The Cottage

Jon walked the woods at dusk on patrol, alone; his partner had broken his leg that afternoon after falling from the wall’s scaffolding. No wights had been seen for weeks, so Jon was permitted to scout alone

He noticed a half-ruined cottage in the depths of a glen. It would have looked like a ruined stable if not for the one ruddy light burning in the window. Wights don't use fire, and the wild folk rarely build structures so close to the wall. How has no one seen this place? Jon wondered. Then, he considered it the cottage may have been an old outpost or supply shed of the guards. Perhaps the light belonged to a member of the brotherhood, injured in the wild. 

No bird or rodent stirred in the glen. Snow slowly treaded through the wood as the winter light dimmed to indigo. He looked through the orange-lit glass and saw a lamp – one of the guard, just like his own – sitting on a warped, aged wood table. He looked to the sides but saw no one. He did, however, hear breathing. Panting. 

Someone's hurt, he thought to himself, knowing the wolves had been out in greater, and more aggressive, numbers since the wights withdrew.

Jon quietly pressed against the cottage door.

The lamp shone bright, almost blindingly so against the dark nightfall behind him. The panting continued, strangely growing louder with each of Jon’s quiet, soundless footfalls on the wood floor. 

Once inside at the table, seeing nothing else in the spare room’s glowing light – except another door, in the cottage rear, just barely cracked open – he began to speak the greeting of his fellow guards. 

"Brother–"

The front door slammed shut with a boom, as if a gale had cut down on it from the frozen wastes. 

The orange light wisped out into darkness.

Jon groaned. He was dizzy, and the smell of wood turned into something sickly, like a full garden of honeysuckle and jasmine crushing onto his face and into his nostrils.  He was aware of being on his knees, his head swimming like a barque on rough waves. Jon struggled to where he thought the door stood. He flailed a strong arm against the gentle pull of hands on his back and threw himself at thew wooden wall. 

There!, he thought, gripping the knob of the door. He tried to stand from his knees, tried to pull it open to let that sweet, sickly, intoxicating smell out into the fresh air; instead, he stumbled as he tried to stand up, his own body in the way of the door. 

Jon, helped by what felt like silk scarves, fell slowly back, slowly down. Thinking became thickened, as if poppy was seeping through his veins, his head, his stones. His whole body felt heavy, the world was dark, and he lay down in a smooth enclave.

Jon groaned, slowly opening his eyes. He felt relaxed, and for a moment he wondered if he was back home: not the wall, not the barracks – his real home.

He sharply breathed in, realizing he was standing in a stone, windowless room. 

Below him, at his knees, were two things: a glass urn on a dragonglass pedestal, and a woman – a sumptuous woman with red hair and a black dress as fine as that of a courtesan in a golden court. The upper part of her bodice was splayed open, revealing ample, soft, pale breasts wrapped in black silk, barely covering the nipples – which Jon couldn’t resist imagining, round and rigid under the soft fabric.

Jon shook his head, remembering the cottage, the light, the fragrance of a false spring. He tried to move an arm, but it held in place. He looked up and to the right, then left. His arms were tied by soft, gossamer silk scarves. He pulled hard against them, but – miraculously – the sheer, thin bindings held like dense ropes.

"None of that," cooed the woman on her knees. "Or I'll tell them to hold you tighter. And we don't need any blood flow stopped, do we?” Her hand trailed up Snow's trousers and stopped several inches below the split of his legs, where his soft manhood rested. "And it seems like you'll need a lot of blood for what's in store."

Jon grit his teeth.  "Who are you for?" he said, focusing on the danger, not the slow caress of his parts by her searching hands. 

"Just for myself," she purred, "and my children."

"Children?" Jon asked, looking around the room. 

"None yet, not without their father to sire them," she said, looking up at Jon's face. Her eyes were bright orange, like the flame of the lamp that had lured Jon to the cottage. She began to mutter, then almost sing. Jon's trousers, his shirt, everything made of fabric turned to black sand and dust and cascaded off him, leaving him with only his leather boots and belt.

Laughingly, the woman unclasped the lonely belt and tossed it to the side with his other stripped gear.

Jon looked down at the bare member of his pillar and stones. "What are you?"

She smiled and didn't answer. Instead, her hands began to grip his softness, counting the length of his manhood. "I knew a good sire was close. All those men at the wall, and none are as worthy as you, are they?”

Jon tried to pull back, but the bindings held. He tried to will himself not to become hard under her touch, but the deft, smooth fingers seemed to know exactly how he best enjoyed to be rubbed, as if she had known every stroke he ever made himself, or had done to him.

"Do you not show yourself to the men? Show them how ... potent you are?" Her stroking quickened. "Come, show me your seed. Give me the milk of a powerful sire."

Jon growled. "Take your hands from me."

The witch continued priming him, coaxing his blood into his cock until it was full, as thick as her arm. "Yes, the body knows what it craves. Surrender that seed, the seed that has not yet sired." She was panting, her mouth wet with looking at the veins and flesh of his rod.

"Never will I let it be taken from me by you, for some dark art," Jon said in a firm voice. He willed his dick to soften in her hand – albeit only halfway. 

The witch glared at Jon, then the gaze softened into a cunning smile. "You teach me a good lesson: To catch the strongest fish, use the toughest line – and the most succulent bait."

She stood, and Jon tried to look at away from the curves of her as she walked to her cabinet of vials. She returned with one, a black bottle clasped at her chest, drawing his gaze at the undulating bosom. They were eye-catching indeed, and his mouth opened – half in wonder at the strangeness, half in hunger.

