It isn't until he hears the hoofbeats that Newt really starts to worry.
Up to that point he's been torn between nervous giggling and trying to hide his embarrassing arousal - because while he agrees that this is a logical and scientific way to lure the unicorns close enough for Leta to harvest tail hairs for her experiment, he absolutely hadn't been expecting her to go so far as to tie the bindings properly, let alone loosen his waistband and yank his trousers down to his ankles. He's never been naked -even partially naked - in front of another person before, and this isn't how he'd imagined it going. Naturally, despite the proximity of the chilly stone and the extreme unsexiness of trying to harvest spell ingredients, his body can't help reacting to the sudden nakedness in the presence of another person. (Especially someone he...especially Leta.)
"I don't see why you had to tie the bindings so tight," he mutters, glad that the darkness hides his blushes and hoping she can't really see his bottom. Surely his shirt tails hide it? Mostly?Although why she thinks they need to go to this extent to lure the unicorns when he's TOLD her that he was able to attract them himself last night just by sitting quietly in the clearing...but Leta always likes to make things complicated. He doesn't know how she knew about this statue - or altar, or offering platform, or whatever you want to call it. Newt hadn't been able to understand the indentations in the stone at all when he looked at it; he'd been bemused by Leta's curl of wicked laughter, and the way she fingered the bindings.
"It's where they tied the virgins," she'd explained, her smile mysterious. "To tempt the stallions in. You didn't see a stallion before, did you?"
"Two mares and a foal," he repeated. "Leta, they're so beautiful..."
"Yes - but I need a stallion," she said, sadly. "I told you that, Newt. You promised you'd help me - you're not going to chicken out now, are you?"
His head is still swimming from the fire brandy; the stone of the unicorn statue feels very cold against his face, and against his belly and crotch and thighs. He must look thoroughly ridiculous with his pale bottom thrusting up into the air like this, thighs splayed. It isn't a comfortable position at all, and he can't move to free his arms or legs. He's never felt so thoroughly vulnerable or exposed. "This is why Theseus says you're a bad influence," he mutters, and that makes him laugh again. "The WORST influence, Leta! You always get me into trouble, damn it - but this has to be the most ridiculous thing we've ever done."
"Hmm," Leta says, dreamy and unrepentent, and then Newt jolts against his restraints when he feels her hand slide over the cool curve of one naked buttock.
"LETA!"
He isn't laughing now. He's gone still and startled, all his attention suddenly focussed on her hand cupping his bare skin. They don't do this. They don't talk about the urgent, hopeful, hopeless possibility quivering between them because Newt knows it's one-sided, knows that Leta is far too pretty to ever think of him like that, but...
"I like you like this," she says, sliding her other hand up the bare skin of his inner thigh and making him shudder in spite of himself. She cups both his buttocks, and begins to squeeze them meditatively, her thumbs rubbing circles into his skin. Newt is abruptly, urgently, fully hard. She can almost certainly see it, too. "Are you mine, Newt?"
"Yes!" He gasps, because how could he be anything else? He wants to be out of the bindings, wants to be able to turn to her, look her in the eyes, know whether she means this. He wants to KISS her.
Her finger tip brushes the tight flesh of his balls experimentally, then slides over the band of skin leading towards the tightly furled hole, and Newt makes a strangled sound of pure need.
"Leta, let me up. Please - I need..."
He's shaking now. She's running her fingers over his naked skin, stroking, scratching, teasing until he's afraid that he might come rutting helplessly against the stone unicorn. She slaps him, hard and sudden, and that is both unexpected and oddly maddening.
"Such a pretty thing, Newt," she murmurs. "You're irresistible like this. Perfect."
He isn't expecting her mouth. Newt is realising, belatedly, that he is a lot more ignorant about all this than he had realised. He's seen mating rituals between all manner of animals, and he thought that he was perfectly knowledgeable about the mechanics of reproduction, but nothing prepared him for the brush of Leta's chapped lips against his inner thigh, the warm puff of her breath, or the slick glide of her tongue writing obscenities onto his skin. He's quivering helplessly under her now, his pulse pounding in his ears and tears prickling in his eyes. He belongs to her, body and soul. He would do anything for her.
"Untie me, please? Leta, I have to...I want...PLEASE, Leta!" he gasps, shuddering against the statue as she mouths the curve of his bottom and the top of his thigh, her fingers sliding against the heated flesh of his erection.
"No need to be embarrassed, darling," she says. "I put a little something into the whiskey, to help you get...interested. It's quite potent, isn't it? Should last a while, I think..."
But it's over very quickly, and he is suddenly grateful for the statue beneath him, grateful to be able to just sprawl face-down against the stone as his heartbeat slowly returns to normal and the shattered pieces of his soul spiral back to being Newt. There's mortifying sticky wetness sliding down his inner thigh. Leta is quiet behind him; he still hasn't touched her, hasn't kissed her, hasn't seen any secret skin in the moonlight, but she has seen all his secrets laid bare....Newt is reeling, and not sure whether he's drunk on this or whether it's the fire whiskey still throbbing in his head.
