Skip to content

Jocelyn The Wicked Posts

Quarantine in Los Angeles: Find Your Happy Place

In a recent web forum, someone asked me “where’s your happy place?” My happy place, like all of ours in Los Angeles, is closed for corona. Why? Because there is definitely no better place for a virus to spread than a club. Sadly, my favorite goth night club struggles to handle its expenses right now.

Bar Sinister for Goths and Ghouls

Back in college, Bar Sinister helped me celebrate my twenty first birthday in the greatest way ever. Philosophy students already like to wear black. Therefore, a club that played industrial, old school goth, ebm, and eighties synth pop couldn’t be a better choice. My partner at the time had never worn eye shadow, and he allowed me to give him the Robert Smith treatment. Ladies, if he lets you put eye shadow on him he’s a keeper. (Yeah, whatever I didn’t keep him.)

When we walked in, a domme had a male sub bent over. He presented his bare back to her, and she worked him with a pair of floggers in a criss-crossing motion. Her beats hit in time to a Nine Inch Nails track. Naturally, I fell for her and the club right then, and knew it would be my happy place for years to come. We spent the evening drinking, dancing, and tipping the gorgeous go-go girls all night.

Dance. Drink. Kink Play.

My interest in kink, bondage, and exhibitionism goes back as far as I can remember. However, to this day I have conflicted feeling about getting watched. (Had a bad time during the myspace days. Another story.) Bar Sinister’s kink play area helped with that. How?

First, no cameras. The doms there are quite strict, and if they catch you filming they will demand you delete it. (It’s usually the token vanilla idiot, who is out of dress code too). Additionally, they’re safe. When you’re watching the doms perform, you can see the expertise and skill with each strike. I’d submitted to leather floggers before Bar Sin. But never had I done so with an audience, while listening to some of my favorite music. It fulfilled my exhibitionist tendencies in the safest way possible. My partners and I keep going back just for that.

Stupid Virus

Sadly, with the virus, Bar Sinister is closed down for now. Yet the staff and community remains strong. Dj Tommy and Jpeg_01 still spin on their twitch channels. The patrons of the are donating to support the club because we can’t wait for it to return. Between now and then? I’m going to keep listening to the tracks on twitch, dancing in my pajamas, and caring for my leather toys.

That place will be packed with this virus finally goes away.

Comments closed

The Loss and Lust of the Lightwarden: Part 03

Author’s Note: Wrath of the Lich King

This Story takes place just after the events of “Wrath of the Lich King” and on the alliance side. Please support more work like this because there are more.
Become a Patron!

Sex and Treachery in Nothrend

It took all my courage to begin sharing the tale with Giles, but I began to tell him more than I had told any traveler.

Before and during the Lich King’s war, I’d joined a crusading order known as the The Wyrmguard Centurions. Our proud number had been whittled down over the months throughout our time in Northrend. It was our last battle mission that destroyed us. We had a simple assignment in an empty snow covered wastelands called the Dragon Blight. It was there, in the cold roof of the world, that dragons went to die. On the north end of the waste, the undead scourge citadel of Naxxramas floated. A necromancer known as Kel’Thuzad ruled here, and raised the dead dragons into the army of the Lich King. We centurions were to find the bones of the great wryms, smash their skulls and their great wing bones, thus rendering them useless to the Lich King’s servants. This brought two enemies against us. First, the scourge hunted us. They hated all living, but especially those who frustrated their plans. Second, the great wyrms of the blue dragon flight. They saw us as unholy defilers of their graves. Our company could engage one adversary at any time.

One day our plans were frustrated. Claws crunching in the snow, the blue dragonkin bounded from an icy cave. There had been little more than a dozen, but a single dragonkin fights with the strength of five men. We defeated them, but knew going forth would invite more trouble. Thus, our company was forced to make a dangerous retreat. Hoping no scourge tracked our trail, we followed our own snow prints back.

Stitched together abominations, a horde of ghouls, and the necromancer commanding them answered our hopes and prayers. We had no choice but to engage them before they engaged us. Matched in number, we fought hard, and I exorcised the undead with my fellow paladins. Despite our efforts, we fought in the open snow, and neither side could gain an advantage.

Then both of us faced the wrath of the blue dragons. Flanked by drakes, a great wyrm flew above the field of battle, strafing us with their breath, and scattering both living and undead alike. Soon, it was clear that would be no victor but the dragon and his kin. But my company looked in terror as one of the dracoliches entered the sky.

The Wyrmheart Centurions fought with honor. I myself did not falter. Wounded and weak, I still pulverized the last necromancer in holy fury. I had slain him, but I knew that I was the last. Blood dripping into the snow, waiting to join the rest of the centurions in honorable death, I fell to the ground. My vision grew hazy. The battle field grew quiet. Ahead of me one of, the walking abominations stomped towards me. Praying, I awaited a clean demise.

A brilliant streak of violet light traversed the air. An arrow struck the abomination. It groaned and charged. The growl of a fierce wolf broke into the air and charged the monster. More arrows followed. Someone shouted in Orcish. I saw not what transpired. All I could see was a great blue blur. But for a moment, my eyes focus on one standing over me, an Orc. His face looked kind and rugged, and creased in sadness at my pain.

"You do yet live," he spoke in the language common to humans.

"I cannot move," I whispered back.

"Do not try. I am Buntaro and I can help you," he said, retrieving a potion from his belt. "Drink first."

I swallowed it down. The worst of my wounds sealed themselves, but oh it awoke so much agony from those that did not. Moaning, I drifted out of focus. Buntaro shouted for his allies, and he lifted me up from the snow. Surrendering, I slipped out of consciousness.

Next I remembered, my waking gaze was met with two decayed eye sockets. Yellow orbs of light glowed where eyes had long since melted away. The tight mummified skin of the face stretched tight to bone, and still this dead woman’s face tried her best to smile in kindness at me. I knew what she must be. She was one of the undead who had been freed of the Lich King’s influence. Her mind, it would still be human, which meant she could be good. All this I understood in my mind, but my heart knew the face like that which had murdered so many of my friends.

With a hoarse sound, she said something.

Another undead creature, this one looking like a man, peered over me. He prodded my face with his bony hands examining my eyes and throat. Resting his hand on my chest, he said something in an icy voice.

"He says, ‘breathe’," the woman said. She spoke the language of the alliance in a voice like a dusty attic.

I took a deep inhale, in part truly of fear, for I was too weak to fight. It hurt to breathe, there was no doubt bile in my lungs. Though I knew, these must be the forsaken of Arthas’s first invasion.

"The Draenei’s lungs are filled with puss," the man said to the nurse. His words came out slow, and with effort. He handed a vial to the woman. "Pour this into her mouth."

With that, he shuffled off. The woman looked to me again.

"I am Julie Applewood, a nurse here," she said. "When under my care, I swear you will come to no harm."

She inspected the glowing yellow vial and popped its cork.

"Please drink this," she said. "You have slept from your wounds for three days."

Not sure what else to do, and still half expecting to die, I swallowed the contents. The liquid swirled into my throat, then became like a hot vapor. It worked its way into my lungs, filling them, then I coughed, gagged. A cloud of white expelled from my mouth, dissipating in the air. Alive again, I took my first breath.

"Yasmeen. My name is Yasmeen," I said. "Where am I?"

"In Warsong hold on the Borean Tundra," she said. I had known this place. It was a great fortress of the Horde in Northrend, far from the human settlements.

"Am I a prisoner?"

"You are an injured an warrior, in my medical ward. The horde are your allies in this war. We would not treat you so," she said. "How much do you remember?"

I described the fateful battle, and my near death out on the Dragonblight. I begged Nurse Applewood to tell me if any others had survived. She said that Buntaro, my Orc rescuer, had found only me alive with his small band. Weere any others left alive, I surely knew they perished. Their souls needed one to recite the rite, and light the lantern, and guide them to the glory seat of the Naaru. Who would light them now but me? But where among the horde would I find Naaru’s faithful? I would have cried, if I had not been so weak.

"Arthur is the apothecary here," Nurse Applewood continued. "He knows little of Draenei physiology, but we worked our best."

"I thank you," I said.

"Rest now, stranger," said Nurse Applewood. "Buntaro will want to know that you live."

Buntaro came in some time later. He removed his helmet. Snow and ice and had scratched his face. His worg, Tsali, bounded behind him. The wolf sniffed me, and licked my face. My body ached, I could not move my legs without great pain. Still, I rolled over and rubbed Tsali’s head.

"Ahh, you look well," the orc said. "Strong enough to tear the ears off a kodo!"

With pain, I laughed.

"I feel more as if a kodo stomped on me," I replied. "I am called Yasmeen."

"Buntaro," he said, saluting with a strike to the chest.

"Why am I alive, Buntaro?" I asked.

Buntaro shrugged.

"Because we are allied in this conflict?" he said. "Because the Lich King is enemy to all that lives? Because I shuddered at the thought of you raised as a Death Knight?"

That should be reason enough.

"I owe so much to you," I said.

"You owe me nothing. There need be no reason at all," Buntaro added. "None except that you fought well, and that you suffered. Now, you will heal in time."

My mind drifted back to my last scattered memories of the battle.

"The others who fought with me? Are there others?"

Saddened, he shook his head.

"Our warriors found no others alive," he said. "We lit a pyre for their bodies. We know this is not your custom, but war demands dirty things."

Humans often burn or bury their dead. Draenei light sacred lanterns for those who pass. The Lich King raises our dead to fight for him. They had burned my comrades in the field like a massive pile of garbage, destroying their usefulness to our enemy. I knew this, yet it still made me sick. Passing into valiant glory to the Naaru, the Centurions deserved far better.

"I must," I choked through my grief. "Please, I must at least find my way back to the Alliance."

Only there could I find the priests and report the fate of the Centurions. Only then could I see the funeral rites observed.

"Oh Yasmeen," Buntaro said. "You have a spirit of ten warriors within you. You will live. Though now, you can barely walk."

I fell back into the cot surrendering to my weakness.

"I promise, you will be tended to," he said. "I’ll advise you of all that transpires. Until then, heal."

I spent many more days helpless on that cot. Bored, I spoke to the wounded gathered there. These wounded warriors passed the tedium with old songs. Soon, I learned the rudiments of their language when I joined them. Nurse Applewood, though terrifying to behold, showed a kindness of soul. Checking on us twice daily, she cleaned my wounds. When I had healed, well enough walk, Buntaro came to me once more. He smiled widely with excitement and joy.

"Yasmeen," he said puffing his chest. "Tonight, you are well? Yes? You are healthy?"

"I am," I said.

"Then you must come with me to the great hall tonight," he said. "Our warriors have slain Baron Rivendare!"

"What?" I jumped up from my bedside. "I thought it would be impossible!"

"Ha ha!" laughed Buntaro. "We have hammered at Naxxramas for weeks, winnowing out its defenders! Last night, we struck a crippling blow!"

"Buntaro, you spin stories!" I chided.

"I would not lie," he said. He threw on a hefty cloak over me. "See his head for yourself!"

I arrived in the great hall. Orange bonfires burned upon the open ground, sending smoke through the vents above. Trolls and Orcs reveled around the fires. And there were women here among the men. For the Draenei do not always join genders in celebration, and never would anyone except a harlot dance as lewdly as these women of the Orcs and Trolls do.

Never had I seen such freedom.

A column of warriors and their shaman marched around the hall. Upon a tall halberd was stuck the unmistakable frozen head of Baron Rivendare. I had seen this man. I had seen his unforgiving, fierce, sneer as he led the armies of the dead to battle. Now, I saw him as dead trophy. His empty eyes darted in opposite directions, and his bloodied jaw hung loose. The indignity of him upon the spike excited me. The orcs had slain a monster.

Buntaro invited me to a long table. We were served thick red drinks and the tough meat of the great bovine creatures of Northrend. The orcs, they spiced their food in ways I had not had. It was a hearty meal for a well deserved victory.

The orc women joined their men as equals. One of them sat in between two men and I sensed from their laughter and speaking that they were friends. The larger of the two men toasted at the table. I joined them. After which, this orc looked to me. I did not understand their language fully yet. I only heard "chun’puq" said several times, and more than once this was said while looking at me.

"What did he say, Buntaro?"

"He said… umm… ‘very lovely woman’," he sighed.

"Lovely woman?" I squinted my eyes in skepticism.

"Well, in truth, it’s one of those sayings that don’t translate well…"

"What did he call me, Buntaro?"

He gulped and replied in candor.

"He said ‘innocent wardling.’ It’s what we call warriors who have seen no battles."

My skin went hot with anger. I stood on my hooves and shoved my way before the large orc.

"Chun’puq?" I said pointing to myself, while glaring with all my offense. "Me. Chun’puq?!"

The large orc looked to me with no passion. He turned his eyes away from me and sipped his drink like a dainty human princess.

"Dabo. Chun’puq," he taunted.

He was a fool to turn his back to me.

I grabbed him under his arms, and hurled him to the ground from his chair. The woman and his other comrade shot up from their seats. The large orc jumped up from his back, and his fist struck me in the cheek.

"Chun’puq!" he roared. I charged him in anger and his companions attempted to intercede, but Buntaro spread his arms in front of them. Half the eyes of the halls were upon me and the large orc as we fought each other. He bruised my cheek with his fist. I bashed his forehead with my horn. He stumbled back shouting curses in pain, small drips of blood dripped from my horn and his wound.

He made for me again, then Buntaro intercept him. The two orcs exchanged impassioned words. The orc woman said something in a cuttingly sarcastic tone. The brute grumbled and wandered way. The woman looked to me and said nothing, but she inlined her head in respect towards me. She grabbed her other male comrade and went towards the dancers around the fires.

"What was all that?" I said to Buntaro.

"That’s Taluv," explained Buntaro. "He doesn’t think… ummm… ‘a kin to demons who stinks of humanity’ deserves to celebrate in our hall."

"He said that?"

"I told him all the living deserve to celebrate," Buntaro added. "And then Daedra over them asked him if it was flaccid or if it fell off completely this time."

I chuckled.

"Are orcs always so direct in their insults?"

"Only matters because Taluv has wanted to Koh’stagig with Daedra for the past five battles."

"What’s that?"

"Uh… I know the alliance chants prayers for the departed?" he said. "What do you Draenei do?"

"We recite the last rites and burn the spirit lantern so the dead may find their way to the Naaru’s bossum," I said. "What, did Taluv want to bury the dead with her or something?"

"Not really…" said Buntaro. "Orcs, you see, we were a nomadic people. We had little privacy. So, when warriors die, we have still celebrate their life…"

"Like the chant to the Naaru?"

"You know what? Easier to show you," said Buntaro.

Near one of the great fires, Daedra and her male danced together. Buntaro and I joined the semi circle of chanting, clapping, Horde surrounding them. I imitated the chant, not knowing what it was. I did not care, for Daedra and her male already undid their armor, their muscular scarred skin glistened with sweat against the light of the fire. Daedra danced as I had never seen a woman dance. Arms spread wide, her great hind grinding back and forth against her male. Her breasts shown free, welcoming the touch of the man behind her.

Daedra shouted something to the crowd. They cheered with it. Then she dropped her loin cloth completely, leaned forward, and her male penetrated her from behind. There was this incredible joy there, an excitement I’d not experienced in ages. Yet here, all of this orcs, had no doubt lost brothers, friends, and peers in the clashes with Lich King’s army. But what is they did? No chants or dreary songs. No, these Orcs found solace in the combat’s kinder sister, its counter part and near opposite. Instead of layers of armor, vulnerable flesh was displayed for all to see. Instead of angry strikes intended to kill, a tender touch was given to enliven. Instead of shouts of despair, came the cries of sexual bliss.

