A continuation of the story written in collaboration with the mysterious, incognito /u/sirendpp.
- 07, Agia
The elven Princess' freckled cheek rolled over onto the soft, scented pillow, the silken sheet there pulled right up to her eyes.
Her mother's silken sheet. Her mother's soft pillow. Her mother's scent. Agia inhaled slow and deep, with deliberation, helplessly shaking under the crush of bodily pleasure.
"A-Adelisa," she transgressed with deepest guilt to moan, ever so inaudibly, under only the privacy afforded to her lips by the bed cover. Her lips—those, beneath, bare and smooth and sleek and slick, folds parted by her fingers buried into her—relinquished their own utterance of a lewd squelch, as muffled and yet undeniably clear as the midday bell ringing outside to cover for these awful noises she made. And yet the guilt was erotic. The guilt felt good. The guilt saved her. It made this okay, because she understood she was an awful sinner, broken in her ways, a slave to her inherent nature, despite all the love that Adelisa lavished upon her to fix her.
The Princess bit her quivering lip. Adelisa didn't know. Did she? No—else Agia wouldn't still have been her daughter.
Agia's sharp, gold-green eyes teared up and quivered in the way she forced herself to keep them open and stabbed into the door across the bedroom, alert for even the tiniest possible intrusion, as the waves and waves of wonderful, horrible pleasure coursed through her body.
Maybe it was her way to distinguish Adelisa apart from the real her, to call for her by her given name so perversely, whenever Agia did this. It was the heavenly name everyone knew and cherished, with all its deference and fealty and grace—a name by which the Queen was nigh-worshiped by all their adoring populace, day in and day out. But it was the name the Princess wasn't allowed to use.
To her, she was just mother. Her mother. Mom. And... she was. Angels knew she was, and Agia thought so when she cried into the Queen's chest the first time, and she knew so when she sat up straight to behold Adelisa's presence as regal as familiar—and to evade her chastising. The Princess stood with her and looked out upon her—their—beloved city and people together, parent and child. And yet it wasn't the magnificent towers and stonework and banners Agia professed to adore with her unworthy eyes. It was the beautifully delicate pale face of the woman beside her she peeked for, the one she loved—and was not allowed to love.
"A- Adelisa..." Her body tensed to its limit, in finality, a death Agia died to shed off yet once more its sins, its horrible sins. Its detestable, disgusting depravities.
She was just confused. It was because she was raised male. That's it. This kind of perversion was why the men and women were segregated apart by wisdom so long ago, brought together at the millennium only under the holy guidance and benedictions in the sanctuary of fertility between their cities. The female born came home. The male born left to theirs. Nobody had to tell her what males were capable of doing with their lust for them. She had lived that life, and still continued to bear its scars, now most of all, in this bed, with her transgressions. Agia was living proof of why they did not mingle. And it wasn't that she didn't know, either, that there were those of them women who professed a candid love for each other, in the tomes she scoured and alleys she watched from in the midnight. But her love for Adelisa was... different. Her love for her mother was abhorrent.
Agia squeezed her thighs tight together with her hand between them, suddenly conscious of worry of whether she'd dripped into her mother's bedding, or shed tears of pleasure into her pillow. As always. Not that the servants wouldn't have come and changed them soon, anyway. As always. Adelisa might've thought her daughter no longer slept beside her because Agia was self-conscious of the fact that they were two women both of age, that the girl was embarrassed and humiliated in her precocious adulthood to be known to still need her mother's company and comfort at night—but it was the very opposite.
She needed it now a grown woman more than ever—and that scared her so much.
Detestable deed done and of a mind of clarity of but the sullen, wild daughter once more, Agia pushed off the bed to sit up naked without a care. It was merely but again the brooding Princess deigning irresponsibly to sleep in whatever bed so convenient, be that of the Queen or in the servants' quarters alike. Not that she didn't profess to know they thought it endearing, but their etiquette demanded their chiding say otherwise. Then there was the fact that they were getting to chide the Princess. They loved it.
Where the sheet fell away to reveal her, Agia's long, long brown mane of a mild mess fell over her face to frame a sardonic wake from sleep. Not as long as the Queen's red, heavens no; even of a length popular by idolatry, no one has hair as long as hers. That would be blasphemy, as they'd say. Agia's fell about her waist. She ran her hand through it over her head and tossed it back, with idle reminiscence of just how short and unfeminine it used to be. Ironically, many of the guard she spent her days idolizing and harrying for training and indulgence keep their hair short and spartan, and yet for all she wished of their approval of skill, she suffered opposite the conceit of hers long and luxurious. Well, the dear Princess must keep up appearances, they said. No. She'd been a boy enough for a lifetime. She just wanted to be a woman, now.
