle armed with nothing but poor decisions.
"Is this... acceptable pacing?" I asked.
"Yes."
Encouraged, I leaned a fraction closer.
Then stopped again.
"...I feel like if I move any further, something irreversible will happen," I whispered. "It might release... fluid. On my eyes. I might get blind. Which I am not prepared for."
"That," he said evenly, "is normal."
Good. Excellent. I adored normal. Going blind because of foreplay is normal... that's what the General said!
I remembered the horse analogy.
Do not startle the horse.
So I moved slowly. Carefully. Like approaching an animal that could sense fear.
Which, unfortunately, I was overflowing with.
I lowered myself a little.
Then froze.
"...General," I whispered, "the horse seems calm. May I hold it?"
"Yes," he said. "Touch it. Caress it lightly with one hand. Use your fingers. Think of it as a horse that could become angry at any moment."
"Oh."
Right.
Perfectly normal instructions.
I swallowed and steadied myself.
Gentle.
Patient.
Aware.
I focused on my breathing. On being calm. On not thinking five steps ahead.
Which lasted approximately two seconds.
What should I do next? Should I...
Wait!
"...I am thinking ahead again," I confessed.
"Stop," he said.
I stopped immediately.
To my surprise, that worked.
I tried again—slower this time—allowing myself to move without measuring every inch like a doomed strategist.
Each motion felt deliberate. Careful. Almost ceremonial, as though I were participating in a ritual I had not been briefed on.
"...Is this the part where I am supposed to feel something?" I asked quietly.
"Yes," he said.
"...I feel nervous."
"That is also something," he replied.
I nodded.
"I am trying very hard not to treat this like a task," I added.
"And?" he asked.
"And I think I am failing," I said honestly.
His lips twitched.
So I continued—slow, careful, attentive—letting the moment exist instead of trying to command it like a battlefield.
"...General," I murmured, "if this is foreplay..."
"Yes?" he said.
"...It is far more difficult than sword training."
"Most things are," he replied calmly. "But once you get used to this, it will be your greatest skill to please the horse. My horse."
I exhaled.
Alright.
I stared at my hand.
It had never looked so threatening in my entire life.
General Voltaire stood there, unmoving and patient, like a mountain that had decided to witness my inevitable collapse with quiet dignity.
"Remember," he said calmly, "gentle."
"Yes," I whispered.
"And slow."
"Yes."
"And do not panic."
I nodded.
And immediately panicked.
I lifted my hand.
Then stopped.
Lowered it.
Lifted it again.
"...General," I murmured, "my hand feels heavier than usual."
"That is because you are thinking about it," he said.
I inched my hand forward.
Very slowly.
Painfully slowly.
Like approaching a sleeping horse that would destroy the entire kingdom if startled.
My fingers hovered.
Not touching.
Just... existing.
"...Am I close enough to be considered good?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Good."
I swallowed and moved a fraction closer.
Then froze again.
"...I feel like I should announce my intentions," I whispered. "Like I should inform you before I press gently, so you are prepared."
"You do not need to announce anything," he said.
"I feel rude if I do not."
"Aurein. You're thinking again."
"Right," I said quickly. "Silent politeness."
I exhaled and finally—finally—let my fingers make contact.
Barely.
The lightest brush.
So light it might not have qualified as touching at all.
Twitch!
Twat!
It moved!
My entire body locked in place.
"...I touched," I whispered.
"Yes," he said evenly.
"I am touching," I clarified.
"You may continue."
That was not the reassurance I had hoped for.
I tried again, this time letting my hand rest instead of recoiling like it had brushed fire.
It was... warm.
Very warm.
And undeniably real.
I immediately pulled back an inch.
"Was that too much?" I asked.
"No."
"Too little? Did it made you feel good?"
"...Possibly."
I nodded solemnly, as if receiving tactical feedback.
"Understood," I said. "Adjusting."
I placed my hand back—still careful, still hesitant—but this time I focused on his earlier words.
Do not treat it like a task.
Which was extremely difficult, because my mind had already declared it a mission.
I moved my fingers slightly.
Stopped.
Moved them again.
"...General," I muttered, "I believe my fingers are negotiating with my brain."
"That is acceptable," he said.
"...They are very nervous negotiators."
"Then reassure them."
I glanced down at my hand.
"...You are doing well," I whispered to it. "Keep it up."
There was a pause.
I became acutely aware of how ridiculous I sounded.
"I am so sorry," I added quickly, looking up at him. "I do not usually speak to my hands."
