As the new year approaches, our heroine faces her new reality. Once in control, but now turned into someone whose purpose is to serve and please her mistress. Dressed up, ready to be paraded and stared at, her body, no longer her own but a symbol of her promise to her mistress. Be warned, This story is dark. I have added all the appropriate tags

Binding Resolutions Chapter 1: A Promise Kept

New Year's Eve had always signified a time for transformation. But what *had* I become? My resolution, my solemn vow that I clung to even now, had plunged me into this startling... metamorphosis. The relentless ticking of the clock taunted the man I once was – robust, attractive, rational – yet who stood here now? This being was all undulating curves and softness, a foreigner wearing my skin.

Staring into the mirror, my eyes *scanned* for traces of my past form. The solid, defined lines had faded, replaced by a form more vulnerable, more naked to the eye. These once dependable shoulders now strained under a different weight. Where powerful arms used to command attention, they now hung, diminished and feeble—a tempting morsel, perhaps once the fancy of women, now reshaped to satisfy the cravings of a different kind of spectator.

Right then Nina called, "Honey, are you ready? The night beckons, and the stage awaits us."

"J'arrive, ma maîtresse," (*"I'm coming, my mistress,"*) I returned weakly, dredging up what remained of my resolve. The transition was nearly complete – the man I knew fading away, his place taken by a fantasy born from desires that were never mine.

I push back with the remnants of my will. Almost there, indeed – one man's exit, another fantasy's entry, scrawled into life by whims I never asked for.

As I walked out the door, I presented myself for her scrutiny, clothed in a skimpy maid's outfit chosen by her, my body's transformation flagrantly on display. Where once my hips stood straight and narrow now arch out boldly, flesh undulating without shame at each motion.

My once inconspicuous nipples now stood out for all to see, grossly enlarged and brazenly pink, pushing through the fabric that might as well have been a cobweb, their swollen state screaming for the rough grip or hungry mouth of any onlooker. Gone was the sculpted torso, now all that hung were these hefty, pliable and oversized mounds, shamelessly swaying, eager to be manhandled, squeezed, and sucked.

"Oui, juste pour elle... et ceux qu'elle choisit," (*"Yes, just for her... and those she chooses,"*), I whispered to myself helplessly, a crimson hue spreading across my cheeks as my nipples, already painfully erect, strained even harder, a mute appeal for the crude touch they have never known but now so desperately craved.

Sandwiched between my trembling thighs, trapped in a pathetic pink plastic thimble and dwarfed by nipples that now usurped its once formidable presence, lay my past pride. The full eight inches that it once was, had become no more than a running joke, a useless, pickled relic, locked away for good. "Yvonne's little *cockette*," as Mistress mockingly christened it, was just that, a tiny symbol of my torment, a debasing chant designed to remind me of what once I was, what I had now become, and what I would continue to be.

Bound to a welded piercing that ran through the middle, any shift caused a sting, ensuring that even the tiniest twitch brought pain. Clearly, this cage wasn't coming off unless someone took a cutter to the metal.

As my gaze clung to the pitiful state of my former manhood, I felt Nina's presence bearing down on me. She sauntered closer, and with a flick of her devilish tongue between crimson lips, unleashed a wolf whistle that pierced the air.

her eyes devouring the sight of my debasement. "Mmm, just perfect for tonight's performance,” she growled, the words dripping with desire as her eyes tore over my flesh, eyeing me like I was just some piece of meat hung out to play with as I stood helplessly, the naked craving to be used and debased outshining any remnants of dignity I have left.

"Je suis votre création... dépravé... le produit de vos caprices, Maîtresse." (*"I am your creation ...depraved...the product of your whims, Mistress."*) I whispered hoarsely, my own body betraying me with arousal at the thought of the humiliation of her parading to me an audience tonight, every stare etching me with disgrace.

"Where are those little earrings? The ones we had made just for this occasion?" she cooed. I knew precisely why she wanted me to wear them. Glistening tokens that would dangle and declare my debasement loudly, without needing a single spoken word.

I teetered over, turning to walk towards the vanity, my five inch stiletto heels clicking and forcing my ass to sway. Each step was a reminder that this was a mocking tribute to the height I once boasted, a painful reminder of the taller man I once was, now just a caricature prancing on command.

But before I could move very much, she caught me by surprise. She was on me, her hands snapping around my neck like a trap, tilting my face upwards, my gaze meeting her fiery eyes. "Not so fast,"

She closed the distance between us quickly, her hands clamping down with intent.” Not so fast," she growled, her approach feral and hungry. With a jerk, she slammed me against her, branding me with a kiss that seared my soul. Her hands were vicious, pinching and pulling at my nipples, as my body convulsed from the pain and pleasure until I was moaning guttural, primal needs. I was just soft, exposed curves for her to play with, to hurt, to tease.

"You're still my only love,” she breathed out, drenched in possessive lust, "My perfect, dirty little fucktoy," she named me, binding me with chains no eye could see - unbreakable, suffocating, and intoxicating. She promised, "...and tonight, everyone gets a front-row seat to experience how deep you've sunk for me." She’d flaunt me like some debauched prize, a sacrificial piece of meat ripe for their pleasure. And I'd cave to her, every damn time, swallowed whole by the twisted joy of belonging entirely to her.

Nina's hold on me was relentless, spinning me like a plaything. With a rough yank, my dress flew up to bare the white panties that were nothing more than a tease over my skin. The fresh tattoo on my lower back, a maid, helpless on her knees, her eyes shimmering and child-like, lost, vulnerable, trapped in ink. And scrawled below her meek submission, the artistic sweep of ‘À votre service’, a permanent testament, etched into my flesh as if to mock the very idea of what I had been.

She then smacked my ass, ‘hard’, rippling through me, my cheeks quivering under her hand. I let out a yelp, a sound that was half protest, half shameful yearning. The sting of the slap was nothing compared to the burning humiliation that flushed through me. It was like she had struck a chord that runs straight to that caged-up ‘nothing’ between my thighs.

"Yvonne," she purred, and there it was, that name. Just a single utterance sending shivers down my spine. Even as the sting bloomed across my butt. It was as though she'd spoken me into existence, my body flushed hot thrill, every shred of my manhood vanishing with the name she claimed me with. My identity becoming more real with every helpless throb of my heartbeat.

My eyes once fierce with ambition now glazed over with wanton surrender."Oui, Maîtresse, je suis à vous, façonnez-moi à l'image de vos désirs obscènes." (*"Yes, Mistress, I am yours, shape me into the image of your obscene desires."*) I breathed out the words, each syllable laced with shameful longing.

"Hush, pet, don't let that tongue wag any more than that pathetic *jouet* you've got there," she teased softly. Her fingers traced the chain, drawing attention to the miniature cage that proved more than sufficient to contain my soft, feminised pebble. A slender thread of humiliation, looped from my pitiful piercing, binding it back between my thighs to a second piercing, nestling in my perineum, "Show gratitude," she demanded, a smirk in her voice, "that I've allowed you to keep your pathetic clit."

Her movements were a ripple of intent as she turned around and lifted her skirt, unveiling the smooth, naked, and voluptuous cheeks of her backside as if gift-wrapped in sin. Her fingers spreading her back apart, her tight, unblemished ring seemed to beckon me, whispering of forbidden pleasures long denied.

In the shadow between her thighs lingered a glimpse of her pink lips, denied to me for months now and just beyond reach. My lips hungered for them, thirsted for the taste I hadn't savoured in an eternity of torment. But obedience was my only option and my role was clear. To worship at the rear of the temple I'd been exiled from. Dropping to my knees, I settled into my ritual, crawling, like a bitch in heat, I buried my face between her. My tongue lapping at her puckered rosebud with abandon.

Gripping my hair like a leash, she commanded me as she pushed me in further, "Trace the drips along my thigh, feel every drop that you've been missing," she commanded. I complied, tracing the path of her essence, slick with desire, my own torment audible in every slurp. "Pour your desperation into your tongue. Show me the depth of your longing," she taunted, thrusting against me.

My tongue worked her ceaselessly, my mind transported to times past—times when our roles were reversed, her moans fueling my dominance. "Harder. make every lap count slave. Lust for it like it's your last morsel of me," she demanded. "Impress me enough, and perhaps you'll partake in my special blend later tonight."

Her thighs clenching with a telltale shudder, I felt Mistress's body on the brink of succumbing to the wave I'd diligently invoked with my tongue. Yet just as I tasted the crescendo of her pleasure building, she yanked my head back, her voice a mix of cruel delight and authoritative steel, "Not yet, pet. The night is still young and we have a lot more... things... to do." Her words left me aching, pulsing with need. ‘Si proche, j'ai presque fait venir ma maîtresse,’ (*’So close, I almost made my mistress come.’*) my thoughts churned with longing from the echo of her denial.

The ringing bell broke the spell, pulling me out of my carnal trance. Mistress adjusting her dress while turning to face me, twirled her finger, telling me everything I needed to know. Turning, I bared my ass,offering up my flesh to her whims. And then she punctuated her demand with a firm slap to my behind, drawing out a moan from me .

"You're almost there, almost fulfilling the terms of your resolution to perfection.” she mused loudly, her voice threaded with a wistful nostalgia. A delicate yank on my chain sent a sharp bolt of pain and pleasure through me, wrenching a high-pitched whimper from my constricted throat. "And, I must confess, right now, you're far more appealing to me this way; helpless, quivering, so pitifully small, and entirely at my mercy.”

"And make sure that you make quite the spectacle of bending over tonight," she instructed, her tone laced with the intent of showcasing her claim." I want them all to see that fuckable, round, plump bottom of yours. And by the end, I intend to have it red and ripe before the real party even starts," she declared, sealing my fate with her clear intent. "Now scamper, go and welcome our first guest, " she commanded, and scamper i did.

The door creaked open to admit the arrival of Jacob, my former boss, who might as well write my future checks. Ten years my senior, with a pot belly that he'd apparently laboured over and a hairline in full retreat, he carried the smugness of a man who believed he was far more charming than nature had allowed.

Generously, he'd granted me a year to sort out my 'delicate condition'—a sabbatical from the numbers and spreadsheets that once formed my daily grind. I knew his charity wasn't free; it was drenched in desire for Nina, a lust that gnawed at him, unable to understand how she ended up with someone like the old me.

Jacob had become a regular shadow at our doorway, claiming a concern for my welfare, but it was no secret his visits were truly aimed at undressing Nina with his lecherous gaze. Just days ago, he dangled the carrot of employment again, telling me the accounting department would somehow survive without me but his own personal secretary's position was conveniently vacant—a position that promised 'intimacy' and a paycheck that would only remind me of my diminished worth.

Two weeks past, I'd seen him drop Nina home late at night, her sultry form poured into one of those dresses that screamed sin, her stride unsteady, lips a smear of red. I dared to question her as she stumbled in, "Maîtresse, est-ce que vous couchez avec lui?" (*"Mistress, are you sleeping with him?"*). Her laughter rang dismissive and clear, as if the thought was too absurd, "No” she answered with a derisive laugh, yet as she moved away, I caught something—a hushed breath that carried the faintest trace of words: "not yet...", and it landed like a cold weight in my stomach as she vanished into our once sacred bedroom.

As he approached, I dipped into the deepest of curtsies, my bare breasts hanging down invitingly, my embarrassment evident in my flushed cheeks. "Nina, looks like your little French slut cleaned up good and proper - look at her, all tarted up and begging for it. " Jacob sneered, his gaze raking over me with undisguised crudeness, as his fingers gripped my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his.

Forbidden from speech, and forbidden from refusal by my Mistress's order prior, I couldn't utter a word or reject any advance made upon me.With my heart hammering in my chest, I could only gasp inwardly as he abused the oversized and blushingly conspicuous nipples that jutted capped my breasts, now swollen and achingly receptive to his crude touch. As he continued to squeeze and twist, he leaned close and whispered into my ear, oozing contempt. “Bet it burns, huh, realising you ain’t nothing but pathetic now?, whimpering while a real man takes control of the woman you could never truly satisfy. Soon enough, you’ll be begging me to ravage her, ravage you both.”

Clearly, Mistress had caught every word, her gaze flashed with unspoken understanding as she witnessed my complete debasement for her. I stood there, utterly at her mercy, gnawed by the thought of losing her to this pig. My strength had drained away, and I feared everything I'd endured would mean nothing if he staked his claim on her.

But as just as he desired, with my voice quivering, I spoke, "Je m’incline devant vous, prête à servir dans la maison de la Maîtresse, *vaurien*." (*"I yield to you, eagerly waiting to serve in the Mistress’s abode, bastard."*)

A brief touch of real amusement flickered across Mistress's face before she adopted the expected placid smile, though I caught the fleeting sincerity.

Clearly, the brute did not understand a word and looked towards her, "What'd she say?"

"She's thrilled, can't wait," Mistress countered coolly. "Now, relax, make yourself comfortable dear, while I shove some last-minute instructions into the help. “ Mistress said.

As the brute lumbered off, she spun me, coquettish malice sparkling in her eyes. “No missteps, my pet. Attempting to ‘rise to the occasion’, don't amuse yourself with such fancies. Your slightest whimper of dissent, no matter how ‘tiny,’ will not be tolerated." She emphasised, each word as her fingers yanked my little clitty upwards, the surge of pain mingling with the shameful pleasure of reprimand, as I let out a choked sob. Defeated, yet desirous, I responded, "Oui, Maîtresse… comme vous le désirez." (*"Yes, Mistress… as you desire."*) As her grasp relented, the pain faded into a lingering ache, a prelude to what the night might bring.

As we made our way towards the bedroom, Mistress laid out her command with absolute certainty. "In my home today, he's not just a guest; he's royalty. You will serve him, or anyone I command you to. No questioning, no hesitating." However, your little show of insolence just now gives me an idea.

"Now, walk with me," she instructed, and I acquiesced, my steps a shadow of her own confident strides.

Midway, she turned, her gaze capturing me like a trap. "Tell me, how do I look?" In my distraction, I had forgotten to drench her in the adoration she rightfully deserved.

As I took her in, my throat turned to sand and my heart stuttered in its cage.

Her dress clung to her like sin made fabric, a brazen fuck-you to modesty. Barely there strips, like a black whisper snaking over her, lusting to peel away and leave nothing to the imagination.

Each curve of her body was a siren's call, her ample chest pushed up, nipples pronounced, boldly defying decency, a blatant tease of flesh begging for attention.

Her waist, nipped in by the black strips, partitioned her waist before blooming into the lush, seeking curves of her hips.

The dress, if it could even be called that, skirted just above the edges of her thighs, promising glimpses of the secrets that hid just beneath, her movements an open dare to witness more.

It was a masterclass in erotic display, her choice of dress—or the lack thereof—crafted solely to ensnare the senses and seize control of every lustful thought. She was a vision dipped in the very essence of desire, bare skin barely concealed, pure temptation on two legs.

Each choice was a deliberate act, her body the weapon and there was no subtlety in her allure. A living embodiment of every deep-seated craving that spoke of late-night whispers and early-morning regrets.