Oh I wanted this. Would they share this ritual with me?

I grabbed Buntaro by the arm and turned him towards me.

"Koh’stagig with me, Buntaro," I said.

"What?"

"You heard me. I was clear!"

Buntaro glanced around at his comrades, nervous and uncertain.

"You said the celebration belongs to all those who live!" I said. "Is it a woman? Is there one who would forbid you from this?"

"Well no," he said.

"Koh’stagig with me," I repeated. "I am alive! My companions are dead! This is what must be done."

Buntaro looked in sympathy, but then turned away.

"It might be.." he began.

I whipped my hand around to strike him. He caught it in a firm fist. With breath hastening, his eyes focused on me like a wild feral beast. Mine did too.

"Don’t make me fight you too," I said.

"Alright," he growled.

Buntaro hefted me over his shoulder, he brushed away the plates and bowls in a clatter, and then he dropped my back to a table, and tore at the cloth at my chest. He undid his garments, crawling on top of me. His mighty pectorals, brushed over my bare breasts. Then, I took the first kiss from him. Oh, this mighty Orc, brave and honorable, had my heart and my hips melting. I wrapped my hooves around his body, pressing my sex towards him, and getting wetter. Soon, the same chant broke up around us. Buntaro removed more and more of my clothes, bending me over, and swatting the great round cheeks of my hind. By the prophets, I did not care for verses of the Naaru. I cared not for what the demands of the Draenei upon me.

I cared for nothing but Buntaro. When he opened his loins at last, and drove his warm shaft inside me, I became enraptured and filled with joy. Buntaro celebrated life with me, and my wounded soul found its healing that night.

Over the coming weeks, my wounds healed fully. The damage to my armor could not be repaired without materials from the Exodar. My sacred hammer stayed strong enough, and I spent afternoons sparing with the Horde and learning more of the language common to them. It was then that I became acquainted with Captain Soyora. Her ship transported troops, metals, and food for Horde and Alliance alike. "War is good for business, lass. Peace is good for business too," she said when I asked how she managed to traverse both sides. I thought perhaps Soyora could find the rare quartz and minerals from the Exodar to repair my broken shoulder pads and grieves, but I sighed knowing that even if she could, no smith in Warsong Hold could work with it.

"I’m contracted for the Horde for the next few months anyway, lass," she shrugged. "I can check for it in Ratchett. Goblins can get their hands on anything. Say… after that I could transport you back to the Stormwind side. Sure they’d love to see a survivor of the great Wyrmhearts."

The offer upset me. It surprised me how much so, but the other side of the continent was far from Buntaro, Tsali, and revelries in the great hall. Furthermore, I had learned that the Horde spear-headed further incursions into Naxxramas, that filthy citadel that no doubt commanded the legions which slaughtered my compatriots.

"Soyora, can you get me anything? Something the Horde smiths can used to augment my arms?"

She smiled at me, knowing no doubt, of Buntaro.

"Yeah I think I can," she said. "Might have just the thing for you. What should I tell the Alliance about the Wyrmheart Centurions?"

I shrugged.

"Tell them nothing," I said. "They believe the Wyrmhearts are dead, and so they are."

The Horde Smith outfitted me with armor blessed by their Shamans. A contingent of Blood Elves had even enchanted my armor further. Soon Buntaro and their warriors judged I had learned enough of their language to join them in battle.

Oh what battles they were! We trudged through the snow, and ice, tracking the small bands of walking dead. We moved in small bands, and skirmished against hulking abominations, their necromancers, and their death knights. Not once did we show the death knights mercy. On the contrary, those traitors were our targets. I exorcised more than one myself, sending those perverse mockeries to their true deaths. One wandered alone and distant from support. The limp in her walk betrayed her wounds, but the glow of her sword showed she could be a threat. Our concealed team thought to capture the death knight, and Buntaro raised a special arrow designed to paralyze. I had nothing of it. Rather, I stepped out into the ice and challenged her to single combat.

Even Buntaro was aghast at my savagery. The wounded death knight fought well, and fought hard, but in the end, I bashed her armor in with my maul.

We found a missive on her body. It covered recent troop movements, and counted numbers of the dead at Naxxramas. Taking it to our superiors, they examined the information and debated over three days over what to do. On that fourth day, we had new orders. Naxxramas was in disarray, and had grown vulnerable. Therefore, we had a chance to destroy its usefulness to the Lich King.

It had been one of the largest operations I had ever been in. We fought through stinking halls, slaying mindless zombies and their semi-sentient masters. Battered, we even held our ground against a great Dracolich, the most menacing I’d ever seen. A third of our soldiers were slain or frozen at the end of the battle, but for all that cost we brought the skull of great necromancer Kel’Thuzad and his Dracolich to Warsong Hold.

Buntaro and I led the first celebration that night. Orcs, Trolls, and even the comparatively prudish Blood Elves chanted and clapped while a rubbed my bare skin to him. I unbuckled my lover’s scaled metal armor and dropped my own breastplate to the floor with a clunk. I rubbed his mighty chest, and let him kiss me deeply. Reaching down, my hand took hold of his hard cock, it throbbed with life.

I got to my knees before him, ripped apart the leather that held it from me. I licked his stiff member, from his sack up to the tip, teasing him. I pleased him slow, savoring the saltiness of his shaft. Saliva came off my lips, and mixed with the clear drops of fluid that dripped from his tip. The chants and the claps meshed with the sound of his moans.

Buntaro grabbed my horns, and held my face. He jabbed his cock into my mouth, and I gaped wide. I choked and gagged against my lovers cock, growing ever wetter myself. His thrusting had the thrill of combat to them, and the danger of his invasion of my throat heightened the pleasure. Once he yanked out, I panted for air and a stream of spittle stretched from my lips to his cock. Buntaro undid the rest of armor, as I did mine. He threw me to my back, and hefted my hips to the air.

Buntaro took my front hole first. Then once he sent my juices upon his man hood, he slipped himself into my back hole. That stretching! Never would I forget how good it felt, getting fucked by Buntaro there. My mind slipped into a dizzy haze there in the great hall. I cried out as if in battle, looking to the dead skull of the dracolich, with a bonfire roasting within it. Many lovers engaged each other around it. Even Soyora had found a handsome Blood Elf to make hers.

Our victories and our sex continued. Months later, a combined force of Alliance and Horde had pincered upon the Lich King’s lair of Ice Crown itself. Invading warriors had at last slain the Lich King and the armies prepared themselves for departures.

Alas, that is when I learned of the traitor.

One of Soyora’s sailors had grown sick from his food, and I grew suspicious. When Nurse Applewood tended to him, I sensed that she recognized his symptoms too well. I demanded she speak to me, and she refused to talk. Instead, she bid me to hide new of Henslow’s apothecary, and eavesdrop on their conversations. His words, though difficult to understand, were unmistakable. He had concocted a poison, which when released on rations, would cause a malaise upon the returning troops of the Alliance. Our poor sailor had been a test subject. All this, I would learn later, had been commanded in secret from the undead masters in Undercity.

Nurse Applewood left, and so did I. I returned less than hour later, with my warhammer in hand.

All this I shared with Giles. Soyora had confirmed much of the story. I trembled in doing so. For I knew not how he regarded me. I feared, in truth, that he perceive me as a derelict, a deserter, or worse a traitor as the Alliance of Northrend had so long ago. I had been naked with Giles, but never had I been so vulnerable.

"Oh, thousand hells," he moaned. "Yasmeen, I came to Stormwind for a few simple fights and an easy station. Do you know what you ask of me?"

"We ask you to risk much to help us," I said, "and to save a orc who you have no reason to care for."

"But you care for him deeply," said Giles. "Then, I must care for him too. Yasmeen, I cannot deny you, but you cannot stay with him here."

"They’ll be on the Hammerhead the night we rescue him," interjected Soyora.

Giles shook his head.

"The guard is doubled at the docks," he said. "They’re poised to lock down the whole harbor if even one prisoner gets out. But there could be another way…"

And so, began our plan to rescue Buntaro.

To Be Continued

Become a Patron!

Comments closed

The Loss and Lust of the Lightwarden: Part 02

Author’s Note: Wrath of the Lich King

This Story takes place just after the events of “Wrath of the Lich King” and on the alliance side. Please support more work like this because there are more.
Become a Patron!

A Lightwarden’s Secret

Weeks went by quietly in Goldshire. Merchants traveled through with their wares. Our blacksmith clanged hot iron into tools and weapons. Farmers threshed their fields and sent their wheat and barley to the great cities. New members of the guard replaced the old, some frustratingly immune to bribes. Gathering my silks from Silvermoon proved harder, and I sent messages to Booty Bay inquiring about possible shipments of enchanted cloth and other trinkets too hard to find on this side of the world. My wounds healed without a scar, militia men whose injuries had become septic came to me, and I cured them as discreetly as I could.

But I was drained. I was tired, and languid. An orc Shaman, her name was Daedra, called the feeling ‘the barren tree’, for she said that expending so much mana through combat left you like a solitary fruit tree, begging to be watered, so it might bear fruit again. The shamans depended on their people to replenish themselves, and so I too had studied their rituals.

That nervous archer? I learned he was called Rhombur. His grandfather had been a knight of the second war who raised the son and grandson alike on tales of fighting. After the battle, Rhombur grew curious of me, wondering where I learned to fight. I offered him a deal: hit three bull’s eyes out of twenty arrows and he could not only join me in a performance, but I would share with him exactly one story.

I did not think a young man with work on a farm would have much chance to dedicate to archery, but he persisted. He fulfilled his goal, and Lyria herself confirmed it.

So there, I danced before his fascinated, soft brown eyes, stripping myself of my silks while the men and women of Goldshire cheered on. Lyria had completely forgone her own breeches then and rubbed herself. Half the audience enjoyed watching her. Not letting her steal my performance, I dragged Rhombur up on stage. He hoisted me up in the air, my legs wrapped around his hips. He possessed near as much strength as the Orcs of Warsong hold. He turned me around outwards. I relished in my nakedness, baring my chest and arms for the masturbating crowd.

When Rhombur bent me over a barrel, my legs spread on instinct. He went down, running his tongue around my pussy. As he imbibed, so I became drunk with enjoyment. Rhombur removed his clothes. I found his tanned skin beautiful and stretched with muscle. He aimed his cock and collected his reward for his marksmanship. This young man had only recently seen real conflict. He fucked me with the passion as only one with something to prove does. Yes, I enjoyed allowing him to enter in my show, and yes, I knew I would fulfill my promise to him.

I took my young lover upstairs with me. There, I started a fire within my hearth and bid him to lie with me on the rugs before it. Curled next to me, with his hands rubbing my body, he asked for a story. I began like this: I supported regular soldiers in the Howling Fjord. It is cold, empty tundra south of nearly impassable mountains. We had been assigned to assess the threat of these half-giants known as Vykrul. Rhombur hardly believed such beings existed. We escorted a cleric, whose purpose had been to establish diplomatic ties. Vykrul though are wrathful and brutish. They hurled stones upon us. Were it not for the cleric’s quick shielding, he surely would’ve been crushed. I guided soldiers to safety, but we found ourselves pinned between an over snowed path to our east and half-giants to our west.

While our compatriots kept the Vykrul distracted with spawned elementals of fire, I guided four up a mountain side.

Then, my soldiers and I flanked the Vykrul. We slayed those who did not surrender and captured two. The alliance held them as prisoners for two weeks. Only then did the half-giants decide it was time to talk.

"Wouldn’t it have been better to fight your way through?" said Rhombur.

"Ah no," I said. "Our mission was against the Lich King. The half-giants? They might have been allies in better times."

"So what did you agree to?"

"We kept their prisoner’s hostage," I said. "Until the Vykrul agreed to allow us passage."

"That’s a small victory," said Rhombur. His meaty arms squeezed my chest.

"It is," I said. "And that is my story."

"Can I ask another question?" he said.

"You may," I said.

"Why do you not enlist again with Stormwind?" he said. "Why do you stay here? Is it only for joy of dancing? You could save lives."

Rhombur had never left Elwynn forest, had barely shed blood and had a thirst for the world beyond his village. I turned my face away from him.

"Yasmeen, I’m sorry I didn’t mean…"

"It is fine," I said. "Listen, for this is truth: when I returned to the alliance, they accused me of treachery and attempting to sabotage their rations. When I had made tremendous sacrifice to warn them of the true saboteur. I had a cure with me."

Remembering how I must have appeared to the Alliance when I returned from the Horde side, I shuddered at the memory. I arrived on a ship called the Hammerhead, known well to work for Horde and Alliance alike. My armor had been a collection of Exodar crystals patched with Orcish metal. Taurens had stitched my warm furs. I carried a precious, and malignant, journal from an undead alchemist. The crate of unmarked bottles no doubt invited suspicion.

"They would not listen and threw me into the brig. It wasn’t until a commander’s own son grew ill that they used the antidote I brought with me."

"Returned?"

By the prophets, I spoke too much. I nodded, with my lips tight.

"By the light, Yasmeen," he continued. "They treated you horribly. Did they bring you home in chains, like an animal?"

I shook my head.

"They released me. I could have taken a boat back to Stormwind. Instead though, I discovered a merchant vessel with a handsome captain. The seas are lonesome, and I cared not where I would go."

I looked back to Rhombur. His face displayed awe of me. He considered my action brave. I judged it one of despair.

"Rhombur, you wish to join the Stormwind guard? To fight for the Alliance?" I said. "Do you wish to see the Vykruls, or the beasts of the barrens, or even the great mushroom forests in Outland?"

"Yes."

"Then do not let my sad stories deter you," I said. "Be brave and seek your adventures."

I smiled. My young lover’s tongue thrust onto mine. He pressed so hard, and so deep. Amazing, it is, that such a small muscle can do so much. Slipping into a distracted bliss, I had to push him away lest I forget what else must be done. I retrieved a set of candles, four of them, each marked with runes from the shamans.

"Rhombur, help me light them," I said. "Then please, do not be disturbed with what I speak next."

"What are we doing?" he said. His eager arousal pleased me. To tease hadn’t been the idea, but it was fun.

"It is a simple ritual," I said. We lit the candles then I placed them on the ground. Whispering my accented orcish over them, I waved my hands. The magic ebbed in the air, and my recitation completed. In a glow, a small totem appeared in the center. It looked like a wooded stump, with its top carved into a bowl, filled with water as blue as the moon wells.

"By the light!" he said. Shamanic magic is nearly unknown in the Alliance lands, most certainly of all in villages like Goldshire.

"The Horde calls it a mana tide totem," I said. I dipped my hand into its pool and sprinkled some on my skin, and then onto Rhombur. "I need to energize, but first we must energize it."

After leading Rhombur into my bed, I fell to my back, and he rolled on top of me. Oh yes, he kissed me deep again, and pressed my hands above my head. Pinned there, I kicked my legs into the air. His cock rubbed up and down the slit of my pussy. His breath became heavier and deeper. He pushed into me, and we moaned together.

"Fuck me," I said.