"You are doing fine," he said.
That somehow made it worse.
Encouraged, I attempted to be bolder.
Which, for me, meant moving my hand an entire finger-width further.
My breath caught.
His expression did not change, but I noticed—because I was very aware now—that he was watching closely.
Observing.
Responding.
Exactly as he had taught.
"...Is this still gentle?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Still slow?"
"Yes."
"...Am I allowed to blink?"
"Yes, Aurein."
"Oh, thank the gods."
"And stop thinking too much again."
I exhaled and finally allowed myself to settle into the contact instead of treating it like an unexploded device.
It felt strange.
And intimate.
And deeply embarrassing.
"...General," I said softly, "I think I understand now."
"What do you understand?" he asked.
"That foreplay," I said carefully, "is mostly trying not to overthink... while letting yourself give in and do things unexpectedly."
There was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.
"That," he said, "is a very accurate summary."
I nodded.
"Alright," General Voltaire said calmly. "Continue."
I straightened immediately.
I braced myself.
"Imagine, again," he continued, "that you are calming a horse."
I froze.
"...A horse," I repeated.
"Yes," he said, nodding. "A well-trained one. Strong. Temperamental. Easily startled if mishandled."
I nodded very seriously.
"I have met many horses," I said. "They all disliked me."
"That is because," he replied evenly, "you panic."
"Oh."
That tracked.
"When you approach," he continued, "you do not grab. You do not startle. You let your hand rest first."
"...Like this?" I asked, adjusting carefully and patting it's head delicately with the tip of my fingers.
"Yes. Exactly like that."
I focused intensely.
"Horse. You are a Calm horse. Do not alarm the horse." I whispered.
I moved my hand slowly, the way stable masters did when they didn't want to be trampled.
"...Do I speak to it?" I asked quietly.
"You may," he said. "Softly."
I leaned in slightly.
"Hello," I whispered. "...You are a very big, scary horse. Please calm down, okay?"
There was a pause.
"...Aurein."
"Sorry. I'm reassuring it."
"Less talking," he said. "More feeling."
"Right."
I let my hand glide a little, carefully, thoughtfully, as if I were smoothing down a nervous mane.
"...Is this soothing?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Because I feel like I am about to be kicked by the horse."
"That means you are aware," he replied.
I nodded, reassured.
"When you calm a horse," he continued, "you move with confidence. Not hesitation."
"...I am hesitating... confidently."
"You are overthinking."
"I always do that."
"Then pretend you know what you're doing."
"...That has never gone well for me."
"Try anyway."
I took a breath and adjusted my touch—still gentle, but firmer now, steadier, like I'd seen experienced handlers do.
"...Oh," I murmured. "I think the horse trusts me now."
He exhaled slowly.
"Yes," he said. "That is the point."
I nodded.
"This is surprisingly intimate for a horse lesson," I added.
"It is about connection," he said firmly.
"...With the horse."
"Yes."
"...Good," I said. "Because that was a concerning thought."
I continued, following his guidance—slow strokes, deliberate movement, attention instead of panic.
"...General," I said after a moment, "what if the horse suddenly moves wildly?"
"Then you adjust," he replied. "You do not retreat immediately."
"...Even if I am frightened?"
"Especially then. You have to face it with full on courage."
I swallowed.
"That seems unfair to the rider."
"The horse can sense fear."
"...Of course it can."
I tried again—calmer this time, more grounded.
"...I think," I said slowly, "this horse would let me ride it."
"That," he said quietly, "means you are doing it correctly."
I flushed.
"...I cannot believe I am learning this through horse imagery."
"You are learning," he replied. "That is what matters."
I nodded.
My hand still moving carefully.
My mind still racing.
I continued the motion.
Slow. Steady. Reassuring.
I was now fully committed to the idea that I was calming a very expensive, very judgmental horse.
"Good," General Voltaire said quietly. "Now—do not pull away."
"I am not pulling away," I whispered. "I am maintaining contact."
"Correct."
I nodded, proud.
"When a horse is calm," he continued, "you allow it to become accustomed to your presence."
"...By existing near it?" I asked.
"Yes."
"That seems manageable."
Then he added, far too calmly, "You lean in slightly."
I froze.
"...Lean," I repeated.
"Yes. Not abruptly. Just enough that it senses you."
I swallowed.
I leaned in a fraction.
Immediately felt like I was invading the horse's personal space.
"...General," I whispered, "I feel like the horse is very aware of me."
"That is the point."
"...It feels like it can hear my thoughts."