As my mind fumbled for language, The Mistress and I entered the seclusion of the bedroom. Without a hint of ceremony, she seized my hand, pressing it against the naked, moist evidence of her arousal beneath her dress. It was then that the raw deprivation hit me; I had been denied even feeling her intimate heat for months, and the sudden touch sent tremors of craving in me,

"Make sure this... my excitement endures," she demanded, each word saturated with entitlement. "Whenever, and for however long I wish it," she added, her eyes cutting through me with a brazen challenge, "And if my desires extend beyond you, be ready to witness and to serve whoever can fulfil them..."

Over there, bend across the nightstand," she ordered, her grip on me unrelenting, shoving me forward. "Panties off; they'll serve you no purpose tonight," she stated. Her declaration was absolute, and I shed my last veil obediently, the scant fabric pooling at my feet.

“I’ll be back for you, stud," she announced to Jacob who was seated outside, her voice dripping with a sultry promise, a deliberate jab to my confined state.

Her dig through the closet was swift, a predator rummaging for the perfect tool of torture. "Stand still, not a whisper," she ordered, and I was an obedient statue. It didn't take long before I heard the triumph in her husky murmur, "Ah, there it is," as she turned to face me, her prey, exposed and ripe.

"You neglected to compliment me," she all but purred, her mocking tone a velvet threat. "I'll need recompense... but first, spill it." her words dripped venom sweeter than honey.

she hissed, voice thick with a teasing cruelty. "Age of honesty—what do you yearn to do with my body? Pathetically though, you're no longer the 'man' for the job, and you've been barred from the garden. So...." she paused, letting the moment marinate in my mind.

"Tell me instead about the vigorous bull who'd rightfully claim me while you stand there, witnessing, and yearning. Choke on your helpless jealousy, speak of his virility, and don't you dare omit a thing, while I make you nice and ready, with this pretty little piece for everyone to see you in tonight."

As the intrusion set into me, she paused, savouring her control. Confess! She demanded. My thoughts reeled, tangled in English, but only fractured French could leave my lips.

With hesitancy, I began the debasing narrative. "Un autre homme... dans notre—non, votre lit," (*"Another man... in our—no, your bed,"*) I corrected myself under her spell.

“Doing what? choose your words wisely.” she asked, seeking details, hungry for the depiction of her own mastery over a different suitor.

My reply spilled out, painting the disgraceful picture, "Il vous baiserait farouchement, sa queue énorme vous écartelant, et vous, hurlez votre reddition alors qu’il vous prend sans relâche, comme une salope en chaleur." (*"He'd fuck you fiercely, his enormous cock stretching you wide, and you, bellowing your submission as he takes you relentlessly, like a bitch in heat."*) each word tripping over the last, betraying a power I had once wielded.

"And my moans, Yvonne, for whom would they be? Her voice was pointed, cutting, demanding acknowledgment of her power to elicit such sounds.

"Pour lui seul," (*"For him alone,"*) I admitted, the truth of my subservience and shattered reality laid bare.

"He would lay claim to me?" The hint of her triumph demanded my confirmation.

"Oui, madame..." (*"Yes, madame..."*) I murmured, the acknowledgement barely a whisper.

"The way you used to?" Her cruel glee painted words with the memories of our past.

"Oui, madame..." The words slipped out again, echoing my helpless state.

"Tell me how he'd use my body; hours on end," she growled.

But I could only respond in the tongue of my subjugation, "Il vous baiserait pendant des heures, chaque cri serait une prière à sa puissance." (*"He would ravage you for hours, each scream a testament to his strength."*)

Her command hit me like a slap, "Tell me, how would I get on my knees for my real man, every single day?"

My throat tightened as I spit out the crude image "Prends sa queue en toi, baise-la avec ta bouche, sens tes joues s'engorger de sa virilité inépuisable. Tu es là, jouant avec ton clitoris, implorante, voulant qu'il se vide en toi, que son explosion comble le vide dans ta bouche désespérée." (*"Take his cock inside you, fuck it with your mouth, feel your cheeks swell with his inexhaustible manhood. There you are, playing with your clit, beseeching, wanting him to empty himself into you, let his explosion fill the emptiness in your desperate mouth."*)

Her query was venomous. "And you, my little slut, what's your role? you're are there remember?"

Choking on the stark reality, I barely uttered, "Je serais là, à vous regarder, prête à lécher, à nettoyer, à être utilisée..." (*"I would be there, watching you, ready to lick, to clean, to be used..."*)

"And my man?" she pressed, expecting more than my hesitant reverence.

A pause, heavy with the dawning of my purpose, I whispered, "Lui aussi, je le servirais..." (*"Him too, I would serve..."*) My hesitancy indicating my coerced consent.

“No, Yvonne, you'll eagerly welcome him, zealously suck off the man who makes your mistress his. Aching to be fucked raw just like me. Begging while crawling on fours, lusting for it, forever marked, available anytime for his delight or to mop up what he leaves behind. Existing entirely for my approval and his gratification.”

With that, her final thrust was merciless, burying the intruder to its base in one smooth motion, making me gasp with the shock of being so full. and the air I gasped was tinged with the reality of being her pleasure object, nothing more than her lewd plaything.

With that, her final thrust deep to the hilt, I gasped as the sudden intrusion filled me. A cruel affirmation of my debasement and my status as a plaything for her deviant delights.

The chime of the bell snapped us back to the reality of the night ahead. With a cruel spank to my behind that sent the plug deeper, Mistress signalled it was time to face the party. Standing was a trial, walking a torment; each step I took was challenged by the device tormenting me from within.

"Actually, put those panties back on. They've got some unfinished business," she remarked, eyeing me expectantly.

"Comme vous voulez, Maîtresse," (*"As you wish, Mistress,"*) my voice just a breath as I eased the delicate white lace over my thighs, feeling it press against the plug that she claimed me with.

She then strutted out, her body a walking promise, knowing each hungry eye would feast on her curves tonight. I shuffled behind, the fullness in my behind mocking my strides, my own body on obscene display in this submissive outfit.

We entered the fray – her untouchable, me laid bare. She was a deity in that space, and I, merely her offering, twitching with every step reminding me of my place beneath her.

Yvonne's evening descends into a carnal savagery where the hedonistic fantasies of onlookers are not just met but encouraged. She is simply a vessel for gratification for the crowd, an emblem of her solemn vow to her ever-demanding mistress. Adorned in attire that barely conceals, she is marched out before hungry eyes, every inch of her transformation a testimony to her submission. Be forewarned: this chapter treads through shadowed corridors, filled with explicit scenes and raw exchanges that may unsettle the faint of heart.

**Personal Request and Trigger Warning for Chapter 2**: Please be advised that the following chapter contains material of a very dark and explicit nature, exploring themes of extreme power dynamics, enforced submission, and explicit sexual content. It is intended for a mature audience and is not suitable for all readers. If such topics are likely to cause distress or are not to your taste, it may be best to refrain from reading further. Reader discretion is strongly advised as we continue this harrowing journey into the abyss of absolute surrender.

Chapter1 can be found here: Binding Resolutions Chapter 1: A Promise Kept

Chapter 2: Lost in Submission

Transformed, the once stately mansion by the cliffside now teemed with raw flesh, no longer shielding its secrets from the deep blue of the ocean's gaze.

The mansion had turned into a den of depravity, miles from its serene, oceanside elegance. Every inch of the lush cliffside estate screamed of the sexual frenzy that my own wealth, now signed away, afforded. It was a smut fest, drenched in carnality, alive with voracious appetites, indulged under a black velvet sky.

By the moonlit pool's edge, the New Year's bash was a sinful showcase with fuck-hungry bodies contorted in pleasure. Strings of low-hanging lights cast a permissive glow, making every jutting nipple and bobbing cock a star in the night's filthy parade.

Lounge chairs, once meant for idle sun-basking, now bore the weight of screwing couples. One woman, it was almost obscene how her ample ass devoured the cock behind her, each plunge met by her moans that spiced the salty evening air.

The air was so thick with the stank of screwing, it clung to me like a second skin. There I was, a peep show dolled up in frills, tits bouncing with every step as I served the drinks. My role was now a living, breathing ode to all that I was witnessing.

In my periphery, the unmistakable figure of Dr. Michelle, typically the vision of professional poise, was on all fours upon the dewy grass, body bent and offered up. The stud behind her drove into her like she was just ripe for his picking."Having fun watching, Yvonne?" her voice dripped with ridicule, the irony not lost on my captive gaze.

To my shame, my gaze lingered a little too long, drinking in the sight of her wanton unbecoming, before reluctantly tearing away.

Not a stone's throw away, Helen, the Mistress' sister, was the centrepiece of her own carnal theatre. Spread over a silk-draped cabana, legs wide and high for the stud fucking her into bliss. She saw me, and with a lustful leer, called me over. As I neared her to take her instructions, with a forceful grab, she pulled me up next to her, her grip on my wrist rigid. I was propped to watch, helpless. "Watch and learn, Yvonne. You'll get used to it." The promise in her twisted smirk was clear—this would be me.

The night was no celebration of time—it was an unabashed worship of sex. The music drowned us, a perverse lullaby cradling the writhing masses. We were all adrift in this sea of sin—a communion in the flesh, the old year dying in the throes of lewd rebirth.

I threaded my way through the labyrinth of bodies, continuing to serve, continuing to watch helplessly my breath hitched as I stumbled upon Mike.

Before I knew it, his arm shot out, snatching me with a growl, pulling me towards the couch where Annabelle perched atop him, impaled on his dick. A wife to one but a whore to another, she pounded onto him with lascivious fervour. Her husband, oblivious, sprawled out not too far from where she bounced upon Mike—the drug she'd likely slipped into his drink enabling her brazen betrayal.

Pulled down onto the couch, my flesh pressed against their hot, writhing bodies. Annabelle rode him unhurried, gyrating as her breasts, a touch smaller than what mine had morphed into, rose and fell in rhythm to her movements.

Mike harshly pulled my top aside, exposing my hefty, soft breast, the nipple now painfully swollen, vividly pink, and shamefully ripe. Compared to what Annabelle carried, what I sported were much more purpose bound. "Les seins d'une chienne," (*"The tits of a bitch, "*) I thought, eyes wide, as blood rushed to my cheeks in mortification.

"Cry for me, Yvonne, let's see if your tits do your weeping," Mike mocked, latching onto my nipple with a ferocity that extracted not tears but a gasp of raw pleasure. It was the first time that a man had claimed my breasts, imprinting the sense of their true purpose onto my psyche.

I realised then, with a clarity that ravaged my remnants of dignity, I existed for the abuse. To be bent to perversion's whims, manhandled, desecrated, and ultimately left painted with the marks of someone else's hunger. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide — just a raw twitching mess, my body betraying me with spasmodic jerks, surrendering to the base moans torn from the depths of my being. Heat streaking across my face in a flush of shame.

"Pity your Mistress put a lock on the real goodies until she gives the green light," Mike groaned and went back to sucking my oversensitive nub, leaving me bucking against the cage latched 'round my shrivelled little ‘cockette’, which twitched and ached, desperate for a relief that wasn't coming.

"Oui, Maître. Utilisez-moi comme vous voulez—après le feu vert de la Maîtresse, je suis toute à vous," I conceded, voicing my own objectification. (*"Yes, Master. Use me as you will—after Mistress says so, I’m all yours,"*) slipped from my lips, each word shivering with a wretched cocktail of shame and forbidden hunger as Mike's mouth worked over my swollen nipple.

Annabelle's taunt sliced through the fog of my pained arousal, "Let's face it, you were just a sorry excuse for a man, weren't you? How you convinced Nina is beyond me. Even now, she's withholding... but not from Jacob. He's playing his cards right; maybe she'll be his New Year's conquest."

I wanted to shrink away, disappear, but her words were like barbs hooking into my flesh, tearing open a fresh wound each time. It baffled me—why did these women find Jacob enticing?

The man was nothing next to Mistress’ magnetism or even who I had once been—a version of myself that was athletic and appealing. What twisted fate had led me to this—to become something so abjectly helpless? This question gnawed at my essence, the torture sharpened as it mingled with the torment of feeling invisible needles piercing my exposed essence.

Annabelle and her crowd found some magnetic draw to him that was torturous to contemplate. The only response I could muster was a string of moans punctuated by tormented breaths, steeped in the heat of the moment and the torment it brought.

The enigma of Mistress withholding her favours from the night's revelry perplexed me, her beauty unclaimed. I felt the burn of knowing that Jacob, a man with a middling presence when I once stood proud and virile, a slow torture that unravelled me from within. The sting of understanding a game in which I was the losing player seared through me.

As I tried to wriggle free from the harsh clutch, Mike held fast, an unyielding trap that had me stuck and stewing in a cesspool of self-loathing and lust, making me bear witness to the raunchy spectacle laid out in front of me. It was once my realm, no, now it was Mistress’ kingdom, and I was naught but a quivering plaything, with a desperate wail that came unbidden.

"Je ne suis pas l'homme pour la Maîtresse, elle se laissera emporter par celui qu'elle désire..." (*"I am no man for the Mistress, she will be swept away by the one she desires..."*)

Mike leaned in close, his hot breath fanning across my ear, his words a vulgar promise. "That's right and I can't wait to give you a proper fucking when that happens, you little slut."

It felt as if my mind fractured, yielding completely to the inevitability of my fate, birthing a mute entreaty in the dark alcove of my psyche.’Oui... il est inévitable …’ (‘Yes... it's inevitable …’)

That is when I noticed him looking at us from a distance. Jacob's hawk-like gaze fixed on me with predatory focus as I writhed under Mike's rough handling, his intent to intervene clear as day. He strode towards us with purpose, an angry glint in his eye as though he'd been robbed of administering my discipline first.

Mike, the bigger man, had been engrossed in his lewd occupation with my body but seemed unaware of Jacob's approach. I watched, helpless, as the larger man was unanticipatedly shoved aside. Mike, usually unyielding, surprisingly offered no resistance against the pig’s show of dominance. There was an undercurrent of complicity that I couldn't fathom.

With Mike displaced, Jacob, his fingers, talon-like, dug into my arms, trapping them behind me with the authority of ownership. The shock of his aggression left me momentarily dazed, and I was the deer within the grasp of a raptor, and I was truly terrified. No arousal, no shame, just fear.

“You are what I made you to be, you stupid little tramp,” he snarled in slow, deliberate English as he bent me over, a perverse glee in his execution. “Today, I’m finishing what I started—right here, right in front of you, in front of everybody. But first, you gotta be punished. You are not supposed to enjoy any of this.” His words were like a slap, stripping away any remnants of my pride, leaving me exposed and vulnerable.

In a heartbeat, he was on me, grabbing me with iron-hard hands. He dragged me like a rag doll over to the couch, throwing me down across his lap with a thud that forced the air from my lungs. I was panting, scared, glaring up just in time to see the Mistress’ sharp, predatory focus, hungry for the show.

Jacob's booze-soaked breath was hot on my neck, his voice gruff and rank with command. "Let's crank this up. Beg her now, bitch. Beg her with your hole to take me. To let me use her." I looked helplessly at the Mistress and she simply smiled letting me know that she wanted this.

His palm smacked down hard. "One."

"il peut vous posséder comme j'en ai jamais été capable." (*"Please, Mistress, take him, he can possess you in ways I never could. "*) I blurted, the first lash sending a jolt straight to my core, forcing tears from my eyes.

He hoisted his hand back up, the sound of the second hit echoing through me. "Two."