Just like you. A daughter. Just for you.
After all... her mother had traded her own child for Agia. The one she would've had. With a mate.
The Princess cradled her naked chest with an arm to throw her legs over the edge, and sauntered upon bare feet over to the Queen's dresser to tidy herself. These ridiculous things her mother hadn't seen in a while, on the other hand, especially in the armored dresses she'd been adoring to wear. She could tell they'd gotten larger than her mother's, and the Queen's weren't even smaller by much regard. They were the standard for perfection, after all; Cerany could all agree on that.
Agia let her breasts fall in the mirror to sullenly appraise the hot mess she was, and they audibly slapped and hung down to her last rib, weighing heavily. Large, oversized areolae—insofar as she had judged them to be excessive, the occasional glance at another woman's—covered over the front of them the size each of a babe's face, unreserved as to proclaim their obvious purpose. One of the nurses from that fateful day had confided in her some centuries later that she bore the internal markings of having been with child—many—and that they were all terminated unceremoniously. Agia hadn't yet figured out how to tell her mother that—or if ever she would. It would just hurt her all over again.
Maybe one day—one day—somehow—I may yet bear you an heir, mother. Like you bore me, in your own way, in your image.
Her hands calloused she caressed over her ever-more-taut shoulders and arms, chilled in the full of nude. She tepidly appraised the color in the mirror, as many times as she had done before—these days the olive tone was a little more tan again, from having spent so much more time outdoors with the soldiers she profess an affinity for, though this time not of labor and those soldiers, in that manner. Many of the guard were apparently of a stock like hers, brushed brown one way or another, apparently of an ancient line most common to hunters and soldiers—in the way the pale ones as Adelisa found mastery easily of the esoteric magics Agia could barely fathom, and the dark ones of arts of logics and reasons. It was no wonder she ended up with the rowdy ones so much. She was really their princess. Agia could confess there was a while when she first arrived where she refused to see to the sun, because she thought the Queen's skin was immaculate, and wished to pale by imitation too, and she may have even succeeded to come close—but Adelisa had since taught her better. She should hold high and be proud.
Yet her mother didn't know it was because Agia now found her ever more exquisite in the contrast.
I want to press my skin unworthy to yours, so unworthy the transgression alone is orgasmic, and I shall be graced by the heavens of you, and....
The Princess took her bindings from the dresser table where she'd left them in the hour of her intrusion before, and began to wrap them around her breasts and back, holding her excessive chest taut in place to attend to the day's swordsmanship. To wake up, at last, from her idle fantasies.
- 08, Agia
Sand. Soil. Stones. Desperately trying as she might, Agia couldn't but only brace herself as she rolled roughshod across the ground of the small clearing—the site of a bloodbath, where the enemy had lain in wait in the forest all around them. The elven Princess caught violent glimpse after glimpse of red, staining the blur of her spinning vision, be it of actual blood hers or the enemy's upon her face, or of their fallen, or the dusk of their people.
But even before she could come to a stop to orient herself, it was already too late. She heard the mount, first—and it wasn't her Cafi. She's dead, isn't she. Agia knew bitterly that her steed had already suffered grievous wounds in the charge. There was no doubt she was next.
Then she saw it galloping right over her—and felt a harrowing pain jolt through her bare leg, stomped upon unceremoniously by the horse. Agia screamed out in panic even as she tried to scramble onto her knees, but the creature stamped left and right, whipped into a frenzy by its rider above, and by the time the Princess managed frantically to crawl her way out, it was already too late.
She felt what she could only assume was a boot clad in metal—all that thick, savage, clunky metal she had learned firsthand in the matter of awful minutes to detest with spite—crash straight into the thin armor of her dress cuirass in the back, pinning her excessive chest forward to the dirt. If there were one harrowing confession Agia would not in a lifetime have dared aloud in this moment, it was that she lamented for a wish of the armor of one of these brutes—and not the prideful, ceremonial garb of scant, revealing plate about her breasts and shoulders, which flowed into silk over her arms and down the small skirt that ended only halfway down her thighs, revealing her bare holes behind her.