"Horses do not hear thoughts."
"This one might."
He ignored that.
"You breathe," he instructed. "Slowly. Calmly."
"...At the horse."
"Yes."
"...I am breathing at the horse."
"Good."
I exhaled carefully, like my breath alone might startle it into kicking me into another lifetime.
"...This is," I admitted, "the most intimate horse interaction I have ever experienced."
"It is about trust," he said evenly.
"...This horse and I are bonding."
"Yes."
"...once we are friends, I will name this horse as Dickenson..."
"Aurein."
"Sorry."
He continued anyway.
"You do not rush this part," he said. "You remain close. You let the horse adjust."
I leaned in just a bit more.
Not touching with my face.
Just... near.
Close enough to feel warmth.
Close enough to immediately regret all my life choices.
"...General," I murmured, my voice barely steady, "is it normal for the horse to feel... warmer?"
"Yes," he said.
"...And is it normal that my face feels very close to the horse?"
"Yes," he said again, patient as ever.
"And I can already see the horse spilling a... fluid."
"That is normal," he said calmly. "It means the horse likes what you are doing. It is giving you a gift."
"...I feel tense now."
"That means you are aware."
"I am extremely aware."
"Good."
I exhaled, slow and deliberate, trying to remain calm—trying not to think about how absurd this entire lesson sounded when framed like this.
"So," I said weakly, "this part is still foreplay?"
"Yes," he said.
"...Even though I'm just breathing near a horse and caressing it?"
"Yes."
I nodded to myself.
"I never knew foreplay could be this pressuring," I admitted, "but I also can't believe this is actually working."
"Neither will you," he said evenly, "if you keep thinking."
I shut my eyes.
Stopped thinking.
Kept breathing.
Kept touching.
Kept trusting.
And gods help me—
The lesson somehow became worse.
"Now," General Voltaire said, his tone composed, "the horse is spilling more liquid. That is the gift of foreplay. It means it appreciates what you're doing."
"I should... thank the horse for the wonderful gift?" I asked.
"Aurein..." His eye twitched.
"Sorry."
"What you need to do," he continued, "is extend your tongue."
"Like this?" I asked, foolishly sticking my tongue out as far as it would go.
"No, you look like a menace," he said quickly. "Only from the tip to the middle."
I adjusted.
"Good. Now the horse is spilling more liquid. You must accept the gift by licking it gently. Don't let it drop. Every gift counts. These are special. And when you do, look at me—innocently."
Innocently.
Of course.
I leaned forward slowly and followed his instructions, gently licking the head of the horse until I tasted the salty, oddly richer flavor of the gift.
"Good... haa..." he whispered, sounding dangerously close to losing his composure.
The horse responded generously, spilling even more gift, and instinctively I received it, my hand holding the horse more firmly now.
"That's it... that's good, Aurein," he said. "Good boy."
Then suddenly he held my head and pulled me back, stopping me mid-lesson. My tongue was still out, liquid dripping as I looked up at him.
"...I need to restrain myself," he said, breathing harder. "We're not done yet."
"Am I doing alright, General?" I asked softly, looking up at him.
He smiled—gentle, approving.
"Yes," he said.
He wiped the corner of my lips with his thumb, where some of the gift still lingered, and pressed it back into my mouth, making me swallow it
"And it isn't only the head of the horse that needs care," he continued. "The entire body of the horse must feel attended to."
"How?" I asked.
"Before we proceed," he said, "you must say your word—like a vow. No backing down."
"Yes," I said immediately. "I won't back down."
"Good." He smirked. "This next part requires more use of your tongue. It must be flexible, gentle, and never rushed."
"I'll remember that," I said, nodding earnestly.
"To fully bond with the horse," he said, "you must also taste its sack."
My eyes widened.
"You mean your—" I stared, then swallowed. "Your balls?"
"...Yes."
I gulped.
"I need to taste that too?" I asked, horrified.
"Yes. This is another sensitive part of the horse. You must be brave. You don't merely lick it—you place it inside your mouth but with caution."
"...Alright."
As I leaned closer, he stopped me again.
"You must be extra gentle here," he warned. "Imagine the horse's sack holds two fragile eggs. Too much pressure will break them. That will hurt the horse, and it will lose patience."
"Oh gods," I whispered. "What if I break it? Can we skip this part?"
"Do you want the horse to be pleased?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then be brave—but careful."
I sighed, staring at the horse's sack.
I wasn't disgusted. Just... terrified of hurting him. This was, after all, one of the most sensitive parts of a man.