Rhombur slammed his hips into me in explosive successions. His passion had a primal nature to it, and soon the tide totem bubbled. Next, I begged him for a new position, and Rhombur turned me over to my belly, penetrating me once again. The tide’s water flowed out to a single ethereal stream of mana, and it flowed into me. So invigorated, I could not hold back my orgasm. I came hard as Rhombur’s muscular arms leaned over me. He pulled out, panting, and I lay there to recover.

Rhomubr gazed at the small streams of mana. It flowed like a river towards me.

"It’s beautiful," he said.

"Isn’t it?" I said. I rolled him to his back, and took position above him. When my arms raised, the rivers flowed faster to me. He enjoyed the view, and I enjoyed the ride.

While I bid Rhombur not to share my tale, it was perhaps silly of me to expect silence in such a small village. The talk of "Vykruls" spread through Goldshire. Innkeeper Farley asked if such a thing was true. I sighed and shared it was.

"A good thing such beasts are so far north," said Farley. "my inn could not withstand such monsters."

"Goldshire is quiet," I agreed. It was why I was here. "Let us not take it for granted."

"Not in the least," agreed Farley.

He was right. We had no further trouble with Gnolls, yet Lyria’s militia trained hard. Rhombur’s dedication to his bow did not lapse either. Searching out new equipment, or inquiring about service to the Stormwind guard, some from our village traveled to Stormwind.

Then one day, someone came down after them. My long-lost friend captain Soyora trespassed into the Goldshire inn. No shame of my nudity do I have with her. Far too long had I known this independent sea captain and her crew. She held her dark brown hair back with a red ribbon. Her brown hands showed the callouses of years on the ocean. Winking, she took a sly sip of her ale. Damn her and those large eyes. What was she doing here?

"Soyora?" I said serving her her meal

"Oi there, Yasmeen," she said. "Been a few seasons, hasn’t it?"

"Many," I said.

Maybe it hadn’t been long enough. I bore Soyora no malice, well perhaps a little. Her ship, the Hammerhead, and its crew refused me passage back at the end of the Lich King’s war. Yes, the ship had transported Alliance soldiers and Horde warriors for months, but it was one Draenei Paladin that ignited the superstitions of sailors. Still, my brash zealotry had earned me such a reputation.

I learned of Soyora’s time since the war. Soyora and her crew had taken in a few veterans of both the Horde side and the Alliance side. Now, the Hammerhead had been retrofitted for combat as much as transport. They worked mercenary contracts in port towns, and escorted explorers in lands as harsh as the great Un’Goro crater.

"Never come this far inland usually," added Soyora. "Not unless I am looking for something or someone, quite specific."

I sighed.

"How did you find me, Soyora?"

"Sailors tell stories. We listen too," she said. "Heard this rumor of a gorgeous dancing Draenei in a tiny village. Then I heard reports of a skirmish in which a tavern maid healed half the wounded. Next, some other parochial comes up and insists that Vykruls are real."

Swigging down her drink, she patted my hand

"Only one person that could be, Yasmeen," she said. "Still, I had to see for myself."

"You got me, capitan," I said. "Now what did you come down here for?"

Soyora looked around for any prying ears.

"It’s Buntaro, lass," she said.

My heart palpitated. I took in a sharp breath. Anxious, and with a sudden focus, I looked to Soyora for any reassurance.

"After you left, we sailed the Hammerhead back to the horde side of Northrend," she said. "Dumb thing. Dangerous thing. But Buntaro? We caught up with him in that village outside the hold. He wasn’t exactly banished, you see, but there wasn’t exactly any going back either."

The deeds of a warrior’s Kolapi reflect on the warrior. Hanging my head, I recalled the chaos I caused.

"It was all quite political. Orcs didn’t appreciate what the Forsaken did, but undead didn’t like the murder," she said. "I mean, as far as it is possible to murder what’s dead."

"What happened to him?" I blurted.

"Come on outside?" said Soyora. Following her, I arrived at the animal stables. There, she opened a wolf pen and out came Tsali, fur of thick gray and black. The sad wolf looked to me, sniffed, and then his tail wagged and he licked my hand. I knelt down, petting the beautiful strong worg. He sniffed my face with affection.

"Buntaro worked with us," she said. "The crew loves him. Some Alliance bounty hunter pinched him in Stranglethorn not more than six weeks ago."

I froze stiff.

"Who?"

"Who what?"

"Who was it that captured my Kolapi?" I demanded.

"A Gilnean ranger. He’s called Jondreas, why?"

I shared with Soyora the long story of Jondreas’s visit through Goldshire, about his prisoner cage, and how he carried himself during the battle several weeks back. We both realized, right down to the timing, that Buntaro had been the unknown captive within Jondreas’s cart. My long lost Kolapi had been so close to me, only to see him carted off. Clenching my fist, I declared that I would have killed Jondreas myself, had I only known.

"Don’t be hard on yourself," said Soyora. "You couldn’t have known. And this Jondreas fellow? He’s sharp with the poisons and such. Likely had Buntaro sedated half that trip."

"Where is he now?"

"In the Stockades. He’s waiting a trial for something he maybe did for a client out in possibly Theremore."

"Your ship?" I asked.

"Stormwind doesn’t know the Hammerhead," she said. "She’s docked in the Harbor. We’re not leaving until we get him back."

After the defeat of the Lich King, my days in Nothrend were numbered. Warsong Hold, the home not of the human alliance, but the orcish horde, had been my home. Great stone walls kept great hall of the Orc’s safe. There, I reveled in my dented, stained, and dirty armor among Orcs, Trolls, and Hulking Tauren. The drums banged a mystical rhythm. The bony horns blared anthems. Bonfires within kept the large open hall warm. Skulls of our undead enemies and even a great dracolich hung as trophies to all we had accomplished. Orcs sang and beat their chest in a language I understood better. These people, so long had their people known conflict, diaspora, and violence that they held one great thing before and after legendary battles: A frenzied celebration of life.

One warrior took his partner, that Shaman Daedra, at her waist and held her high in the air. Chugging down a flagon, and discarding the dragon scale chest plate and the shirt beneath it, she was admired by all. Bare breasted, she showed herself to the hollers of the horde. Her mate took her down as if to wrestle against her. Wrestle they did, and this great warrior tore the remaining armor off his mate and then undid his own. He turned Daedra over to her knees, and penetrated her. Thrusting and bringing her to a guttural howling, he raised his great arms out wide.

Who would join next? My Buntaro cradled me. He was a orc, like many of them here. His skin a clear green against my Draenei pale blue. The metal of my breast plate, cold and heavy, offered me no protection from the lust I felt, and the lust I had shared so many times. I allowed my Buntaro to release the buckles and latches of that metal shell, and his rough hot hands caressed my torso. Lifting my face to him, I shared a vivacious and deep kiss. For months, I had been vulnerable among my horde hosts, and in those months Buntaro had been my guide, my comrade, and my lover.

We were alive. Others were not. So we celebrated in hedonism as chaotic and strenuous as battle itself.

But even as our victory had been assured, another conflict had arisen. Many night’s later, I stood over the ragged corpse of the treacherous, undead, apothecary Arthur Henslowe. My hammer still had the filth of his blackened blood upon it. Tears of wrath ran down my cheeks. Soyora, having seen it shook her head stunned at what I done.

"This will be the end of both of us here, Yasmeen," she had said.

"I do not care," I answered.

Moments later, the undead nurse Applewood came in followed by Buntaro and his wolf Tsali. The wolf sniffed the corpse and Buntaro, looked at me with sadness. We grieved together, not for what I had done, but that he could no longer protect me here. We knew I would be sent away. He held me close, weeping. We both knew that someday I would return to the Alliance. Nurse Applewood dug into Arthur Henslowe’s desk. She brought out his book of notes, and then a crate of vials of blue liquid.

"Always. There is an antidote," she coughed through her dry lungs.

"Thank you," I said. Part of me had cringed at her, still, despite all that she had done for me. Still, she was kind. She was good, no matter what her masters had demanded of her. "I will not forget you."

"Nor I you," she said.

"We must go, my Kolapi," said Buntaro. Kolapi. It meant both ‘primary lover’ and ‘peer in battle.’ So many words that the Alliance could not understand. "I must see you safe one last time."

Soyora gathered her crew that evening. I had little left I cared for. We made for the Hammerhead under the cover of night. With the antidotes and book we boarded. Her tired crew hoisted the sails and drifted across the still icy sea, heading east, towards the Alliance on the other side of Northrend. I looked back. Buntaro watched me until our boat disappeared over the horizon.

Captain Soyora and I knew there would be only one way to get this done. We had to sneak out Buntaro of the stockades, which means someone would have to sneak in first. We walked together into the city of Stormwind, stepping on its white granite stone streets and cross over its many canal bridges. Buildings crowded together here, sometimes reaching three or four narrow stories high. Gnomes and Dwarves were as comfortable here as they were in their own homes. The night elves, that distant race of tall elves from Kalimdor, also disembarked their ships in the city docks. These days? Even my kin, the Draenei had found places to call their home here. It is refreshing, I admit, to hear your own language among patrons of taverns and even bustle of the merchant quarter.

As a obvious choice, I signed up for the Stormwind guard. My first day began with an assessment of my skills. Armored up with wooden practice equipment, I challenged other recruits and even several veterans. My reputation, damn that reputation, preceded me. Several recruits underestimated the dancing harlot of Goldshire, and they paid the prices in bruises and embarrassment.

But I did not demonstrate for myself, or for even a rank in the Stormwind guard. My Kolapi languished in a cell inside the stockades, and I remembered that every time I stepped into the circle to spar.

Things got complicated when Giles entered the ring. With skills matched, our fight lasted longer than most. I yielded to him, if only to get his attention after our bout. The officers of the guard advised me they would give me the assignment soon. Giles invited me to the Pig and Whistle in one of the Stormwind’s older districts. There, Soyora joined us and we drank and ate.

"They stationed me in the stockades, at my request," said Giles. "Though now? They moved me out to night patrols."

"Stockades must’ve been crazy?" I said.

"Tame my first few weeks," he said. "The trick was keeping prisoners separate. Humans didn’t trust Orcs. Orcs didn’t trust each other. We had some of, oh what did they call themselves, ‘true horde’ in there."

"The Black Rock clan," I said.

"Yes them. They’re the worst," he said.

Black Rocks. I’d never encountered them, but only knew what they were. Buntaro shared stories of dragon worshiping fanatics, holed up in some mountain, who hated his people and the feelings were mutual. What could such beasts be like once caged?

"So did you keep the orcs separate? Once you learned who they were?"

Giles nodded.

"If they fought, we figured they must be on different sides," he said. "Now why are you so interested, Yasmeen?"

"She needs to get into the stockades," said Soyora.

Looking to Soyora, Giles squinted.

"She’s a friend, Giles," I said. "I wish to serve Stormwind. I want to be stationed in the stockades."

Giles crossed his arms incredulously. Soyora sighed. She was always better at bluffing than I was.

"Yasmeen, if you wanted a war or something, you’ll find one there," Giles said. "The prisoners have been rioting for the past week solid. Guards lost control."

"No!" I gasped. For once, I thought of my Buntaro as captured, yet safe. Now though, he might be the only horde orc surrounded by Black Rock warriors. Giles caught my fear. He glanced to Soyora, who stayed tight lipped and gave no explanation.

"Giles, we must go in there," I said. "I must pull someone out."

"A prisoner?" said Giles.

"Let’s say he needs to stand trial," said Soyora. "That’s a good reason isn’t it?"

"For me to charge into the stockades with you?" said Giles. "Yasmeen, I care for you. We’ve shared much together."

He uncrossed his arms and held his hands up.

"You ask much of me? Can I not at least get from you the truth?"

I took his hand and held it.

"Who in the stockades could possibly be so important, Yasmeen?"

To Be Continued

Become a Patron!

Comments closed

The Loss and Lust of the Lightwarden: Part 01

Author’s Note: Wrath of the Lich King

This Story takes place just after the events of “Wrath of the Lich King” and on the alliance side. Please enjoy and support more work like this.
Become a Patron!

A Draenei Defiled

I never went back to the Exodar. It beckoned me still too close to the crown of the world. The chill of Azuremyst isle offered me no comfort. By the Naaru, duty did not compel me either. I had given my duty and the light of the Naaru did not shine upon me when I shivered alone with only freezing blood to seal my wounds. No, I had explored the world I fought to save. I had gone south, across the sea, and across the sea again.

Now far inland, my hooves clopped along the cobblestone roads of Goldshire. I carried precious silken luxuries and a single leather pouch. Smugglers had taken them from Silvermoon to Stormwind where I retrieved them. These silks are for pleasure, and for love. Neither of which shall I be ashamed of. Yet, near my destination, I crossed the village training corral. Soldiers from the human city had been thin. Far too many had been sent to the north, and far too few had returned. Here then, Lyria Du Lac, dressed in her unblemished armor drew her wooden practice sword and incited the new recruits.

In a village this small, so little entertains me. Who, after all, entertains the entertainers? I wandered to the benches around the wooden fence. The first farmhand recruit charged like an unruly bull. He was large and believed his girth compensated for lack of skill. But straight charges are predictable. Lyria dodged and redirected his weight with her shield. He stumbled on her greaves and fell face first into the mud. Lyria turned and pulled him up. Her eyes caught mine. Would that I had my veil, but all villagers know the only Draenei here. Veils do not conceal horns.

The next challenger stood up. Tall. His hair a tussled black mess. Oh, and his eyes, bright blue, outlined with the dark circles that marked him as a veteran. This man placed down a ceramic urn as if it was his child on a bench behind him. Then he grabbed a wooden shield and practice sword and prowled around Lyria. Lyria lunged first. He blocked her then let out a bestial shout. They engaged each other. Grunts and sweat exuded from this challenger. He endured the firm whaps of wood on his exposed arms. Oh, I enjoyed seeing him fight.

This is my perversion. By the Naaru, this is what brings me shame.

The stranger dropped from a final blow. One he took intentionally, I could tell. For he fell too hard for Lyria’s indirect strike. So Lyria won the duel. She held up the stranger’s arm high, declaring praises of his ability to the peasant recruits. She dismissed her class, then made her way to me.

“Yasmeen,” she spoke my name with warmth. She brushed a sweaty lock of auburn hair aside, “Is the barmaid interested in joining my patrols?”

“Oh no. Never could I handle such training,” I stammered.

“You wouldn’t need it though would you?” she said.

“What?” I gasped.

Lyria’s face spread into a knowing smile. Her eyes saw right through me. Oh prophets, why did I not wear my veil?

“You’ve never been a good bluffer, and you come here and you don’t just watch. You judge. You inspect,” said Lyria. She dropped her gauntlet and her bare hand squeezed my shoulder. “And from what I’ve seen? You don’t have the body of a dainty tailor. You don’t develop an ass like yours on the farms either.”

I pushed her hand away.

“Draenei woman are not so forward,” I feigned offense. Lyria laughed subtly at the attempt.

“Well whatever it is, Yasmeen,” she said. “You’re no wandering bard. Let me know when you’re ready to spar.”

A thousand fel curses on my perversions. I excused myself into the relative sanctuary of the Goldshire Inn. There is a room there that is mine. All mine. I fluttered out the fresh Elven silks. The glossy shimmers of purple replaced the drab cotton. A curtain frame, also smuggled from Silvermoon, hung above my bed bare of any cloth. I added the translucent sheets. A heavy woolen top blanket completed my new bed chambers, perfect for my next man.

