Bring on the Dessert!

After that rousing toast from Celene, you and the other nobles return to your meals in earnest.

Despite Josephine’s best attempts at teaching you the finer points of Orlesian dinner etiquette, you still wolf down your roast pheasant and spice potatoes with all the grace and sophistication of a starving Mabari loose in a hen house. Of course, your table manners aren't a concern at all, the Throne’s magic working overtime to ensure your typically slobbish behavior comes across as effortlessly charming to the rest of your fellow royal diners.

Still kneeling between your outstretched legs, Cassandra enjoys her own savory piece of meat. Though she didn't have a seat at the table, Lady Pentaghast's stomach may be filling faster than anyone in the dining hall as you pump another helping of warm spunk down your date's throat.

Drawing her lips off your spent cock, the Seeker takes to suckling on your freshly drained balls, already priming your next load like a well-trained slut while you continue to eat and socialize.

Finishing your meal well before everyone else, you shovel the last bits of food into your mouth before offhandedly pushing away your plate and leaning back in your seat with a content smile. Letting out a satisfied belch elicits an eye roll from Josephine and muffled giggles from Leliana, both women only a few bites into their own meals after your triple-blowjob just moments ago.

"Oh Maker, I'm full..." you groan, patting your pronounced belly before reaching further down and running your greasy fingers through Cassandra's unkempt locks, your cum-soaked Seeker offering her own appreciative moans as her roaming tongue revels in the flavors of your sack.

"Did you enjoy your meal, Inquisitor?" Cassandra asks between eager swipes of her tongue.

"I certainly did," you smirk, peering down at her between your legs. "...Did you enjoy yours?"

"Mhm," she nods. "To be honest, I've found being under the table preferable to the topside."

"Heh, that could change quickly," you tease her, your stomach rumbling almost menacingly. "All that Orlesian cuisine has me feeling a bit gassy..."

Your crass joke earns one of Cassandra's signature noises of disgust but not even the impending threat of flatulence is enough to pull the whorish warrior's pursed lips from your family jewels.

Finally, the rest of the nobles all finish their meals, signaling the end of the main dinner course. Just as they have been doing all evening, a team of elven waiters descends upon the dining hall, clearing plates and swapping out silverware in preparation for the night's final course, dessert.

Dessert being your favorite course, you naturally find yourself excited about what awaits you. For years, you've heard the stories of the legendarily decadent desserts served at Orlesian balls, towers of chocolate truffles that touch the ceiling, slices of white cake the size of a men's head, and even Blessed Apple pies from the holy orchards of Ghislain drizzled with golden caramel.

The thought of any of these sinful treats leaves your mouth watering and your cock stiffening, the flaccid prick lovingly draped across Cassandra's face while she worships your balls quickly bulging into a towering pillar of man-flesh that threatens to lift the dining table a few inches.

"Your attention please, everyone!" Lady Couteau suddenly calls, tapping her champagne flute. You turn to see her and other handmaidens back at Celene's side after roaming under the table. "We do hope you've found tonight's banquet as delicious as we have," the handmaiden smiles, punctuating her words with a lick of her cum-stained lips. "And now, bring out the dessert!"

As if on cue, all the dining room doors swing open as dozens of elven waiters come rushing out. Dressed in spotless white aprons with gold finery, each elf pushes a small wheeled cart loaded with polished silver serving trays as they spread out across the dining hall.

"Tonight's dessert was provided by Lord de Laucett's personal chef, hailing from Val Chevin." Lady Couteau announces over the lively din of elves delivering metal trays to each noble's seat. You note how your tray arrives only mere seconds after Empress Celene herself receives hers.

Rubbing your hands together greedily, you grasp the tray lid and hastily lift it away to reveal...

...a small perfumed custard pastry with a single raspberry situated on top for decoration.

"Uh, Josephine," you whisper, gently nudging the advisor to your right. "...What are these?"

"Orlesian fruit tarts, Your Worship," Josie responds. "Very trendy in Val Royeaux this season."

"Surely not for their size..." you gripe, glancing back at your tiny plate. With only two fingers, you lift the dainty tart off the plate and place it into the palm of your hand where it appears even more minuscule. "What is this?" you raise your voice indignantly. "A dessert for ants?"

"Inquisitor, please...lower your voice." your diplomat shushes you. "You'll cause a scene."

"You would think they'd serve something a bit grander for a guest of honor like the Herald." Leliana murmurs in your left ear, playing the devil on your shoulder to Josie's prudent angel.

You scowl, leaning back in your seat and crossing your arms like a petulant child for a moment.