"Can you do it?" he asked quietly.
"I'll try," I said.
I moved slowly until I felt the 'horse' brush my cheek, and then my lips touched the sack.
I extended my tongue first, licking gently, as if soothing it.
Then I opened my mouth and carefully took one egg inside.
His hands immediately held my head, fingers pressing firmly as his body trembled.
I lingered, slowly toying with both of his eggs in my mouth, and in the breathless moment, I felt General Voltaire tense and flinch as my tongue traced it with deliberate, unhurried intent.
"A-Aurein... you're doing well," he said, his voice shaking in the best way. "Continue."
Encouraged, I relaxed and took the other egg as well.
I could hear him now—panting, breathing heavy.
Warm liquid, the gift of the horse, spilled down my cheek, sliding to my neck.
"Good," he said breathlessly. "Good. The horse is giving you another gift. Receive it. Don't let it drop."
I pulled away, and that's when I saw it again, more fluid coming out.
I held his horse, both hands this time and I started licking the head. Every lick made the general tilt his head like he was about to pass out.
"I'm still doing it okay?"
"More than that." He said and smiled as he faced me again.
He scooped the liquid that spilled onto my cheek and let me swallow it again.
"And now, you know how to do the foreplay, you have to do the real thing." He said.
"Wait, that is not real yet?"
"I mean, it's real, but that was just a preparation."
"Okay, then, I'm ready for the real thing."
"Now that the horse has trusted you completely, you have to take it inside your house now. Let it enter your first door." He said.
"First door? Where is the second door? Third door?" I asked curiously.
"You only have two doors with you. You don't have a third door. Only the females have it." He said.
"Ohh... I get it now." I said as I nodded on what he is pertaining to. "Okay, I'm ready for the horse to enter my first door."
"Now, open your first door widely." He said.
Then I opened it too wide.
"No, not that wide. Make it a bit smaller."
Then, I adjusted.
"Smaller."
Again.
"Wider. Too small. Try to adjust it with how big my horse is." He said.
Then, I did.
"Now, slowly move closer, and let the horse go into your door. No rush, the slower, the better. Make your lips slide onto the head of the horse. Don't suck it yet, just let it go in."
I swallowed, then slowly leaned closer to the head of the horse.
My heart was racing so loudly I was certain he could hear it. This was it. My first time. I had never felt so terrified—yet so strangely excited and thrilled—all at once.
My lips brushed the head of the horse, and just as he instructed, I let it slide against the sensitive skin before gently pushing forward.
Then I felt it.
Warm. Inside my mouth. The horse spilling its gift.
"Go on," the General whispered as he held my head, guiding me with steady hands. "Slowly. Push it in further."
It wasn't even halfway when panic flared, my throat tightening as if it were protesting.
I pulled back quickly.
"General—it's too long," I said breathlessly. "I'm not sure I can take all of it. I might throw up."
"Only take what you can," he said calmly. "If you feel like you're choking, stop. Now try again and see how far you can manage."
I nodded.
Then I tried once more.
His hands returned to my head, guiding me slowly, carefully. I could feel it pulsing inside my mouth, inching farther, deeper.
"Can you still go in?" he asked softly as I looked up at him. "If you feel like you're choking, press my hips harder."
I nodded again—there was no way I could speak now.
He pushed forward little by little, gauging my limits. Each time he moved, my hands pressed against his hips—gentle at first, then firmer whenever I needed him to stop. Every release was followed by another careful attempt, my mouth opening just a bit more each time.
"I'm going further," he said gently. "Slowly. No rushing."
And then I felt it—the head reaching the back of my throat.
"Don't swallow, Aurein," he said. "Just hold still. If you swallow, you'll choke."
My hands pressed harder now, my jaw aching, my mouth far too small for something this large.
"It's—ah—your teeth," he said, voice tightening. "Open wider. They're digging into my skin."
I tried, though my jaw was already trembling with effort.
Finally, I pressed his hips firmly, signaling him to stop.
He pulled back at once, and I gasped for air, panting heavily.
"I'm sorry," I murmured.
"No," he said softly, patting my head. "Don't be. It's natural. It's your first time. You're doing very well—just watch your teeth."
Then he smirked.
"Now I know how far you can go—for now."
"But I want to take everything," I said stubbornly.
"Not yet," he replied. "You'll need more practice."
"With you?" I asked eagerly. "Every day? We could practice here in the bath chamber—after training with the warriors, we could have our own training session." I smiled.
