Jon is tied up with Melisendre and Ygritte

“Halt!” a seargeant called ahead of them, making the prisoners in front of Jon shuffle to a stop.

They had all been tied together in a line, single-file. Jon’s hands were tied to the collar of Melisendre, the red witch who had not spoken a word since his defeat. Everytime they stopped Jon winced at how his cock would bounce off her ample buttcheeks and sometimes soldiers pushed him into her just out of boredom when they were on the march (at night there was an abudance of entertainment from the buxom priestess being gangbanged, covered in cum and used in every hole).

While Jon’s hands were tied to Melisendre’s collar, Ygritte’s hand were tied to his neck, to jokes about him being sandwiched between redheads. The spearwife must have been in her own reverie, as she suddenly stopped so close to him that he felt her little pink nipples poke into her back even as her tousled hair tickled his shoulders. He was almost sure he could feel her breath on the back of his neck, she was so close. His cock twitched from their proximity.

Jon had tried to hide his connection to the spearwife from his captors for as long as he could. Every night that Ygritte was chained away from him was a night that he slept better for knowing that she would not be used against him. But eventually, when they were still seven days out from King’s Landing, a dissatisfied Night’s Watchman tattled to the guards in exchange for a reprieve.

That endless night, they had tied Jon to a stake with an ivory phallus up his arse and made him watch as Ygritte was buggered again and again. “Don’t worry, Jon,” she had said. “They won’t get any satisfaction from me.”

Yet by the time the fifth man was pounding into her, the girl who was kissed by fire was screaming in pleasure as loud as any harlot. Eventually, the train they ran on her had left her such a creampie that they had decided that a clean-up was required: they wanted Jon to eat her out.

Apart from when they were chained together in coffles or bound in the same ropes to trees, he had not laid hand on any woman since his capture and his cock and stones were aching for release. Jon still refused to humiliate himself until he was given an ultimatum: either he sucked all their seed out of Ygritte’s asshole or he would “have a red-hot poker rammed so hard up his arse that he breathed dragonflame.”

It made him wretch and gag more times than he could count, and he could have sworn Ygritte came at one point, but finally Jon had rimmed his lover so much that her rosebud was completely clean. He had been instructed to keep it in his mouth, then let it pour out all over Ygritte’s face. That had been the last time he had kissed his spearwife. She had spent the rest of that night, and most of the nights since, being spitroasted and sodomised by an endless procession of soldiers.