Bella always told her would would regret it. Then Agia always proved her wrong when the captain's blade couldn't land through hers. Like Agia's hair, these garments were her conceit. She was the Princess, and most of all, that which she needed to flaunt of—a woman.
Yet against all her will, she flaunted it now with her face stamped to the ground, struggling with incredulous confusion as her arms were restrained behind her back. It hurt. It ached. But she couldn't feel it. Her fate crossed her mind, again, and it did again, but she could comprehend it. Prisoner. Or worse. She couldn't process any of it, because she had no capacity in her mind then for anyone but one person.
Mother!!
Agia needed not to try and look about to find her worst fear realized. She saw Adelisa staring across at her, a matter that screamed inherently in every way that it had all gone wrong.
Mother—!
Their elven guards were strewn all around the Queen—worse yet, soldiers afoot, men, of garbs not theirs. Agia saw her surrounded—and she could not do anything. That was the most horrifying thing of all.
Painfully, the Princess' hair was tugged up for her to understand at last who it was her captor, of all the horrible visages she could've despised to see. The son. If not for the king having been her priority first, this one would've been dead, too—and but a moment more and he was going to be.
His face was revolting. Manic. But so was hers, heaving, restrained. It wasn't the rage in his eyes that bored through Agia, nor the adrenaline, nor the scrutiny.
It was ... it was ....
It was an expression she recognized, from the core of her being of her adolescence. Old fires—and oldest fears—lit all through her as familiar sensations flooded her, all the ones she had long since buried deep.
"You're going to watch me rape your queen."
His words eviscerated her, the way she did his men—and his father.
No.....
- 09, Jace
The human Prince raised his steel boot with the intention to kick this elven bitch across the face, but with a momentary discretion, he brought it back down. It took him a moment. He cocked his head. What was it? A glance over at the elven queen exposed, his prize for the taking, brought a perversely kind smile to his face, but her expression proffered a convolution in return. It wasn't fear—not of him—and this boiled of a rage in him. And yet, it spelled something different for him. He followed her gaze to the woman at his foot. This insolent, murderous whore, who had charged the ranks and killed his careless cunt of a father, and about nearly took his own life, too.
He hadn't noticed. It was hard to, what with her face down, and her incredibly scandalous dress. Were these elven women made to be raped or what? Their voluptuously lewd bodies, their scant dress, their beautiful forms. God fucking damn. But when she turned her face to actually glare viciously at him, that haughty face, those high-arced brows brought low with delectable anger, it was only then.
It was the elf princess. Holy fuck.
It was his mouth first agape, incredulous. Then a grin. Then a cackle. Jace couldn't help himself.
Wasn't everything going so well!
He crossed his arms, and grunted insightfully in a posture of exaggerated thought as his men nigh slithered right up onto her bound form to exact their physical demands of his command.
"—Impale one of your dirty cocks up her asshole. —Elves still have those, right? Hold her up and make her watch. Her mother."
The sounds of petulant struggle gave way to an anguished cry as he turned to walk away. A wonderfully anguished cry. It made him shudder with anticipation for what lie before him.
- 10, Jace
Everything was in a chaos all around him, but far from his blunted poise there before, the Prince was in his element, now. Danger had been a delectable appetizer, he decided. His soldiers were busy at work, and though he had never firsthand seen them collect the women, he approved, impressed, wherever he witnessed a swing of a fist, a beat of a face, a clink of a collar, a cry of a new slave. Dozens upon dozens of these ridiculous female bodies were being rounded up, altogether a most arousing scene that elicited such carnal excitement in him.
And yet he had little attention to spare. There was the crown jewel before him, enrapturing of all his sight. Red of hair, magnificent, one of a kind.
"Ah- ah- ah," Jace chided tauntingly of the immaculately gorgeous elven queen as he came within earshot, preempting any resistance or thoughts to flee without even having to motion behind him at the princess to threaten for what he had the capacity to do. His personal guard—two particular ones left, anyway—had at last caught up to join at his side, it having dawned upon them whose favor they were best to garner now, with the King dead. Even if he were but a boy.
A few paces in the tall grass away from the queen, he about tripped over one of the petulant warrior women in guard of their charge, apparently having come to. The Prince watched in idle amusement the way he would have an insect, crawling about beneath his gaze down on her hands and knees as she conjured her muddled and dizzied bearing to grope around desperately for her weapon. And where he saw she was about to find and reach for it, this time, he did kick of his steeled toes right into her pale exposed stomach, bless their ridiculous lack of armor.