"Offrez-vous à lui, madame, laissez-le vous conquérir, corps et âme." (*"Offer yourself to him, Mistress, let him conquer you, body and soul, "*) my voice broke, the heat from my ass radiating through my entire body.

"Three."

With each passing moment, each searing spank, I painted the lurid image for the Mistress, invoking the raw power that Jacob wielded, a power that could make her succumb in ways that would render my own attempts a mere memory.

"À genoux, madame, pour cet homme, le seul capable de vous dominer complètement, de vous emmener aux sommets de l'extase..." (*"On your knees, Mistress, for this man, the only one who can truly dominate you, who can take you to the heights of ecstasy... "*) I choked out, breathless, humiliated.

"Four."

By the fourth, I was barely holding on, my throat raw as I spoke my bitter surrender.

"Pliez-vous pour lui, madame, offrez-lui ce que vous ne m'offrirez jamais, laissez-le explorer les profondeurs de votre désir..." (*"Bend over for him, Mistress, offer him what you will never grant me, let him delve into the depths of your desire..."*)

He paused, holding my chin, forcing me to look at Mistress as he geared up for the final humiliation.

"Five."

The last hit landed with a brutal thud, and I was winded, defeated.

"Madame, je reconnais que je n'ai jamais été à la hauteur, que vous n'auriez jamais dû me donner votre amour..." (*"Mistress, I acknowledge I was never good enough, you should have never wasted your love on me... "*) I whimpered, resigned to the fact, my place was crystal clear.

As the confession clawed its way out, raw and bleeding. For a moment, just a flash, Mistress' cruel smirk faltered, flickered into something almost human—sympathy? Pity? It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving nothing but the hungry glint I knew so well.

I was nothing but a plaything, a spectacle, and beneath their joint gaze, I dissolved into the role they designed for me—Yvonne, the broken, the beggar, the bitch in heat for a discipline in denial.

Flushed with a heat that could scorch, the Mistress painted the room with her bare lust.

She glided toward Jacob, every movement dripping with a defiant promise of pleasure. With a casual flick, he flung me to the ground, a toy spent and rejected. Held captive by the scene, I watched them collide in a raw clash of lips and limbs. Mistress fed her breasts to Jacob’s roughened grip, their kiss a ravenous maw of longing and claim.

Then, in a brazen display, her fingers dipped beneath her skirt, emerging glistening—proof of her arousal. She found my mouth with those slick digits, and I complied, no command needed. My sobs and her nectar, long denied to me, commingled on my tongue, an intimate concoction I couldn't reject.

Mistress pressed for words, her voice soft but edged with command. “What do you say now, Yvonne? And don't you dare mumble.”

Choking on her scent, on the truth of my place in her world, I steeled myself. “Merci, madame,"(*"Thank you, Mistress,") I gasped, her flavor overwhelming, "de m'offrir ce goût, c'est tout ce que je peux avoir.” (*"for allowing me this taste, it's all I'm allowed to have."*)

Mistress' laugh was a dark melody, her eyes glinting with a predatory glee. "Don't worry, my little doll, you'll have plenty more—new ‘cocktails’ to lap up from me. Next time, I promise that it will be… saltier," she promised, her voice a seductive growl that flirted with the edge of cruelty.

And with the smug assurance of a queen, she twisted in Jacob's lap, her lips finding his once more in a carnal promise, sealing the moment with a kiss that spoke volumes, her hand deftly exploring within his pants. Left alone with the remnants of her desire coating my palate, I knelt in silence, my surrender complete.

As Jacob's hands itched to rip her dress up and bare it all, Mistress caught his wrist, her command absolute. She picked up her glass and stood, one hand still teasing the bulge in Jacob's pants, commanding the room with her presence.

Glasses clinked like chains as she beckoned me to the centre of the room — the stage for my unveiling. Mistress laid out her thanks like cards on the table: to Dr. Michelle for cooking up the hormone cocktail that softened my edges; to Lady Lynn for refining me into the docile maid I'd become; and to Jacob, for reinforcing how truly pitiful I was as a man... as her man.

With the ceremony of a high priestess, she lifted her glass. "Yvonne, ma chère," she directed me with a velvet voice that hid the steel beneath,”lift your skirt, panties off as well”

I with the obedience of a damned soul, hiked up my skirt, sliding the sheer fabric of my panties down, baring my desecrated form. The sight of the metal cage imprisoning my clittie tinkled a mocking chorus. Mistress' smile was victorious and cruel.

"Spread the view, love. No modesty left here, is there? Flaunt what is dangling beneath your laughable 'clit'," she urged with a venomous sweetness.

Stifling tears, I lifted the merciless chain for all to witness—the stark nudity of my castration laid bare for their perverse pleasure.

Mistress, with theatrical glee, announced, walking towards my trembling form. "Yvonne has surrendered the final remnants of her pitiful manhood." Then, touching the earring that dangled from my lobe with a flourish, she added, "Her little balls? They jingle here now, golden mementos for all to admire."

She cast a sweeping gaze around the room. "After our cheer, feel free to inspect our little eunuch up close."

Her attention snapped back to Jacob, her voice a resonant purr. "Yvonne, crawl to him, plead with him, unzip him. Suck him. Feast on your first taste of a real man."

Before I could summon the ghost of defiance, Mistress added, a sickly-sweet afterthought piercing through, "Do it with zeal, my love."

Every ounce of me screamed to resist, but with "my love" lingering in the air, I was snared. Mistress' words, a binding spell, her will, my shackling command.

Dragged down by chains of defeat inside me, I crawled on my knees toward Jacob. My very audible pleas scraping the bottom of my swallowed pride.

With resignation staining my soul, I crawled on my knees to Jacob.

Each move was a silent plea, “S'il vous plaît, monsieur, permettez-moi de vous servir avec enthousiasme avant que vous puissiez avoir ma femme." (*"Please, sir, allow me to service you enthusiastically before you enjoy my wife. "*)

“S'il vous plaît, monsieur, laissez-moi polir votre queue avec ma bouche," (*"Please, sir, allow me to polish your cock with my mouth, "*) I pleaded, my voice a barely-contained whimper leaking through parched lips.

The rough carpet burned against my skin as I inched closer to him, the distance a marathon of humiliation. "S'il vous plaît, servez-vous de ma bouche comme d'un trou chaud pour votre plaisir," (*"Please, use my mouth like a warm hole for your pleasure, "*) my words dripped in perverse reverence, a mantra of my own degradation.

My hands trembled as they hovered near his lap, my breaths short, sharp, laced with the acrid tang of fear and want. "S'il vous plaît, je veux être empalée sur votre bite, la sentir au fond de ma gorge," (*"Please, I want to be impaled on your dick, feel it in the back of my throat, "*) I choked out, the image of my own submission reflected in his darkening gaze.

I reached him, my plea now a fervent gasp. "S'il vous plaît, monsieur, remplissez-moi, utilisez-moi jusqu'à ce que je sois juste un gâchis dégoulinant," (*"Please, sir, fill me up, use me until I'm just a dripping mess, "*) my face hovered inches from his crotch, hot breath begging through the fabric separating us.

With a mixed curse of eagerness and self-loathing, I unzipped him. My final surrender was a silken whisper. "S'il vous plaît, montrez-moi que je ne suis rien sans votre queue," (*"Please, show me that I'm nothing without your cock, "*) my voice broke, staining my tongue with the metallic taste of defeat.

Mistress' hushed words, "my love," were both a caress and a brand – the duality of love and possession melding into my dawning reality. As I peeled back the zipper, giving in to her spell, I was acutely aware of every eye upon me. Her voice was the crack of a whip, her words the fetters that bound my soul to this relentless craving for shame.

As I continued to tug the zipper down, expectation hung thick in the air, a perverse invitation to the end of who I was. But there, staring back at me was the final joke – he was smaller than I'd ever been. Yet his cocky grin told a different story; he might as well have been a giant the way he leered at me, his eyes glazed with the raw hunger of ownership.

I wrapped my lips around him, the salty, skin-like tang hitting my tongue – nothing to brag about. The irony was a slap; I used to be bigger. Now here I was, taking him into my mouth, my identity dissolving with every taste of his mediocrity. ’Cette bite est délicieuse,’ (*’This cock is delicious,’*) I repeatedly lied to myself, the affirmation a twisted attempt to find some shred of enjoyment in my disgrace.

Without warning, his grip found my hair, his hold merciless as he forced me down on him. I gagged, my eyes watering as I was invaded, ruthlessly deep-throated by what I should have considered pitiable. "Yeah, that's it, you little whore. Keep it up," his voice rasped, a perverse praise.

My eyes stung, tears streaking down my face, yet I persisted, servicing him, degrading myself for the audience of the one who'd orchestrated my fall from grace. "Work for it like your Nina is going to work for it later. Get hungry for it,” he hissed, every word a command wrapped in vitriol.

Tears streamed down, mingling with the spit on my chin as I forced my mind back, back when she was on her knees for me. She was a natural, worshipping me, making me swell in bliss. Now, it was my turn, to dredge those memories and replicate that hunger, that devotion. 'Fais-le avec conviction... sois la garce avide de bite que tu ne peux nier être.' (*'Do it with conviction... be the dick-hungry wench you can't deny being.'*) I muttered in my head, a mantra to spur me on despite the shame.

I dove into my work. My lips, once proud and firm, were now soft and yielding, a haven for his mediocre meat. Each bob of my head was exaggerated, theatrical, a masterclass in the vulgar art I'd descended into. Compelled by Mistress' orders, by the fractured shards of longing that still pierced my chest, I sucked him like my life depended on it.

My lips were wrapped around Jacob’s manhood, working in desperate, forced rhythm, while my Mistress, my tormentor, my goddess—sang praise to her conspirators in my emasculation. Above the wet, choking sounds filling the air, I caught the sugar poison of Mistress' gratitude. “Shout out to Dr. Michelle for juicing Yvonne up with enough femme-fuel to shrivel her assets. Took no time to bob those bits from man to mouse.”

Dr. Michelle’s voice slinked back,all thick “Fuck me harder!” Revelling in her pounding, and oily with triumph “Pumping that—Nngh—primed canvas with Estro-max, Ooh God, yes, was a—Shove it in, you bastard!—a delight," her moans punctuating her claim. "Those balls, heh, went from—Ahh, yes!—grapes to—Ugh—raisins to gone. Even had—Mmm, that's it!—a decent piece between his legs once, you know? But now?—Aghh—Just a wink of flesh now—Ahh, fuck!—barely there, barely anything. A whisper where—Oh, fuck yes!—where a shout used to be."

Mistress' cackle was a bell toll in my hollowed chest, each chime a mockery of the flesh and pride I had once held. “Now my good Doctor, tell us, how did you like playing God with his raisin pouch?”

“Oh, Nina," Michelle's voice cut across the distance, strained as she was clearly feeling another thrust, "His bits were hardly—Ahh, God!—worth the name by the time the meds were done with their job. A quick cut, and—*Damn it, right there!*—voilà—nothing left but a—*Mmm, fuck!*—nice neat little nubbin. Just an exquisite—*Ahh shit, yes!*—little dimple that once dreamed it was a—*Ugh!*—a dick."

"Yvonne's such a—*Oh fuck!*—good girl now, isn't she? *Drive it deeper, you bastard!* Isn't that—*Ugh!*—right, doll?" she taunted at me, the sadistic joy thick in her voice. "Just thinking about it—*Oh, fuck me!*—Yvonne, legs spread wide, cut without—*Ahh, damn!*—anaesthesia, squealing in—*Ahh, yeah!*—in pain ... Shit, it makes me—*Mmm, fuck!*—it makes me so damn hot!"

Her voice grew manic, each curse word wrapped around the rhythm set by the person hammering into her, enthralled by the memories. "Such a sweet, clean slice—*Ahhhhh, FUCK!*—and the way you—*Yes!*—you bled for us, Yvonne, that's it—*Ohh, I'm gonna... I'm...*"

Her already loud cries escalated into a torrent of profanity as climax gripped her. "*AHHH, THAT'S IT!* Think back, Yvonne! The fucking slice—how it felt, your little balls getting chopped off, —*Ughhhh!*—our perfect, ball-less bitch! Oh, the reality was so much filthier, so much more satisfying—*AHHH, FUCK YEAH!* than any fantasy I had of fucking your old self in the past. Now I'm cumming—*AHHHH, CUMMING HARD!* Revel in the memory, Yvonne! *FUCK, YES!* Your pain, your loss, it's my…. *AHHHH, LOSING MY FUCKING MIND HERE, CUMMING SO FUCKING HARD!*"

“Hear that Yvonne, but don't you dare stop” Mistress' voice, a purring blade, kept weaving its spell of humiliation through me as I remained impaled on her design, my mouth stuffed full by the force of her will which, at that moment, tasted a whole lot like Jacob.

Mistress tossed her fiery gaze my way, my eyes looking at her while I continued to bob up and down , her voice dripping with raw promise. "Big shout-out to Lady Lynn for her 'special touch' with our pet here," she cooed, venomous honey in every syllable. "She's got Yvonne so tightly wound up, the poor slut's swimming in endless heat, but never getting off. Never coming. Just aching." She took a sip of her drink as she glanced at me and back to the crowd. "The devious butt plug training and wicked hypnosis sessions have left her squirming, trained to spill nothing but desperate yearning.” She said, her words laced with acid sweetness. The room erupted, laughter snaking around like tendrils looking for prey.

"Always a pleasure, Nina. Though let's be honest, a maid's work is never done—good thing ol' Yvonne over here will be on her knees to lick clean every splatter Jacob leaves behind." She has been reduced to an itch that never goes away. A lovely fuck-doll whose every breath is a silent scream for more cock, more cum, more humiliation" Lynn announced proudly, her eyes dark with twisted pleasure. "That mouth—oh, it's made for milking the menfolk, ladies too, while her butt is just a target for our guests' eager members. Once she gets real cum in her, we've packed her head so full of dirty hypno-triggers, she'll be chasing that cock high all night, then begging for the next hit even in her sleep."

Mistress turned on her heel, the centre of gravity swinging with her hips. "And Jacob," she purred, her gaze flitting to where I knelt, working tirelessly at my indignity. "Oh, Jacob, my beastly brute—you've given me so much already, showing me the insipid man Yvonne once pretended to be. And now, consider this my gift to you: me and this eternal tease here," she waved negligently toward me, "both at your mercy. Think of it as a lesson in power, babe. She’s primed to simmer in her own hell, boiling with need she can't quell, while you indulge yourself in every drop of the pleasure we offer."

Jacob was far gone, drowning in the shameless surrender of my lips wrapped tight around his cock. His mind numbed out to everything but the drag and swirl of eager servitude I offered up. The only thing that came from him was a half aware low grunt, the sound of a man soaked in the raw power of undeserved domination. His eyes, clouded over, were locked on the bob and sway of my head, hypnotised by the spectacle of his easy dominance on full, humiliating display. That dumbstruck daze of his, it spoke volumes about how deep he'd sunk into the pleasure of it all—lost in the depravity of my willing degradation.

