Nympholympics 6 – Drinks and Nobles

There was a singular factor that gave John pause in indulging: responsibility.

The broad term encapsulated many things. There were his political obligations, his value as a role model, the power invested in him by magic and a myriad of other, smaller expectations put upon him from various sides. Currently, it was a good idea to remain sober because there was a Hypercrush loose.

“Come oooooon, tiger.” Rave shook the bottle of tequila in front of him. The beverage had been readily supplied by their hosts. It was one of the few things they had asked for. Food Aclysia and the maids had brought along but **** was a different matter. They had their selection of **** that they carried around for specific occasions, very expensive bottles. The tequila Rave was holding was expensive by mundane standards, but by John’s standards it was just normal.

The joy of having practically endless money was that he could drink the good kind of ****, the kind that did not cause any major headaches in the morning and tasted great.

Of course, all of that came with its own downside.

“Dude.” His first fiancée kept moving her wrists in small circles. They translated into a larger circle, drawn by the oblong bottom of the bottle, and the swirling of the amber liquid within. The bottle was already down to a third after pouring shots for the majority of the harem. “Use that rapid thinking ability of yours and figure it out already.”

“It’d be unwise,” John said slowly. “I have-“

“I have responsibilities, I am the big strong president of Fusion, I need to be available at all times,” Rave interrupted him in her deepest, most mocking tone. The circling of the bottle stopped. The bottom was placed against the swing of Rave’s hips, pushed out to the left in an impatient tone. “We’ve gone over this before, tiger.”

“And we will go over it a thousand more times,” he sighed. “Say it then. I need to hear it.”

“If you ruling means that you never get to get drunk, then I’ll burn down your office yourself.”

“I get to get drunk – when there’s someone else holding down the fort.”

Rave rolled her sapphire eyes. “Ya missing the point on purpose.”

“I do like listening to you talk,” he said.

“If the entire world rests on you always being responsible, then that ain’t a way to live.” Rave’s fingers tapped impatiently on the open head of the bottle. “You’re just a human, at the heart of all of the bullshit. If something happens that ya could have prevented if you were there, then that’s something that would’ve happened anyway. You’d be noble for stopping it, but you’re not some **** that has to stop it.”

John reluctantly hummed, still not entirely convinced. He was thinking about what was proper to do and proper was certainly to stay sober and remain clear of mind. That was what was virtuous in terms of wider society. In terms of the expectant gazes of the people that he cared most about in the whole world though…

“I suppose at times like these, the wants of the few outweigh the wants of the many,” he finally gave in. “Pour the shot.”

“Finally!”

Rave tilted the bottle, letting the shot pour into John’s container of choice: Nightingale’s belly button. While the head of the harem screwed the bottle shut, Nia dragged her tongue wetly over the lower rise of the harpy’s petite breast. Cinnamon was sprinkled over the trail, powdery brown on pale, smooth skin. A slice of orange was placed in John’s hand by Claire.

Under the cheers of the haremettes, he leaned forwards. He lapped up the trail left by Nia, tasting the cinnamon for a moment before slurping the tequila out of Nightingale’s navel. The strong taste of the **** mixed with the spice. He swiftly sat up, biting into and sucking on the orange.

The rest of the harem had followed his motions, using inferior glasses instead of the bellies of their fellow haremettes. A logistical problem, created by Nightingale being one of the few women that night that did not wish to partake in shots. Even the Artificial Spirits had downed an augmented variety of mercury. Nightingale only opted out because her lack of hands made sipping on a glass of wine via straw more convenient.

“Time to train!” Nathalia suddenly announced and grabbed Ehtra by the shoulder.

“What are you-!” the grey angel yelped, as she was **** to kneel in front of John.

“I won’t have you put to shame the harem’s ability to suck our mate’s cock.” Nathalia dominantly put a hand on the back of Ehtra’s head, pushing her face against the Gamer’s cock. Pulsing rapidly to hardness, the girthy rod hid half of the grey angel’s face behind it. “Time to train,” Nathalia reiterated. “Be a good cocksleeve, servant. It is your purpose.”

