Smallergod
patreon
The Rendering Pit - Reginald
🕑 Added 2017-01-02 11:11:24 +0000 UTCThe following is a short story written by rabidbadger accompanying a picture drawn by the same artist! With it, we intend to start a series of new picture/story combos that take place all in the same very advanced, very strange university, which exists within the Maple's Story setting. We do hope you enjoy it and as always, look forward to being the first to sample new work in the future!
- - -
Reginald leaned back in his seat, the thick and soft Siamese steepled his fingers as he listened. Across from him sat a young man with shining ebon scales that took on hints of azure and emerald in the muted candlelight of his office. He always found these situations fascinating, a powerful young man covered in armor with a frankly terrifying set of teeth that managed to be completely vulnerable just the same.
“Speak to me, Ambrose. At your own pace, and from wherever you think you need to start.”
Reginald pulled another candle from his desk, something bulky and a deep maroon, lighting it with a common wooden match. The reptilian boy, in rough edged robes and wearing a shoulder patch proudly displaying a padlock in its freeform quadrant, exhaled slowly and shook a little as he did.
“I uh, gimme a sec – I need to get a grip on this before I can, you know, before I can hope to make this make sense.”
The boy’s eyes closed slowly. He took a breath, the slow and centering kind, nostrils flaring a little as the blueberry aroma of that last candle began to fill the room.
“I understand Ambrose. Just remember our previous sessions. Deep breaths. No pressure. No eyes in here but ours. No judgment about our actions or confessions. Just four eyes, and one voice.”
The student relaxed visibly this time. Idly reaching up to touch the shoulder plate on his robe as his eyes opened, or at least one set of lids did – the membrane over them took a moment longer to slide away. He stared at nothing in particular, a patch of velvety black just past the Siamese cat’s reclining lap. The room felt inviting, if a bit too warm – but comfortable by and large.
“Speaking is the problem. Never seem to know how to start – I get all kinds of ideas about how to finish an argument, what I want to say, but it just vanishes when I try to bring it out.”
Reginald’s hands folded atop his belly again and found tension underneath them, his own garment not so much a robe as a waistcoat – and one that clearly needed resizing. His belly spilled far and wide out from under it.
“And this has always been the case, you’ve told me. Think back, remember the last time you were in this inviting, accepting environment. Remember what we talked about.”
Ambrose took another breath. The blueberry haze crawled up his nose, teasing at the root of his brain and stirring something up like dust shaken out of a rug. It felt very warm in here, very warm indeed. No eyes though, none but his and the Professor’s. Reginald had been so very generous to let him come for sessions after class. The scaled student unbuttoned his robe, immediately feeling better with his collar uncovered. He swallowed, then spoke again.
“Right. You said… you said not to be afraid of what you want. Not to decide it’s bad without thinking. To, uhm – to see if it hurt anyone, then if not, take it.”
Reginald adjusted himself a little again, sliding further down in his own seat. Ambrose was sitting on the edge of the couch as always, never could talk him into laying down,
“And what is it you want, Ambrose?”
The ebon young man’s eyes were still distant as he shed his robe completely, but they shone like stars for how real that smile was.
“There’s ah, there’s a boy in my first period. I want him. Just not sure how- well, I don’t know how to start. Same as always.”
The aged, plump Siamese cat let out a gentle chuckle at that. A faint glow suffused the room, ever so briefly. Something the shade of rose petals, something that began a slow waltz with the blueberries and left Ambrose salivating. Left him still too warm despite having completely disrobed in his Professor’s office.
“My dear boy, it is the simplest thing in the world. You are making an old, and common, mistake is all. You are listening to your head too much. People will tell you it isn’t desirable to let that thing between your legs do the driving, but there are unwanted extremes of any condition. Now, you have cause to be restrained on many fronts, but that’s no reason to tie yourself up so tight you suffer.”
Ambrose put a hand to his head. That alien heat was dancing across his skin like tongues of electricity, and it had started a nest between his legs. One that left him unsure of precisely when he’d stood up and taken a step toward Reginald, but he had – that much was obvious.
“So just ask yourself, right now – once more. What is it you want, Ambrose?”
Those powerful, black scaled hands took great handfuls of fur-laced flab in them and lifted, seeking the hem of Reginald’s slacks. His voice had a curious tone to it, there was enough aggression to lace it with half a growl, and yet the driving force behind it was such a deep-seated craving for release and trust that his voice cracked even amid the guttural rumble.
“I want to please him, but I’m still not sure if it’s enough – so I think I’ll practice again sir.”