Tonight though, I would not forget my veil. My clothing trunks held an eclectic collection of outfits from the scarlet dress given to me by a pirate lord, to a leather bodice crafted for me in Darnassus, and the sari I found at a Gadgetzan tailor. Tonight though, I would try on my new Elven silks. It was a skirt that met with my knees and fit tightly around the roundness of ‘my ass’ as Lyria called it. It’s top, though modest, invited all to imagine the shape of my breasts. Perhaps though it had revealed too much of my shoulders? Alas, I cared not for what Lyria had said.

That night, I stepped down to the early evening crowd. Farley, my innkeeper and employer, beckoned me to him.

“You look stunning, Yasmeen,” he said. “We expect a show?”

“Yes,” I said. I tilted my head flirtatiously and curtsied in my skirt. Farley is a good man. Were it not always so complicated with employers, I would share his bed as I had that captain who took me to Ratchet.

“All right,” he said. He gestured to the bar where drinks lay. “Tables await.”

I took drinks to tables, watching for men who may be trouble, and for men who may have deep pockets. Women too, enjoy me. Lyria shared a round with two guardsmen. That same soldier, with his ceramic urn, sat quietly by the fire eating mutton with solemnity. There was no mistaking his boots. Naaru as my witness, they were made from felhide.

“Yasmeen?” came a woman’s voice. I turned and saw Isabelle, dressed in blue mageweave. Her blond hair had grown a stark white though her eyes still shown a bright azure- a side effect of her years as a frost mage. “Was our arrangement fulfilled by the third party?”

“Indeed,” I said. I offered her the leather pouch. Isabelle opened it and inspected the magical glittering dust within. “Our northern friends are satisfactory?”

“More than that,” exclaimed Isabelle. “More dust, and we can rout the gnoll raiders back to whichever holes they come from.”

Most mages do not tarry long in the villages of their birth, but Isabelle held a grudge. Hogger’s Gnoll raiders had slain a rancher she knew from childhood, and she vowed not to leave Goldshire again until the worst of them were driven from Elwynn forest.

“Don’t get caught,” I said.

“By who?” said Isabelle. Her face scrunched into dismay at what she said next. “Hardly a Stormwind footman who won’t turn his eye for a silver left!”

Her spirit was too familiar. People do what they need to live. I shook my head. When I turned I saw the soldier’s blue eyes upon me. I met his, and he did not look away. I wished to know him, and that required something special. In the kitchen, I ordered a tea prepared. I sprinkled in herbs of Sorrowmoss, Silversage, and the last of my Manathistle. I brought to him a piping hot kettle and two cups.

He looked over at the tray before him.

“I ordered no tea,” he said.

“Ah but it’s a special Draenei tea,” I said. “The Outland dust enters the lungs and absorbs into the blood.”

I poured him his first cup. Faint lights sparkled in its stream.

“We sip this upon returning from far expeditions,” I said. “It cleans the blood, and the soul.”

The soldier eyed the glass. Looking at the empty cup next to it.

“Drink it with me?” he said. His voice had lost its suspicion. Instead, it was a mere plea. I poured myself a cup and lifted my veil. We sipped the spicy brew together.

“My name is Giles,” said the soldier.

“I am called Yasmeen.”

“How did you know I had been to Outland?” He cradled his urn.

“The boots,” I said. “They are made from felhide. The cracks in them are red with the color of Outland’s soil.”

“You’ve been to Outland.”

I refused to look away from this one.

“It was another lifetime,” I began. “I fought.”

“Vanguard?”

“Alas no, I entered after the worst of it had been over.”

“It’s never over,” he said. His hand touched the urn one more time. I dared to ask.

“Who?”

“His name was Erwin,” he began. “We shared the same barracks at the Allerian Stronghold. You know it?”

“I do.”

“It’s a long story,” he said. “But when we discovered that he was born in Duskwood, and I born in Redridge, we promised each other that if one fell, the other would bring their ashes home.”

He looked at the urn with pain.

“How?” I asked.

“Illidan’s elves had barricaded themselves in some ruins. We thought we had the upper hand on them. But it was a feint,” he started. “Naga came from behind, and we had the bunker before us and serpents to our flanks.”

I ignored the barkeeper’s signal. Tables could wait.

“Our chance was to aim the siege equipment at the Elven position. It was desperate, and Erwin volunteered with me to operate the catapult. Our allies engaged the Naga. We took arrows and bolts from the Elves. But we succeeded. We launched burning pitch at the barricades, and the Elves had no escape.”

I knew too well what follows that. Black smoke billows in the air. Fire crackles and splatters as it burns fat, flesh, and oil together. The screaming is loud, but it ends quickly. It’s the smell that lingers upon you.

“We sent the Naga retreating,” said Giles, “but not before one hurled a spear through Erwin’s chest.”

I reached out and took his hand. Naaru bless the soldiers who come home.

“And you?” Giles said. “What happened for you to come all the way back here?”

Outland hadn’t been my last tour. Outland had been only where I began. Oh, I wished to tell him. I wished to tell him of the deeds of the Wyrmheart Centurions, but the Centurions are dead. Every last one, and I could not bear to tell him here, in a place with prying ears of those too curious of me.

“You’re not only a serving girl delivering contraband to mages in Goldshire, are you?” he said.

“You’re not only a nice soldier who yields in a fight, so a trainer keeps the respect of her students,” I said.

“Aren’t we both observant,” Giles said.

“Yes. And in truth I am more, and I wish you to see me,” I said.

“What?”

“I will perform soon,” I said. I bowed, displaying my breasts, “Please, take a place near the stage.”

I finished my tea.

The musicians set up on the stage. Dwarves beat their drums and blew into their fifes. I gave Giles an inviting look as I disappeared behind the stage’s curtain. I let him wait. I enjoy letting them wait. On queue I stepped out dressed fit for a harem. Tiny cymbals clanged off my fingers, and bells shimmied at my waist.

This first dance, I had learned from a troll.

The music energized me, and I energized the room. My finger cymbals clapped in time with the percussion and fife. My hips shook, to the left and right, then moved like waves for all to see. Yes, I turned in a circle. All the Goldshire inn admired my huge round cheeks, and my naughty tail flailing about in the inn’s candlelight. Giles, he saw me. I strutted on tables spinning and swinging a bare leg above him. 

I would leave little to the imagination before long. I discarded my finger cymbals at the end of the song and ended my dance in an elegant pose. The next song began, and I wiggled my fingers up the threads of my top. Releasing it, I bared by breasts for the crowd, craning my head back, a motion I’d seen so many times among the harlots of Booty Bay. Yet these motions I had made mine as I combined them with the erotic shake of the hips I’d seen among the trolls.

Lyria De Luc tossed more coins towards my stage. Oh yes, I loved to see her. Giles though? Yes, he tossed a few that way as well. But it was not until a shimmied out of my skirt completely, display my round hind quarters, shaking them towards his face that his coin purse opened completely.

“I want to give you more, stranger,” I whispered into his ear.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Watch,” I said.

I spun to the music once more, shaking my tail, and my chest towards many regulars. I taunted men with blown kisses. I winked at women as well. Lyria placed one leg up on her table and reached her hand into the fly of her breaches.

“All of you! Show yourselves to me!” I shouted.

My regulars obeyed. The Goldshire inn patrons tossed more coins, for it was my price for allowing them to please themselves. The men who watched me whipped out and stroked themselves in time with the music. Though not Giles. Giles kept his hands on his table, yet he could not hide the bulge at his pants. I rolled, and writhed for my audience. Then I kicked one leg in the air, exposing my inner sex. I touched myself, growing wetter with them, inspecting each of their erect cocks.

Which one would I beg to fuck me tonight? Right here? In front of all? A celebration of hedonism. For we are alive, and others are not. Where it any other night, I would take anyone. Or many. But tonight, I only wanted my strange soldier. I only wanted Giles.

“You are nervous,” I said as I danced on his lap.

“I am surprised,” he said to me.

“Have you not seen enough sadness and violence, soldier?” I purred. I reached down and touched the throbbing hardness of his dick.

“I…” 

“Let down your guard,” I began. “Be brave.”

He leaned back in his chair. I dove to his breaches. I tore open the laces of his fly and summoned out his meaty erection. I swirled my tongue around its tip. His sounds of pleasure were drowned out by the cheer of the crowd. Saliva dribbled from my mouth, for I pleased his dick with fast, brutal, bobs of my face. Pumping him up and down, I wondered if he would send his cum into my mouth. Yet, there was a tension with him. I pulled him, tasting the faint drips of pre-cum in my mouth, and looked to him.

“You could fuck me here,” I said. “Or I will fuck you in my chambers. But it is you I will fuck tonight, Giles.”

“Chambers,” he said.

I hastily gathered up my coins and my discarded silk. Some villagers cheered. Some sighed with abashed redness in their faces. Several men had orgasmed for me tonight, spilling their life seed into the inn floor. Lyria De Luc, drunken in her own self pleasure, waved me a reluctant goodbye while I led Giles upstairs.

We entered my room, and I shut the door. Giles took hold of my shoulders and pinned me to the wall. Oh Naaru, this is what I needed, his handsome face, inches before mine. I could taste his lust with every breath. His lips connected with mine, and I remembered the lust I had for him at the training pit. I became at peace with my perversions. Though more, I desired more from him than I had of other lovers.

“Giles,” I said. I placed my hand gently on his chest. “I wish for you to see me.”

“Is that why we’re here? Instead of downstairs at the tables?”

“Yes.” I guided him gently away and bade him to sit at the edge of the bed. I dug deep into one of my trunks and retrieved my sacred war hammer. I held it high and upright, showing its ovular head. On one side, shown the holy symbol of the Naaru. On the other, displayed the insignia of the Wrymheart Centurions. The clerics of the Exodar had blessed it, and it had seen many conflicts. It served as a weapon and symbol against the unholy and vile. Giles gazed at it. He knew what it was for certain.

I dropped it to the floorboards. Its weighty head landed with a callous thud. The handle had long lost its pommel. I had a blacksmith reshape its broken edges into a round tip. The smooth leather grip now served a new purpose. I dripped between my legs.

I squatted over my sacred hammer and glided its handle into my wet pussy. I rode it for my own pleasure.

“By the light, woman,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. I turned my nakedness around, showing my backside to him. I dared him to come near with a look over my shoulder. Giles tore off his shirt and then squatted behind me. His dick rubbed between my cheeks. I panted.

“So this is what you are,” he said. “You’re dirty.”

“Completely,” I panted.

He gave my breasts a savage squeeze. I continued to ride my hammer. Giles, wasted no time and reached his hand to the pearl above my gate. Oh yes, the sensation is exactly what I wanted. The subtle ridges of leather wrappings stimulated me within. The tip of my toy and Giles’s finger pressed against one another. It all brought me to a hedonistic delirium. I rode it faster and harder, whimpering in bliss until the joy brought me to climax. It is more divine than any sacred vigil, and more profound than all of Velen’s wisdom. It is a gush of insightful pleasure that all is right with the world and I am meant to celebrate it.

I heaved, dizzy with excitement. I slipped off my toy and rolled on the floor. I stumbled to stand and looked to Giles.

“I see you,” he said.

I shoved my hammer aside.

“Do you see what I want?” I said turning my hips towards him and slapping the cheeks. “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me like you are killing something.”

Giles lunged at me. I threw my arms up, and he caught one of my wrists. My free hand hardened to a fist. I punched, and he absorbed the impact on his side. The blood pumped hard in my body as we grappled. His booted foot hooked around my hoof and pressed to my shin until I toppled. I grunted out as my knees hit the wood floor. My free hand flailed upwards. Giles caught it too. He had both my arms behind my back. His knee pinned my calves. He stretched me backwards, and I loved it.

“This is what you had in mind?”

I could not speak. So lost in my violent perversions that I enjoyed the sense of panic he gave me. I nodded only. Giles wrenched me up to my feet. He kept my arms tight behind me, handling me like an unruly prisoner and then shoved me onto the bed. In a moment of defiance, I leapt up at him.

“You won’t hold still!” He growled as he grappled me again. His arm wrapped tight around my torso. His other, slid behind me and unthreaded his breaches. His raw hot phallus rubbed my backside. “Now let’s finish what you started downstairs.”

Giles lifted me in the air and turned me upside down. My arms gripped his waist. My thighs hung on his shoulders. He fell back towards the wall, his thick cock slapping my face with each step. His tongue lavished my wetness. And I? I took his cock inside my jaw. I sucked him. I tasted him. Salty and warm it subdued me as my tenderness subdued him. Yet not for long. Giles thrust his hips deeper. His tip rammed towards the back of my throat, triggering drool. I gagged against it, and his pulses did not stop. Neither did the heavy pressure of his mouth against my sex.

Giles relented and dropped me to the bed.

“Turn over!” He commanded. I did so. I prepared myself on all fours for him. I presented myself, wondering which hole he would penetrate. He slapped my ass first. So hard that I squelched from the heavy thud of his hand. Then he shoved himself into my slick pussy. I opened for him, enveloping his girth, and moaning for it.

“Fuck me!” I cried.

“I’m going to fuck you,” said Giles. He glided in and out so slow it hurt. “I think you’ve had enough in your pussy today.”

Giles pulled out. He gripped my ass cheeks, spread them, and aimed for my back hole. Yes. Oh god, he would do it. His shaft, dripping with my juices, slid into my hole. I tensed against it. All my muscles became tight and rigid and then released in a bliss. Giles stuffed his way in and then fucked me with a savagery I’d not had since Northrend. It was so hard, and so wonderful, that I let out tears of cathartic joy. The sense of fear and panic had melted away. My excited heart kept pounding. Lust overtook me, and I shouted for him to put his cum inside me.

He grunted in his climax, and the spittles of his cream fired away within. He pulled out, and drops trickled with it.

Seldom do I trust someone so quickly that I share the whole night with them. Yet that night I rested my horns on the great chest of Giles. We whispered morning greetings to another and stayed warm beneath the covers.

“Yasmeen, I must ask you something,” he began.

“Yes?”

“The Wyrmheart Centurions? Even Outland heard of them,” he began. “We also heard they perished in Northrend.”

“This is truth.”

“But you didn’t die…”

“I might as well have,” I spoke. I straddled him and rubbed his torso with my hands. My breasts caught his eye. “This is my new life now. There are no more Centurions.”

I leaned down to him and we shared a morning kiss. Giles held my chest close to him and accepted me.

“I will keep your secret, Yasmeen,” he said. “One survivor to another.”

“Thank you.”

“And I ask one more thing?” he stammered. He became so vulnerable at one moment. “I must take Erwin’s ashes to Darkshire and memorialize him there. Will you come with me?”

“Yes,” I whispered. I reached down for his phallus and stroked it until it became hard. Giles sighed in satisfaction. “Shall we celebrate him now?”

The road to Duskwood remained dangerous for two lone travelers, and I had long since discarded or sold my armaments. Giles, ever gracious, purchased a shield and a long sword for me from the village blacksmith. We walked for a day, with little more than a mule for company. We sparred beside a campfire and then enjoyed sex loud enough for the gnolls of the woods to hear. Let them come. It is a depravity to love victorious bloodshed, but we would match them. Yet, no raiders or highwaymen intruded upon our trip, and arrived at the town Darkshire. It is indeed a dark place. Webs of spiders weaved through branches of trees. The feral Worgen howled in the distant night air. The taint of undeath wafted through the dark fog.