"I think I'll have a word with the Empress about this," you finally declare, picking up your plate and abruptly rising from your chair, your balls exiting Cassandra's mouth with an audible plop. With sense of purpose in your steps, you begin your swift march to the head of the dining table, your brazen actions garnering side-glances and gossipy whispering from every noble you pass.

"Is there something you require, my Lord-" Lady Couteau fruitlessly attempts to intercept you as you blaze past her and her cum-soaked sisters. An expectant hush falls over the dining hall the moment you finally reach Celene's seat of honor, making your presence known by shoving your throbbing hard cock between the Empress and her elven lover Briala mid-conversation.

"Yes, Inquisitor?" Celene offers cordially as she glances up at you. Her eyes are fixed on yours and her face gives the impression she isn't aware of the incredible faux pas she has committed even with nine inches of righteous anger staring her in the masked face. "Is there a problem?"

"Indeed there is, Your Majesty," you offer matter-of-factly, dropping your plate in front of her. “I thought Orlais was famed for its desserts," you decry. "So where does Her Excellence get off serving this..." you shudder, pointing down at the pathetic tart. "...abomination to her guests?"

The simple act of complaining, exerting your power over the monarch makes your prick harder as you punctuate your blunt words with a weighty cock-slap across one side of her masked face, staining the regent's cheek with remnants of Pentaghast throat spit still clinging to your shaft.

"You raise a fair point, Your Worship," Celene concurs. "Where are the dollops of fresh cream?"

"...Cream?" you quirk an eyebrow in confusion.

"But of course," the Empress insists. "Everyone knows a proper Orlesian fruit tart is served with a dollop of fresh cream on top. How careless of Lord de Laucett's chef to forget the final touch!"

"The chef shall be reprimanded severely ." Briala comforts her lover. "Twenty lashes, at least."

Glancing back and forth between the Orlesian royalty and her tart, a smirk forms on your lips.

"Ladies, ladies..." you offer smugly, hand drifting down to your cock as you grasp it by the base. "If the tarts require cream then I’m all too happy to provide. Your assistance please, Empress?"

"My assistance?" Celene coos, her interest piqued. "What did you have in mind, Inquis-GLACK!"

The Empress words are instantly cut off as you reach out and grip the back of her head tightly, fingers digging into her locks of immaculate blonde hair as you pull her face-first into your lap. Like an experienced Orlesian slut, Celene's lips part instinctively to accept the invading phallus, the underside of your cock rushing over her flattened tongue as it drives down her royal gullet.

You waste no time forcing your way down Celene's throat, rolling your hips forward in rhythm with your head pulls as you casually fuck her face. Despite her rumored preference for women, Celene is clearly no stranger to swallowing cock, consistently deep-throating more than half of your impressive length before you feel her **** around your fuck-meat. The muffled gagging draws Briala’s curious gaze, despite the elf’s disdain for men in general (and you, specifically).

Regal lips stretched wide across your shaft, the monarch's gags echo through the dining hall as you repeatedly bounce her head against your lap, balls slapping her chin as you hammer away while the tears forming in her eyes leave her once-pristine mascara to stream down her cheeks.

By now, the Empress' aura of elegance is shattered completely, her mask growing more askew with every punishing thrust as the thick threads of cock-flavored drool spill from the corners of her plugged mouth, soaking the front of her emerald green evening gown. In mere seconds, you've reduced the living embodiment of Orlesian class and dignity to a common street whore, indistinguishable from the slatterns who drain men's balls for five coppers in the back-alleys.

"That's it...all the way down." you hiss, tightening your grasp on the sides of the Empress' head, guiding her tight throat up and down your lap frantically. "Earn that cream, you royal whore."

With a firm push, you finally bury your cock to the hilt inside the Empress of Orlais' esophagus, pulling her face flush with your ample gut and burying her nose in your spit-soaked pubic hair. A shuddering groan escapes your chest as you savor the sensation of Celene's tightening throat, holding her down and grinding her face into your hairy lap as you milk every spasming twitch.

Letting your eyes wander across the dining hall, you revel in the delighted faces of the nobles, "oohing" and "ahhing" as if they're witnessing the performance of an amusing party trick and not their Empress having her face defiled by a pantless slob. The only person in the room who could muster a sour face under your throne's influence is Briala but even the elf's expression can only rise to the level of minor annoyance as you skull-fuck her lover in front of her eyes.

Your attention is suddenly brought back to Celene as the Empress’s **** begins to intensify, the monarch’s hands gripping your thighs as her tight throat convulses around your manhood. Deciding that you’ve provided enough of a show with dinner, you allow yourself to finally cum.

Releasing your hold on the royal's head, you let her instinctively come off your cock to breathe. Staring at her gasping mouth, lips glistening with spit and precum, it's hard not to aim at such an obvious target—but you promised Celene cream on her tart and you're a man of your word.