"No," he said, glancing around. "It would raise suspicion if we came here together every day. For now..." He paused, then pointed. "That banana. Practice with that. Try swallowing without biting. See how far you can go."
"What if I bite it and choke?" I said in horror. "Imagine dying because of a banana!"
"Then be cautious," he said evenly. "Now—do you want to continue? Because the horse is about to give you another gift. This time, it will be a lot."
"Yes," I said quickly. "I want to receive it, respectfully."
"Good. This time, I won't push further. Just enough for you to take half. I want you to suck it."
I swallowed hard.
"Think of it like sipping a drink," he continued, "but with a very large, very thick straw."
That comparison did not help.
Still, I leaned in and took the horse into my mouth again.
"Slowly," General Voltaire said.
His voice alone nearly made me forget how breathing worked.
"You don't rush this part," he continued calmly. "Let the rhythm settle. As you push forward, try to suck."
I did—just like sipping from an absurdly thick straw. I felt like I was a living suction cup.
"Not too much, Aurein," he warned. "Don't suck too hard. Less force. Softer."
I adjusted, easing my effort as I pushed a little deeper. Then he gently pulled my head back—just enough that the horse didn't leave my mouth.
"As I move you," he said, "keep sucking. Controlled."
He guided my head, and I followed, maintaining the rhythm as best I could.
"Yes... that's it," he murmured, his voice dangerously close to breaking. "You're doing well. Don't pull away. Maintain contact."
Maintain.
Contact.
Those words alone nearly undid me.
I steadied myself, focusing on consistency rather than enthusiasm, letting the moment stretch instead of trying to conquer it.
"Yes," he said quietly. "That's better."
My heart leapt.
"You're no longer fighting the motion," he continued. "Remember—this isn't about force. It's about control."
I adjusted again, gentler now, more deliberate.
"You're doing it correctly," he added. "Keep that pace."
I obeyed, focusing on rhythm, calm, and not embarrassing myself further.
"Good," he said. "Now—relax your jaw."
I did.
Immediately, I became painfully aware of the instruction as he pulled the horse away.
"...This feels very vulnerable," I admitted.
"That," he said, "is because you are doing it properly."
He continued to guide me in that steady, unflustered voice—small corrections, quiet reassurances, never rushing me, never letting my thoughts spiral too far from the task at hand.
"Yes. Like that," he said.
"Do not hurry,"
Slurp!
"Maintain the rhythm,"
Smooch!
"Good. You are listening,"
Flap!
Each word made it increasingly difficult to remain composed, as though his voice itself carried weight—firm, patient, impossibly aware of what it was doing to me.
"...General," I breathed as I pulled back slightly, "if this is still considered a lesson—"
"It is," he said without hesitation.
"—then I would like to formally state that this is the most difficult training I have ever undergone."
For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw the corner of his mouth lift.
"Endurance," he said, "comes in many forms. And this is your greatest strength. You will do well in this."
I stayed where I was.
Breathing.
Moving carefully.
Following his guidance.
And realizing—far too late—that I was learning far more effectively than I ever wanted to admit.
"And now, let us finish," he said calmly. "They might think we are taking too long in here."
"Okay," I said, a little too quickly.
This time, I moved first. I did not wait for him to guide me.
I placed my hands at his hips, steadying myself, and moved my head, my mouth finding his horse—slowly, deliberately—welcoming him as though opening a guarded door.
I remembered everything he told me: the breathing, the control, the consistency, the measured force. I followed each instruction with almost frightening obedience.
I pushed and pulled in careful rhythm—until suddenly his hand came to my head, firm and commanding, forcing me to stop.
"Aurein," he said, his voice dropping lower, "what I am about to do—I apologize in advance, all right?"
I nodded, unable to speak.
"You do not need to move anymore," he continued. "I will be the one to move."
He held my head in place, steady and unyielding, and then he began—guiding his stallion forward, pressing gently but decisively.
"Keep the suction," he said quietly. "I will control the motion. Keep your teeth away. Let your lips slide—feel the skin."
He started slowly.
Carefully.
Delicately.
Then I heard it—his breath hitching, a soft moan escaping him.
Then a low growl.
I looked up at him without thinking. I did not know why, but something about his expression filled me with a strange satisfaction—like watching a storm finally break. He looked undone. Gloriously so.
"Aurein," he whispered, his voice tight, "I will need to go faster. I am close... very close."
He moved faster, deeper, until I could no longer follow his pace. My control faltered, but he continued—careful not to push too far, not to overwhelm me.
