Wine and Cheese

You and Vivienne stroll arm-in-arm through the winding halls of the Winter Palace, the enchanter's slender arm looped delicately around your flabby one like a silk ribbon tied around a sweaty Bronto hock as you navigate the gilded labyrinth together.

The contrast between you two couldn't be starker: Madam de Fer, the very picture of Orlesian poise and sophistication, hanging off an ugly, bald bastard like you, the seductive sway of her hips juxtaposing sharply with your lumbering waddle. Your crimson tunic barely holds back your grotesque gut while your cock swings proudly between your pantsless thighs, occasionally brushing against your date's evening gown, leaving faint smears of spit and pre-cum stained in the fabric.

It's an absurd sight only made possible by the Blowjob Throne, its influence fogging minds so that no one bats an eyelash at such a mismatched pairing, making your lecherous presence appear not simply ordinary, but desirable as you garner several envious looks from passing courtiers who would give anything to swap places with Vivienne.

"Ready yourself, darling," the ebony enchantress advises you, her heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floors as you rapidly approach the grand archway leading out into the palace gardens. "The Grand Game is a treacherous dance." The murmur of voices grows louder. "Those who play the Game foolishly always find themselves being swallowed whole."

"Ha! Let it fuckin' try." You welcome the challenge confidently. "There's plenty of me for the Game to gag on."

Stepping out into the palace gardens, the cool evening air carries the sweet scent of blooming roses and fermented wine. The garden's famed reflecting pool stretches out before you, its shimmering surface mirroring the orange sky above and the lanterns hanging from masterfully sculpted trellises. Around the pool, Orlesian nobles cluster in tight little knots, their ornate masks catching the light of the setting sun as they sip their wine and trade highborn gossip like a currency, their laughter loud and fake like whore’s moans in the Blooming Rose. All the while, elven servants weave effortlessly through the chattering crowd, their expressions blank and dutiful as they balance silverite trays full of cheese and crystal goblets filled with red wine.

Your arrival with Vivienne immediately turns heads, eyes widening behind their masks, and conversations dipping down to hushed whispers as you make your grand entrance. You feel the combined weight of their stares like a suit of lead armor, some sneaking glances at your elegant date while others inevitably fall upon your monstrous cock proudly on full display. Without the Throne’s influence, they’d probably be hurling insults at this pantsless pig daring to sully their gathering, but instead, they treat you like the guest of honor.

"As expected, darling..." Vivienne leans in close, her warm breath in your ear as the crowd parts for you like a herd of perfumed sheep. "You're the center of the attention." Her fingers give your arm an affirming squeeze. "Now use that to your advantage. Put that charm to work, and you'll have all of Orlais eating from your hand. ....Darling? Darling, are you even listening to me?"

You didn't answer. You're too busy flagging down the closest elven waiter carrying a tray of cheese with an impatient wave before reaching out for a meaty fistful and cramming it into your mouth, crumbs speckling your tunic as you chew noisily, barely savoring the rich, salty flavor on your tongue before swallowing and stuffing another handful into your greedy maw.

Madam de Fer's sigh is sharp enough to split lyrium, her exasperated gaze pinning you with the same disapproval one might show a pup that tinkled on the expensive Antivan rug. "Darling, please..." Her manicured fingers tighten around your arm, yanking you away from your gorging and guiding your footsteps like she's leading a prized showhorse.

Undeterred, Vivienne steers you towards a nearby noble couple, their clothes and masks reeking of Orlesian aristocracy.

"Inquistor," she announces smoothly. "Allow me to introduce Lord and Lady Duval. Esteemed members of the Orlesian royal court and close personal friends of mine..."

Lady Duval is a striking woman in a silver gown that clings to her curves, hair pinned high behind a jeweled peacock mask, its vibrant plumes of matching feathers fanning out like a crown. Her husband, a snooty man with coiffed hair, stands at her side, sporting a mask resembling a snarling lion and wearing a gold doublet embroidered with silver filigree.

"Ah, the famed Inquisitor," Lady Duval greets you in a thick Orlesian accent. "You're the talk of Val Rouyeax these days," she offers with intrigue as she unfurls her silk fan and fans herself dramatically. "I've heard the most scintillating rumors about you."