"Sorry," he says eventually, feeling thoroughly embarrassed even through the languid bliss that's still buzzing through his pliant limbs.
"Ssshh," she says. "Relax, darling. That was lovely, and you need to be...relaxed."
He's trying to make sense of that when she pours something slick and warm over his bottom, something wet and greasy that slides down the crack of his arse and over his quiesscent cock, something oily that pools on the stone and runs down his thighs.
"What?" he exclaims, then almost swallows his tongue when he feels Leta's clever fingers swiping through the mess and pushing oil towards his arsehole, INTO his arsehole. Leta's fingers are inside him - two, then three, twined together and pushing urgently inside. Newt makes a shocked noise somewhere between a gasp and a grunt, trying vainly to pull away. She pushes in deeper. Surprisingly, his cock is already hardening again - is this what she meant when she said the stuff in the whiskey should last a while?
"I'm trying to help, darling," she says, and her voice is ragged and breathy as her fingers force him open, flexing and scissoring against the clenched ring of muscle. "You'll thank me later, I promise. Just...relax. You can do this, Newt. Just relax and take it like a good boy. You want to help me, don't you?"
"Leta!"
That's when he hears the hoofbeats, and a sudden suspicion begins to form, far too late, in his mind.
"Leta, what....?"
She jams her fingers in again, four now, her thumb pressing possessively down on the curve of his buttock while the rest of her hand works inside him. He's starting to feel afraid, even as his foolishly hopeful cock thickens and stiffens again.
"Untie me? Leta?"
One last, vicious shove and she pulls out of him, leaving his hole twitching and helpless, oil sliding down his thighs, and his penis stiff as the statue itself.
"You promised, Newt," she says, backing away - and, oh, God, he knows. He knows what she's done, knows what he's let her do, even though his mind is balking at it. "You said you'd do anything."
"No," he says. "No, please - Leta, you can't...I can't...not THAT! ...please, Leta?"
Silence, broken only by the terribly gentle sounds of hooves padding through the undergrowth, and the huffs of the unicorn's breath. Newt closes his eyes. His mind is a whirl of whiskey and pleasure and terror and arousal; the stone is hard against his cheek and his belly.
FILL 1/2 Re: Newt/Unicorn loss of virginity
Up to that point he's been torn between nervous giggling and trying to hide his embarrassing arousal - because while he agrees that this is a logical and scientific way to lure the unicorns close enough for Leta to harvest tail hairs for her experiment, he absolutely hadn't been expecting her to go so far as to tie the bindings properly, let alone loosen his waistband and yank his trousers down to his ankles. He's never been naked -even partially naked - in front of another person before, and this isn't how he'd imagined it going. Naturally, despite the proximity of the chilly stone and the extreme unsexiness of trying to harvest spell ingredients, his body can't help reacting to the sudden nakedness in the presence of another person. (Especially someone he...especially Leta.)
"I don't see why you had to tie the bindings so tight," he mutters, glad that the darkness hides his blushes and hoping she can't really see his bottom. Surely his shirt tails hide it? Mostly?Although why she thinks they need to go to this extent to lure the unicorns when he's TOLD her that he was able to attract them himself last night just by sitting quietly in the clearing...but Leta always likes to make things complicated. He doesn't know how she knew about this statue - or altar, or offering platform, or whatever you want to call it. Newt hadn't been able to understand the indentations in the stone at all when he looked at it; he'd been bemused by Leta's curl of wicked laughter, and the way she fingered the bindings.
"It's where they tied the virgins," she'd explained, her smile mysterious. "To tempt the stallions in. You didn't see a stallion before, did you?"
"Two mares and a foal," he repeated. "Leta, they're so beautiful..."
"Yes - but I need a stallion," she said, sadly. "I told you that, Newt. You promised you'd help me - you're not going to chicken out now, are you?"
His head is still swimming from the fire brandy; the stone of the unicorn statue feels very cold against his face, and against his belly and crotch and thighs. He must look thoroughly ridiculous with his pale bottom thrusting up into the air like this, thighs splayed. It isn't a comfortable position at all, and he can't move to free his arms or legs. He's never felt so thoroughly vulnerable or exposed. "This is why Theseus says you're a bad influence," he mutters, and that makes him laugh again. "The WORST influence, Leta! You always get me into trouble, damn it - but this has to be the most ridiculous thing we've ever done."
"Hmm," Leta says, dreamy and unrepentent, and then Newt jolts against his restraints when he feels her hand slide over the cool curve of one naked buttock.
"LETA!"