All of that chilled me not. What chilled me was the visit to the Chapel of Ser Albrecht. His statue gazed down at those in congregation, and its stone eyes judged me the impostor. Ser Albrecht the ever loyal, they called him. For he did not desert the field even when the battle was lost. Yet it was here, among the solemn procession and chants of the Church of Light, that Giles commemorated his fallen comrade. Villagers wept. Giles shared stories of Erwin’s heroism. Hugs and blessing were exchanged, and I spoke little beyond what politeness required.

We tarried in Darkshire, sharing our bodies once more and dining at the inn. I learned then of Giles’ plans, now that his duty to Erwin was over. He had decided to enter the city guard of Stormwind. “I know well how to fight,” he said. “But I tire. Stormwind is safer than the fields of Outland.” It was a decision I understood. Goldshire had become my haven.

That same evening we met another traveler. He had a bony talisman hanging from his neck. It was the kind the Trolls made in their jungles. He carried with him a breech-loading rifle, and with an eyeglass scope attached. A pair of goggles rested on his forehead. He took time polishing his rifle right there in the inn as if it were a sacred relic. He offered drinks for us, and we learned his name. Jondreas, a bounty hunter from Gilneas.

“Gilneas?” said Giles.

“Yes, my countrymen may live in protection, but castle walls eventually become a tomb,” he said. “Hence my many travels, and many quarries.”

Jondreas had traveled much as I had. He joined a band of treasure hunters in the Alterec Mountains. It was there he had tamed a mountain lion as his companion. He adventured with them for a time before realizing that the true treasures were in bounties. He was a hunter of criminals and miscreants now and shared a tale of bringing down an Alliance traitor in Kalimdor. I both feared and admired him. Bribes to skirt petty laws are the way of the world, but traitors deserve no quarter. That is beyond a simple lining of your purse. Nonetheless, zeal for one’s people may blind one’s fair judgment.

“Tell me, friends, you both appear to be the fighting type,” he said. “Would you perchance be heading north? Towards Stormwind?”

“Not much farther than Goldshire,” I said.

“Ah would you both like to earn some coin?” he said. “My latest quarry is shackled within my prison cart outside. He needs to be watched, and honestly he needs to be fed too.”

He chuckled as he sipped his tankard.

“Every time I feed him myself, he tries to bite my hand with his tusks. Doesn’t trust what I offer him either,” he added. “What say the two of you? Guard him and feed him? Only until Stormwind.”

Marching through Goldshire, my arms would give me away to all my friends and neighbors. I needed not the money either. I glanced to Giles, who understood me with a single look.

“A kind offer,” he said. “Though we wish to travel light for the next evenings.”

“But what then of my quarry escaping?” said Jondreas. “If you care about Goldshire, why not protect it?”

“You’re right sir,” I said. “But know that Goldshire’s patrols will often accept extra work when asked.”

“Really?” said Jondreas.

“This is truth,” I continued. “Just north of the river is a watchtower. I doubt not that you’ll find soldiers there eager to fatten their coin purses.”

“Is Elwynn forest so peaceful it bores those who patrol it?”

“Only gnolls,” I said. “One named Hogger leads them all, but the simple presence of watch towers prevent them from rallying.”

Jondreas nodded.

“You two are an honest pair,” he added. “Thank you for the advice.”

With that he ordered another round, and bid us good night.

Jondreas took the seat on top of his prisoner wagon the next morning. Its two horses galloped off, with the burden of Jondreas’s luggage on top and some prisoner hidden behind the tiny barred windows. Giles and I waited out a storm that lasted two days and then followed the road north back to Goldshire. We passed the southern guard tower. We found no guards, and it proved a warmer place to spend the night than on the open road. Further up the road, we saw a macabre body of a gnoll. Its fur had been mangled from numerous wounds. It was tied to a tree, and its paw pointed to Goldshire.

“Terrible,” sighed Giles. “As bad as ogres.”

“I wonder what he did that made them punish him so,” I said.

“I don’t know,” said Giles. “I’ve never known gnolls to act like this, and gnolls are a rough lot to start. Hogger must be one of the worst.”

“Should we cut it down?” I said.

We looked on at the flies gathering around the dead gnoll’s face. His body already bloating, and the tongue hanged out of its jaw.

“Yes,” said Giles.

We removed the fattened body, with great care. The bounds around it cut simply enough. We placed the body along the side of the road and covered it with dry leaves. I hoped the Gnolls would be satisfied, with whatever message they tried to send to each other or to travelers on this road. I hoped too that they would claim the body.

Back at Goldshire, Giles and I parted at last. He would continue to Stormwind. I kissed him farewell, and told him I would count him among my lovers, should he ever wish to visit.

Jondreas’s cart was parked on the road outside my inn. Four Stormwind guards stood at every corner. Jondreas had set up a small ballista on top, as if his prisoner might be a demi-dragon, ready to change shape and fly off. I sneaked into the inn, awkwardly concealing my shield and my sword as I did. I placed them safely in my room before the evening began.

Jondreas was there that night when I entertained. He proved a generous customer. He tossed an entire bundle of gold at my nakedness as I performed. It occurred to me I had never taken a Gilnean as a lover.

“Would you like to join in the show?” I asked while dancing before him.

“Ahh, oh would I,” he said. “Tonight I must be vigilant.”

“Will you come back this way after you deliver your quarry?”

“I may,” he said. “You’re everything a woman is supposed to be.”

I offered my breasts to him. He touched them with hunger. Dropping more coins, he bid me good night. I stood up to spin and shake once more.

“Release your cocks!” I cried to the crowd.

At the end of the night, their enthusiasm exhausted me. I took no man into my chambers. Instead, I pleasured myself with my sacred hammer once more, dreaming of Giles and other lovers of my past.

The sounds of yipping and yapping awoke me out of my slumber. I peered out my window. I saw the orange glow of torches in the distance. Gnolls. Gnolls had dared to come this close to the village. A flare fired into the sky. It illuminated the woods in a soft white glow. I could see the outlines of dozens of gnoll raiders. Shouts came from the village. A warning bell rung.

I struggled into my plain breeches and dug deep into my clothing for a scaled leather vest. Fel curses on the gnolls for forcing this upon me. I rushed downstairs. Isabelle saw me brandishing my shield and sword. It bewildered her.

“Yasmeen?” she said.

“Where are the guards?” I demanded.

“There were no guards posting tonight!” she said waving her arms. “They’re all holed up at the western tower!”

“What are they doing there?!”

“Marching here, one would hope,” said Isabelle.

She looked at me, my chest pounding and my arms ready. She paused in confusion at me.

“Yasmeen… you’re not planning on…” she said. “I’m summoning elementals. The rest of the civilians will gather in the square for safety.”

“I am no civilian tonight!”

I exited the building with Isabelle. By then, the gnolls were already firing arrows and sending ax wielding brutes towards the town’s militia. Jondreas’s trained mountain lion pounced on a stray gnoll, ripping apart the flesh of its neck in a frenzy. The bounty hunter himself was atop his cart, impassively loading a giant bolt into his artillery. His goggles covered his eyes and glowed yellow. He fired his bolt off into the woods. It landed and splashed into a lake of flame around the gnoll archers.

“What is he doing?” shouted Isabelle. She sent a water elemental rampaging through the forest towards the direction of the fire. With the arrows stopped, the militia men rallied to Lyria. Most carrying little more than spears or logging axes. Some wore armor, and a few had bows. I charged with them. One arrow grazed my shoulder from behind. I turned and saw a trembling face of a young militia archer. Ignoring his inexperience, I spun around and clobbered a gnoll in the face with my shield. The beast let out a yip and raised his war mace overhead. He swung downwards. I feinted and plunged my sword into his ribcage before he could recover. I shoved the body away and saw the large peasant recruit bleed from his thigh. Though a sword wielding gnoll would not relent. The large peasant fought furiously, but panted for loss of blood. I hollered a war cry and engaged the gnoll.

Another arrow struck me in the forearm. My bracer absorbed most of the blow, but the pain ached.

The gnoll leapt and kicked. Too much of his weight struck my shield, and I stumbled. The gnoll landed on his back. Seizing the moment, I drove my sword down on him, but he parried and rolled away. He sprung to his feet and snarled at me once more.

A friendly arrow struck him dead in his calves. He howled and screamed. I swung my sword upwards at his throat in a mercifully quick killing blow. I looked back and saluted that same nervous archer. Magical energy burst around me. Isabelle fired arcane missiles while her elementals bruised gnoll after gnoll. Jondreas used his cart as cover and fired with precision at each incoming raider.

Then I heard Lyria cry in pain.

To my right, a dead gnoll lay on top of Lyria. I rushed over and kicked it off. A dagger had pierced her armor and lodged itself in her torso. Blood already streamed, and Lyria looked pale.

“Stay alive,” I said. I took her by her arms and dragged her to relative safety behind the smithy. I undid the buckles of her arms and then prepared to loosen the dagger.

“This will hurt, Lyria,” I said. “You will live but it will hurt. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she whimpered.

I drew the dagger. Blood gushed from the wound. Lyria wailed in agony, and I removed her breastplate. I touched my hand to her wound, unsure if the power of the Naaru was even with me. Light glowed from my hands. Her torn flesh regenerated at my touch. The wound sealed, and the blood dissipated. Lyria’s screams of pain changed into a sigh.

“You are alive!” I said. “Does it hurt anymore?”

“Huh…” said Lyria with a tired smirk. “Anything to get your hands on me, Yasmeen.”

We arose together and turned to the melee outside. Regular foot soldiers from the western tower marched past us. The gnolls yapped into the night. Jondreas whistled for his lion to his side. He hefted his rifle, and the two of them chased after the disappearing invaders. Isabelle summoned a blizzard against the fires left by torches, and Jondreas’s contraptions.

The next morning we assessed the damage to our village. Two militia men had perished. Several more had been wounded. Let the prophets bear witness: I healed many that day of their injuries. Let it also be known that I refused any inquiries as to how. Marshall Dugan rode in from Stormwind that afternoon. While attending to injuries, I heard him in the inn’s basement, yelling at two of the guards. He demanded to know what they were doing guarding “some fool bounty hunter’s prisoner” instead of patrolling near the southern tower as they were expected.

Marshall Dugan faced anger himself later that day. The village had assembled in the town square where he spoke to them.

“Why were the guards on the west tower, Marshall?” yelled Isabelle.

“Madam, it is on me for dealing with insubordinate guards. I assure you, I will find the reason,” he said.

“I nearly lost an eye to those attacks!” shouted a militia member. “Naught for our inn’s healer! When will you return our priests to us?”

Fel curses, now they knew me as a healer.

“We have done everything in our power to bring the best veterans back from the front,” said Dugan. “Greater men than the lot that failed you, I swear it.”

The crowd rabbled. Marshall Dugan tried to placate them. I did not know how much longer I would tarry in Goldshire, yet I had grown to love this town. It had been so simple and safe, yet now it seemed no more protected than the tundra of Northrend. During this rabble, Jondreas walked towards the square. His lion had scrapes. His own leather had tears. Dirt covered his face. His favored rifle had grime where once had been polish.

In his free hand, he carried a gnoll’s head. Dugan stopped mid-sentence and stared.

“Hello?” Jondreas called out. “I heard that Marshall Dugan was here. Is that you?”

“I am,” he said. “And you are?”

Jondreas made his way through the crowd. He held the gnoll’s head aloft.

“I’m the hunter who killed Hogger,” he announced.

The crowd looked on in silence. Marshall Dugan squinted at the face and compared it to a wanted poster in the town square. He asked Jondreas further details, skeptical that this Gilnean stranger had killed the real thing.

“Here’s more proof,” said Jondreas. He pulled a medallion off his neck and tossed it to Dugan. “The mark of a gnoll chief. They don’t give that up willingly.”

Dugan looked at it and nodded.

“How did one man, alone, kill him?” said Dugan.

“A fortunate turn of events!” said Jondreas. “During the chaos last night, I saw an opportunity to chase him down. He was a clever gnoll, but not clever enough.”

I thought back to the nights before. The guards who had gathered at the western tower, who had abandoned patrols for days. I thought of Jondreas’s careful set up of defenses the night of the attack.

Giles said he’d never known gnolls to tie corpses to trees.

“You instigated it!” I cried. “You used Goldshire itself as bait to tempt Hogger out of hiding!”

“I only took good advice from a fellow traveler in Darkshire,” he said.

My skin crawled. Would that I had my hammer to hurl at him.

“Hogger is slain!” cried Jondreas to the villagers. “His strongest gnolls are dead or wounded! You good people will fear not for gnoll raiders again!”

Marshall Dugan glared. He summoned Jondreas forward. What was said between the two men, I know not. I only know that Dugan pointed towards the western tower, his face full of disgust. Jondreas seemed to accept. He walked through the crowd and mounted his cart and rode away.

“Goldshire militia?” said Marshall Dugan. “You are more loyal than the armored men who should have served you. I commend all of you.”

He watched Jondreas’s cart until he was sure it was beyond earshot.

“And if that Gilnean bounty hunting scum ever returns to your village, please deal with him as you see fit.”

With that, Marshall Dugan mounted his horse and rode off.

To be Continued

Become a Patron!

Comments closed

Wickedly Reviewed: Futanari Confession (The HuCow Futa Church 1) by Reed James

One of my personal favorite kinks is religious taboo. It’s fun to read about sex cults in action. It’s even more fun to read complete sexual desecration. Because why avoid sin? Temptations is only as delightful as the tempted is conflicted.

Wild Futanari Nuns?

Reed James’s Futanari Confessions (The Hucow Church) delivers a story of corrupted virgins with a slight dash of mind control. At first, the story begins with sisters Innocence (quite on the nose there!) and Rachel living as obedient nuns. They’re not simply virgins: Innocence finds sex inconceivable. Not even masturbation is permitted to her, even if the urge for sex isn’t going away. Because of their piety, they’re chosen to spy on a neighboring convent: one that has apparently gone pagan, and worships Aphrodite. An interesting role, since Innocence doesn’t even like to lie.

Succumbing to Hucow Lust

Yet inside the corrupted cloister, Rachel and Innocence endure the persistent sounds of lesbian sex from the confessionals. Woman after woman comes outs satiated and smelling of orgasm. Their sexuality is triggered, and the Aphordite’s nuns can’t wait to get their hands all over the visiting faithful. Innocence thinks she can resist. But instead, she suckles a futa hucow. “Drink my milk and surrender to Aphrodite’s love.”

That love is a sin that can’t be resisted. Reluctance melts away while a virginal pussy gets licked. By the end, Innocence loses hers and she has no regrets. Instead, she craves more. Finally, she reports back to her mother superior.

Turns out she learned to lie too. Innocence will go back for more, and won’t tell mother superior what’s happening to her.

Comments closed

Jasmine’s Enslavement

…Continued from “Jasmine’s Hazing”

A bump and the prattle of pebbles against the side of the van told us all that we had gone off the road. If I had seen where we were headed, I might have ran away. It wasn’t simply about the place either. Had someone told me right then what great-grandma had done so many years ago, there would have been no chance I would’ve even spoken to Morgan or any of the other Phi Gamma Omega girls. I understand now why they put us in the van. It had been so much more than another way to force us to endure shame. No, that van was there to protect us from ourselves so that we could become free.

The car stopped at last. The back door opened with a creak. We stepped out into a courtyard with cobble stone walls around us. All the sisters were there. Two of them closed a wrought-iron gate behind us. Before us loomed a large Victorian home. Its black shingled roof rose like steeples to the cloudy sky. Its two lanterns on the porch gloomed an orange-yellow. The front door reached an arch, and on a plaque I saw ‘H.G. Constructions. 1962’ -my family’s company. We had built it years before I was born.