With a sneer, Mistress spoke, "Let’s not forget, our Yvonne here speaks only in French now. Hypnosis has her wired tight, so all those pretty whimpers and words that escape are nothing but echoes of her submission. It's all I allow her, her language of servitude, her tender moans of wanting, the endless carousel of denied pleasure that spins in her pretty little head." Her mockery was a cold splash on my hot, writhing want—want that would never be more than just that, a panting, slobbering want.

**Synopsis**

As you turn the pages of this chapter, brace yourself for a plunge into Yvonne's descent. What unfolds is a profane display of excess that satisfies the voyeuristic and indulgent cravings of all involved. Now a mere object for pleasure, parades through a gauntlet of desire, a testament to the depth of her bonded service to her insatiable Mistress but is there a glimmer of hope at the end of the tunnel? This inevitably comes with a warning: the narrative roams through deeply shadowed corridors, laden with explicit encounters and emotional intensity that might unsettle, or indeed offend, the timorous soul.

Chapter1 can be found here: Binding Resolutions Chapter 1: A Promise Kept
Chapter2 can be found here: Binding Resolutions Chapter 2: Lost in Submission

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**Author's Note**

Writing this chapter knocked the wind out of me. It took a toll on my heart and pushed my mind to the edge. But why go down this road? Why write something so raw, so dark? Well, initially, I had a softer version, but then, something inside me whispered, "Go farther."

I had a few questions haunting me:

1. How far can you push a story before it becomes too much? Where's the line between filthy and good storytelling?
2. Is it possible to make you, the reader, feel conflicted? caught between enjoying the story and feeling a bit disgusted with me, the author, for writing it?
3. And, can I plant little mysteries throughout the story? Little secrets that don't stand out at first but keep tugging at your thoughts?

This story is taking a turn. It looks strange now, I know. It might even seem like there's no good reason for all this to happen to Yvonne. Stick with me. By the end of chapter 3, I plan to drop a twist that’ll start making things clear. Chapter 4 will give you the whole picture. At its heart, this is a love story, but one that's taken some really dark turns. There’s a resolution coming, and everyone will get what they deserve in the end.

**Trigger Warning**

**Personal Request and Trigger Warning for Chapter 3**: Caution is advised; the upcoming prose deals with profoundly mature and unsettling themes of extreme power dynamics, coerced submission, and vivid sexual encounters. Please tread carefully. This chapter is for people who are comfortable with tough subjects. If that's not you, it's perfectly okay to skip this part. Your peace of mind is important, so please, use your judgment as the story goes into these darker places.

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On how I found the confidence to write:

Moved to my blog here

Chapter 3: The Stroke of Midnight

The final minutes of the year ticked away, and that goddamn box of dreams and fuck-ups 'the resolutions box' gleamed under the spotlight.

Me? My focus never wavered from Mistress even as I slobbered over Jacob as she declared to the crowd, "Let's make some wishes, folks! Drop in your hopes and desires for the New Year!" she urged the partygoers.

Her smirk was pure sin as she sauntered over to where I was, and without a hint of tenderness, she pulled out the butt plug nestled inside me. a whorish yelp bleeding right into Jacob's lap but didn’t miss a beat, milking him with every draw of my mouth even as my eyes watered.

He was lost in a haze of pleasure, head thrown back in unabashed indulgence, groans escaping him like a man possessed by the obscenity of my mouth’s enthusiastic caress.

Mistress didn't skip a beat, yanking up her dress and impaling herself on Jacob. It was a sound that echoed betrayal, sloppy and harsh, tearing at my insides. This was the grand finale, the spectacle she'd promised—a show of betrayal so bold it turned our love story and twisted it into something ugly and unrecognizable. Her breath hitched, revelling in the rush it brought her, she grabbed my face, making damn sure I caught every gut-wrenching detail.

"Sing out every sordid fucking detail," Mistress snarled, her claws digging into my flesh, dragging my reluctant face to the site of my ultimate undoing. Her icy stare speared me with a cold joy only she could muster. "Press your quivering face next to his hairy, swinging, mmm…potent balls. Watch me get taken, filling me with what could be his legacy—a gift you could never bestow upon your former wife. Feel your history bleed out with each relentless drive. Let each confession tear you open."

Her proclamation floored me—I was no longer her husband, my love and life snuffed out by my own contract. A soul-crushing howl tore from my depths, sorrow flooding out as I felt a visceral pain ravage my core. My knees shook with weakness, but she held up me, her grip in my hair unyielding. "Tell me... my love," she whispered, her words, words only I could hear and then she spoke aloud again, laced with venom, "Tell me all, you filthy sissy, spill it for me and satisfy Jacob's ear."

Her phrase, "my love," served as the key to unlocking the torrent within. I spilled the vulgar truths and exposed the raw, bleeding remnants of my passion. "Sa virilité impitoyable... enfoncée au plus profond de vous, Maîtresse." (*"His merciless manhood... pumping deep into you, Mistress."*) The heave of each sob carved into my shattered spirit.

Mistress's laugh was like a whip, cruel in its clarity. “When the fuck did you last taste such divine bliss, feel my quivering snatch clenching? Let it out, my little cuckold, bleed your hollowed existence into my ears." Her mockery cut jagged, malicious edges into the hollow cavern that I had become.

Mistress erupted into heartless laughter—a sound as vicious and biting as it was gleeful. "Can't you even grasp the thrill of plunging your dick deep anymore? Speak up, my gelded-wonder. Serenade me with the agony of your pitiful, shrivelled life," she heckled, delighting in the cacophony of my splintering ego.

"Il la serre fort, ses mains marquent sa possession sur elle... Ses seins si tendus, coiffés de leurs mamelons brun clair... sautillant sous chaque coup de rein.Ses mains vous enserrent fort, marquant de son empreinte sa propriété sur votre chair soumise... Et, bon dieu, ces seins, si fermes, surmontés de tétons dressés, proéminents, vibrants sous la force de ses coups.” (*“His hands wrap tight around you, stamping his ownership on your yielding flesh... And, god, those breasts, so pert, topped with nipples stiff, protruding, vibrant against his pounding.”*) An agonised sigh slipped past my lips, a sign of the devotion I still freely gave.

With a smirk, Mistress pressed, "Sad—that a stiff breeze could stir me more than your fuckless crotch. You'll never see these tits bounce to your worthless hump again." Each word was a cruel reminder of my impotence, my fall from grace.

Mistress' body trembled with the rapture Jacob's thrusts provided, her beautiful bubble of ecstasy burst with my every sob. "Narrate the act of unprotected love... how he could impregnate me..." Her voice was laced with the venom of mock consolation.

"C'est l'act de reproduction brutesque.... elle se fait combler d'une semence vigoureuse, contrairement à la mienne, absente pour toujours..." (*"It's the act of brute reproduction... you are being filled with vigorous seed, unlike mine, absent forever...”*) I uttered through sobs, the finality of her words piercing through my very soul.

Mistress cackled, her pleasure unbound. “Fucking pathetic—imagine it was you trying to fill me up, no fucking balls. Isn't it hilarious?” the grotesque punchline to my castration.

Mistress shivered a dark laugh that congealed the air around us. “Indeed. Laughable that you'd even thought of fathering a child. A sterile end to your line—just how I ensured it." Her words drove home the final nail into the coffin of my hopes—the obscene conclusion of my tale.

"Admit it, you love watching me turn your 'wife' into my personal fucktoy, don't you, you weak little sissy?" Jacob’s words were delusional, each boastful claim of prowess diminishing amidst his subpar performance. Yet his pride swelled with each uninspiring thrust into Mistress, whose physical response was rote and lacking our past intimate dance's fervour.

It was the pain in my eyes, knowing that the pleasure in her body, came from the sight of my torment, rather than the feel of Jacob's inadequate manhood, drawing forth her arousal. The broken shards of my heart ached with each piteous jolt of her hips, betraying my disbelief and despair. Lost and broken, I agonised, 'Pourquoi cette soif de ma douleur, Maîtresse?' (*Why this thirst for my pain, Mistress?*).

Even as my spirit lay in ruins, the dominion of Mistress' words over me left me with no choice but to lie. And lie I did, with a whisper torn from my depths, “Oui, ça m’excite de voir ma maîtresse défoncée sans merci par un homme qui lui est supérieur." (*“Yes, it excites me to see my mistress mercilessly pounded by a man who is her superior.”*)

Unsatisfied by my broken admissions, Mistress grabbed my hair, yanking me down. I found myself inches from Jacob’s sweaty sac, hanging, glistening with the slick sheen of her own arousal that dripped onto them.

As She gyrated atop, her silent directive was unmistakable. Commanding me to lavish attention on his reeking, musky testicles with the desperate strokes of my tongue. I was to serve doubly, to clean and to please, as she rode him with fervour.

Without warning, a foreign heat breached me from behind. An anonymous cock, thick and insistent, plundered my virgin rear without a whisper of preamble. The pain was sharp, raw, and tore a cry right from my guts…but I bit it back, my first time taken but I stayed buried in Jacob's sack, meticulously mouthing him like a good whore.

I was split open, skewered front and back, my passage plundered by the relentless jackhammer behind me, entirely exposed, filth incarnate. The vulgar slaps against my ass echoed in my ears, punctuated by my own muffled groans around the rank, sac forced against my lips.

“Play with your pathetic dicklette now!” Mistress' voice, twisted with tainted affection, commanded and I obeyed. My trembling fingers fumbled with the pitiful nub, the cage that enclosed it only letting me feel plastic. Each tug seared through the tender flesh, but the agony was overcome by my perverse compulsion to do as she demanded. My role had been etched in stone.

Harsh, brutal thrusts impaled me, the man behind acting as if I were nothing more than just a hole to pound, I was close to being nothing, just turning into this cock slave. I tried to focus, tried to cling to some shred of myself, but the sinister whispers of the Mistress and Miss Lynn’s conditioning blossomed darkly within me, eager to twist me into something else, a creature born to submit, created for the sole purpose of service.

Their pace was a mad drum, signalling the end, and I knew it. Once I tasted that hot rush of cum, and felt a man's release deep inside me, those hypnotic seeds would sprout, taking me over, locking me into this new debased existence. My insides tensed, aching for relief, my lips clamped around Jacob's quivering balls just as his body tensed too, a clear sign of his looming explosion destined to breach the Mistress' womb.

With a guttural grunt, the brute’s climax erupted. the pig filling Mistress with pulsing spurts. The spillage flooded down her quivering thighs to mingle with my breath — thick gobs of deviance compelling me to drown in their indecency. "Savor that, slut, taste the disgrace but you better not fucking swallow," Mistress commanded, crude and sharp.

She wrestled my head upward, the incessant ramming from behind continued unabated, my painted face a canvas of their shared depravity. One hand clawing at the earth, the other making a mockery of my locked-away lust."Perfect," she hissed, and then plundered my mouth with hers, forcing me to stew in the symbol of my capitulation, to marinate in my own downfall as she desired.

This was my crossing point, the trigger, the hypnotic key turning in the lock of my denial, pushing me — N-no, *forcing* me — into becoming the creature Mistress truly desired me to become.

Her lips pulled away, a decadent trail of spit and ejaculate, the signs of our recent sin hung between us as her taste lingered in the corners of my mouth – unforgettable and intoxicating. One last desperate swell of raw longing for my past vigour tugged at the seams of my reality. But it was mercilessly crushed beneath the brutal reality that suffocated any remnants of my past.

My tongue moved reflexively, lapping at the evidence of my new place in this twisted hierarchy, bathed in the tangy vestiges of my own demise, savouring the taste of the defeat that had become my sustenance.

Jacob, that swine, was drowning in his liquor-laden euphoria, spent from the lust that devoured him. He slurred out, "Best. Fucking. Day. Ever." Pleasure plastered across his swollen face before he toppled into unconsciousness.

In that instant, the hypnotic commands lodged deep within my psyche detonated. I was on all fours again, my tongue eagerly swabbing at the limp, dripping cock of the unconscious troll before me —no prompting needed, just a fervent drive propelling me to polish every filthy inch, a cum-soaked rag dutifully following Lady Lynn's programming.

I hungered to serve, to exist as nothing more than Mistress' and any eager man’s leashed plaything. Frantically lapping up every drop, I was consumed by the need for more when Mistress' hand tenderly halted my fervour, guiding my head upward. In the depths of her eyes, I caught a glimmer of something unexpected, a softening not just of amusement at my plight, but an almost loving entreaty. Her lips barely moving as she breathed the words only meant for my understanding, "Complete your surrender, baby."

And surrender I did, heaving with each punishing thrust from behind, my swollen tits painfully swaying, a grotesque burlesque all for her twisted amusement. "Regardez-moi, Maîtresse," (*"Look at me, Mistress,"*) I gasp out, saliva dripping down my chin as I fruitlessly nurse the lifeless dick before me, trying to coax it back to life with hollowed cheeks and eager lips. "Ce que je suis devenue... une chienne insatiable," (*"What I have become... an insatiable bitch,"*) I slur between slothful sucks.

Slapping my hand against my dangling breasts, I yank at my nipple hard enough to call forth both pain and perverse delight. "Je suis votre objet," (*"I am your object,"*) I mumble mindlessly, my mouth returning to Jacob's flaccid, uninspiring member, my lips attempting to wrest virility from the limp vestige of my field of defeat.

Pressing my thighs together, despising the laughable nub, once so noble, now just pitiful mockery aching for a touch I'm forbidden. "Une misérable petit clitty," (*"A miserable little clitty,"*) I chastise myself, resigned to the impotent tugging of my cage—a symbol of my ultimate derision.

With a vacant grin spreading across my face, ecstasy dulling my gaze, I murmured, "Maîtresse, j'espère être l'esclave servile que vous désiriez, rien qu'une marionnette humide, le cul encore suintant du foutre de quelqu'un d'autre, la bouche remplie et humiliée, une coquille vide prête pour votre débauche." (*"Mistress, I hope to be the abject serving slave you wished for, nothing but a wet puppet, ass still leaking someone else’s cum, mouth filled and humiliated, an empty vessel prepped for your debauchery."*)

Just then, The dick impaling me from behind erupted, spewing seed deep inside my offered ass, and with it my mind entirely shattered, a cascade of drool spilling from my slack mouth.

In that instant, the nameless cock erupted inside me, unravelling my mind, the hypnotic triggers taking over, and drowning me when I shrieked,"Oui, putain, c'est ça... salope stupide et excitée, une sissy juste pleine de trous pour de grosses bites bien grasses et les jus de la Maîtresse une fois qu'elle en a fini avec eux. C'est moi ça..." (*"Fuck, yes, that's it... stupid horny slut, a sissy only full of holes for big fat yummy cocks and the Mistress' juices once she is done with them. That's me..."*).

Slack-jawed, drool dribbling from my mouth, I buckled under the haze of demented bliss that subsumed me. I pinched and twisted the ridiculously prominent nipples that crowned my massive, distended tits, offering them up for anyone's cruel delight. My plump butt cheeks fluttered like a tart's flag at every lascivious grope, a flagrant offering to be conquered, ravished, and claimed. My higher faculties fell away into nothingness as I swivelled, a beast of basest need, to gobble up the dirty dick with unholy eagerness, its stench of wrongness now my greatest delight.