He isn't laughing now. He's gone still and startled, all his attention suddenly focussed on her hand cupping his bare skin. They don't do this. They don't talk about the urgent, hopeful, hopeless possibility quivering between them because Newt knows it's one-sided, knows that Leta is far too pretty to ever think of him like that, but...
"I like you like this," she says, sliding her other hand up the bare skin of his inner thigh and making him shudder in spite of himself. She cups both his buttocks, and begins to squeeze them meditatively, her thumbs rubbing circles into his skin. Newt is abruptly, urgently, fully hard. She can almost certainly see it, too. "Are you mine, Newt?"
"Yes!" He gasps, because how could he be anything else? He wants to be out of the bindings, wants to be able to turn to her, look her in the eyes, know whether she means this. He wants to KISS her.
Her finger tip brushes the tight flesh of his balls experimentally, then slides over the band of skin leading towards the tightly furled hole, and Newt makes a strangled sound of pure need.
"Leta, let me up. Please - I need..."
He's shaking now. She's running her fingers over his naked skin, stroking, scratching, teasing until he's afraid that he might come rutting helplessly against the stone unicorn. She slaps him, hard and sudden, and that is both unexpected and oddly maddening.
"Such a pretty thing, Newt," she murmurs. "You're irresistible like this. Perfect."
He isn't expecting her mouth. Newt is realising, belatedly, that he is a lot more ignorant about all this than he had realised. He's seen mating rituals between all manner of animals, and he thought that he was perfectly knowledgeable about the mechanics of reproduction, but nothing prepared him for the brush of Leta's chapped lips against his inner thigh, the warm puff of her breath, or the slick glide of her tongue writing obscenities onto his skin. He's quivering helplessly under her now, his pulse pounding in his ears and tears prickling in his eyes. He belongs to her, body and soul. He would do anything for her.
"Untie me, please? Leta, I have to...I want...PLEASE, Leta!" he gasps, shuddering against the statue as she mouths the curve of his bottom and the top of his thigh, her fingers sliding against the heated flesh of his erection.
"No need to be embarrassed, darling," she says. "I put a little something into the whiskey, to help you get...interested. It's quite potent, isn't it? Should last a while, I think..."
But it's over very quickly, and he is suddenly grateful for the statue beneath him, grateful to be able to just sprawl face-down against the stone as his heartbeat slowly returns to normal and the shattered pieces of his soul spiral back to being Newt. There's mortifying sticky wetness sliding down his inner thigh. Leta is quiet behind him; he still hasn't touched her, hasn't kissed her, hasn't seen any secret skin in the moonlight, but she has seen all his secrets laid bare....Newt is reeling, and not sure whether he's drunk on this or whether it's the fire whiskey still throbbing in his head.
"Sorry," he says eventually, feeling thoroughly embarrassed even through the languid bliss that's still buzzing through his pliant limbs.
"Ssshh," she says. "Relax, darling. That was lovely, and you need to be...relaxed."
He's trying to make sense of that when she pours something slick and warm over his bottom, something wet and greasy that slides down the crack of his arse and over his quiesscent cock, something oily that pools on the stone and runs down his thighs.
"What?" he exclaims, then almost swallows his tongue when he feels Leta's clever fingers swiping through the mess and pushing oil towards his arsehole, INTO his arsehole. Leta's fingers are inside him - two, then three, twined together and pushing urgently inside. Newt makes a shocked noise somewhere between a gasp and a grunt, trying vainly to pull away. She pushes in deeper. Surprisingly, his cock is already hardening again - is this what she meant when she said the stuff in the whiskey should last a while?
"I'm trying to help, darling," she says, and her voice is ragged and breathy as her fingers force him open, flexing and scissoring against the clenched ring of muscle. "You'll thank me later, I promise. Just...relax. You can do this, Newt. Just relax and take it like a good boy. You want to help me, don't you?"
"Leta!"
That's when he hears the hoofbeats, and a sudden suspicion begins to form, far too late, in his mind.
"Leta, what....?"
She jams her fingers in again, four now, her thumb pressing possessively down on the curve of his buttock while the rest of her hand works inside him. He's starting to feel afraid, even as his foolishly hopeful cock thickens and stiffens again.
"Untie me? Leta?"
One last, vicious shove and she pulls out of him, leaving his hole twitching and helpless, oil sliding down his thighs, and his penis stiff as the statue itself.
"You promised, Newt," she says, backing away - and, oh, God, he knows. He knows what she's done, knows what he's let her do, even though his mind is balking at it. "You said you'd do anything."
"No," he says. "No, please - Leta, you can't...I can't...not THAT! ...please, Leta?"
Silence, broken only by the terribly gentle sounds of hooves padding through the undergrowth, and the huffs of the unicorn's breath. Newt closes his eyes. His mind is a whirl of whiskey and pleasure and terror and arousal; the stone is hard against his cheek and his belly.