The Secret

It's happened more times than he can bear, Menethil the Blond Beast barging into the room where he and Jaina are quietly reading or conversing intelligently about some finer point of magical practice, putting his grimy hands all over her, all the while a smug, triumphant smirk on his loutish human face, a smirk that she never sees.



And she leaves with him, every time.



He always goes back to his room then, and locks the door, and tries to calm himself, but what he wants ... what he wants is to strip the Prince of Lordaeron, truss him until he's nothing more than an ass and a mouth, and to toss him into a holding cell ...



(a sudden molten ache uncurls in his groin, and he slips out of his robes and under the covers, with a wave of his hand darkening the room to black)



... and he can see the guards now, yes, all those guards from the Dalaran of old, brutish humans and not-quite humans, and gathering around the blond whose knees are shackled and held wide by a bar, hands tied to ankles, and yes, they'd take that princely bundle and put it on a table, at perfect fucking height, and they'd get the blunt clubs and the electric prods and take turns reaming his hole, letting him ejaculate on his own face over and over ...



(and at some point, just before he comes, he pushes the electric wand into himself and imagines that it's him trussed on the table on the library, and it's Arthas twisting the pulse into him, and then the door opens and Jania's in the doorway, seeing him naked, seeing his secret shame)



He imagines the look on her face as he climaxes, writhing.