"Have you now?" You let out a booming laugh as you drag your cheese-stained fingers down the front of your tunic. "Well, tell me, Lady Duval, " you lean closer, your tone dripping with playful arrogance. "Do I live up to the legends?"

"Oh, Inquisitor, you exceed them!" she blushes red behind her mask, her eyes twinkling with thinnly veiled hunger. "Especially that...prodigious endowment of yours," her tongue traces her rouged lips. "The rumors don't do it any justice."

"You mean my gigantic penis?" You feign ignorance with a downward glance as if you’ve only just noticed you weren't wearing any pants.

Lord Duval clears his throat, absently adjusting his codpiece as he appraises your outfit-or lack thereof-with a raised brow. "Your fashion sense is certainly unorthodox, Lord Inquisitor," he offers with a dry chuckle. "Bold, even by Ferelden standards."

You smirk wider, planting your bare feet and flexing your hips just enough to make your massive cock bounce obscenely, your heavy shaft slapping against your thigh with a meaty thwack."Unlike you Orlesians hiding behind your little masks, I've got nothing to hide." you retort, gripping your monstrous prick by the base and giving it a boastful shake for emphasis."After all, why shouldn't a man flaunt the gifts the Maker blessed him with?"

The couple exchanged puzzled glances before bursting into haughty laughter. "How utterly refreshing!" Lord Duval exclaims, clapping his gloved hands together. "In a court full of secrets and pretense, your candor is quite the breath of fresh air."

"Naturally, I hand-picked the ensemble myself." Vivienne, ever the opportunist, rushes to take credit. "I took inspiration from some of the minimalist couture you find in the remote Avaar tribes. I'm certain it will be this summer's next big trend."

"Tell us, Herald," Lady Duval asks, fingers tracing the rim of her wineglass. "Are you enjoying the Empress' balls?"

"Oh, immensely," you offer with a smirk. "One hears stories, of course. But nothing could have prepared me for just how massive Celene's balls could grow. The sheer volume of guests alone, I don't know how she stands having such backed-up balls."

"You think this is bloated, darling?" Lady Duval offers in foppish delight, her gaze drifting across the noble-packed garden. "You should have been here for the twin balls Her Radiance hosted last summer! Now that was the sweatiest pair of swollen balls I've ever attended." She turns to Vivienne. "Surely you remember, Madam de Fer?"

"How could I forget, darling?" Vivienne offers demurely, "It took weeks for the scent to wash out of my silk chemise."

Lord Duval sighs dramatically, swirling the wine in his goblet with a melancholic air. "If only more guests had attended my ball in Emprise du Lion last winter," he laments, his tone carrying the weight of a man struggling with a serious inferiority complex. "The turnout was...disappointing, to say the least."

"Oh my dear, you mustn’t take it personally. " Lady Duval pats her husband's arm patronizingly as she turns to you discreetly. "The bitter cold shrinks my poor husband's balls considerably, you see."

"I'll remember that when I host my own balls at Skyhold," you chuckle, picturing your throne room filled with nobles, endless wine, and debauchery. "I've grown accustomed to staying home and letting my prey come to me."

"Ah, yes, we've heard the stories of this mountain fortress of yours...Skyhold, was it?" Lady Duval leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice as if sharing in a delicious secret. Her eyes twinkle behind the peacock mask, hungry in a way she’s trying to poorly pass off as curiosity. "The rumors speak of you sitting on a king's throne surrounded by a harem of devoted followers who...well, pay homage with their mouths."

"Fellating you day and night." Lord Duval interjects. "Tell us, is there any truth to such tantalizing tales?"

You wave a dismissive hand, as if swatting away a pesky fly. "Colorful rumors, nothing more," you reply coyly before turning to Vivienne with a quirk of your eyebrow. "You've got your ear to the ground in these circles, Madam de Fer, where do these preposterous stories about me even come from?"