My tits swayed low, nipples straining for maltreatment. Clumsily, I tugged at my overripe teat; the other hand was knuckle-deep, rooting around my debased chute for more filthy dribbles to lap up. "Mmmmh, c’est dégueu... mais ça me plaît..." (*"Mmmmh, it’s disgusting... but I like it..."*), I breathed, my muddled praise for the taste muffled as I bobbed on its softening length.

On all fours, I chased the escapee cum across the ground, my tongue sweeping up traces of shame. Peering up at Mistress, beseeching in lust, "J'aime cette saleté... elle me rend chaude, Maîtresse..." (*"I love this filth... it makes me hot, Mistress..."*), my every slurp, a filthy ode to my new reality.

Abruptly, Mistress jerked my head backwards by my hair, sending me sprawling into her embrace, a helpless ragdoll caught in the afterglow of depravity. A hollow moan, laced with vacant desire, echoed from my lips as I stared into her.

The background hum of Master's deep, satisfied breathing provided a twisted harmony to the moment, affirming my debasement. Her eye contact seared into my being, her gaze gleaming with corrupt approval. "Yes, just like that, my sweet, wrecked plaything," she praised in a hushed tone that fastened the final chain of my subjugation.

She fetched the butt plug previously sprung free from the clutch of my insides, twisting off its jewelled end to reveal two slips of paper tucked inside. "Get your ass over to the box and stuff this in, quick. Then get back to me, fast. There's a whole line of hard cocks waiting and a night full of cum with your name on it," she instructed with a hint of impatience.

I rushed, all messy and slick from the last ravaging, my little caged cockette a splayed joke, spurting out its disgrace. My skin was smeared with another man’s jizz, marking me as public property—a cum-slut in the flesh. My big tits swung and swayed, nipples proud and obscene, each movement a crazy dance for the eyes feasting on my fucked-up fall.

Staggering through the crowd, eager hands took turns yanking at my nipples, giving them a good twist. I couldn’t help but flush hot each time, a guttural moan bursting from my throat, feeling my skin burn with raw excitement. "Uuuugh..." It wasn’t quiet; I couldn’t hide how much their rough play turned me on.

Many eyes latched onto the earrings jingling from my ears—shiny medals that once were my precious testicles. Every pinch to my nipples was more electric, each yank sending waves of dirty pleasure shooting right through me. "Mmmm... ouais... encore..." (*"Mmm... yeah... more..."*) I couldn’t stop myself, the crowd’s crude touches pushing me deeper into the ache, craving every nasty jolt they sparked in me.

“Hey Yvonne, bet you miss having real balls, not just these trinkets – right?” The heckler roared out, triggering a wave of vulgar chuckles around us. I looked at his smirking face, nodding, a surge of sick thrill at his words painting my face in hues of lust. In a breathy, eager confession, “Oui, il fallait que je les perde... elles n'avaient aucune utilité,” (*"Yes, I had to lose them... they served no purpose,"*) I murmured, a quiver in my voice, the sinful joy blooming in that moment of utter shame.

A stranger yanked my cage briskly and ooh!, and it sent shocks of unchecked want through me. I almost dropped right there before Mike as I walked past him, wanting to worship that bulge in his pants and experience his promise to tear me apart. But Mistress' orders anchored me, her will clearer than my own needs.

The room felt charged as I made my way to the box, the reality of my cock-thirst had me high, dizzy with desire. With every crude comment, every tug on my worthless little cockette, my ache deepened. ‘Je ne peux pas m'empêcher de les vouloir... tous…’ (*’I can’t stop wanting them… all of them...,’*) I thirsted silently, craving the raw, nasty use I was built for, all tangled up in my cock-hunger.

"Je suis faite pour ça, pour être prise par ces délicieuses bites… c'est ce que je suis..." (*"I’m made for this, to be taken by these delicious cocks… it’s what I am..."*) I muttered, a depraved song to my soul, to the overwhelming rapture of my need.

Nearing the box, I saw Trevor, the groundskeeper, hammering into someone. His gaze scorched into me, searing me with the fierce command he wielded. "Down, Yvonne, now. Worship my ass. Don’t stop 'til I'm damn well satisfied," his order took hold, as he delivered a slap to the bent figure’s bottom.

"Oui, monsieur, avec plaisir," (*"Yes, sir, with pleasure,"*) I panted, as I dropped to the ground and without hesitation, I descended, my tongue sliding into his puckered entrance. Each taste sent a pulse of elation—it was intoxicating, the direct order from a man instantly inflaming my desires.

Leaning sideways, my arm outstretched awkwardly, I fumbled for the box’s slot. My slick, coated hand, trembled as I slipped the papers through the narrow opening, all the while my tongue dutifully serviced Trevor.

From across the room, Mistress' voice bellowed through the thick air, commanding his attention even amidst the clamour. "Trevor! I have plans for that slut. Send her back to me, now," she declared,

Trevor, his tempo momentarily disrupted, grabbed the back of my head, yanking my face deeper into his rear, He gave one last, deep thrust, jerking me forward. a reminder of his power, before pulling away with a frustrated grunt.

"Go on, hurry up. Your Mistress wants you," he muttered. With a quick nod and a lowered gaze, I scurried towards Mistress, eager and anxious for the next stage of my endless display.

Hastily returning to Mistress, my limbs were quivering with a visceral, primal hunger—an insatiable need to worship any dick dangled before me, tattooed into my very core by the hypnotic triggers.

Mistress simply watched, knowing no command was necessary. My lips eagerly sought out the flaccid member of the unconscious Master, a dutiful servant breathing life back into the dormant shaft.

Then Mistress signalled Mike with an imperious flick of her wrist, her voice commanding and clear, "Mike, lift this bitch and fuck her good."

Mike’s hands were merciless as they clamped down on my hips, hoisting me into the unyielding air as he prepared to enter me. As he lifted me, there was no barrier, no façade left. My ass, pliant and yielding, had been transformed into a gateway of perpetual welcome.

With a primal grunt, he drove into me, his entrance lacking all ceremony, as though I were a vessel custom-made for severe, ruthless use. His thick member glided seamlessly inside the gaping maw of my rear, which lay surrendered and spread wide, like a harlot's overworked cunt, accepting the intrusion without a hint of resistance.

"Look at this slut skewered on display," he sneered, slamming into me with a ferocity that sent me swinging, a piece of meat caught and spinning on his cruel rod, devoured by humiliation and savoured with every punishing thrust.

Dangling midair, tits bouncing wild, I'm just a bottom for Mike's rough fucking, each slam making me sway. His one meaty grabbing me by the waist, tipping me downwards like I'm nothing but a piece of ass on display—the outline we were making, a filthy shadow puppet show on the wall.

Like an obscene display in a den of depravity, I rocked between the thunder of Mike’s lust-powered thrusts and the helpless weight of the still-sleeping Master's flaccid dick in my mouth.

Dazed by the lewd rapture, eyes squeezed shut, the boisterous cheers of "Happy New Year!" felt distant, as if muffled through a thick fog of debauchery. ”Mon corps est une marionnette, les seins balançant, chaque poussée des bites me rappelle combien je suis tombée bas, et putain, ça m'excite et je ne peux pas m'en empêcher. Je sais que maîtresse regarde, et ça... c'était son désir. (*"My body’s a puppet, tits swinging, every pump from the dick reminds me how low I've sunk, and fuck, it turns me on and I can't help it. I know Mistress is watching, and this... this was her desire."*)

Just then, I heard the mistress whisper into my ear, "happy new year my love" and then I felt, for the first time since this whole ordeal, her lips wrap around my caged clit. She was below me, never had she been below me since this began, my cage hurt, but it was the mistress, taking what little had remained of me inside her, nothing else mattered, not the cocks I was servicing, not the pain, only her, giving me a taste of what we had in the past. lovingly, gently, slowly.

Everything faded—the dick drilling me, the men using me, even the sting of confinement—it all just washed away. She was giving me a flicker of what we once shared, her lips moving tenderly, with a slow care that used to be mine before.

As my world bucked and reeled, the edges of my senses blurred. No longer the mistress, she was l'amante, the lover, the remembered whisper of intimacy. Jacob's limp dick flopped from my mouth, and I half-choked, half-gasped the words out, "Maîtresse, continuez, je vous en supplie. Je vis seulement pour vous, juste pour ça. Je sais que mon petit *dickette* ne vous intéresse pas, mais j'ai besoin de ceci. Je ne pourrai peut-être plus jamais jouir, mais aidez-moi à essayer. S'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît, aidez votre servante à obtenir ce dont elle a désespérément besoin." (*"Mistress, keep going, I beg you. I live only for you, just for this. I know that my little *dicklette* doesn't interest you, but I need this. I may never be able to come again, but please help me try. Please, please help your servant get what she desperately needs."*)

As Mistress enveloped me, her arms coiling possessively, she consumed every fragment of my being, a predator claiming her prey. Hoisted and suspended, Mike's thick hand steadying me, while another restrained my wrists. My legs clung to his sides, as I flailed in the throes of eros, clutching desperately as her mouth found the pin-sized hole in the cage.

She flicked her tongue once, just once, and the world shattered. I climaxed, came apart like a marionette with cut strings, a crescendo of "Ah, ah, oui, oui, oh s'il vous plaît, oui, maîtresse..." (*"Yes, yes, oh please yes, Mistress..."*) erupting from deep within.

But she didn't cease. She sucked harder, as Mike pounded away, filling me to the brim until he clenched and came. He wrenched me back painfully, and I detonated again, a squeal tearing through me – a creature of pure want.

Tears streaming, I couldn’t contain the guilt, the joy, "Maîtresse, merci... je ne mérite pas cela, je ne mérite pas votre amour. Je suis juste votre esclave, et je suis désolée d’avoir joui. Je promets de ne plus jamais jouir. Ne me laissez pas..." (*"Mistress, thank you... I don't deserve this, I don't deserve your love. I am just your slave, and I’m sorry for cumming. I promise to never cum again. Please don’t leave me..."*) I whispered, my voice a fragile, but she did not seem to hear my plea and she did not stop milking me.

Mike, finished with his savage use of my body, unceremoniously dumped me onto Mistress, my clit still trapped in her insatiable mouth. I couldn't brace myself as I freefell, landing on her with a wet slap. The remnants of his cum were like liquid sin, dripping from my ravaged hole to splatter across Mistress' chest. Her tits heaved beneath me, rising and falling with heavy, primal breaths.

Her arms tightened around me further, vice-like in their urgency, her grip ruthless as if wringing the last drops of pleasure from a spent fruit. I could feel her flesh against mine. The heat from her face, branded me with the mark of her possession. Her suckling was ferocious, her mouth working over the confines shielding my arousal like a beast tearing at its chains.

As she continued to suck with an intensity that made me feel as if I were sprouting an erection, albeit a meagre one. But I sensed her tongue detecting even this faintest uprising as she redoubled her efforts, sucking with a hunger that was nearly savage. Each draw of her mouth sent electricity crackling down my spine, awakening the core of my being that lay dormant.

Unable to resist, defying the insurgence of all my training, I rose against all my submission, my ‘clitty’ a prisoner still in her fervent mouth, and grasped the back of her head. Her hands, once binding, now simply cradled my quivering flanks, allowing – no, urging me to grind down onto her.

For the first time in an interminable span, I claimed a scrap of dominion, a fleeting inversion of our roles. My fingers wove into Mistress’, NO! Nina's hair, pulling her close as desire took over. "Lèche-moi, mon amour, fais-moi trembler de plaisir !" (*"Lick me, my love, make me tremble with delight!"*) I begged. That whispered command stirred something primal in her

"Suce ma clito, chérie, fais-moi jouir dur !" (*"Suck my clit, honey, make me come hard!"*) I cried out and that 'command' set her off—her sucking turned ravenous, a wild hunger unleashed from deep within her, a desperate need to please me that I'd never sensed before.

In that fleeting slice of clarity, It hit me, right there in the swelter of our shared heat—she was throwing me a crumb of the past, a tiny taste of when the balance tipped the other way, if only just.

She was feeding me lines from a script we'd torched long ago. Hell, this moment, she was right where she used to be those days, hungry, waiting for whatever pleasure I'd bestow.

Entirely consumed by a deep longing, she looked starved for the affection I ached to offer. "Vous enchaînez ma chair, mais, putain... c'est mon cœur qui porte votre nom gravé à jamais." (*"You chain my flesh, but, fuck... it's my heart that bears your name etched forever."*) I pronounced with certainty, ready to reclaim what was once ours.

In a move that was all heat and wild grasps, I shoved a finger into her dripping core, searching for the switch that had always been mine to flick. With my other hand, I pulled even her in even harder, keeping her locked onto the what she was coaxing into life.

We were a goddamn mess, a tangle of thrusts and desperate gasps. I felt her rocking against the intrusion of my fingers, riding them as she clung to the brink. Neither of us had gotten off tonight—not with that mediocre joke of a cock, certainly not her.

She craved it—craved me—as much as I needed release. "Effondre-toi pour moi, ma reine." (*"Come undone for me, my queen,"*) I panted, right on the cusp of the edge, and then it tore through us—a swell, a break, our bodies convulsing wildly.

Her knees buckled, my cocklet wept with joy at last as she leaned into me, my own cries tearing loose, "Ahhhh.... à toi, toujours à toi..." (*"Ahhhh.... yours, always yours…"*) We collapsed, heaving, spent, into the wreckage of our lust.

There was no strength left, only her touch drawing me against the warmth of her chest, her breath stirring the damp hair at my forehead, "Hush now, mon amour... a new dawn, a new year is ours." Her voice was the last thing washing over me as my world dimmed, and sweetness took me under.

**Synopsis**

As you navigate through this chapter, you will witness a softer side of this tale, revealing a bond that may refuse to be defined merely by power and submission amidst newfound intimacies and unspoken confessions. It appears that love wears many masks, and the dance between our heroine and her mistress takes a curious turn towards the unsaid and the undone. What will become of our 'little Yvonne' when soft touches and stolen glances suggest a twist in the tale?

Chapter 1 can be found here: Binding Resolutions Chapter 1: A Promise Kept
Chapter 2 can be found here: Binding Resolutions Chapter 2: Lost in Submission
Chapter 3 can be found here: Binding Resolutions Chapter 3: The Stroke of Midnight

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**Author's Note**

Phew, Chapter 4 was a doozy to write. Let's be honest: I discarded the entire first draft. But good ideas don't die—they get reused.

As I said from the very beginning, this tale is about love that survives the storm and Chapter 3 nearly put me in a bind.

The challenges that I needed to overcome this time were the following:

1. How do you find true love under so many secrets and sins?
2. How do you patch up our very broken Yvonne without just slapping a band-aid over a gaping wound?
3. Will you come to cheer for Yvonne AND Nina after all that has happened?
4. Lastly, how do I pull all this off without ditching the deliciously dirty spirit of the story? (Because, let's be honest, it's been one hell of a filthy ride.)

Starting with this chapter, the resolution is 'rising,' so to speak, the kinky, 'heart' tugging kind and I think you'll love how it ends.

**Trigger Warning**

**Personal Request and Trigger Warning for Chapter 4**: Please be advised that this chapter contains mature and explicit content, including graphic sexual descriptions and themes of submission and control within a consensual dynamic. Although Chapter 4 exhibits a lighter tone with less intensity than Chapter 3, it may still be unsettling for some readers. As such, discretion is recommended. If you find that such topics don't sit well with you, or if they stray from what brings you enjoyment in reading, it is absolutely okay to pass over this chapter. Your comfort and emotional safety are incredibly important, so I warmly encourage you to listen to your feelings and care for your well-being as you make your reading choices.