The elf woman doubled over and collapsed, and Jace laughed, grateful for the mild amusement she granted him after all. He took the moment to unstrap his own armor about his greaves, handing the belt of plate over to one of the questionable men beside him, and removed from his undertrousers the anticipating length of his cock, bringing it out and forward with a single hand. Not an easy task, given its absolute arousal of this whole ordeal.
Having to bother to reach down low to pick up this woman for use, he was mildly annoyed, but dragged and held her upright by the hair until he plied her onto her knees.
"Open."
She swayed, blinking her eyes, dirty blonde hair loose in a wild mess over her eyes, only half-conscious of the circumstance.
"OPEN!!!" He screamed in her face and grabbed her jaw forcefully from below, dragging it downward, and when she at last understood by sight of his phallus what he intended of her, she began to awaken to her own defense as much her duty to the Queen behind her. But it didn't matter. The men beside the Prince grunted with familiar duty of their own and grabbed her struggling and flailing arms coming forward, and Jace took the time-practiced opportunity with glee to slam his fist into her face.
Where her mouth cried ajar in horror and pain, he impaled his cock into it, and pushed it right down her neck. She squirmed, but there was no sound. She twisted and writhed, but there was no escape. And when she finally understood the necessity to bite it off, Jace got there first by swinging his fist into the side of her head. Again. And again. And again. Every thrust proceeded a punch, and every punch proceeded a thrust. Horrendous and delectable gasps escaped her throat of choking, and for all her distress, he beat her all the more.
Until she went soft—and then she went limp.
At last. "Ah! Ahh! Isn't that better?" He grinned with boyish glee down at her, then up at his lovely Queen. "Why can't they all behave like that? It's not that hard!" He pressed his pubes right into her face for where his cock slid all the way down her throat with no resistance. The men let loose her arms, where they fell by her side, and her body went slack.
She was dead.
For at last a moment, all in the forest was peacefully quiet, save but for the wet slurp of an elf mouth, and the sickening squelch of an elf throat. Jace closed his eyes and relished in the bliss of it all, taking his sweet and perverse time enjoying the delectable sensation of his first spoil of war firsthand. He hummed as he ejaculated. How lucky she was. And he shuddered with a man's delicacy as he began to relieve his bladder so long overdue down inside her neck, opening his eyes to appraise of what he intended here to get, before he was so rudely interrupted. He looked down at his prize, then back up and around.
"Kill the ones with short hair," he spoke aloud at last, on a whim. "I don't want them."
The men looked at each other and shrugged. "—Uh, mi'lord. How short is short?"
Prince Jace turned his head with more malice than he had ever brought to bear thus, letting go of the woman's head to unsheathe the dagger by his hip and stab into the man's gut in a fell swoop before the man had a chance to drop the Prince's—King's—belt of armor to even react. "That's your majesty, to you. The UGLY ones!"
As the body before him slumped to the floor inanimate, screams erupted from all around them to hear the order and carry out his horror—most of all of one particular princess, who wailed amidst her rape for mercy for her people in terrible terror, in shrieking anguish—and yet, most of all in a survivor's guilt.
For at least, unlike the others: she had such long hair.
- 11, Jace
"You can do more than just pyromancy, you know."
The words hung heavy in the air, draped in even tones that struggled to disguise the implicit judgment dripping from the crux of the choice of phrase. Just. Insufficient, it implied. Primitive, it decried. The kind of brutish magic fit only for hedge-wizards and the barbaric shamans that dwelt beyond the shadow plains. Magic that was decidedly not befitting a fledgling Prince jockeying for a position in line to his Kingly father's increasingly contested throne.
A Prince, that was currently stiffening at his Sorceress instructor's chastisement—reduced by lashing stroke of her cutting tongue to once again relive the memories of being a red-faced boy shamed to tears by the very same Sorceress for the crime lighting her tablecloth aflame. His hand raised, clenched with rousing anger, but fell just as quickly as the Prince opted instead to channel the cold fury coursing through his body into the gout of flame sprouting from his fingertips. Eve was a Sorceress of the Abbey by royal accreditation, and a minor Baroness by dint of blood, not some trifling maid the likes of which he'd so often sent scurrying back to the servant's quarters with a bastard in her womb and bruises around her neck.
"Your father wishes you to have a full grasp of the magical arts, and-" Eve continued, idly brushing an errant lock of raven hair behind her ear.
"The only thing my father can conjure is a succession crisis," Jared replied hotly, eyes intent on the inferno coursing in the grip of his palm.