Vivienne turns her head with that signature poise, her ebony features composed in elegant amusement as she loops her arm tighter around yours. "Oh, I don't rightly know, darling," the enchanter's lips curl into a smirk. "Nothing titillates Orlesian imaginations quite like a locked door and imagining what goes on behind it."

Without missing a beat, she looked to Lady Duval, a hint of mischief in her eyes as she gently steps forward. "Or perhaps Lady Duval simply wishes to sample the Herald herself. Jealous lips spin such delicious fictions, after all..."

Lady Duval’s breath catches, her fan fluttering faster at the mere suggestion. "Oh, I didn't mean to-"

With effortless grace, Vivienne places her hands on the masked woman's shoulders, guiding her down to her knees right there in the manicured grass, her silver gown pooling around her as she positions her perfectly in front of your throbbing cock. "Nonsense, Lady Duval," Vivienne murmurs like she's offering an invitation to dance. "There's no need to stand on ceremony here. It's a party, darling. Indulge oneself."

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly!" Lady Duval half-heartedly protests as she settles into position, her pleas coming off rather insincere as she tosses her fan over her shoulder. She leans in close, inhaling deeply, and you watch tears well up in the corners of her eyes, the sheer potency of your scent washing over her like a tidal wave.

“Maker preserve me,” she whispers, and her words are shaky as though she's stifling a fit of coughing. "Your...your musk is quite enchanting, Inquisitor."

"Haven't bathed since the Conclave blew up." You brag, puffing out your chest with pride and smiling like only a shameless bastard like you can. "Too busy saving the world to worry about soap," you smugly explain while dragging your grimy cock across her mask like a perverted paintbrush. "Now get to sucking, you masked whore."

Lady Duval doesn't hesitate, wrapping her rouged lips around your girthy head and sucking you greedily, her tongue slurping over the underside as she eagerly bobs her head, tears streaming freely now from the strain of accommodating your monstrous size. You groan, pumping your hips lazily, fucking her face right there in the open garden while nobles mill about, either oblivious or spectating enviously under the throne's spell.

As Lady Duval gags away on your cock, her husband watches with a mix of curiosity and awkward politeness. Vivienne steps back to your side, her composure unbroken as she admires the scene." Did you know the Duvals are longtime patrons of the arts, my dear?" she offers casually while you thrust deeper into the noble's throat, her mask rubbing against your belly as your balls rhymically slap her chin. "Once all this unpleasantness with Corypheus has been resolved, we should have you posing for a victory portrait. Imagine it, darling; your...grandeur captured for generations to come."

The idea hits you like a bolt of perverted lightning, pleasure surging through your balls as you picture yourself immortalized in oil and canvas. A masterpiece depicting the fat, lazy bastard lounging on the Blowjob Throne, legs splayed and huge cock proudly on display, surrounded by kneeling admirers eager to worship you.

You shudder deeply, the thought pushing you over the edge as you yank your shaft from Lady Duval's slurping mouth before groaning and unleashing a thick, ropey torrent of cum that splatters across her peacock mask, glazing the feathers and jewels in sticky white strands that drip down onto her silver gown. She gasps in delight, lapping at the mess that seeps through the mask's edges, her tears mixing with your seed as you milk out every last drop, smearing the head against her lips for good measure. "Fuck yes, a portrait sounds perfect," you grunt, riding the high of your climax, "And I'll let you Duvals have the honor of paying for it!"

"We'll put you in touch with Master Reynerius." Lord Duval proposes. "He's the finest artist in Orlais, but I should warn you, he's not known for his speed. You might be sitting for hours at a time while he works..."

"Oh, that won't be a problem," you chuckle, grabbing a champagne glass from a passing waiter and downing it in one greedy gulp. "Especially if I’ve got Lady Vivienne here to keep me 'occupied' during the long sessions."

"Of course, darling." Vivienne produces a silk handkerchief and cleans your cock dutifully before offering you her arm again. "But we really must be moving on, dear. I promised Comtesse d'Argent we'd meet behind the topiary for a...private tasting."

"Then lead the way, Viv," you smirk, adjusting your tunic and leaving the dazed, spunk-covered Lady Duval behind as you saunter into the night. "I'm starting to enjoy this Grand Game stuff."