Start your morning with a blowjob!

The morning sun bleeds through the canvas of your tent, assaulting your sleep-crusted eyelids with its blinding light until you're pulled from your deep, snoring slumber. You let out a grunt, shifting your massive weight, the sheets beneath you still damp with sweat and scented oil.

"Wakey wakey, suck on snakey, Madam De Fer..." you mutter into your drool-soaked pillow.

Still half-asleep, your hand reflexively reaches down, clumsily searching around your hairy lap for the familiar feeling of Vivienne's smooth bald head to initiate your first blowjob of the day but your fingers feel only cold, crumpled silk with the lingering scent of expensive perfume.

Evidently, the Enchanter has already made her exit, likely running off to hide the evidence of last night’s debauchery and maintain her aura of refinement before the rest of the camp stirs. Her absence leaves you with a case of morning wood that made lyrium feel like wet parchment, stiff and unyielding like a Brecilian oak tree had taken root in your lap. You roll onto your back, your massive, unwashed prick twitching towards the ceiling, pulsating with a needy ache.

"Where's that swamp witch when you really need her?" you grumble, voice full of morning grit as you scratch your hairy belly and stare at your morning erection.

With a heavy sigh, you decide to take this matter into your own hands. Quite literally, in fact.

Long before you stumbled across the Blowjob Throne and gained control over women's bodies, masturbation was your favorite pastime. You’d spent countless lonely nights in Ostwick Circle, your hand acting as your cock's only companion while listening to your fellow mages have sex through the stone walls. Even now, with a literal army of willing mouths at your beck and call, there's still a certain satisfaction in self-service, idly playing with yourself in the brief moments between your near-constant blowjobs.

You let out a longy awn before wrapping a meaty fist around your shaft, the hint of leftover oil from last night's expedition in Vivienne's ass allowing your calloused palm to glide effortlessly up and down your engorged shaft. You stroke yourself furiously, pumping the heavy, purple-headed monster with practiced ease, your breath catching as you focus on the friction.

You’re just starting to find your groove, the mattress creaking under the weight of motion when your tent's flap brushes aside, accompanied by a rush of cool morning air over you.

You don't bother to cover up as Cassandra Pentaghast strides in, her Seeker armor clanging with every purposeful step. She stops dead in her tracks, her eyes widening as they land on the sight of her Inquisitor; fat, sweaty, bald, and stark naked, shamelessly tugging his Nug in bed.

"Morning, Seeker." Your hand never leaves your fat cock as you offer her a lazy, lopsided grin.

"Inquisitor!" she gasps, her pale face flushing a deep, sudden crimson resembling Leliana's hair. "My apologies, I didn't mean to interrupt," she manages to **** out, her voice tightened with a mixture of duty and deep-seated embarrassment. "You appear to be quite...preoccupied."

"This?" you offer casually, punctuating the word with a particularly vigorous tug that makes your balls slap against your inner thighs. "Just polishing the ol' mage staff to start my day."

Because of her iron-willed discipline and magic abilities as a Seeker, Cassandra had always been slightly more resistant to the Throne’s mental fog than the others. She doesn't flee in disgust, nor does she immediately drop her knees; instead, she simply stands there anchored in place, her eyes fixed firmly on a wine stain in the rug at her feet or the stitching of the tent ceiling. Anywhere but the throbbing slab of oiled-up fuckmeat jutting out from your swollen lap.

"The scouts have returned, and the wagons are packed, Herald." She clears her throat as her hand rests subconsciously on the hilt of her sword. "We were scheduled to depart at first light."

"The caravan can wait until I finish my business," you grunt, tightening your grip on your cock. "You can blame Madam de Fer. Haughty bitch left me to deal with this monster all by myself."

You shift your weight, gripping your cock with both hands now with plenty of room for a third as you give the shaft a playful squeeze. A fat, glistening bead of pre-cum forms at the purple tip, dangling precariously before dripping onto the silk sheets.

The Seeker's gaze finally betrays her, peeking up to the spectacle between your laboring hands. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing. "That does look...burdensome," she reluctantly admits, her composure fraying at the edges as the Throne’s influence begins to test her resolve.

"You look like you've seen a Fade-spirit, Cassandra," you tease, enjoying her discomfort as you quicken your strokes. "You act as if you’ve never seen a man stroking his huge cock before."

"Forgive me, Your Worship," she offers, her jaw setting and her nostrils flaring as she speaks. "As a Seeker of the Chantry, it remains...jarring to see the Herald of Andraste flaunting his "appendage" so brazenly. I would think the Maker's Chosen would display more modesty."

"Modesty?" you scoff. "This cock is a blessing from the Maker himself, Seeker." you counter. "Why would I ever hide his divine handiwork behind an itchy pair of polka dot breeches?"

"It is indecent," the Nevarran insists, a stray lock of dark hair falling over her furrowed brow. "And quite frankly, some women find the size…intimidating."

"Intimidating?" You let out a booming laugh, the obnoxious sound bouncing off the tent walls. "A woman who hunts High Dragons for sport, cleaves Red Templars in half, and stares down an army of Darkspawn is afraid of an overgrown pecker? You're pulling my third leg, Seeker."

"I didn't say..." she bristles, her pride flaring up and quickly overriding her earlier discomfort. She takes a defiant step closer, her eyes narrowed as she finally forces herself to look directly at your throbbing, hard prick. "I am not afraid."