The sisters guided us into a dark foyer. The lifeless air cared nothing for us, but the lit, wax dripping, candelabra right past the front door awaited us. Morgan took hold of it, and then distributed single warm candles to all the sisters. She led us through stairs and halls until we entered what I know now was a chapel. A great stone fireplace stood at one end of a five sided room. Granite statues of chained male and female angels stood in the other four corners. Floor pillows, a pair of red velvet couches, and some ottomans were the only furnishings here.

Any sane person would have panicked at the sight of the altar in the center: A black clothed miniature table. A bowl and a bejeweled knife awaited us on top of it. One of the big sisters stroked a fire in the hearth. As it heated the room, Morgan motioned us pledges to a couch. Then, she took the knife from the altar, held open her hand, and made a long cut. She winced at the pain. Blood dripped from her squeezed fist into the bowl. Another sister rang a bell. Its tone filled the room in a relaxing vibration.

“Mistress of Phi Gamma Omega, lady of hell, and our patron,” Morgan’s voice projected in the room. “This generation of sisters gives our blood, as our sisters before. Come to us and judge which of our lambs is worthy.”

I remember so vividly the next moments. Each sister silently walked to the bowl, cut her hand, and dripped her blood into it. When they finished, they dropped a match into the bowl. A pillar of fire consumed it in a flash. Bristol looked like a terrified rabbit. Yumi held her hands together in her lap. Me? Yes, my head was spinning, screaming at me to leave, to run, to forget all that I was doing. But where could I go? Already I was becoming free.

“All kneel!” said a sister who rang the bell a second time.

The sisters turned and faced the doorway. All of them took to their knees around the room. Yumi, Bristol, and I followed them. The sisters began a whispering chant. Then the bell rang again. Then another bell rang. This time it came from the other side of the door. The tinny sound of the bell echoed along with whispered chants. Then our door creaked open, and the girls went silent.

In stepped a barefoot, black-robed girl. She carried a goblet, decorated like the knife. The girls moved and made way for her. She looked down at Morgan, who glanced up to her.

“Hello Morgan,” the girl whispered. “It’s been too long.”

“Hello Kayla,” said Morgan. Her short words dripped with remorse. Morgan forced a posture of strength. Kayla stepped between the girls, clearing space, and she did so with a serenity none of these other girls would ever know. Morgan’s heart suffered, I could see it even then. Two more girls followed, dressed as Kayla. The clasps at their necks held their hoods and robes in place. It created a long vertical parting that revealed their naked bodies beneath. One carried a flogger. Another carried a set of leather restraints. They motioned all the sisters towards the edges of the room.

Then she entered. I know what she is now. She is who was summoned, who offered a pact, and who maintains her bargain year after year. A woman, tall and with black hair set against light skin. She wore her thick, shoulder length, hair down like a glamorous 1950s film star. Her irises were of no natural color and glowed with a faint violet. Her tight bodice accentuated her chest. A black skirt flowed from her waist into whispy tatters below her knees. Leather straps criss crossed over her feet and up her shins.

Wings. She had a pair of oily, dark, bat-like wings coming from her back.

I wished to run. My mind told me to do so, to flee from something so unnatural and terrible. Yet my body would not obey. Bristol jumped back in fright.

“No! What the fuck this isn’t…” Bristol shouted.
A sister grabbed her and covered her mouth. Bristol muttered further protest, but this strange women look at her -at all three of us- with a malicious serenity that compelled us to silence. Bristol knelt again, eyes still open in terror and her lips sealed tight. Yumi’s breath hastened, but like me she stayed still.

“You have called sisters, and I have answered. I ask you, have I kept my bargain with you?” the woman began.

“You have, mistress,” said Morgan.

“Do you wish all that I offer you? Do you wish your lovers to be your servants? Do you wish to seduce those who stand in your way?” She took strides around the room. Looking over the kneeling girls and gesturing with her whole arms. Her spread wings churned the air. “Do you wish for years of lust without trouble? Sex without shame? To use those who would use you? To hear minds and to influence them?”

“We do, mistress,” said Morgan. She stood up as did the rest of the sisters. She motioned us, the pledges, to stay on our knees. “We offer tribute.”

The women paused and the room’s fire crackled behind us. She smirked. This woman radiated beauty like a black hole. It was this aura that would have kept me on my knees all night. One that even then made me ever so wet. That dress I had on? Already I wanted to strip it off like a whore.

“So you’re looking good, Morgan,” said the woman, this demoness. Her voice became gentle and familiar, leaving the theatrics of the ritual behind her.

“Thank you mistress,” said Morgan. Her voice was rote and without passion.

“The internship after you graduate?” said the demoness. “You did get it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, mistress,” said Morgan. “I’ll be flying to Los Angeles in June.”

“And what’s going to keep those sharks in suits from eating you up?”

“The power you gave us, mistress,” said Morgan. She gritted her teeth.

The mistress laughed.

“I’ve seen so many like you, Morgan. Regret nothing. Forget your sunken costs,” she said. She curled a finger under Morgan’s jaw and raised her own smugly. “Guilt, sweetie, it will eat you alive. Eat others instead.”

She greeted many other big sisters similarly, asking them each about their plans, where they would work, and what they would do. I thought of the wall in our sorority house. These big sisters would follow in those women’s footsteps, sucking the marrow out of life with unassailable ambition. I learned how my sorority had attained such glories in that warm, insidious, chapel.

“Now who have you brought for me?” said the mistress at last.

“Pledges, stand up!” commanded Morgan. “Stand in the center.”

We stood up and stepped with trepidation to the center of the room, lined up in bewilderment. We stood still. I dared to glance at the winged demoness who strutted around us.

“Now let’s do introductions, pretty little lambs,” she said. She pointed to Yumi. “Names starting with you.”

“Yumi,” she said.

“Yumi what?”

“Yumi Terese Allister.”

The mistress pointed to Bristol.

“Bristol Johnston.”

She aimed her violet eyes at me.

“Jasmine Haverton Vicinda.”

“Haverton.”

“A legacy,” I uttered.

“Right,” said the demoness.

She stepped around us. She tugged at my jacket and then removed it. It fell to the ground. Yumi’s fell next to it. The demoness pet our bodies with her hands and her wings, and even teased us with her undeniably hot exhales across the raised hairs of our skin. I don’t know if I could not move or if I didn’t want to anymore. When she cupped my chest, I tried to beg her to undue my dress zipper, and let my breasts be offered to her. Though those words stayed stuck in my mind. Already, I was becoming for her.

She put her arms around Bristol, and curved her wings around them both like an unholy cocoon. My mistress made the softest of kisses on Bristol’s neck, a peck so tiny, it was no louder than a rain drop landing in a puddle. Bristol moaned for it and gasped as the demoness stepped away from her. The terror in her wide eyes melt into a confused, and plaint, glaze.

“Fuck..” stammered Bristol. She undid the top of her shorts. Her hand went down into them. She touched herself in a fever.

“That’s it…” purred the demoness.

Bristol spread her legs and continued to caress herself. Her eyes darted around the room, and she was met only with the solemn silence of the uniformed sisters. One of the robed girls dragged a large pillow forth before her.

“That’s for you, little one. Get comfortable,” said the demoness.

Bristol dropped herself to the cushion. She undid her top and released one of her breasts from the bra. She got rid of her shorts next. Then put her hand back on her pussy, massaging it with a liberated sigh.

“You don’t come yet,” said the demoness. She walked to the altar and picked up the knife. “You keep pleasing yourself, but don’t you come.”

The demoness paced around Yumi, who stood as still as I did. Her chest rose and fell with terror. The demoness pressed the cold blade’s dull side to Yumi’s neck, who only craned her head higher and brushed her hair aside. With a flick of the wrist, the demoness sliced the cloth straps around Yumi’s neck. Her white top slid further off her chest with each other cut the demoness made.

Bristol squelched while she touched herself.

The demoness ignored Bristol and unclasped Yumi’s necklace. It tumbled to the ground and landed with a clink. Yumi’s expression melted into placidity. Her pupils opened as wide as unguarded gates.

“Jasmine Haverton Vicinda,” The demoness’s voice boomed in my head. “Stand beside Yumi here. Get a hold of her pussy. Both of you watch that slut over there.”

I cuddled next to Yumi. Her arm wrapped around me, holding me. My arm reached down and unsnapped the buttons at the top of her skirt. Some voice in my head told me that it wasn’t safe or normal. Wouldn’t I simply lick a big sister’s pussy and be done with it? I had been naked with these girls, but this defilement crossed so many more lines. Yumi didn’t stop me, but why did I do this? Was I doing it for my future ambitions? I had some purpose to join this sorority, but I was forgetting it. Because I was a legacy? That was a mere means to an end. The demoness desired this, and that single thought drowned out all others. My palm slid over the short coarse hairs of Yumi’s mons. I slipped my fingers onto Yumi’s folds and pet her.

“Yes… Jasmine,” she whispered. “Please touch me.”

We watched Bristol. She struggled, whimpered, and her eyes watered from the pain of denied orgasm.

“Do you want to come?” said the Demoness.

“Yes, mistress!” she declared.

“Can you come? Did I tell you I could?”

“No, Mistress!” Bristol’s voice strained.

The demoness squatted down. She groped Bristol’s trembling body, then took a hold of her nipple piercings and tugged. Bristol suppressed a scream of pain.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” she said. Bristol gasped and cried out. Tears spread from her closed eyes. “I can let you come, would you like that?”

“Please let me come!” shouted Bristol.

“Oh, you’ll come,” said the Demoness with a playful tone. “You’ll all come. You’ll all be doing what I want tonight.”

She released her grip on Bristol’s breast.

“Orgasm, now!” she ordered.

Bristol’s legs shook in release. Her orgasmic screaming echoed against the hard walls. Drips of wet juices from Yumi’s pussy moistened my hand. My own pelvis sweltered with heat. I wanted Yumi right then. My teal dress became nothing more than an oppressive barrier between me and these sisters. Never, not once, had I lusted like this. This demoness, this horrendously gorgeous monster, had been changing me since the moment I crossed the threshold of this house. I loved her for it.

The demoness reached for the ties that held her tattered skirt in place. The robed girls knelt before her, one bearing the goblet. On instinct, I sat in reverence. Yumi did too. Bristol, still sighing from her climax, joined us.

“What comes at no cost in the world?” the demoness intoned.

“Nothing at all,” the uniformed sisters chanted around us.

The robed girls tugged away the demoness’s skirt, carefully folding it and placing it aside on a pillow.

“My power is a deep well of water, and I offer you all a cup full,” she continued. “Let lust be your leash. May you all live sweet, delicious, and enviable lives.”

The three girls reached to the demoness’s legs and hips and rubbed all around her pussy.

“And we offer lambs to you. One to be your thrall throughout her time in university. Choose well, our mistress.”

The demoness smiled and tossed her head and wings back. She groaned as her thralls caressed her. Then out of the top of her cunny, erupted a thick erect phallus. I wanted that strange, unnatural thing. Her entire visage, wings, hair, and that thick beautiful dick had a magnetic pull on my heart. Though her will invaded my head, telling me to remain on my knees. Those cloaked thralls took turns before the demoness, each one swallowing and stuffing that shaft in their mouths. Jealousy welled inside me, and the demoness could tell. She relaxed her body, and her thralls brought her to orgasm. First, the thick white cum fired in spurts. A messy splatter landed between the sister’s faces and the goblet they held. Then it came in steady pumps. Heavy drop after heavy drop landed in the goblet as the thralls wiped their lips. They wasted nothing. Kayla placed it on the altar.

The demoness made sweeping strides around. Wings whooshed and fanned us. With graceful movements that paid us no mind, she extended her hands out and downward as if controlling us by strings. Yumi and Bristol crawled forward to the pillows, both of them half naked. They went at each other in feverish lust. Yumi kissed Bristol from her wrists to her neck. Bristol rolled Yumi to her back, and her hair covered their passionate kissing. Why not me, I had thought right then. So stressed and anxious, I did not want to kneel and stare. My heart palpitated that the demoness did not regard me though it delighted me to see Yumi get out of even more of her clothes. Bristol straddled Yumi’s face, and Yumi lavished her pussy. It had to have ached. Yumi fucked Bristol with her fingers and pleased the clit with her tongue.

My mistress squatted behind me. She pulled down the back zipper of my dress. She slid her hands under it and against my skin. At last, she touched me. Her possessive hands groped all over my body. She grasped my neck and tilted my face upwards to her. Wings wrapped around me and she conquered me with a hard kiss.

“Mistress…” I said. I could not utter my desires fully. Bristol moaned in another orgasm.

“Yes, little lamb, you will please me,” she said. “It would please me if you consumed Yumi until she comes on your pretty face.”

She released me. At last, I undid my dress and my panties. It was maddening, that I spent so much time in anxiety and indecision about that outfit. I discarded it on the floor. No longer did its fabric bind me or keep me from pleasure. Something, some distant voice, screamed a quiet scream. It needed to know what was becoming of me, what would happen next, if everything would be perfect, if I would make the right class, and a dozen other silly thoughts. Yet that scream became so quiet and distant against a singular domineering thought: I would be for my mistress. It pleases to obey.

Yumi welcomed me between her thighs. The first taste of her tangy pussy juice touched my lips. Never had I tasted that flavor before. I took hold of her pussy, palming and caressing it, and it thrilled me to hear the sounds of pleasure in her voice.

“I want your pussy, Yumi,” I couldn’t believe I said such things. I hadn’t ever done this before. I fingered her, finding her clit, and then played with her some more. Her faced flushed in delight. The will to dive down on her could not be resisted even if I had tried. I found my face between her thighs licking her long, tear-drop shaped cunny as my mistress wanted. Yumi sweltered with juices there. So much that the smell and taste overwhelmed me. The novelty, and unnaturalness of everything that happened to me might have stopped me, but now I craved Yumi like I craved my mistress’s pleasure. Yumi’s pussy splashed juices onto my face. Oh the sounds she made when she came! Yumi forget everything except pleasure as she wailed.

We welcomed Bristol in and we became a pile of pulsating lust together. We’d been naked together for hours, though never had we become this intimate. I had no idea that lips on my clit could feel that good. Bristol yearned to please me that way. I liked holding them, and rubbing them. Each new way that we found to tease each other only energized our tired bodies further. Our orgasms, our spectating sisters, and the aura of our mistress, consecrated our threesome, in all of its depravity.

“Split yourselves up now, lambs,” commanded the demoness. We obeyed and departed away from each other. Oh, I wish I could have held Yumi for only a few moments more. Though I did not linger on that thought long. The thralls surrounded me and I knelt with instinct. They passed around the cum filled goblet. Each one took a sip and swallowed the pearls down.

“Now you,” said Kayla. She held the cup out to me and I took it. They’d left a lot for me. “All of it.”

If you had told me that I would ever do a thing like this, in this chapel, before these girls, I may have abandoned my destiny. Now, I know never to overthink, and life is only to obey. I took the goblet to my lips, held it bottom up and let the thick cool cum pour into my mouth. The sisters and the thralls whispered a chant. The cum! There was more to it than a sweet and salty taste or the texture as it slid on my tongue. My mistress’s cum took the evanescent, post orgasmic bliss in my mind, and stretched out its euphoria. When I handed the goblet back, I looked to Morgan. Her face looked like it had when Kayla talked to her. I didn’t know why she looked sad. What was there to be upset about? She could be jealous of me though it didn’t matter. I’d never been so satisfied and serene.