With a grunt, you tilt your cock downward as you prepare to unload all over the Empress' tart, a lecherous grin crossing your face as the first arcs of white spunk spew from your surging tip, splattering the dainty tart in rope after hot, sticky rope of your dense foul-smelling cum.

In short order, you completely bury the Empress' pastry under a mountain of homemade icing, and with your load showing no signs of abating, you quickly turn your attention towards Briala. The elf flinches as you abruptly swing your prick towards her, stroking out the last of your load onto her plate, not quite drenching it like you had Celene's but giving it a respectable glaze.

"Mmm, there you go..." you groan raggedly, wringing the last drops of spunk from your prick onto Briala's tart before wiping your wet prick across her grimacing face. "Bon appetit, ladies."

"Thank you, Your Worship." the Empress coughs, her voice slightly raspy from her throat-fuck as she takes a moment to adjust her crooked mask and regain a semblance of regal composure.

You and the other nobles watch intently as Celene gracefully reaches out for her dessert fork, carving out a refined bite from the cum-drenched tart before gracefully bringing it to her lips.

"Oh!" the Empress' face lights up at the taste as she chews daintily. "Salty...and yet so sweet." "Such a depth of flavor..." she offers jubilantly. "Briala, my dear, you simply must taste this!"

The scowling elf's eyes dart from your cock to her lover offering a gooey bite from her fork before reluctantly, she opens her mouth to accept the bite. After a brief moment of chewing, Briala lets out a defeated sigh. "It's..." she grits her teeth, dreading her words. "It's exquisite."

You place your hands at your hips, watching with a wide smirk as Briala snatches her fork and digs into her own soiled dessert. As lurid the sight of the two ravenously enjoying your spunk, however, it proves to be short-lived as you're suddenly interrupted by a shouting voice.

"I want your cream on my tart!" one of the Duchesses insists. "Do mine next, Your Worship!"

"No, do mine next!" a covetous Comtesse interjects, holding out her plate in front of your cock.

Soon, every copycat noble at the table is clamoring for their tart to be served with your cream, and while such a feat is certainly possible with your throne-enhanced virility, you didn't have hours to spend nutting on royal's pastries. Eyes glancing from one expectant noble to the next, you start to think you might have a problem when suddenly a devious idea enters your mind.

"As much as I'd like to give you all the full course," you announce. "I think I'll need some help."

Turning to Lady Couteau, you direct the handmaiden to summon the elven waiters once again.

With a ring of her tiny bell, a mass of elves descends upon the dining hall, awaiting your orders. Having the waiters take positions around the table, you proceed to outline your perverted plan, the elven men grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear as you give them their instructions.

On your command, the waiters drop their trousers in unison, stiff elven cocks springing forth as the servants begin gleefully pleasuring themselves in front of an audience of puzzled nobles.

"Elven cream?" one of the noblewomen blushes profusely. "How positively transgressive!"

"Oh spare us, Lady Amelia." the Lord seated across the table scoffs. "If the rumors are true, you've had more elven cock inside you than all the trees in the Brecilian Forest combined."

"You're one to talk, Lord Reinhold," she balks. "The Dalish use your wife as a winter retreat!"

With a perverted sense of pride, you watch the elves beat their meat above the noble's plates while many of the more demanding noblewomen took matters into their hands (and mouths), sucking and stroking the men's cocks in the hopes of receiving their cream that much quicker. You catch sight of a particularly impatient Duchess (and a particularly lucky elf) commanding her handmaiden to service him from behind while she milks him for all she was worth.

Back at your seat, Leliana and Josephine are both having their tight throats casually plundered while Cassandra, finally crawling out from underneath the table, busily services a well-hung elf with her mouth while using her hands to jerk off two more.

Soon, one by one, the elves begin orgasming, aiming their spurting pricks at the noble's tarts and launching a volley of creamy spunk upon each noble's plate. You suspect this is hardly the first time an elven servant had relieved himself into a noble's food but never before had it been done so publicly and on this grand of a scale.

"I think you've started Orlais' next great culinary trend, Inquisitor." The Empress applauds you, her plate all but licked clean by the time the rest of her noble subjects bite into their own tarts. She gives your cock a friendly kiss, though you suspect she's just after any lingering essence.

Your work finished, you saunter back to your seat, passing the elf enjoying Cassandra's mouth.

"Have a slice of chocolate cake delivered to my quarters." you grin, patting him on the back.

"O-of course, m'lord." the elf agrees, suddenly pulling out and giving Cassandra a messy facial.

"And hold the cream..." you chuckle, watching the elf's "icing" running down your date's face.