Harvesting Elements

Iron is an element, so is copper. Silver is Number 47 on the periodic table of the elements and its weight is 107 g/mol. Gold is heavier at 196 g/mol. In this world there is another element, more precious than gold, more beautiful than silver. In this world pleasure is an element, element number 38 and it’s worth its weight in Gold. 

His eyes raked over the three men before him, all three beautiful in their own way, all three ready to serve him in different ways, all three well trained pleasure slaves. He knew them all, knew the way to make them whimper under his hands, how to make them moan and cry, how to harvest the most pleasure from their lips. It was his job, his chosen profession – and he was the best. He could barely look at their fawning faces without disgust. 

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw movement, erratic and hard, so uncharacteristic for this palace of pleasure. 


He did not scream, did not point, barely raised his hand but the supervisor knew who he meant even though. All of them had waited with bated breath for any command he might give, dazzled by the Guild’s premier Harvester in their midst. He hated them for their scheming subservience and he knew that was in part the reason for his choice. He wanted to shatter their ingratiating lies, their studied adoration. He did – enough for the supervisor to sputter:

“But, Master Luka, he is merely a teaching slave – barely producing basic levels. Not worth your time and skill.”

“Him.” He said again, already dismissing the supervisor. 

Hate, deep and barely contained met his gaze as he entered the harvesting chamber. He loved it. It was the first real emotion he had seen in a long time. 

“You are here out of your own free will?” It was a ritual question asked before any harvest, harking back to a time when many pleasure slaves had truly been slaves, limped to the guild by unscrupulous profiteers.  Today the waiting lists were long.

“Yes.” The voice was strangely soft, deep and gravelly, drawing him in. The slave was older than most, a body hardened by work and life – not the lithe forms of the children barely in their twenties who normally filled these halls. There was nothing soft about this man, every line delineated in controlled strength, the hard muscles of abdomen and shoulders a living sculpture. For the first time in a long time his hands itched with the need to feel, the need to touch and caress. It burned, that need, it burned in his stomach, under his skin, in his eyes. 

Even before he made contact, before his hand touched the planes of the hard abdomen, played over the well-defined muscles there, he could feel the heat of the skin, could luxuriate in it. The skin was softer, smoother than he had expected and more intriguing. What had been hidden to the eye was only too evident to his touch, the fine lines and grooves of years past, battles fought, wounds healed. Some were larger, and his hands spread across the planes of the slave’s torso in a discovery of sensual secrets. He loved the intimate power of the skin under his hands. 

Slowly his hands stroked their way upwards, over shoulders and arms, just to return to the gleaming expanse before him. At his first touch, the muscles under his touch and jumped but since then the other man had remained entirely motionless, a statue enduring what could not be helped. Or so he wanted to appear – but a man’s body hides less than a woman’s. Under his hands the dark nipples had bunched, pebbled and swollen, demanding the touch their owner tried to resist. His chest rose faster under suppressed emotion, excitement or shame? Luka did not know. It was the fine sheen of sweat which drew him in the end. 

He fixed the slave’s yellow gaze as he leant in, tasted the skin, lapped at the rivulet of water pacing along the hard lines that made this man and saw the heat, the passion, the pleasure in the others eyes – and the hate.

“You hate me.” It was said with wonder. The premier Harvester did not meet hate often. 

“Yes.” No heat in that word – only acceptance. 

Luka nipped at the collar bone in gentle reprimand, then laved away the pain with his tongue. He could not stop tasting, savouring the salt and spice which formed the others aroma. He could have gladly forsaken any other taste if he could have this for the rest of his life. 

He kissed his way along the line of the collarbone, along the shoulder, letting his hands trail behind as he stepped around the slave. For a moment, his breath was taken by the utter beauty he found there. The long lines of the other man’s back demanded touch, the curve of the hard globes of an ass, too tempting to ignore. He shaped his hands to that hard strength, felt the strands of muscles, the dimples on the sides jumping under the caress of his thumbs. He parted them, let his long fingers play over the sensitive sphincter, teasing and stroking, playing a long nail over the skin in what was a promise, and a threat. He felt the silent moan, heard it on the air as the other man desperately tried to control his body from leaning into the touch. But Luka did not intend to penetrate, was not done playing, not yet. 

When he faced the slave again, Luka knew his eyes had gone dark with desire – and triumph. He saw it in the heat of the other’s gaze, in the anticipation and defeat there. Saw it in the rigid arousal of that dam cock, rigid and hard, seeping precum from its sensitive slit. When he wrapped his hand around it, smearing that tempting droplet with a swipe of his thumb, the moan was not silent anymore. 

Slowly, with the grace of long years of practice he sank to his knees, letting his eyes rove upwards to the other man’s along the beautiful lines of that body. 

“You may hate me, but I bet I can make you love what I do to you.” 

And then he engulfed the tip of that hard cock with the heat of his mouth, tasted the salty substance he had been craving – and started harvesting.

In this world pleasure is an element, element number 38 on the periodic table – and it’s worth its weight in gold.

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