His grip tightened, his fingers pressing firmly into my head.
I understood immediately.
He was about to finish.
"Aurein... be ready," he warned, breathless. "I did not intend to release inside your mouth, but I have no choice. Not here, not in the water—they would notice."
I nodded, bracing myself.
This was what I wanted.
The gift.
The elixir.
The 'super food'.
"A–Aurein," he gasped.
He stilled, holding my head firmly in place—
—and then I felt it.
Splash!
Swoosh!
Warm.
Thick.
Bursting inside my mouth.
It splashed against my tongue, filling me completely. The taste was stronger than before—more bitter, though still touched with saltiness. It pressed itself against me insistently, leaving me breathless.
"Aahh..." the general moaned.
When he was done, he gently pulled away, my mouth still parted, full—waiting.
He looked down at me, utterly satisfied, a smug glint in his eyes.
"Swallow it, Aurein," he said.
And I did.
I felt it slide slowly down my throat, thick and heavy, settling deep inside me like a brand.
"You did very well," he said, leaning down to give me a brief, possessive kiss.
I could not speak. I could still feel it moving within me.
"Did you like it?" he asked gently.
I nodded.
"Good boy," he said, patting my head softly. "I could do another round... but not now."
I pressed a hand to my chest.
I could still feel it—the general's warmth inside me. It felt intoxicating. Like a spell had been cast. Like something of him had truly entered me.
But what if we went further?
If we did that thing?
Would I be able to endure it too?
"Wait," I said, suddenly struck by a very alarming thought. "What about my first time when the... horse decides it wants to enter my second door?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. "You need to teach me that too."
"Do not worry," he said gently. "We will handle that when the moment comes."
He cupped my cheek, his thumb warm against my skin, grounding me far more than it should have.
"And now," he added softly, "it is your turn to feel good as well. Stand up."
I obeyed.
Of course I did.
Every word he spoke felt less like a suggestion and more like an instinct I had always possessed but only just discovered.
...Was I truly under the influence of his elixir now?
He turned me around and pressed himself against my back. I inhaled sharply. I could feel it, his horse—still very much awake, very much present—nestled insistently against me.
Then his hand found mine.
Lower.
"General—wait," I said, my voice tight with embarrassment. "I... I feel shy letting you touch me there."
If his was a horse, mine would be a little pony.
"There is no need for shame," he said calmly. "This is your reward. I cannot allow you to leave without feeling satisfied. You did your part. Now it is my responsibility to do mine."
His hand closed around it, and I realized just how unfairly large his was compared to mine. He just needed three fingers to hold mine—his grip careful, deliberate, devastatingly confident.
Then he began to move.
"N—ngh!" I let out far too loudly.
"Shh," he whispered instantly. "They might hear you."
To silence me, he slipped two fingers into my mouth. I froze—then instinctively closed my lips around them.
He stroked me while playing with my tongue at the same time, as if multitasking came naturally to him in all things.
I could not moan.
But my body betrayed me anyway.
I twitched, shuddered, and nearly bit down on his fingers from the sheer intensity of it all. He only chuckled softly and leaned in, lips brushing my ear—then licking it—making my knees nearly give way.
He did everything at once. Touching. Kissing. Teasing. Ruining.
I reached back and pulled his hand away from my mouth, gasping.
"General... I—I might finish too soon. I do not think I can stop it!"
"Then tell me," he warned calmly, still stroking me. "And do not lose control in the water."
Before I could respond—
"Aurein?" my father's voice echoed suddenly from beyond the door, followed by a firm knock. "Are you still inside the bath chamber? Rowan told me you and General Voltaire have been in there for quite some time. He mentioned something... inappropriate." There was a pause. "And I believe I heard moaning. What is going on?"
"I—I cannot anymore," I whispered frantically. "I cannot control it—I am about to—"
He stopped.
Abruptly.
But it was already too late.
"Mmmff—!"
I muffled the sound as everything crashed over me at once. Because I was submerged, I saw it clearly—white proof rising traitorously to the surface of the water.
General Voltaire clamped a hand over my mouth instantly.
"Aurein! What is happening in there?" my father shouted. "I can hear you!"
"Your Majesty," Rowan's voice cut in smoothly, "I now have the key to the bath chamber."
Click.
The door opened.
Both the general and I stared in pure disbelief.
I was panting.
He was frozen.
And floating serenely on the water's surface was unmistakable evidence of my white elixir.
We were—
Without question—
Completely doomed... and naked!
End of Chapter 31