... And the stick

You left the Montilyet sisters gasping amidst scattered contracts and semen-smeared parchment, the throne's magic still thrumming in your veins like lyrium. Leliana awaited in your chambers, her scarlet choker gleaming against alabaster skin as she knelt beside the bed - spymaster's leathers replaced by translucent Orlesian silk that clung to every curve.

Leliana's lips curled in a saccharine smile that didn't reach her steel-blue eyes as she crawled forward, the silk parting to reveal ink-stained fingertips - a spymaster's hands performing a courtesan's work. "Why bother with titles," she breathed against your thigh, teeth grazing the scarred flesh where a despair demon once clawed, "when my little birds could reduce that contract to ash in Renard's own fireplace?" Her tongue painted lewd promises along your shaft even as she outlined the plot - poisoned seals, a Antivan fire-oil accident, the Comte's obsession with elven bathhouse boys turned liability.

You chuckled darkly, tangling your fingers in Leliana's flame-red hair to drag her mouth onto your hardening cock. "Burn his estate," you grunted, hips jerking upward to silence her political scheming with flesh, "after you've knelt him before the throne." The spymaster's muffled protests dissolved into wet gagging sounds as the throne's compulsion took hold, her once-calculating eyes glazing over while drool dripped onto the Orlesian silk now hiked around her waist. By dawn, Renard would sign his duchy away between Josephine's thighs - and Leliana's birds would sing of how eagerly he'd embraced the Inquisition's mercy.

You pistoned into Leliana's throat with the same ruthless efficiency that closed rifts, her gagging cries music to your ears as the throne's compulsion arched her spine in obscene welcome. Her once-sharp tongue now lay limp and drooling beneath your shaft, every choked breath through flared nostrils a surrender you carved deeper with each thrust.

The spymaster's body convulsed in time with your thrusts, her choked whimpers vibrating along your cock as you used her throat like a sheathe. When you finally released her, strands of saliva and mascara-streaked tears connected her swollen lips to your glistening shaft. "The Comte's signature will stain Josephine's thighs by noon," Leliana rasped, her normally melodic voice raw from **** as she crawled toward the bedpost.

Your fingers twisted deeper into Leliana's fiery locks, slamming her face against the bedpost as you mounted her from behind. The spymaster's choked scream morphed into a moan when the throne's magic surged through her choker, transforming pain into perverse pleasure that dripped down her thighs.

Your hips snapped forward with the rhythm of a conqueror, the slap of flesh against silk-draped flesh echoing through chambers that still smelled of Josephine's perfumed desperation. The spymaster's choked sobs transmuted by throne magic into wanton shrieks that shook the bed's dragonbone frame. When you spilled inside her with a roar that would shame a high dragon, Leliana collapsed forward, her body trembling as the magic coursed through her, turning agony into ecstasy. She lay there, her Orlesian silk torn and soiled, her alabaster skin glistening with sweat and tears. The Herald's grip on her hair tightened, pulling her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze.

As the Herald's grip tightened in Leliana's hair, her eyes, now a mixture of tears and defiance, locked onto his. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the faint tang of the throne's magic, which pulsed through the room like a living entity. "You've served well, Leliana," the Herald growled, his voice coarse from exertion, "but the night is young, and there's still work to be done."