"Good," you smirk, your voice dropping to a low, commanding rumble. You pat the edge of the bed next to your hip. "Prove it then. This is proving to be more of a two-person job anyway."

Cassandra hesitates for a fraction of a second, her duty-bound mind warring with the Throne before the invisible tether inevitably snaps taut, pulling her toward you like a fish on the hook. Slowly, as if her boots are lined with lead, she crosses the room and sits next to you on the bed, the cold leather of her greaves brushing against your sweaty, tree-trunk thighs.

You don't give her a second to reconsider. Your hand reaches out, snatching her by the wrist; the hand that usually wields a silverite sword with lethal grace, and you pull it onto your cock. Her leather-gloved fingers instinctively curl around the hot, pulsing shaft, but she grips it with white-knuckled intensity, pumping her arm in a stiff, jerky motion as if she’s trying to **** a confession from a rogue assassin in the Skyhold dungeons.

"Easy there, Seeker," you chuckle. "It’s a cock, not a Venatori's throat. Relax those fingers."

Cassandra lets out a shaky breath, her nostrils flaring as she forces herself to loosen her grip. She begins to stroke you with more care, her leather-clad palm sliding over the veiny beast.

"Better." you grunt, letting your head drift back against the pillows as you watch her work. "You're a natural. They don't call you the "Right Hand of the Divine" for nothing, eh Seeker?"

"Ugh," she lets out that sharp, familiar grunt of pure disgust, her eyes turning away in shame even as her hand continues to serve your needs. A clumsy handjob is just a warm-up, though, and your morning lust wouldn't truly be satisfied until you feel the warmth of her mouth.

You reach out, tangling your thick, sausage like fingers into the short, dark crop of her hair. With a firm, downward pressure, you guide her face toward your lap. Cassandra’s eyes go wide, her breath catching as she stares down at the glistening, pulsing slab of meat fast approaching. She reluctantly parts her lips, her jaw straining as she tries to accommodate your sheer girth. You feel her teeth graze your sensitive crown, a thrilling reminder of her relative inexperience as the first few inches of your cock disappear past the Seeker's lips.

Almost immediately, however, her body rebels. Her shoulders tense, and she begins to ****, eyes watering as her throat hits a wall. You don't pull back; instead, you keep her held tight.

"Shh, none of that now," you soothe, petting her head like you are calming a skittish Mabari. Your greasy palm smooths over her hair as you coach her through the panic. "Relax that jaw... Breathe through your nose. Just like I taught you...open that throat for me...there you go..."

Under your coaching, the whimpering Seeker finally yields. You feel her throat begin to relax, the muscles softening to allow more and more of your heavy shaft to disappear into her throat. Slowly, she takes another inch, then two, then four until your balls are resting against her chin and her pointed nose is buried in your coarse, curly pubic hair.

You close your eyes, letting out a long, ragged groan as her flattened tongue swirls around the underside of your head. You don't bother to mention that this very same cock had been buried deep in Vivienne’s backside just hours prior, but the Seeker of Truth is fully committed now, her hands gripping your thighs to steady herself as she bobs her head with **** fervor.

"That's a good girl," you grunt, smiling with lecherous pride seeing the Chantry's holiest warrior reduced to a cock-gobbling mess.

Soon, you're setting the pace, your hips bucking high off the mattress to meet her eager mouth, gripping her head tight as you guide her up and down your lap in a sloppy, **** face-fuck. The tent is filled with the rhythmic squelch of her diligent mouth, a wet, slapping noise as her lips seal around your base, punctuated by the occasional moan vibrating through your groin.

The pressure in your loins reaches a breaking point, a white-hot heat building inside your balls as your breath catches in your throat.

"Almost there, Sucker...I mean, Seeker," you grunt, catching the slip-of-the-tongue just as your hips begin to spasm and you reach the point of no return.

You buck your hips one last time, pinning her head ruthlessly against your sloppy, wet crotch. You bury yourself to the hilt, your fingers digging into her scalp as you pump great, thick ropes of pearly white spunk into the back of her throat. Cassandra’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head, gripping your hairy thighs for dear life as her cheeks bulge with the sheer volume of your load. You don't let her pull away, keeping her face pinned to your groin well after the pulsing stops, ensuring her throat milks every last, lingering drop of your morning release.

"Swallow." you say with gritted teeth, grinding her into lap. "Don't waste a single drop, okay?"

Only when you're completely drained, you slowly retract your cock from with a sticky pop. You thwack your soggy, softening cock against her ruined face a few times, leaving streaks of semen across her scarred cheek and nose.

When you finally release her from your grip, you pull out with a wet, satisfying pop. You playfully thwack your soggy, semi-soft slab of cockmeat against her flushed face a few times, leaving streaks of spunk and throat slime up and down her cheeks and forehead.

"Now that," you say, letting out a satisfied sigh, "That's how you start the morning off right!"

Cassandra remains frozen for a moment, laying in the bed with a dazed, cock-drunk expression. Strands of throaty cockspit hang from her bottom lip, and her breathing is shallow and ragged. She looks utterly ruined, a far cry from the fierce warrior who entered your tent at the start.

You let out a satisfied yawn and roll off the bed, your bare feet hitting the bearskin rug as you stand in all your naked glory, scratching your bare ass as you reach for your favorite tunic.

"On your feet, Seeker Pentaghast," you call over your shoulder. "The caravan is waiting for us."