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How I found the confidence to write:
Read here on my blog

Binding Resolutions Chapter 4: New Beginnings

Stirred by the soft touch, I awoke to Nina's breath, whispers of warmth against my skin, "Wake up, love. Time to welcome the new year." Her lips danced along my neck, descending in a trail of feather-like kisses, igniting a trail of shivers that cascaded down to my soft, ample breasts.

The full bloom of my chest heaved in quivering anticipation as her mouth grazed a swollen, vulnerable nipple—proud and rosy pink, and begging for the slightest attention. She bit down gently, and the overwhelming cocktail of pain and pleasure forced a moan from my lips. "Oh..." I gasped in the language of my soul, "C'est délicieux..." (*"It's delicious... "*)

Her kisses were a tender exploration as she journeyed down to the belly button, a tender dip in the soft expanse of my belly. And then, her lips brushed lower, to where I'd become accustomed to cold plastic and metal. But there was no cage, no lock, no chain, just the warm touch of her lovely tongue on flesh that responded with an involuntary twitch—a living, pulsing piece of my old self.

The realisation jolted me, and my mind wrestled with the aberration, but my body simply relished it. An erection, ‘petite’ though it may have been in stature, surged to life, leaving me breathless. "Peut-être... qu'elle est plus grande que mon téton?" (*"Maybe... it's larger than my nipple? "*) I considered with a flicker of glee.

I felt the press of her palms, the teasing flicks against my wanton nubs, ushering a joy that bubbled up and broke on the surface in hushed moans. I filled the room with muted sighs as her lips remained latched to my sensitive ‘clitty’— every motion driving me to the brink of a joyous madness.

"Continuez, je vous en prie, cela me fait flotter…" (*"Keep going, please, it makes me float…"*), I cooed, drawing in the sensation of her lips that played me like a fine instrument of pleasure.

I tightened my grip on Nina’s locks, the need to connect on a visceral level commanding every fibre."Mon cœur bat pour vous, ma déesse," I moaned to her. (*"My heart beats for you, my goddess,"*) My words, breathed out in the tongue of my truth, clung to the electric air between us.

Yet, confusion clawed at me with feverish intensity. How the hell did I have an erection?

I could still see the glint of the knife, feel the bite of the straps around my quivering thighs as I lay exposed on the table. The cold snap of rubber gloves, the gleam in the eyes of Dr. Michelle as she cut away the last remnants of my masculinity. The wailing from the pain that I couldn't suppress, the hot sting of tears, the inability to look away as cut after cut, I was unmade.

Nina had been there, watching the spectacle with a twisted smirk, her words slicing through me as sharply as the scalpel, "You're parting with those little balls, but trust me, darling, I'll ensure they're always adorning you in a more 'valuable form'."

True to her vicious vow, she had them fashioned into earrings—golden, shining trophies of my emasculation for all to behold at yesterday's debauchery.

My permanent emasculation, along with Miss Lynn's training sessions, the hypnosis, and the chemical cocktail of hormones, was meant to exorcise even the ghost of my orgasms, let alone the ability to harden. But there it was, that minuscule 'pathetic excuse' as they all called it, jerking with an unexpected shot of life that I had been assured was forever smothered out of me.

I gazed down at Nina, bewildered, suckling what should be nothing but a limp tadpole; instead, it stood in defiance—my proud little ‘cockette’.

There was a 'why' and 'how' buzzing at the back of my mind, but all thoughts were drowned out by a sweet, soft moan that escaped my lips as the pleasure rippled through me.

She sucked me off as if I were still the man she used to choke on, the sounds she made as lewd as they come. There was no struggle, no strain from a sizable cock to gag on, just her deriving pleasure from the simplicity of my reduced existence.

Clearly, this was theatre, a performance dedicated solely to my standing ovation. The sounds erupting from Nina’s loving lips—the dripping, slurping cacophony punctuated with coughs and gags streamed without interruption, an unbroken thread of sound—her tribute to what once was and a deliciously twisted homage to what now remained.

She was showing me, in the most profane and passionate way, that whilst her "ample summer sausage" was now a "little jelly bean," her love remained unabashed and filthily absolute.

Crushed in the heat of her grasp, I'd given in to the sweet rush of climax three times over last night, my ball-less little dicklet defying the damn impossible. Now, with Nina's lips working a wicked dance of soft and rough, I hovered on a knife-edge, teetering on the cusp of a fourth shuddering release.

And then she slowed down, her tongue, equal parts torment and ecstasy, lingered leisurely around her bite-sized candy. Each circle she traced sent a shiver to every part of me. And so close to the edge I swayed, breath hitching in small, panting gasps—it was happening again.

"Je vais venir... oh putain, je vais venir encore..." (*"I'm going to cum... oh fuck, I'm going to cum again... "*), I moaned, overwhelmed, and melted into the impending wave of release.

Tension coiled like a spring inside me, the sweet peak nearing with each passing second. Nina’s tongue, relentless in its pursuit of my unravelling, whipped up a frenzy within my groin. "Je-Je-Je vais...!" (*"I’m—I’m—I’m...! "*), my voice fractured, splintering under the strain of the urgent climax building its crescendo.

The tidal wave of pleasure crashed over me, dragging me helplessly over the edge. My entire being tightened, a knot of desperate anticipation, before unravelling in wave after wave of pure bliss. A tiny dribble marked the summit of my ecstasy, a pitiful tribute to the climax that rocked me to my core—a visceral rebellion against the neutered body that was supposed to be mine.

And Nina, the maestro of my undoing, kept her tongue swirling, relentless in her pursuit as I dissolved, spent and drowned in a deluge of carnal satisfaction.

As my trembling subsided, Nina approached me with tears cascading down her cheeks.Her gaze, deep as the ocean blue, locked onto mine. "Thank you for everything, my love," she breathed out, trapping me in her arms. I gave in, both of us a mess of sobs and sniffles.

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Time blurred as we clung to each other until; finally, Nina peeled herself from my hold. A year's worth of distance couldn't dull the ache of separation. My need for closeness found that defeated voice in my mind, ‘Moi, bête, je veux plus,’ (*‘Silly me, wanting more,’*) but Nina, with an almost clairvoyant touch, reassured me gently, "Hold on my little kitten, let's freshen up," she chuckled, a tease in her voice. “We both reek something fierce." She winked and added with a playful nudge, "The bath awaits,but wait a moment. This lady needs to tinkle first."

I grudgingly lounged in bed, watching her saunter off, a hypnotic rhythm to her behind that held my eyes captive. There, me being a smitten girl again, enthralled by a simple sway more potent than Lynn’s brainwashing. A wicked twitch came from down below – my 'third nipple' was acting up again. ‘Heh, mon troisième téton, c'est plutôt accrocheur,’ (*’Heh, my third nipple, kinda catchy,’*) I smirked. "Name it, and it becomes real... right, Nina?" I mumbled, contemplating a playful introduction for my newly enjoyable nub.

As I lay dreaming up lewd nicknames, I found my hand petting 'little Yvonne' again. "Oh, j'aimais bien ce nom aussi," (*"Oh, I liked that name too,"*) I smirked, tickled by how fitting that felt. I was heating up, fingers dancing as they sought that heavenly peak, but just then, Nina had reentered and had clearly noticed my little ‘indulgence’ because she then walked up to me and eased my hand away with a bemused, "Move it, my sultry little minx. We need to strip the filth from you forthwith."

Rising off the bed without hurry provided Nina with a clear view of the entirety of what I was, knowing her eyes were eating up every inch of me. She had dubbed me a minx; the least I could do was play the part—no hesitation, no compulsion—just a flare of teasing self-assurance. 'You fashioned Yvonne, now feast your eyes,' I thought wickedly, stretching languidly, arching my back, my ample breasts provocatively on display.

Did I just hear her breath hitch? Oh, the power of the tease—but before I could savour it, a sharp 'thwack' to my plump backside broke my trance. “To the bath, now, little lady," she said with that teasingly exasperated tone. "Oui, Mademoiselle!" I exclaimed, retreating to the sanctuary of the bathroom with mock obedience.

Oh wow! Would you look at that? The sight of the scented bath, decked out in romantic flair, petals adorning the water with a flourish, caught me by surprise. This was a lavish gesture that only I prepared and exclusively reserved for Nina. "For moi? Really?" I mused when the sound of Nina's voice reached me. "Take your time, enjoy this. I'll shower in the maid’s... the other bathroom."

She sweetened the deal with an offhand mention, "There's also a glass of that Spiced Indian buttermilk you adore by the tub. Snagged it from the Kumars, plenty more in the fridge. Relax, soak it in. Breakfast won't be ready for a bit."

The bath's embrace could wait—it was that darned buttermilk that beckoned with urgency. Swiftly grasping the glass, I savoured a generous gulp, letting the cold, salty treat cascade through me. A year had passed without this heavenly brew, a simple yoghurt drink from my backpacking days, yet it was a blissful rush at this moment.

Memories of my dorm days across the pond in India trickled in, where this simple drink of watered-down yoghourt spiked with mustard, ginger, and scorching chillies (much like little ol' me). Topped with a spritz of lime, this glass of goodness was precisely what hit the spot for me. Nina, delightful as she is, never could grasp the allure. But ahh, there I go again—being such a baby over my little obsessions!

For nearly an hour, I simply reclined in the scented suds, sipped on my delightful drink, and engaged in a bit of self-indulgence. Oh, the sweet torture of a languid, sensual tease, edging myself towards a torrid buzz. A touch here, a stroke there, cooking myself into a state of simmering passion.

Eventually, though, it was time to get out, and I draped myself in a robe, chuckling, "Oh, regarde-moi, quelle coquine je fais." (*"Oh, look at me, such a naughty thing."*)

To my surprise, I discovered my usual maid attire conspicuously absent when I looked around the bedroom. In its stead? I found a flirty, floral little thing waiting for me – and I mean little – not a stitch of underwear in sight. "Quand à Rome," (*"When in Rome,"*) I mused as I slipped into the scant bit of fabric and headed down to the kitchen.

The kitchen smelled heavenly; Nina was whipping up Dosas. Such unassuming little crepes demanded a finesse that could provoke a minor scandal for us 'non-Indians'. Pouring, spreading—oh, but let's not gloss it over with mundane terms—it was a Dosa and nothing else, an irreplaceable indulgence.

The aroma was mouthwatering. "Mmm, ça sent incroyable," (*"Mmm, smells incredible,"*) I proclaimed, loud enough for her to catch every bit of my excitement. Her voice came wafting back, clearly pleased with my proclamation, "Also got the Sambhar and Chutneys in from the Kumars, but these Dosas and that damned potato concoction will be ready any moment. Perch yourself at the table ma petite fleur, and I'll serve them up."

True to her word, I waited only moments before Nina waltzed over, one plate in each hand and mischief in her stride. She served me first, then squeezed in beside me, plate in hand, the other hand making quick work of lifting my dress and playing with my eager 'clit'.

Dizzy with a blend of spicy desires and aromatic Indian cuisine, I was practically purring, a content kitten about to indulge in the feast before me. Then, like a slap to the face, the sudden realisation hit me.

'WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK!?!' This was abnormal, next-level nuts, and why was I just clocking it now? “Oi, Nina,” I snapped, spinning round to her, her gaze like a laser on mine. . “Why’re you laying it on thick with the pampering? Speak up.” Only to freeze under her piercing gaze. ”What did you just call me?” She questioned, her voice razor-sharp. I realised the slip I guffed — But no!

This needed straight talk. Straining against my conditioning, I tossed out her name again, no frills, no ‘Mistress’ bullshit tacked on. I drew myself up tall—’oh look, Yvonne’s got balls again’—“I called you Nina,” I threw down, English words flying, taking back my goddamn voice.

Her eyes bore into mine, unblinking, and then, without warning, tears spilt over. Next moment, I was caught in her tight embrace, her kisses like rain on parched earth. I could feel her heart thudding against me as she pleaded desperately, “Sweetheart, say my name again... please, call me by all your endearments. God, I’m starving for it.”

Right then and there, the floodgates opened — I was bawling right along with her. “Nina, my love, chérie, honey, sweet pea, cupcake, my queen, my goddess...” I let the pet names flow, a stream of dedicated affection until I deliberately chose my final utterance in French, “ma maîtresse”, I said as her lips continued their tender assault. We held onto each other, crying until it felt like maybe, just maybe, we’d washed away all the trials from the past year.

She wiped our eyes, a burst of soft laughter bubbling through the solemnity, then kissed me deep. “Good to see ‘mistress’ hasn't left your charming French vocabulary. Such a delightful word on your tongue,” she teased.

“What’s happening?” I blurted out, my voice addled with confusion. Nina shot me a smirk as charming as the spring breeze, “Wait up, my pet. All will be revealed before the night ends. We still have some ‘prayers’ that need to be answered. But first, let’s not let this meal turn cold, eh? “ Her voice felt like home, so I obliged, an obedient giggle escaping me alongside a mouthful of food.

While her hand lingered, stirring a constant fire within me, I couldn't resist letting her in on my little secret, "I've renamed ‘her’. 'Little Yvonne,' just seemed fitting,” I shared, a chuckle slipping out as Nina's laughter joined in, echoing in my ears.

“Oh, you're too much," Nina laughed, her merriment evident, "but always remember, ‘she’ is MY 'little Yvonne'.” My heart did a little flip at her loving possessiveness, overcoming my ….something. "Elle est à vous, Maîtresse." (*"She is yours, Mistress."*) I acquiesced, a warmth rising to my cheeks as Nina's words caressed my heart, and my groin; as I returned to our lavish dining.

The ring of the bell had barely faded when I popped up like a jack-in-the-box, on door duty as usual. But oops, there was Nina, hand on my shoulder gently coaxing me back down onto the cushion. "No need, sweetie," she said with a chuckle, heading for the door herself.

Funny, in the year that had passed, taking charge of the door was Yvonne’s little slice of normal. But then again, I was a silly little thing... at least for today. And, nestled in my snug corner, I realised I didn't mind this new 'silly' one bit; watching Nina do my bit just tickled me pink.

---

The Doctor strolled in, all business and crisp efficiency, a stark contrast to the wanton sadist from last night's Smut fest. I couldn't help but flinch at her gaze—it was instinctive, a shudder that betrayed me. My reaction fluttered like a trapped moth, but clearly, it had caught the attention of Nina’s keen eyes.

"Doctor, thanks for making the trip today. Yvonne and I need a second, but then we'll be right behind you upstairs," she explained with a courteous nod, the underlying message clear as day.

To my surprise, the Doctor gave me a smile that felt oddly warm, a first since forever. Not one of those cold, clinical smirks that I had gotten used to, but a kind, human one. Something almost resembling camaraderie. "See you shortly, Yvonne," she remarked, her steps unhurried as she climbed the stairs.

Nina closed the space between us, her touch tender as she held my hands, her eyes searching mine. The sharp memory of that final look before I surrendered my manhood flashed between us, but the intensity in her gaze now was different.

