He didn't know what had awakened him, until, in its shadowed corner, the sceptre appeared to stir.
Marcello closed his eyes, trying to deny the tell-tale quickening of his breath, the tensing of his muscles. He controlled the sceptre; he would not admit fear of it.
A rustling filled the air, like dozens of snakes slithering across the floor, and his eyes flew open just as the first of the vines crept over the edge of his bed.
He bent his will toward the sceptre, curbing it, reining in its power.
As the vines caressed his flesh, the sceptre laughed.
Desperate, he focused on the pain of thorns cutting into the flesh of his wrists, hoping to use it to focus, as he had the pain of driving his own dagger into his arm. Then something shoved roughly between his legs, into him, so unexpected and overwhelming that he didn't even have wit to scream, though the breath left his lungs in a sudden, shocked rush.
One of the vines slid past his parted lips, forced its way in until his throat spasmed with the desire to gag and he tasted his own blood, overlaid with bitter herbs.
Other vines crawled over him, left behind a fine webwork of blood. The distant sting was an almost welcome distraction from the vines thrusting and undulating inside him, at least until they focused on his cock. There were no thorns, now, as they teased and stroked, until - Goddess help him - he grew hard, twisting and writhing against his living bonds, the sounds coming from his throat no longer solely inspired by pain.
At length, the vines released him to collapse on the bed, gasping, spent, bloody and filthy inside and out.
In the back of his mind, the sceptre continued to laugh.