"It's true, the King has no latent magical talent. But your mother-" Eve pressed, well-worn words slipping easily off the tip of her tongue as she idly examined the shade of her painted nails.
"—Was a huntress," Jared half-whispered in reply, closing his hand into a fist and quenching the flame.
"From a bloodline of powerful wood witches," said Eve, completing the hackneyed conversation that the two had been having for as long as she had been his mentor in magic. Now, after having repeated the sentiment a dozen times, she scarcely looked up from her nails—opting instead to murmur a simple spell to restore the coating to a rich burgundy colour, rather than mollify her royal charge in any meaningful way.
The Prince made to speak—but was silenced by a newly painted fingertip pressed against his lip.
"Look. You can bemoan how 'utterly dreadful' it is to be a bastard Prince instead of a legitimized one—oh woe is me, my royal birth is only partially recognized—or, you can straighten up, study hard, and show up your trueborn siblings with a hefty dose of skillful magic," she crooned at the Prince, sharp fingernails idly caressing the pale expanse of his cheek.
But if she had hoped playful mocking and just a hint of teasing would be enough to stir her wayward student into a model of academic brilliance, she would be shortly reminded that Prince Jace rarely responded to rewards that didn't involve pounding pussy. In fairness to the Sorceress, it had been a vain hope.
"Spread your legs. Then we'll get back to the lesson," the Prince seethed in reply through harshly gritted teeth.
Eve merely arched an eyebrow in reply, even as she hiked up the skirt of her dress to her midriff—exposing her hairless mound for the Prince's perusal. "You were always an unorthodox stu-"
Within seconds, he had her pinned against his bed—silken trousers pooled by his ankles as the length of his princely shaft slammed into the Sorceress' tightness. She was no stranger to the ravishments of cock—she had licked up her fair share of royal bastards from her seed-slicked fingertips—but this was altogether different. Harder. His fingers wrapped tight around her throat, squeezing firmly as he so often did before—but this time, there was angry heat radiating from his fingertips. Panic coursed through her body. Spells she'd practiced for so long that they had become second nature were becoming slippery on her tongue, every painstakingly uttered syllable ushered away as the Prince's grip choked the breath from her lungs.
"J- J- Jace… no…" she choked out from around the grasp of his scorching fingers, gleaming amethyst eyes desperately searching his own pale gray gaze for any sign of compassion, any possibility he might relent. But even the most virtuous Princes were unaccustomed to being denied, and Jace's reply came in the form of a stinging rebuke across her cheek—her eyes watering as the slap left sparkling embers in its wake.
But even amid the pain, the incessant heat burning against her neck, her sex betrayed her. Too used to gentler tumbles with the Prince's cock—or perhaps enjoying the rough treatment as Jace's cock pounded deep into her depths with each powerful thrust, her thighs were slick with wet—juices coating his shaft as slam after slam of cock shook her body against the satin sheets of the bed.
The sudden realization came—coursing hotter than his flames through the breadth of her arousal-gripped body—that her feeble attempts to murmur spells had long-since given way to breathy moans. Intensifying—peaking, as his manic thrusts reached a crescendo that would, in a previous lesson, have signaled her to move onto her knees. But pinned down against the bed with his fingers collaring her neck, instead Eve wrapped her legs around the Prince's waist, as his seed flooded the depths of her womb.
Eve adjusted the high neckline of her dress, maneuvering the fabric so it concealed the string of burns that ringed the pale flesh of her neck like a gruesome facsimile of a collar. She was beginning to show, too, and soon the other Sorceresses would be prying her with questions about who put the bump in her belly—but for now, artful draping of a flowing dress would be enough to allay any suspicions of her impregnation.
Turning away from the mirror, she glanced down at her nails—painted a shade of royal blue to match his adopted familial crest. Satisfied with her appearance, the Sorceress settled in on her knees to await her royal student.
Jace arrived shortly, plucking a cigarette between two fingers and lighting the tip with a single narrow flame that sprung forth from his thumb. Eve's mouth snapped open immediately, her tongue unfurling with practiced grace.
The Prince took a deep drag, before letting the smoke exit with his exhale—and without a downward glance, he stubbed the burning tip of the cigarette down on the Sorceress' outstretched tongue. Another burn, seared into her pink flesh, matching the plethora of them already existent on her tongue.
Submitted September 24, 2019 at 05:53PM by recurrentbeginning https://ift.tt/2kL0uOS
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