There was only a softness there. All her love poured into the oceanic depth of her concern. "Don't worry, my baby. This time, it will be different... Better... I promise you," she whispered. And just like that, I was her girl again, nodding and stepping behind her, my trust as inevitable as the moon above us.

As we advanced upstairs, Nina leaned in close, "It was the good doctor who removed your piercings last night, believe it or not," she mused casually, a curve at the corner of her lips. "Ruined her fancy diamond-tipped tools in the process, all without disturbing a single dream of yours."

I couldn’t hold back a carefree laugh, "Mon Dieu, quelle opération délicate ! Je suppose que mon sommeil de beauté était trop précieux pour être interrompu, hein ?" (*”My, what a delicate operation! I guess my beauty sleep was too precious to interrupt, eh?”*)

So there I was, sitting all awkward and bare on the edge of the bed, arms pinned to my side, legs shamelessly akimbo under the scrutinising eyes and digits of the doctor.

While the Doctor's eyes and fingers dallied between my thighs... oh my, slipping into my role again, all flushed and vulnerable to her expert ‘examination’. It felt less like a check-up and more like pleasantly shameless abuse of… “I think we shall call this little marvel 'Little Yvonne', yes?" Nina had playfully interrupted my thoughts. "Indeed, such a delightful name for an equally delightful treat," agreed the doctor, her attention unwavering from her unabashed diddling below.

Her gaze shot up to my cheeks, brimming with colour, matching the hue of my embarrassment. "Oh look, a perfect match for your pretty, flushed face," she commented, her sincere smile matched by her own reddening at the excitement of her work. "Although previously assessed by you, Nina, may I conduct a brief experiment of my own?” She breathed, lust clearly evident in her voice, “strictly in the name of progress, naturally."

“Have at it, you dirty slut. Consider it a recompense for your tools." Nina sneered playfully, a gleam of wicked provocation in her eyes. Without a moment's delay, the Doctor had my ‘Little Yvonne' engulfed, her lips enveloping it with a slobbering fervour. "Mmm… docteur, oh!" (*"Mmm… doctor, oh! "*) I half-protested in a squeal, but it was struck down by a sharp nip, a shockwave of pleasure coursing through me. “Michelle works when we're playing doctor like this. I'll be back for plenty more of these ‘check-ups’," she winked before her mouth descended again, her tongue twirling and slurping, making ‘Little Yvonne’ throb with delight under her expert care.

Michelle's mouth was doing wonders down south but not quite reaching the climactic touch that Nina possessed. Grasping for more, I pulled her head in closer, craving that final push, but my grip was tender where it needed to be fierce. She responded by pressing atop my hands—her silent instruction clear: be bold, demand more. I obliged, holding her close until her breath mingled with the sparse tuft of my groin. For several aching moments after, I was a heartbeat away from paradise, yet not quite there.

Caught in a purgatory of pleasure, it must have painted a portrait of longing on my face because I heard Nina's silky voice slide into my ears, "Mmm… This wouldn’t do." I felt her climb behind me, her delicate hands peeling away mine from Michelle's fervent ministrations. She pulled my arms back with a soft strength, binding them with her own, my helplessness crafted by her whispers alone.

Drawing me into a sculpted incline, powerless and exposed, Nina's voice wrapped around me, "You like it when you’re defenceless, baby," the words lingered as an affirmation rather than a question. "Hands back, stay there, nice and arched," she directed, and I followed without hesitation. Obedient, quaking with anticipation, I held the arch as she rose like the dawn before me.

Her glistening treasure, so close, so beckoning, the smell, the scorching heat of her arousal filled the air, dangling just out of reach of my desperate tongue. With her desire almost brushing my lips, she held back a mere breath away, demanding, "Say the magic words, baby," her prompt was fire, and I was ash.

How swiftly "S'il vous plaît, Maîtresse," (*"please, Mistress "*) escaped me. And with those words, like a goddess responding to a divine scripture uttered, she descended upon my longing lips. Finally, tasting her after an eternity of denial, I lapped at her sacred temple with a fervour meant only for the divine.

There we were – our roles cast – Michelle clung to me, her mouth relentless, lavished her attention on my trembling lure, nipping and tugging with a gentle ferocity. And I — arching beneath Nina, my body, a temple of desire, a welcoming altar upon which she had descended.

I drank from her, a devout pilgrim at the fountain of my deity. This was the moment for cherished retribution, my chance to navigate Nina to the edge of her ecstasy—the very edge that had been my tortured refuge all of last year would now be her surrender.

Ah, but well, I was her beloved little minx, her petite treat. I might have basked in the role reversal, teasing Nina with the taste of her own medicine as she quaked, sighed, and cascaded over the brink.

Just a taste, though—a tease shouldn't overstay its welcome because, mmm, my thirst for her sweet nectar was real, and my eagerness to drink her down was torment that licked at my desires.

In a stroke of genius that only Nina's flexible body allowed, she manoeuvred her seeking mouth to where my nipple throbbed, engorged with need. While keeping me buried in her own pleasure. A skill sourced from those many sunrises spent in yoga's embrace. And as she suckled, I teetered on the cusp, my frame ready to shatter into release, but no, this dance was mine to lead. My moment to watch Nina unravel above me.

Yet, I couldn't halt Michelle's unrelenting pursuits. With my tethered hands, I could do nothing, and—Oh! The dam of my restraint broke my release, little spurts of abandon gifted into her waiting mouth, releasing each droplet of gratitude into her care.

Suppressing the reflex to pull away, I fervently continued my service. My Mistress Nina's breaths coming in short, needy bursts. Her grip tightened around my waist, drawing me closer—pulling me into her embrace. I could read her body like my favourite book, each shiver and sigh underlining a sentence in the story of her pleasure, and this chapter required that I redouble my worship.

Poor 'little Yvonne' below was valiantly weathering an onslaught. Still, she was putting up an impressive fight, steadfast in tiny rigid glory even in the throes of Michelle's almost too vigorous attention.

Then I felt it—the unmistakable quiver of her oncoming crescendo, and holding my breath, I buried myself in her depths, a torrent of relentless flicks and caresses over her swollen nub.

In that moment, the discomfort that had faded below gave way to anticipation. Michelle’s bites now edged me nearer to another peak. Clearly, the ecstasy of bringing joy to my adored Mistress outshone any mouths that had worshipped me.

And so we both crumbled—Nina's release crested with a soul-baring "ohh god baby… yes!!!!!" and I, gasping with joy at the taste of her, felt real satisfaction bloom as her legs bucked, dragging me down with her into the sheets. And then, as if my soul was attuned to her symphony, I too surrendered to yet another mind-melting release— many more dribbles and my wet little tribute to Michelle's prowess.

Mistress must've realised I was breathless, for she propped herself just so, my tongue still lavishing her with adoration, even as she extricated me from Michelle. "Mmm..sweet like honey, and slow down. She came twice just now. That seems to be a good sign. Your little cutie is multi-orgasmic now," Michelle remarked a note of wonder in her voice.

"Got it, bitch. I'll go gentle on her and yes, she tastes like fine honey. Now, get us ready for the next thing, will you?" gasped Nina, breathless even as I slid a daring finger into her heat, my tongue's pilgrimage unceasing.

Time blurred as we lost ourselves in one another's touch until I heard the heavy footsteps accompanying Michelle's return. They were more profound, laden with a confident masculinity. Trevor?

The unmistakable timbre of our groundskeeper's voice filled the room. "Whoa! Our little Yvonne and the boss lady are indeed going at it." His hearty, sincere, and definitely aroused words brought a momentary touch of the familiar, warm Trevor I knew from the past.
Not the harrowing memory of last night’s depravity.

As Mistress's lips withdrew from ‘little Yvonne’, she kissed my nub one last time before letting me go, instructing plainly, "Lose the clothes, Trevor. Remember what we agreed on?" She grinned at him, "Let's give Yvonne a good show, shall we?"

Softly, she slid out from beneath me and, with a reassuring presence, nestled me against her. Guiding me upright, her hands snug around my waist, she positioned me to face Trevor standing beside Michelle.

“Baby, I need you to express how you feel seeing him. Every bit of him. Don't censor. Just breathe out the truth.” she urged with the softest tremble that tried to hide away in her voice but could not escape my ears.”

Enveloped in the comfort of her body, warming me from behind, I looked towards Trevor. There he stood, revealed in his entirety. Six feet something, sheer brawn and undeniable masculinity. Gazing upon his slightly embarrassed, sweaty, muscular and very manly form, a result of relentless labour, and that cock—oh, that proud swinging cock—my appetite stirred.

My immediate thought was, 'Hmm, délicieux !' but it faded, a sign, perhaps, of Lynn's hypnotic influence unwinding.

Yet the yearning lingered, but not for Trevor—no, not the man, it was his cock my body ached to feel. It craved to be vigorously handled, tossed around like a plaything, to submit its willing form to the mercy of this manhood’s demand.

Evidently, parts of the hypnotic conditioning remained nestled deep within me. Yet how empowering it felt to distil someone to just their stiff, pulsating, succulent privates, mirroring how I'd been reduced to my plump, ripe mounds and 'take-me-now' bottom until mere hours ago.

And I also knew, for sure, from the quiver that had escaped her lips, that losing me to an unrelenting, meaty, and thick cock was, undeniably, Nina’s greatest unspoken fear right now.

I could almost feel the cold sweat on her skin as she contemplated me being consumed by a raw desire to worship, to be stretched and skewered, and to serve the needs of that thick organ and away from the sanctuary of her embrace.

Her silent apprehensions sent an aching throb through my heart, a powerful wish flaring to dismiss the crowd, and to just cradle her in the embrace of my comfort was overwhelming. Yet, beneath that, a rabid lust for the stiff, throbbing slab of flesh, the desire to be impaled, to feel it ruthlessly split me open, fill my every hollow, left me quaking.

The thought of being reduced to a quivering mess, drenched and defiled, and then pleading to be used again as a cum canvas, yearning to be painted with spunk. The raging flames of desire to be reduced to such delightful ruin was the stark realisation that compelled me to speak the biting truth.

It was now in my nature to submit to desire, unleashing the instinctive longing for it. The man himself was a mere footnote. It was his manhood that called to me. Ravenous for its barbaric dominance.

'Brace for the bite of pain now to avoid the torment of discovering lies later,' I reconciled internally, forcing my eyes from the enticing girth of the erection on display to confront Nina with my admission.

My choice of words was as honest as it was deliberate, "Chéri, la vue de cette bite me fait l'eau à la bouche, je te jure, je la veux partout." (*"Darling, the sight of this cock makes my mouth water, I swear, I want it everywhere."*)I continued slowly, each word crystal clear in its intent, "Je dois la déguster entièrement, la sentir dans chaque orifice." (*"I must taste it entirely, feel it in every orifice."*)

Her voice faltered, nearly lost in silence, the ghost of a tear shimmering in her eyes as she accepted, “Okay, love, tend to your hunger. I had more than an inkling that it might come to this.”

I recognised the gravity of her words, our shared secret, and hopefully, an answer to another one of her ‘prayers.’ This was a test not of obedience but of our mutual desire, one which I was determined to pass—for both our sakes.

And so, I let my cravings guide me as I edged off the comfort of our shared bed. “Quel délice," (*"What a delight,"*) I purred quietly. My descent was slow and deliberate, my knees finding their place on the ground.

Michelle's gaze, first sharpened with professional curiosity, lacking any hint of her prior arousal. But as her eyes danced between Nina and me, concern quickly etched her features. Yet, commanding my immediate attention was this pendulous, musky manhood, reeking of his daily toil, that required my devotion. I answered its call without hesitation.

I dove into my work, devouring that cock like it was my life's calling, each wet suck a primal tribute to my insatiable appetite. Gagging myself shamelessly, spit-drenched and gasping as I worshipped it with my tongue. I withdrew just enough to breathe before descending again.

His delirious groans and warped grin, as my eyes scanned upwards, were a clear badge of honour – I was drenching him in the sloppiest, most debased blowjob he'd ever been lucky enough to receive.

Submitting to a man's desires felt undeniably heady. I was the stage, and his inflated shaft and ego were the stars of the show —and therein lay the wickedness of my submissive enthusiasm. It was his necessity, not mine, that I craved to service.

It was this twisted need, my addiction, that painted this encounter with such explosive satisfaction. My experiences in the past year and Lynne’s manipulations had woven their way into my psyche and broken me in an irredeemable way.

Gobbling the engorged meatstick was blasphemy of the sweetest kind. The more I served it, the filthier I craved to become. Each glob of drool I spilt was a gift, and I slathered it all over my whimpering hole before impaling myself with my finger. I damn near choked myself with the relentless bobbing, using my gasping as a rhythm to fuck myself harder onto this dominating manhood.

I pushed to debase myself until, with a savage pull, Gripping a fistful of hair, he hauled me up, my spit-smeared lips torn from my feast and as my choking gasps of needy discontent filled the room.

As my mouth reluctantly broke away, a glistening line of drool dragged from his pulsing tip to my lips, a messy badge of my labour. Panting, he declared, "Sugar, savouring your mouth's a treat, but I've got some poundin' to do where it counts. Promised I'd give you a proper reaming. Payday comes with you ass-up and me balls-deep.”

The words struck a chord—hell, I was gagging for that savage reaming as much as he was boasting about it.

Swift as sin, I spun around and sprawled out for him on the bed, arching like a bitch in heat, my bottom in the air, offering him my moist and welcoming rosebud with a brazen grin. "Allez, grand garçon, emmène-moi à l'église," (*"Come on, big boy, take me to church,"*) I cooed with a wink.

It started off as gentle caresses and tender nudges, but then he found his rhythm, and goddamn if it didn't get ruthless. The slam of his hips, the way he claimed me, it was everything I was programmed to love.

The fierceness? Absolutely delectable—being ravished, turned into a mindless, wanton whore on display—it was a high like no other. Trevor clearly had the moves, but just like when Michelle had her mouth all over me, I was floating—in a delirious limbo but not quite hitting nirvana.

Nina, oh my Mistress, peered from across with silent, tear-brimming eyes. Her silence was her choice; I could have cut through the thick gloom at any moment, but this was Nina's trial, a necessary truth to experience with her own eyes.

However, playtime was over. She had her show, and now, it was my scene to direct. Grasping Nina's hand, I insisted, "Chérie, let's revisit that soixante-neuf... and make it snappy!" I demanded, and damn if she didn't dive right under me like a woman starved. As I plundered her depths, her tongue found its destined mark, and, oh fuck…

Completely lost in my basest state of being, I screamed, "Oui...Oooh... ahhh…merde.. Oui… plus vite... ENCORE PLUS FORT… oooh FUCK ME DAMN IT!!!!!!", my voice a clarion call to the upcoming explosion. My climax was building, explosive, but Nina—my dear goddess—deserved a universe in return.

It was time to deploy my coup de grâce. My knowledge of her body’s landscape was as intimate as my own. My guiding finger struck true—her sacred, secret instrument—and in a moment as old as time, I bestowed upon her the bite that sang to her soul. And… she exploded, her body singing like ecstasy incarnate, her thighs splayed, gushing into my mouth.

