Varliss had given a squeak at the groping, back when it happened, but now he... or rather she, though he still thought of himself as a he, was lying face down blindfolded on a table. This was not the best situation to be in. The other guild members were talking about how much to charge for touching him and it sent a shiver through him. He knew that some of the patrons would pay a great deal for this kind of service or for more... he wished that he could talk to the others but his current position rather disabled that sort of thing. There were sensations he could feel but they were muted a bit by apprehension.<br/><br/>Something was upon his back, and then the shirt he had been wearing was lifted to reveal a back which was less than unblemished. At some point in the boy's past there had been someone taking a rather great interest in whipping him. There were raised lines where skin had broken and healed, there were marks horizontal and vertical, a veritable street map of pain upon the delicate frame. This didn't seem to bother Varliss however, though it did give something of an insight into why he was so closed off and private; so fearful. The oil and hands upon his back first gave him a shiver as if from fear, but then he relaxed as they set about rubbing, the stress subsiding to a mild apprehension at not knowing what would be next.<br/><br/>Next was apparently the need for him to busy his hands. He hadn't quite known what was being done with them until he felt them brush the gentle flesh of thigh and above. One, then the other, was apparently being offered the chance to explore invisible depths, though he didn't know how true that term was in his current state, only that he could not see the intended recipients of his ministrations. Ever the obedient one, Varliss set about the work slowly, fore and middle fingers tracing the slit while the thumb searched for the hood with its pearly nub beneath, rigid though they would likely not yet be. It was important to at least determine his orientation, all things started from knowing where you were. Once he had his bearings, as it were, the fingers tried to slick themselves in the womanly juices before insertion, one, then two fingers if it seemed they would be allowed. Dextrous digits worked their magic upon inner walls, a gentle shake occasionally rising as the girl upon his back traced a particular scar with her hand or reached some sensitive portion. He tried to focus on the tasks at hand, literally, but found himself distracted by a growing warmth near his own backside, one not merely resultant from the creature atop it.