The nostrils of the First of Hatred flared, taking in the scent of the Gamer’s manhood. The annoyance in her green eyes melted rapidly, replaced with sheepish obedience. “Yes, Mistress,” she moaned, the submissive switch flipped. Her tongue glided from balls to tip. Once there, she puckered her lips, placing swift pecks on the engorged head. Thick strands of precum connected them, to be licked up a moment later. “Delicious,” the dark-skinned maid swooned. “May I have more?”

“You may,” Nathalia purred, pushing the head of the willing sex **** down.

The heat of Ehtra’s mouth enveloped him bit by bit. Her descent was smooth, its tempo measured by the hand of the other busty, dark-skinned haremette next to her. “A goddess is using an Akkadian weapon of war to jerk me off, how could this get any better?” he asked out loud.

Nia answered that question by pressing her lips on his. The nothing taste of the blank meant that there was no other sensation to concentrate on other than the playful fencing of their tongues. She nuzzled against him with growing urgency, as if trying to push him over. Perhaps she really was trying to, out of playfulness. Behind the unmoving face of the pariah was a woman of many whimsies.

John pushed back, keeping the two of them in equilibrium. That was until his other arm was grabbed.

As was harem courtesy, John broke the kiss with Nia to offer one to the other woman as well. Metra met him so readily, only the flick of her golden wolf ears informed him who it was he was now making out with. His mouth filled with the strong taste of a sweet cocktail. Something with peach juice, judging by the aftertaste.

The party around them started in full. Rave put on some heavy music. Immediately an argument broke out over what music should be playing and at which volume. Rave wanted it loud, Undine insisted she had working ears, back and forth like that.

John was going back and forth between Nia and Metra, getting plenty of cocktail kisses. This continued for at least three songs, only interrupted by little chats between new drinks, before a whole different sound molested his ears.

DING DONG!

The doorbell ripped John out of his trance more than the other women. For most of them, it seemed that the sound hadn’t even registered. Ever aware of the household, Aclysia was making her first steps towards the front door. ‘I’ll go,’ John intercepted her.

‘Is that wise?’ Aclysia asked.

‘I feel like it,’ he answered. Several drinks in, he was having a much easier time foregoing what was responsible and going with the flow. Pride compelled him to answer his own door for a change. He loved Aclysia, he loved everything she did for him, but he still was wary of becoming a bit too reliant on his maids. He did not want to forget how to tie his own shoes.

Standing up did mean that the now dual attention of Ehtra and Nathalia came to an end. His cock glided up from their lips, leaving them longingly sighing. Nia and Metra refused to be left behind like that, holding onto his arms.

“I do fucking love this place,” the wolf-eared blonde remarked.

John put his arm around Metra’s shoulder. He did lean on her a bit, one of his steps becoming uncertain. He had a little more to drink than he had thought already. It was so easy to overindulge when every sweet cocktail was delivered by the even sweeter lips of his beloveds.

They made it to the door. John did not have a hand free, so he raised a foot to push the handle down. The door swung inwards, softly at first, then faster when the person on the other side gave a prodding tab against it.

The man found John Newman standing in the hallway, foot back on the ground, the First of Wrath’s head on his shoulder, and Nia stroking his cock. There had been no word or other sign of interest by the pariah, she had just started doing it.

Nothing about the sight appeared to even faze the man. He was, like most people in the Abyss, a man of a well-built physique. He had more fat to him, hiding the proper definition of his muscles, but he was not fat by any description. If anything, the Greek God levels of visible muscle John had put him in the thin category.

Beyond that the man was hairy. Chest hair connected to his pubic hair through a trail of belly hair. His arms and legs were similarly fuzzy, although not dense enough to be called proper fur. John noticed all of these details at a mere glance. His eyes managed to roll their way upwards, catching the man’s face.