“The mistress has chosen,” said Morgan flatly.

“Hold the bell, sisters,” said my mistress. “This one is special.”

Gears creaked above from the ceiling. A chain descended from above us. One of the robed girls attached the cuffs to it. I reached for them and my mistress closed their clasps around my wrists. The chains tugged back up lifting my heals off the ground, forcing me to balanced towards my toes. My mistress groped and fondled me. Her nails scratched my skin. She twisted my nips as she had Bristol’s. Oh, it hurt so much. I loved it.

“Morgan knew I would pick you, Jasmine Haverton Vicinda,” said my mistress with sadism. “I will tell you why.”

Her cock teased my belly so close to my wetness. I lifted my leg to accept her and my mistress stepped back.

“Your ancestor called me here,” she said. “She was the first to ask for a deal.”

She undid the leather bracers on her wrists, dropping them to the ground. Her thralls unlaced her bodice. Her perfect breasts came out. I wanted to place my lips on her wicked nipples and make my mistress feel good.

“She offered her dorm roommate as tribute.” My mistress stretched out her wings and arms, displaying smooth and vivacious skin. “I still wear that body today.”

She held my cheeks in her both hands. Her violet iris glinted with a new glow. She struck my cheek with a mean slap.

“I gave your ancestor wealth, power, and luxury. Without me, she would have been nothing, another anonymous, helpless, housewife.” She stepped back and gave me another hot slap in the face. “Smarts though, she had on her own. She knew better than to allow her daughters to come to this sorority.”

The demon held out her hand. Kayla placed the handle of a flogger into it.

“I’ve waited over fifty years, and through dozens of thralls to take a daughter of Helen Haverton.”

She whipped the floggers tails back and forth as she stepped closer. The flying tails inched closer. I arched my back, offering my breasts. The tails brushed over my nipples. I wanted it. I stretched my chest out further forward. I needed to get beaten. “Beat me,” I muttered out loud in a haze. My mistress closed the distance. The lush tails landed on my chest with thud after thud. Better than anything I had felt on my skin until then. Each slap hurt and left an echoing sensation of agony on my skin. My mistress did not relent and the will to keep my body prone held me there. I yelped at each strike, and begged her to continue.

“For the next four years, you are mine!” declared my mistress. She stepped around me with the flogger. Strikes landed on my shoulders, ass, and thighs. “You will wear what I tell you to wear, or will be naked as I see fit. You will attend classes when I say and leave them as it pleases me.”

She gave a series of cruel slaps to my ass.

“You will fuck, who I want you to fuck,” she sneered. “You will seduce who I command you to.”

My chest took another aggressive flogging.

“You will reside here, cloistered with your sisters. You will sleep in a cell or in a cage, for no reason except my appetite,” she growled. She handed the flogger back to Kayla, then embraced me. Her nails tickled my beaten skin once more. Talons at the tips of her wings grazed my back side. Oh, it was wonderful.

“What do you say to all that?” she hissed.

“Yes mistress. I obey.”

“That’s right. Now tell your sisters something else,” she tugged the nape of my hair, directing my face to Bristol, Yumi, and the uniformed sisters.

“I love my mistress…” I pronounced.

The chain extended lowering my heels, then my arms, and then slacked to the ground in a cold rattle. The little voice didn’t exist now. There was not even a quiet screaming one. Obey the mistress. Please the mistress. Those thoughts echoed with every breath now. How I would please remained the only choice that mattered. What did my mistress want from me? On my knees, with wrists bound, I dared to take hold of her thick phallus. I licked it and sucked it, just as my cloistered sisters had done before. Would she give more of her cum? I didn’t know, but I needed her dick in my mouth. The way she moaned made me so proud and so free.

“You’re good at that, thrall,” said my mistress. “Touch yourself while you suck me. Get wet.”

I rubbed my clit. The pleasure of the suckling and the ache at my clit made me more lustful.

“Enough,” commanded my mistress. “On all fours, thrall!”

I assumed the position. My hips tilted upwards. My pussy dripped with juices and my mistress glided her cock over its surface. Then she penetrated me. That painful stretch from such a hard, warm, and thick shaft put me in a deeper stupor. My mistress fucked me like a whore. She rammed me with an aggressive fury.

“I love my mistress,” I stammered when she turned me over to my back. I could not get enough of her. Her chest shook and her eyes glowed as she rammed away within. I twiddled my own clit, bringing myself closer to climax.

“Not yet,” said my mistress. “You will come when I permit you.”

She positioned my hips to fuck me deeper. I’d become such a slut for her. The will to keep touching myself, while suppressing my own orgasm overrode the pain and tears. The fucking changed pace. My mistress moaned and her beautiful face blushed with her climax. She didn’t need to tell me. My body released in time with her, and gushed juices against the cock inside me. Her cum pumped inside.

She pulled out. I flopped down to the stone floor.

“Phoebe. Samantha. Take care of your new sister,” she said. My two cloaked sisters came to me. They rubbed my ravaged body with this oil that smelled like lemon grass. It softened that throbbing on my skin. I might have drifted off to sleep under their soothing care. Though I stayed half awake, and aware of all those in the room around me. My mistress had flooded my pussy with her cum. I enjoyed that my sisters saw it drip out.

One sister rang a bell.

Yumi and Bristol blinked. Bristol looked around with wide eyes. Yumi reached for Bristol’s hand. They both sat there panting. Were they afraid? No, that wasn’t it. Surprised. That’s what they looked like to me.

“Well bitches, get your clothes,” said one of the sisters. Yumi and Bristol grabbed the rags they came in with and held them in their laps.

“Now you, little thrall,” said the demoness. “What will you do with that precious dress you walked in here wearing?”

The fire still blazed. Its orange light beckoned me to do what my mistress expected. I gathered that coat, that dirty old pastel dress, even my shoes, and my thong. I tossed them one by one into the fire. So simple I became then. No more apprehension, anxiousness, or brain spinning its wheels so fast that I could not choose. There were no decisions now. My mistress had made me free.

“Morgan?” said the Demoness. Her glorious cock had receded. Her wings folded behind her back, while Kayla tied the back of her bodice.

“Yes, mistress?”

“You’ve given me what I’ve wanted for over half a century,” she said. “Do you know Kayla’s time of enthrallment ends soon?”

“Four years as always,” said Morgan.

My mistress motioned Kayla forward and pulled back her hood.

“She needs to slowly adjust to life outside my cloister,” said the demoness. “I want you to take your old friend home tonight. She’ll please you if you want that, or not if you prefer. But you must share a bed with her tonight, and maybe longer.”

Morgan’s eyes brightened in surprise. Kayla stepped to her holding her palms out, and Morgan took them as if to lead a dance. They looked at each other for a time.

“You still there?” Morgan whispered. Kayla leaned in and the two of them connected lips. Morgan’s lashes opened wide, then she closed them as she explored the sensations. “I guess we’ll find out,” she said when they released.

Morgan then turned to Bristol and Yumi.

“Congratulations bitches, you made it. You’re full sisters now,” she said. The other sisters applauded. “How do you feel after all that?”

“You all did this too?” said Bristol. “Then I’m good. We can do anything.”

“I’ve wanted to be with women forever,” said Yumi. “That was my first time. I feel… well no one here can judge me, right?”

The sisters chuckled warmly. Morgan smiled.

“Yes, that’s how I felt too when I sat there my first year,” said Morgan. “Now you know our secret. Every year we pay tribute to our mistress. You’ll see these other girls around campus, in our sorority house and so on. They don’t belong to us anymore.”

She paused and glanced at Kayla.

“Now there is this door here that opens to the basement in the Sorority house,” she began.

My mistress turned to me and spoke softly.

“Little thrall, it’s time for you to go to bed,” she said. “Phoebe and Samantha will take you to your cage. Soon, I’ll prepare your cell for you myself.”

“Yes mistress,” I said. My robed sisters held my arms. They led me through the door and into the dark hallway. I became a cloistered thrall to a gorgeous demon. My mind became numb. My will was suppressed, usurped, and replaced with hers. What would become of me? I didn’t know, but placidity and pleasure soothed my once uncertain heart. No longer would I exist as I had before. I need only be for my mistress now.

End Chapter One

Become a Patron!

Comments closed

Artist Collaboration with Sketch Lanza!

 NSFW Illustrations only please

My favorite part about the internet are the dick picks sent to my inbox. My other favorite part of the internet is kinky hentai art. I don’t actually like the first thing. If you send me a dick pick, it better be some high quality vector art!

Authors Need Avatars

Since I began writing erotica years ago, I needed a NSFW author avatar of my own. Sure, I had a pretty hot illustration for years, but it wasn’t mine. Yet my own visual art greatness goes only far as picking colors for background gradients.

Scouring the forums of Hentai Foundry, I found a NSFW co-conspirator. The artist, Sketch Lanza, answered my first e-mail quickly. Within twenty four hours, he had a basic sketch that we agreed on. Then, I had a the perfect illustration two weeks later.

Oh, did I mention Sketch Lanza also made sure I had a transparent .png to use? That way, I could resize, change backgrounds, and do all that wonderful stuff for my own sites.

Fast, Cheap, Good

I’ve needed this illustrations for years. But you know what? We all know about the rules of “Fast, Cheap, Good.” You can only pick two. I will never not choose “Good.” Furthermore, this blog is only stretching its wings, so I went with “cheap”.

Two weeks was perfect, honestly. Now, my new Avatar has replaced my old one everywhere, from Hentai-Foundry, Amazon Author page, to my anticipated Patreon.

Thanks for the Art, Sketch Lanza! I hope to check in with you again as Contracts of Skin needs more art.

Comments closed

Jasmine’s Hazing

Exposed to the hard spattering of raindrops, I had never been smaller than at my grandmother’s graveside. Grandma Carolina Haverton MacKinley herself was small next to my great grandmother, Helen Haverton, who took “Haverton-Gibson” as her married name. Grandma Helen worked her husband, an architect, to found a construction and real estate empire. She began in Portland. Our properties now dominated areas as far south as California’s Sacramento delta. My mother managed it now.

My mother wept at the graveside that year. Grandma Carolina had died a year after our congressman broke his promise to us. Despite protests, he had given rights to a defense contractor to build a factory west of Beaverton. Its disgusting fumes could be seen from our properties. My mother was so incensed that she challenged our representative’s seat the following year. Though it took more than money for a politically inexperienced, single issue, candidate to beat an entrenched politician. He had the support of his good old boys allies that went back to his Ivy league. Dejected, my mother conceded, and contented herself to withdraw our donations.

I knew then, as a shivering middle school girl, that my family would call on me. The terrible weight that I would someday serve Helen Haverton’s legacy confined my heart. One day too I would take over as my grandmother and mother had done. More though, I would have to exceed them. I would need a network as strong as our back stabbing congressmen. Our family and our city needed a Haverton in public service.

That had been my idea. I existed to prove myself and to carry the legacy. To begin, I began college with my long term purpose in mind. I must connect with best, and only the best. Grandma Carolina used to used to quote some old philosopher: ‘Know the fortunate in order to choose them.’ Therefore, the right friends would assist in my goals, but purposes had changed so fast. Pledge week had only been two weeks ago. I ignored every competing sisterhood and walked straight to the oldest one on campus, Phi Gamma Omega. There, I looked straight into the wary, regal, blue-green eyes of one sister.

“Yes?” she said to me.

“Hi,” I said. “Can I ask your name?”

“I’m Morgan,” she said. Her tone spoke so much more. As did her gaze. ‘Why are you talking to me?’ it signaled. ‘Why should I be interested?’ was written on her face. “Who are you?”

I had been nervous then. I fought a little battle in my mind even though there couldn’t be anything to worry about. Grandma Carolina used to tell me that people only know how you act, and never how you feel on the inside. So even when you trembled around that boy you had a crush on or how scared you felt to speak in a group, if you pretended enough, no one would know. Then you’d get what you want.

“I’m the next girl you will invite to this sorority,” I said standing as straight as I could, my face unwavered though my heart thumped inside me.

“Is that so?” said Morgan. “Now why would I do that?”

“My name is Jasmine Haverton Vicinda,” I answered. Morgan’s eyebrows raised. Her crossed arms relaxed to her side, and she prodded her chin.

“As in…” she said.

“Helen Haverton.”

“Okay legacy,” said Morgan. Her attitude changed towards me. Instead of coldness, she offered a sliver of respect. “I’ll sponsor you myself. Though you’re going through your pledging process like any other, do you understand?”

“I think I do.”

“‘Think you do’? There’s no special treatment here,” Morgan said as she glowered towards me. “You will pledge like any other freshmeat. You will do whatever any other freshmeat does. If you don’t do what we want, then you don’t really want to be in.”

“I…” I began.

“Really, it might be best for you to walk away,” said Morgan. Her judgmental facade dropped for a split second. Was she testing me?

What was it I felt in that moment? I think it had been fear. I had been right to be afraid. If I stepped away, I would’ve kept on existing as normal, and joined some other sorority. I’d be partying between studies and giving head to cute boys and maybe a professor. Future lawyers, business magnates, and other influential people would still be among my peers. I could have walked away right then. This sorority was more than a mere power group. I wanted this and I was going to do whatever it took to live up to my name. Everyone named Haverton had done something great. Great-Grandma Helen would be proud.

“I’ll do whatever it takes, big sister,” I said. “I don’t want to be treated any different.”

Grandma Helen had been one of the first women to attend Granitewell College, a private school on the edges of Portland, back in the early fifties. She helped found the Phi Gamma Omega sorority, and later she met my great-grandfather. My family’s name preceded me. Granitewell begged me to visit by the tenth grade. Great-grandma had forbidden -with uncompromising terms- her daughter to follow in her educational path. My mother told me of the threats Great-grandma had given when she considered applying. Helen Haverton didn’t think anyone could do it.

I had struggled, but I knew my path. I would become the first legacy ever to join the Phi Gamma Omega women. So I had endured high school and all its abuses and applied to only one college. Nothing would stop me. Nothing would stop me from gathering that network of the fortunate. Resolved, I prepared myself for whatever Morgan had in mind.

There had been two other girls pledging that week with me. The big sisters had given us a schedule so strict we had to dodge our classes. When we crossed the antique oak doors of the sorority house, we were stripped of clothes and ordered to be silent. The sisters affixed thin canine collars. Each collar had a little dog tags declaring which big sister owned us for the week. We were shown the messy kitchen, the filthy bathrooms, and cluttered bedrooms. After we scrubbed and vacuumed the house, they threw aprons at us and sent us to cook.

They never told us why we cooked so much. They gave us no notice about the party they had planned. Guests arrived in the evening. We served food to guys I’d seen on campus and girls older than me. The big sisters’s boyfriends gazed at our nudity. Every second degraded us. One boyfriend reached out to Yumi, another pledge, to flick her small breast. His girlfriend slapped his hand away and clarified the no touching rule.

That’s when I knew my big sisters would keep us dirty little pledges safe. They take good care of their own. I’m sure Yumi is happy now. Bristol too. I’m even more so. Safer and happier than you can imagine.

That party had lasted late, and we’d been given cots in the basement. The three of us cleaned the next morning. Yumi had been sweeping the kitchen floor while Bristol and been gathering empty cans, paper plates, and even some random clothes. Bristol looked at Yumi and noticed the bit of jewelry at her neck.