She knelt again by the altar and its glass urn, setting the vial by it. Her hands touched her chest, where she rubbed the globes of milky flesh while Jon watched, transfixed. She moaned, panted, and the rich bosom grew larger. The bodice began to tear with the sound of the stitching rupturing. Tatters of black silk fell like cobwebs in the wind until her chest was bare for Jon see. Still, she massaged herself and panted, gasping with pleasure until her hands were overspilling with breast, the excess pressing between her fingers.

She slowed, sweating and heaving. Then she opened her eyes to gaze at her captive. 

"Now, would you like a gift, in exchange for fathering my offspring?" She picked up the black crystal vial and uncorked it. 

"I will never be the sire for – nnaaghh!" Jon shouted, then gasped deep and repeatedly.

The witch, kneeling before Jon, had poured the contents of the vial onto his cock. The onyx unguent had rolled down his shaft; the residue slipped onto her engorged bosom. At the fluid's touch, Jon's manhood burned as if it were liquid fire. Once the blinding pain eased somewhat, it felt like his manhood was in an oven, roasting. His eyes squeezed shut; he believed the witch had punished him for his refusal, and now all that would be left of his once prodigious cock would be a mutilated nub

He refused to yell in pain, to give her any more satisfaction for having both captured and castrated him. But the roasting turned into warmth – a deep, penetrating warmth that filled his cock, his balls. 

"Look, sire,-to-be“ she purred.

Jon opened his eyes. When the sweat drops cleared away from his brow and eyelids, he saw his manhood still intact. 

Yet, it didn't seem like his own cock anymore. The shape, the veining, the proportion was all his, but his manhood had doubled in size, and it was hard: punishingly hard, with swollen veins and head. He couldn't imagine finding a hole to sheathe it in. Once as a younger man he had been teased by a maid for supposedly having the cock of a horse – but now he nearly did have such a member.

And it was trapped prisoner like his arms, stuck between those thick breasts. 

The witch's hands squeezed the pale flesh of herself, undulating the globes around his cock. The onyx tincture was all but gone. Where there had been copious rivulets of it before, only a few smears were left. Jon watched in fascinated horror as they seeped into his flesh. 

"Now... surrender your seed.”

Jon's body sweat profusely. His newly-made cock ached to unleash its increased fertile power. In some secret place in his mind, Snow was desperately curious to see how it would run when he reached climax.

"No... never," he managed to pant in protest. 

The room was silent except for the slapping of her sweaty, silky bosom assailing his cock, relentlessly trying to steal his seed.

"I don't need your pillar, only the juice within. I can give a man a cock of legend, of a centaur or giant – or I can inflict him with that of a badger, a mere rat. Is that what you want? Something the size of my little finger?"

Jon stared down at her, failing to hide his panic. 

“Or, shall I send you back to your precious wall with the slit of a woman? I wonder how your men would treat you then."

Jon breathed deep, fighting his body's urge to pour out its seed, and fighting the fear of having his member destroyed. Yet, he did not refuse again with a never.

"No, of course not. Death before losing your precious cock, yes? And what a cock," she said, looking down at the large head which repeatedly popped up from her deep cleavage, like a sailor fighting to survive a drowning storm. "Most men would have died with that much tonic – or worse, have had it fall off or instantly explode," she laughed, "– but I knew I chose the right ... brood stud. Now, for the last time I'll tell you: surrender!”

Jon stared at his cock and the massive, impossible bosom devouring it. He wanted to refuse, to hold the un-sired seed inside his stones, but the pleasure wasn't ending. He realized it would never end, except if he survived long enough to have his cock destroyed, or if he ––"

"I... I'm... ahh..."

"Yes, so close. Give yourself to it."

Jon began gasping. He had never felt this sensation welling up so strong in his loins, in his stones. "No... No! I won't let you, no matter... urrgh… ahh –– NO!”

The witch laughed derisively. "Too late.”

Jon Snow watched, panting, every muscle of his exposed body shining with a sheet of sweat as his reborn cock tightened painfully hard and his stones rose high and tight against his body. 

At the last instant before his eruption, the witch pulled her breasts off his cock. With swift movements, one hand grabbed the urn, the other the captive man's cock just below its head, pointing its slit at the mouth of the glass. She did not move her hand or stroke as the man began to cum, denying him the pleasure as he came.

"NO!! Gods, gahhh!!” Jon yelled with his head thrown back, shouting his frustrated protest, thrusting his hips to try for the pleasure his body felt promised.

Thick spurts of the thickest cream slopped into the urn. The witch laughed lightly. "Your reward is a greater cock – not pleasure."

The climax dragged out, and Jon thrashed, groaning and nearly whining as the opportunity for pleasure faded. He panted, thrusting and unsatisfied

The witch sloshed his seed in the urn. "Half full? What a full brood of devils you and I will make. Shall we make more?"

Jon panted. His softening cock craved more worship and another chance at full pleasure.

"Ask to give me more, and I will give you another chance for delight.”

Jon looked at her and, after a long silence, nodded. 

“Good," she sang, then began pummeling his cock again with her breasts. "Yes, imagine letting go, and dousing me, all over my bare bosom, with that rich, thick seed as white and rich as cream! Yes, there, you're nearly there, my sire – please, deliver that seed, and drench me!"

"Yes, I'm –– wait, no!! Gods, fuck –– please!!"

Jon humped the air again as the soft breasts pulled away, leaving him helplessly barren of pleasure again as the witch laughingly stole the last of his seed."

His body fell limp in the restraints, exhausted by his draining. 

The witch held the urn up so he could see with his failing vision. Lines of seed slid down the edges of the overfilled urn, a godly amount of juice extracted from his loins – for her to conjure what devils and monsters, only the gods knew.