Makara winced at the slam of the door as yet another unsatisfied customer stormed from his chamber. He scowled down at his still flaccid cock. "You're going to have me turned out onto the streets!"
But he couldn't very well force a feeling that wasn't there. His cock -- and his heart -- wanted Afron and no other. That the unruly organ swelled and hardened with thoughts of the barbarian didn't help at all. He sighed. An Attendant without a cock was as good as... well... almost nothing. He would simply have to find customers who didn't wish to be penetrated. He had other talents -- he had a pair of hands and a tongue, after all. Though even the thought of sliding his lips around a cock that didn't belong to Afron made his guts twist and bile rise in his throat.
He sighed and fell back onto the bed, chuckled bitterly at the absurdity of the situation. He'd sent Afron away last time, told the barbarian never to come back. And Afron hadn't. His cock stiffened, as if reminding him those hadn't been its wishes. Makara groaned and rolled over onto his side, hugged his arms around his middle, wishing they were Afron's arms. No use, though. The more he allowed Afron to use him, the deeper in love he fell, and the more he realized Afron would never return that love.
Not that he blamed Afron. Fancy title of Attendant aside, he was a whore -- just a piece of meat like any other. He served a purpose, did it well, and earned his money. He wasn't a real person with anything to contribute to society. Afron had trusted him, on occasion, with details of barbarian life, but that was a far cry from sharing their worlds. Just as well he'd sent Afron away. He'd done the right thing, though the knowledge didn't fill the empty, aching void in his heart. He rubbed a hand absently over his chest and closed his eyes. Maybe things would look better in the morning.
But the next day greeted him with more of the same -- loneliness and longing, and a burning desire to see his barbarian. Makara went about his morning ritual, bathing with the required scented salts, anointing himself with cologne rumored to drive even the purest of men wild with lust, and rimming his eyes with the etching pencil, though not as dark as his employers would've liked. He chose a fluffy white shirt and a pair of silky black breeches; slid them on over his naked ass, enjoying the soft, luxurious fabric as it hugged his body and tickled his cock. Makara admired himself in the mirror -- his short dark hair and well-built frame -- thinking he looked rather desirable today. Not that it mattered.
He paced to the door and opened it, grabbed the book off the wooden shelf just to the right of the opening. He flipped to today's page and frowned. No appointments. Makara sighed. Word of the limp-dicked whore had apparently spread. How long before the Nulphillium revoked his privileges and booted him out the door to find his customers on the streets? And how long would he survive that?
One of the other Attendants came dashing up the stairs, breathless. "Afron is here."
To be continued...