“How come you still get to wear that, there?” she asked.

Yumi touched the pendent that hung from her neck.

“Come on, let me see it,” said Bristol. She stepped over to the kitchen and bugged Yumi.

“My big sister didn’t make me take it off,” protested Yumi.

“But you’re not naked then,” said Bristol teasing. “You get to cover up with whatever that little metal is.”

“You don’t think this is naked?” said Yumi. She stretched her arms out and whipped her black straight hair over her shoulder. Her nips pointed out against the cool air. The contours of hips and stomach shown under the light. “I feel pretty naked.”

Beyond the collar, the only thing on her body was that crucifix necklace.

“I think she looks more naked with it,” I said. “More naked than us.”

“Yeah, that’s probably why your big sister let her keep it,” said Bristol. She twirled back to the cluttered living room.

“So where are you from, Yumi?” I asked.

“Sacramento,” she began. Yumi looked at my chest then diverted her eyes towards my face. Then glanced away again. “Sacramento area anyway. Place called Citrus Heights.”

“California?”

“Yeah… I wanted to come up here, because it’s far?” she said. She checked me out again. Out of curiosity, I rolled my hips in a subtle display. Yumi’s pupils dilated and then she glanced away again. My mother always said use your beauty whenever and on whoever. “I wanted to get in the best sorority I could too.”

She shifted her gaze to our wall of fame. One woman smiled in the robes of a judge. Another woman sat in a director’s chair. A third, smiled in doctor’s scrubs accepting an award for an innovative new surgery technique. This is what the women of Phi Gamma Omega became.

Yumi and I talked more throughout our cleaning shift. I remember thinking how beautiful her light brown eyes were. Her lashes and eyelids hinted at Asian ancestry. I couldn’t place where she might be from though. I only wished that I could have had hair as sleek as hers. Bristol’s eyes were dark blue, and her lashes spoke both come hither and I’ll cut you in the same blink. Her brown hair was held back with a clip that had her name on it. I guess that’s the bit of clothing her big sister let her keep. Metal bars pierced the nipples of Bristol’s full chest. They looked like they could hurt when I saw them. I wanted to bite them too.

“Philosophy,” I said when they asked me what I studied. “Minoring in English too.”

“Oh God, so do you love to study or what? Can’t imagine studying for fun,” said Bristol. “Missing classes must be killing you.”

“I can have fun,” I said. I cared about her opinion of me then. “Besides it’s about finding the right teachers.”

“Oh really? So do you know who is good for freshman English?” said Yumi. “Cause I gotta change my classes and I might get a new instructor.”

I didn’t. I didn’t know who had been the right teacher for me. When Yumi said those words, it struck me as to how I had suddenly overlooked the quality of my own Freshman English teacher. Anxiety struck me and it cut deep into my body. I’d researched all the right professors for my first two years, based on every rating system I read online. I’d examined some of the stuff they wrote and published because that’s what I was supposed to do. Though when it came to my Freshman English professor, a professor who would probably determine whether I wrote well or terrible for the rest of college, I had picked who fit in my schedule. I remember this sudden tension in my heart and an urgent need to do something.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“Don’t know?” said Yumi.

“You could check Doctor Ellis,” said Bristol her voice was gentle and her eyes cunning. “She writes for magazines and stuff.”

“Okay,” said Yumi.

I cleaned up in a hurry that day. You see, I had to check for myself too. I left Yumi and Bristol and sneaked my way upstairs.

What I did then was silly. I know that now. Now I don’t stress about my classes or having the right everything. I go to my classes and then return to my cell. It’s simple there. Though right then, I agonized over the perfect teacher. Upstairs I found a computer and connected to my usual rating systems. I read everything I could about Doctor Ellis. I then looked up magazines she’d written in. I sent some to myself to read later. Then, when I read her third book review, Morgan hollered my name from down the hall.

“Freshmeat?” she said bursting through the door way. I had been caught on a computer when she expected me to be cleaning. Trembling and red in the face, I stared at my big sister’s furious expression.

“Pledge, what are you doing?”

“I’m on the internet.”

“And what were you supposed to be doing?”

“Cleaning the house until it sparkles, big sister,” I gulped.

“I see,” said Morgan. She slammed the laptop’s lid shut. “Come with me.”

Morgan took me to her bedroom. She opened a drawer and pulled out a paddle. She then put it back and reached in for another one. Holding the two in her hands she ignored me and then decided on the wider one with leather padding.

“Bend over pledge,” she said. “Turn around. Hands on the bed frame.”

“Yes, big sister,” I whimpered.

The first strike came in a wide, flat impact on my ass. Then my big sister tapped the other cheek. I embraced the second wet leather thud.

“Jasmine Haverton Vicinda,” sneered Morgan. “Did you get excused from cooking with your pledging sisters?”

“No, big sister,” I said.

Another strike came. I choked down a cry.

“Do you get to wear clothes while other pledges stay naked?”

Another hit.

“No big sister,” I said.

Whap.

“Did you get excused from chores with your sisters?”

“No, big sister,” I said.

The next hit hurt. I cried out. Morgan leaned over me. Her hand moved up my chest and her fingers curled around my neck. Her face went straight to my cheek.

“You’re not special, little sister,” she said. “You do what I say, because you told me you would take it. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” I said.

I dared not move my hands from the post. Prone, I took another two firm slaps of the paddle. I’d never been punished before. My big sister loved meting it out. She surprised me when her smooth hands caressed my back, my chest, and legs as I was bent over like that. When her fingers made it to my bare pussy, I winced. The soft pinching she gave my outer lips relaxed me. It made me feel good.

“You will do whatever I want,” she said. Her fingers moved in testing my wetness. I loved every humiliating second of her prodding. When she pulled out, I almost pleaded her to continue. Instead, she put her fingers to my face and had me smell my juices.

“You like the smell of pussy, pledge?”

“Yes, big sister.”

“Would you eat my pussy if I told you to?” she said.

“Whatever you ask, big sister,” I said. I looked up at her, playing the part of the obedient pledge. I had suspected she would demand this, eventually. My anxious heart would not stop me. I would do it. I would do it until my big sister came to prove my dedication. It wouldn’t matter how degrading that would be. I existed for this sorority and all that it promised me. Nothing could humiliate me so much that I would turn my back. I was meant to be here. Morgan wanted it too. My gaze dared her, and even begged her, to drop her panties before me.

Only later did I understand why big sister Morgan wavered, stepped away from me, and ordered me to stand up. Air deflated from my lungs. Almost. We could have done the oral sex and gotten that test over with.

“You’ll eat pussy before you know it, freshmeat. I’d make you eat mine right now, but that’s not on me yet,” she said in a firm tone. Her words pushed down whatever her own cravings were. “We’re getting you pledges dressed up tomorrow night and taking you somewhere special. Then, we’ll see if you have what it takes to join Phi Gamma Omega.”

The next night arrived. Our big sisters had given us all simple instructions: dress in the hottest outfits you can. Though what had they meant by that? Club hot? Formal event hot? Trashy hot? All of those silly thoughts had run through my head as I tried on an outfit, removed it, changed again and then modified the look. I didn’t know what I was going for, and I didn’t know what was happening next. I only knew to get it right.

“Pledge,” said my big sister. She entered dressed in a sorority uniform, a dark sweater vest with green trim. She looked completely official right down to her knee height boots.

“Yes sister?” I turned halfway out of my previous outfit. I must have looked like such a mess. Too many things were complicated right at the beginning of the semester. Maybe it had all been in my head though.

“What are you doing?” Morgan raised an eyebrow at me. “I said put on your sexiest outfit, not a hurricane of half dress. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I stammered. “I have to look my sexiest. But what is it for? Who is it for? If I’m going to look hot I have to look the right kind of hot.”

Morgan raised her hand to shush me.

“Which outfit makes you feel the hottest?”

I stared at the mish mash of outfits resting on my bed. Morgan sighed.

“Okay, well the tube top is going to go. We won’t use that one,” she said. She took my dark green top and pushed it aside. “This single long dress? Yes, it’s hot and sleek, but it’s not working for what’s planned tonight.” She pushed that back into the closet. “I like this skirt.” She said tossing it to one side of the bed. “But we’re getting rid of this belt you have with it…”

Morgan went through my clothes one at a time, never asking once what was what. After a few rounds, she had me down to two items of clothing. My pastel colored, asymetrical dress. She picked a belt out for me to accentuate my waist, then tied the look together with a coat I’d brought from home. Picking this out would have kept my manic head spinning in circles for hours. She had made snap decisions in a matter of seconds.

“There,” said Morgan. “You’re sexy. Make-up too?”

The outfit worked, and I knew what tiny bit of eyeliner and lip stick I needed to complete this look.

“I know what to do for makeup,” I said.

“Good,” said Morgan. “By the way, you’re not wearing those cotton panties either. You got something hotter right?”

“Umm, in my suitcase still?”

Morgan opened it and went through my collection of lingerie bottoms.

I came down out of my room to the group of big sisters, the other pledges. I remember feeling embarrassed at being so late. I could tell by how the other uniformed big sisters eyed me that I’d taken way too long to dress. Bristol looked me over. She wore a tight top that emphasized her perfect cleavage and tight daisy dukes to match. Yumi wore a black pleather skirt with a white top that showed her shoulders. She kept her crucifix in between her perfect collar bones.

“You look good there, Jasmine,” said Bristol.

“Thanks,” I said. “Sorry for making everyone wait.”

“You can pick faster next time,” said Morgan. “Any last minute adjustments, pledges? Are you at your hottest?”

“Will we be… outside?” said Yumi.

Morgan and the other big sisters looked at her outfit.

“Yeah, she could use a jacket too,” said another big sister. Yumi looked at them unsure.

“Yes, Yumi, go upstairs and be quick,” said another sister. Yumi scampered upstairs to her room. She returned down with a wind breaker.

“Perfect. Sisters, remove their collars,” said Morgan. “You freshmeat bitches? Come to the garage.”

We walked down the hill outside our Sorority house, around a parking lot, and to the garage shed. The wet asphalt glistened against the yellow of the night’s street lamps. The cloud cover hid the sky as always. Rain was light tonight. The shed itself? It frightened enough with its old peeling paint and its walls covered with decaying vines. The sisters opened it. Inside there was a windowless van. Morgan opened the back doors to reveal a pristine interior of metal as clean as a mortician’s table. A row of seats with constricting seat belts awaited us.

“Get in bitches,” commanded one of the sisters. The Haverton women needed political power someday. Remembering that, I refused to hesitate. I sat down and buckled myself in. Yumi and Bristol followed me. The doors closed with a clunk. We were in darkness except for the pale blue of the interior light. Even the window to the driver’s seat in front had been closed. The engine hummed and the van moved.

It might have been minutes. It might have been hours. I don’t remember anymore. The van bumped over potholes. We had a sense that we traveled on a highway. All throughout that ride, my heart pounded. Not so much out of being scared, although I had been that too. No, my heart beat out of confusion at what I had went through. Less than an hour prior I had stressed about small things like what to put on. Later, I was getting driven in a cage of a van, yet I existed in simplicity.

“Where are they taking us?” said Bristol. Her eyes darted around, as if looking for a tiny crack of light, or a window, or anything. Bristol couldn’t handle confinement too well. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t been chosen in the end.

“I don’t know,” said Yumi.

“Do you?” said Bristol. She said pointing at me. “Your grandma or someone is up on wall. I’ve seen her!”

“I don’t know… Bristol,” I said.

“Yes you do,” she insisted. “Come on! Tell us what they’re going to do!”

“I honestly don’t know!” I declared. I raised my hands up in protest.

“We’ll be safe, Bristol,” said Yumi. “We’re almost done. I know it. Don’t you?”

“But where are we going?” said Bristol. Slight beads of sweat appeared at her neck.

“Bristol,” said Yumi. She took Bristol’s hand and held it, “We’ll be full sisters soon. Don’t you want that?”

Bristol calmed down.

“You know I never left my state before coming out here,” said Yumi. “I almost didn’t want to come all the way up here either. I thought I’d attend a community college, then go to the same UC my sister did, forty minutes from home.”

“You got nervous and went anyway,” I said.

“Thanks,” smiled Yumi. “I wanted to explore the northwest. So I’m here.”

“Alright,” said Bristol calming down. “Okay. I can’t wait for air.”

I reached out for Bristol’s other hand. She took it and squeezed. The tension in her diffused between all three of us. Nervous and unburdened, we rode in silence.

To Be continued

Become a Patron!

1 Comment

Wickedly Reviewed: Futanari Farms Mounted and Milked by Bobbi Mare

 

Futas make Hucows out of lost Men

When it comes to taboo futanari erotica, be careful what you wish for. This book is delightfully depraved: two lost males meet a farm full of futas. What’s the danger? First, these futas run a special kind of dairy farm. Second, lots of futa on male sex here. Third, futas can’t be resisted.

Real world coronavirus crisis, and imaginative world building from author Bobbi Mare set the stage. Futanari semen can cure anything. But it must be processed through humans with the right kind of diseases. Sounds like there might be break down in production right? There aren’t many males lining up for the position. Thankfully, these futanaris don’t need anyone to be willing.

Hapless, COVID-19 infected, males Ben and Shane are lost in the Canadian countryside, unable to return to home. They’re ‘rescued’ by a farm full of sexy futanari. Irresistible pheromones work mind control on anyone the futas encounter. Well, almost anyone. Some men can resist, and the futanari have ways around that too.

Consequently, the futas completely mind wreck one male. He submits to futanari cock in every hole. Next, his body grows milk able breasts, and they dress him up as sissy cattle. The futas milk his teets and his dick because he’s a male hucow now.

The other? It doesn’t matter that the futas can’t control his mind. They have plenty of other ways to turn him into a humiliated little piggy, and harvest the  cum they ejaculate into him.

Like I said, be careful what you wish for.

This story was hot and filthy. It’s one of the most fun 12k word reads I’ve purchased recently. Enjoy!

 

About the Author

Author of nasty, naughty, trashy, taboo erotica.

As a mature sissy who grew up with the Nexus, Beeline, and Reluctant Press paperbacks, and who matured through Transformation, Forced Womanhood, and the Visions of Fantasy She-Male magazines, I have a lifelong love of erotic transgender and fetish fiction.

Submissive sissies in pretty outfits and erotic bondage is my signature theme, but within my fiction you can also expect to themes of find forced feminization, breast growth and breastfeeding, oral and anal penetration, chastity and castration, butt plugs and pegging, stunning shemales and fabulous futanari, big black stallions (both literally and figuratively), pony boys and pony girls, massive cocks with huge loads, and other deviant delights.

If you are not at least 18 years old, with an open mind and an insatiable sexual curiosity, then you probably shouldn’t be reading my bio, much less my stories. 

Bobbimare.com

Comments closed

Wickedly Reviewed: “Roommates” by Soie Minou

This is a story of an angry, isolated, futa and her new roommate Evy.

The set up towards romance flows at a great pace. Evy, the narrator, gets to know the harsh, curt, Julienne that she shares an apartment with. It is an interesting enough set up that you want to read on to find out why Julienne is anything but a people person. At the same time, it’s fun to see the surprise sexual attraction that Evy has for Julienne

I enjoyed the accidental, and entertainingly awkward, moment when Evy discovers why her roommate is always wearing baggy pajama pants.

Also, the naughty bits are quite hot.

Good read. Will read more.

 

Comments closed