He had a thick beard and long, brown hair. His face was too broad to be conventionally attractive, but John would not have called him ugly for it. The man had a rugged charm, and by build and choice of hairiness, he chose to amplify it. A fact that John considered as wise. A man had to work with what God/evolution/Gaia gave him.

“Well, I’d like to know who you are and what brings you to my door,” John said, a light slur in his voice.

The man raised a bottle of whisky, previously half-hidden behind his leg, and raised it to his lips. “Name is Roland,” he introduced himself after a deep gulp of heavy liquor. “You don’t remember me at all, do you?”

John sorted his memories quickly. The face did tickle some resemblance. Still, the memory denied him. “Nope.”

The man suddenly straightened up. “Full name is Otto Roland Louis von Wittelsbach!” he declared regally, his tipsy tone suppressed by the regular usage of the words.

“OH!” John exclaimed and snapped his fingers. “You’re – Oh, damn, give me a second.”

The constant pumping of his shaft by Nia had finally put John up to the edge. Rather than spread his seed on the ground, he turned to the woman that kept teasing him. Nia twirled around on the spot before he could make her, moaning when he greedily penetrated her dripping wet cunt.

“Good form,” Roland remarked in jest and took another swig of his bottle. Rather than keep a look on the scene, he took a step back from the door and gestured. Two goblins stepped forwards, part of a small crowd that John only now realized was behind the man. The greenskins lost no time slobbering all over his dick.

John concentrated entirely on Nia’s pale ass. The slender roundness of her hips made for a gently rippling cushion. He was at the edge immediately, the grip of her pussy simply too much for him to endure after her hand had taken over from the skilful lips of other women. He grit his teeth, trying to make her climax at least once before he filled her up. He failed. He came and it was the magical property of his cum that set off Nia in turn.

To Roland it must have looked all the same. That was good for his reputation, but it bothered John first and foremost that he had failed in that endeavour. He would pound Nia’s brain out later to make it up to her. She would insist that it was fine and it probably was, but John had things to prove to himself.

Nia was left, hands against the wall, head hanging, orgasmic trembles still making her quiver. “Eat her out,” John ordered Metra, before his cock had even slipped all the way out.

“As you wish, Master,” the willing sex **** answered with a broad smirk, squatted down where he had stood a second ago, and greeted the first drops of cum dribbling from her fellow blonde’s cunt.

The orgasm had cleared his mind a little bit, but the accelerated blood flow made the **** spread faster in turn. John shook his head against the dizziness. “Sorry about that… What’s the proper title? Elector-Count of Bavaria?”

“Prince, technically, but I ain’t picky,” Roland answered.

John had only met the one closeup a couple of times before and never really spoken to him. As elector and leader of Bavaria, one of the influential provinces of Rex Germaniae, he had been casting his vote when it came to the selection between Maximillian and Lydia over two years back now. Without all of the pompous robes and regal attire, John had not recognized him.

“What brings ya to my door?” John slurred.

“Me and the boy were wonderin’ something,” the man answered. “Heard the big Gamer was in town and so we were wonderin’-“

“Very eloquent, Roland,” one of the other guys behind him threw in.

“Piss off, Morgan!” the ruler of Bavaria threw back, then continued, “Me and the boys were wonderin’ if you’d be up for a spar? Nothing hostile, I promise! We were just having a drink and I decided we might as well ask.”

He took another swig and John considered the question. Something tickled in the back of his brain. It was that base call to ****, intensified by his lowered inhibitions. He scanned over the faces in the crowd. None were truly hostile. This really was just a call to a drunken spar between men that had decided to just… do that.

‘This place does amplify animalism a fair bit,’ John thought. ‘Fuck it.’ “Why not?” he answered out loud. “One condition though.”

“That being?”

“We wear pants.”

“…Yeah? Obviously?” Roland asked, then broke out into laughter.

“Bring my pants!” John shouted into the house.