Even as the waves of pleasure seized her, leaving her at the whims of carnal spasms, she kept her greedy mouth clamped on me, suckling like a depraved angel, until my own rapture rang out across the fucking heavens. "Ooooh ma chérie, je viens, ohhhh yes...yes…FUCK YES!!!!!! The torrent was fierce, and ‘little Yvonne’ proved herself a champion, releasing dribble upon relentless dribble until I crumbled onto her, completely spent.

It wasn't long until I noticed Trevor's tempo slip; the poor dear was lost, momentarily dazed from my 'wail of the banshee routine.'

I couldn't resist but to brightly chirp, "Allez, tapez fort, c'est si bon," (*"Go on, hit it hard, it's so good,"*) really laying on the sugar. The man had put his back into it—God bless his fuck-pumping spirit—but my body wasn't about tasks well done; it ached for his cum, thick and filling.

So, as Nina and I regained our breath, I let him thrust to his brute heart's content. I had beckoned his raw instincts to take over, permitting him to hammer away until his load erupted within me, painting my insides white. My muscles working to wring out every bit of his leaking heat, literally begging his dick for every sloppy strand of his spurt.

As he withdrew moments later, his warmth sloshed around inside me, naughty squelching glorifying every clench. Feeling used by that now floppy sausage was a dirty kind of comfort but one that flickered and dissolved soon enough like the last licks of a flame.

But now that I was well-fucked and thoroughly wasted, it was time for the curtain call. Using English for the second time in forever, I said, “Trevor, honey, the show's over. Skip along now. The ladies need a gossip, especially after such a steamy battering," I sang out, a simple little order that he instantly obeyed.

Once his shuffling retreat faded, I turned to Nina, still sprawled on the bed, my rump’s precious deposit leaking down my thighs despite me trying to so hard to hold on.Nina, that well-fucked heap of my heart, still catching her breath next to me.

"Michelle," I chimed in, my words now all in English, free from the necessity of French that had been like a chain around my tongue. "Seems the world of man-parts and their offerings has taken up residence in my routine, and yet," I paused and smiled, "I've found it's an acquired taste that's best savoured when my Nina's the sterling dish by my side, or under, or atop."

My giggle drew a quick jab to the arm.”Oh, my tender flesh!" I feigned distress only to hear, "Oh, my tender flesh... mistress," as Nina retorted with mock annoyance.

Our post-romp shower, with Michelle as the unexpected but welcomed third, drenched me in warmth and tenderness. I was assaulted by kisses and cuddles from both sides, not that I was complaining, and thankfully, No skin-slapping this time. Both ‘Little Yvonne’ and I, well served, vault filled and entirely drained, were thankful for the rest.

As considerate as ever, Nina had swung us some fiery Indo-Chinese fare (yes, it's an actual thing) for lunch—talk about a palate party. Then, we lounged comfortably with full bellies and content hearts,

Nina and Michelle briefly huddled close, clearly hatching their next scheme, exchanging secret messages and then, with a cheery wave, Michelle was off.

Now that it was just the two of us, Nina prowled over with that 'I'm up to something' look. "Got one last treat for you, buttercup," her voice dripping seduction. Panic fluttered in me at the thought of another round in bed. I braced for the word, and there it was: "Shopping!" I heard myself groan internally.

---

When we breezed back into our sanctuary, our arms overflowing with the spoils of an eight-hour retail crusade. Our stash told a story of two chapters: mine, with sensible shirts and jeans, comfy sports bras, and plain panties; hers, with my body in mind, was all about turning heads and dropping jaws.

Lingerie that'd put a blush on a nun, heels that could put an eye out, and cosmetics that could launch a YouTube channel. Her clandestine diversion into the jewellers hadn’t gone unnoticed either. She's got surprises up her sleeve, the sneaky fox.

Waving the white flag was redundant; Nina had no qualms about casting me as her precious doll to dress and caress. Guess what, though? I was eating it up like a kid with cake. What can I say? Being pretty is fun.

Waking up to Nina's love-soaked world was like being reborn. She had pampered me silly, spoiling me with everything from the scented bath she prepared to the buttermilk that kissed my lips. She kept the day filled with flavours, serving up my favourite cuisine for breakfast and lunch, accompanied by the best dessert, her kisses. My heart could not help but marvel at how every gesture felt like a caress and every moment an embrace.

And the sex – oh, the sex – let's just say, it's hard to stay modest when you're entirely swept off your feet. First came Michelle’s tongue, attentively adoring 'little Yvonne' with an ardour that set me alight. Then, there was Trevor’s rough, dominating possession, rendering me a vessel of pure sensation.

They had been scornful yesterday, but today, along with Nina’s enthusiastic participation, their touches transformed into acts of reverence. My, how the turntables! As I basked in the moment, it was hard not to throw a quip at myself, thinking that if only Nina's love could be bottled up, it'd outsell the finest perfumes in Paris.

Oh of course, the pub! There was nothing fancy about it at first at least. We were dressed down when we walked in, yet you would have thought we were strutting down the runway the way those catcalls stacked up. It was like a contest, and we weren't talking about small change, more like open-bar status, thanks to many friendly gents (and a couple of ladies). Nina's tolerance hung by a silken thread while I found myself blushing so hard that you could have effortlessly cooked breakfast right upon my cheeks.

And what's a celebration without swaying hips and thumping beats? As Nina vanished momentarily to hit the ladies' room, I embraced the rhythm. Losing myself to dance with a strapping young man, my figure swaying, grinding against him like a lusty sonnet, my mind toying with the notion of devouring him—our treat for the evening's closure. Yes, the surge of surrendering to one’s craving—it was a tangible allure.

Enter the Mistress-saviour. One hot-to-trot little tart saved by the bell. "Pouvons-nous monter ce poney, s'il vous plaît ?" (*"Can we ride this pony, please?"*) I giggled into her ear as she politely dragged me. “You are one horny little delinquent,” she complained as she gave my rump a well-deserved spank.

Fun and flirting aside, while making our way back to the solitude of our bedroom, my mind just couldn't help but wonder – just how long had it been since we last shared the intimacy of this bed?

Here, we changed our skins again – Nina slipped into her skimpy black number, and I into a thin negligee that was pretty much air, stitched with thread. Beneath that, she had me wiggle into panties that cheekily declared "Nina's 'little Yvonne' " upfront, garnished with a purring kitten, too innocent-looking to be true.

The instant my back hit her front, she lured me in for a peep, spinning me into her view. A giggle spilt from her – rich and ripe with an inside joke I was yet to get. "What?" I piped up, at which point she grabbed her phone for a quick snap and showed me the evidence.

All switched up – where the maid once knelt, a drop-dead gorgeous woman now stood, chest forward in a sizzling red ensemble. Below her, the script had done a one-eighty, even switching languages. "At your service… but maybe only if you ask me nicely", it proudly declared.

'WHAT UNHOLY FUCKERY WAS THIS?' Self-altering ink? "Nina, you better make it make sense – and right-the-hell-now!" I threw the command at her, my eyes locked into hers.

Nina looked at me, dead serious."Forget the nightwear. We'll cocoon into each other for warmth. Let’s cosy up first, and then…" She hesitated, her voice softening, "Tonight, could I be your Mistress once more?" It was almost a beg—an offering of the greatest treasure I'd been deprived of—a choice.

As instinctive as my lips lust to taste her depths, the reply danced off my tongue, a submissive, wanton whisper of surrender "Bien sûr, Maîtresse," (*"Of course, Mistress,"*) my eyes lighting up at her evident delight.

Soon after the words left my lips, we found ourselves wrapped in the bed's embrace. She drew me to her chest, her breath a melody by my ear, stirring the ripples of longing.

"Tète-moi, mon trésor," (*"Suckle me, my treasure, "*) she breathed out in French this time, each syllable dripping with erotic intent.

As her fingers waltzed upon the little mound of my little cockette, the sensation was akin to a seductive siren song ensnaring every thread of my self-control. With gusto, I suckled the gift she offered. Every beat of her heart under my cheek promised her sanctuary.

I felt her nipple burgeon beneath my mouth's heat. A beacon of hardened flesh against the silk of her areola. With each shuddering breath, she released an accolade for my tireless devotion.

"Now keep suckling, love, Mistress purred, "while I tell you the story from a year ago. Of the resolution that changed everything."

Synopsis
With Rick (now almost fully Yvette) tucked away nicely, our spotlight shifts to the star of the night: our dear Doctor Valentine.

As she revels in the pleasure of remaking her past abuser, we wonder if Michelle is truly in control or if something else is pulling her strings. The thrill of bending others to her will is certainly delicious, but what happens when an unsuspecting innocent gets tangled in this web?

How thin is the line between rightful domination and becoming exactly what she once despised? Michelle may love her newfound role, but will she stop before she’s gone too far? Will she even want to stop if the deeper she falls, the better it feels?

Author's Note
Hello, lovely readers! I hope this chapter pushes the boundaries AND reflects what I hope is an evident improvement in my storytelling skills.

As always, the magic tied to the Box of Resolutions remains an endless playground of possibilities—and Chapter 8 takes us deeper into the darker recesses of this Author's fantasies. If you love psychological horror/power plays, you’re in for a treat this chapter.

Feel free to reach out with thoughts, and as always, thank you for continuing this journey with me! Enjoy every wicked detail, and remember, magic has no limits, and neither does your imagination when your desires are involved.

On Images: Like the last chapter, this one contains several NSFW images, but just before, you will need to click the links to view the contents. Again, I have explicitly mentioned, 'Click the link below to find out.' As always, the images are entirely optional, and I do not want you to have to view them. However, like before, I do believe they add a layer of 'depth'.

Binding Resolutions Chapter 8: In devotion and service

Ahhh... the satisfaction of applying my craft. Yvette was well sedated and deep in sleep now. The former Rick Longwood, my little Yvette, was well on her way to 'lick my wood.' Ha! Poor darling, the trauma had been necessaryᅳa crucial step in ensuring she harboured no hope of ever regaining her manhood.

Stockholm syndrome was a necessary evil. Rick's... no... MY magnificent cock nowᅳwasted on that swineᅳwould serve a far greater purpose. It would make Yvette squeal with overwhelming joy, if I may add. Ahhh... Swine, squeal... Oh, I'd never call Yvette a swine, though… but my little Miss Piggy? Now, that's a lovely costume idea.

Brushing that ever-annoying stray lock of hair away from my face, I grinned with satisfaction. As always, my workᅳwhether aided by magic or notᅳwas magnificent. Already, the discolouration and swelling were receding. Almost two days' worth of healing in under an hourᅳremarkable. The possibilities this magic offered... oh my. If only I had discovered it sooner. Perhaps I might have even saved some of the women Rick had abused.

But tonight wasn't about redemption or revenge. Noᅳtonight was about completing my new acquisitions. The night was still young, and there was plenty more work to be done.

My gaze lingered on the glass container holding HIS. No, there was no "his" or "him" anymore. Just my precious cock.

Ahhh, what a wonderful specimen it was, suspended in the nutrient solution. Big, beautiful, tanned, and dare I say, wholesome. The skin, the musculature, the veins, the size, the pink bulbous head... perfect, virile, intoxicating. Mmmm, I thought as a shiver ran through me. Ooooh. Wet already?

Let me check... for science, of course. Oh my, I tasted so much sweeter just being near it. Another mental note... purely for research, naturally. But what about Yvette? How would she taste? I already knew what my lovers said about meᅳthat my crotch was something incredibleᅳbut hers? I had crafted it myself, a tribute to perfection, much like Eve's.

She'd likely taste like ripe nectar, warm and inviting. Using my cock on her would be utterly satisfyingᅳbeing used by it? Even more so. Ohhh, the endless ways I would treasure my new appendage… no, cock. That was the word that best suited it, and that was the only way I would address it.

Okay, back to business. Setting aside the more intimate plans for now, I realized that the magic could speed up the process. I had planned to pace the procedures over multiple sessions. I would give her plenty of time to heal after each one but this magic changed the game. Why wait things out when I could accomplish everything in one night?

Sparing Yvette from the trauma of multiple surgeries would be the kind and merciful thing to do. And I had promised Yvette pleasure, not pain. It was best to complete everything in one goᅳa clean slate for my brand-new, most loveable little slut.

I almost chuckled at the irony. Meᅳa surgeon by tradeᅳpreparing for a sequence of complex surgeries. Some I had never performed before, and a few only possible in theory, all to be completed in one night. Playing Godᅳor rather, mmm...Goddess.

First on the agenda, however, was Carlᅳthe bionics expertᅳwaiting in the adjacent lab. Thank God for small conveniences. My private clinic and lab were so conveniently attached to my home. It provided the perfect base of operations for tonight. Proximity was essential, especially for the immediate next steps. Preserving MY precious cock and testing my hypothesis on 'theoretical possibilities'.

With the utmost care, I wheeled in the cock container... Ohhh, there are so many medically appropriate phrases to use, but this one fits best right now. There he was, Carl, absorbed in his tablet as usual. Unaware of the magnitude of what he was about to handle.

His nonchalant demeanour did nothing to hide his exceptional talent. Carl, the bionic specialistᅳthe best on this side of the country, my dear friendᅳand now that I knew about the magic, my guinea pig in tonight's game.

Now, I could observe the power that this magic wielded and test its limits. Time to start making notes. As I wheeled the cart up to him, he lifted his head and quickly processed the contents within the glass container.

“There it is,” he acknowledged, lifting his head as I approached. “Hey, Michelle. Seems like everything went off without a hitch?”
“I prefer 'Doctor' tonight. And yes, Carl," I replied, nodding to the scrubs I had hastily put back on before leaving the operating room. "Everything was perfect, just as this will be, now that it's in your capable hands," I said, even as my hands brushed the glass container. "Ready?"

Carl's eyes broke momentarily from his tablet, now focusing on my cock with more intensity. The usual glint of professionalism turned into something darker as his jaw stiffened. Hmmm… looks like the cock didn't spare men either.

"This... looks fantastic," he murmured, marvelling at it with what was clearly more than just professional admiration. He adjusted his gloves, but his professional air seemed to dissolve more with each passing second.

I reached out to the taser hidden behind the trolley as he glanced at me for permission to handle it. I just needed to make sure that whoever held the cock wouldn't suddenly be able to claim its power. “Go ahead, Carl. Feel free to handle MY cock,” I said calmly. Just a stake of claim as insurance.

“Your cock...” he muttered, his voice distant as his eyes briefly glazed over. He withdrew the severed cock from the fluid with little regard for sterility and began to inspect it.

“The testicles?” I arched an eyebrow at his pause while taking mental notes of the cock's effects on him, my grip tightening on the taser.
"They'll act as natural batteries, storing nutrients from the user's body," Carl said clinically, but his tone had shifted. “They'll store any unused dischargeᅳreal-time emission on demand.” He paused, rolling them between his fingers almost... reverently. “Bio-organic nanotechnology, similar to the mechanisms found in electric eels. It ensures both mechanical and biological fidelity.”

"Additionally," he added, swallowing slightly as a small blush crept onto his face. "It will simulate full sensory engagement for the recipient. This 'immersion,' I can assure you, will make every orgasm feel completely authentic.”

I smirked, catching the cracks in his professional façade. "Quite impressive, Carl." My voice was soft but brimming with control. The only slip-ups allowed tonight would be courtesy of Carl's mouth and gaze. Both of which already made it obviousᅳthis thing wasn't just something he admired. It was weakening him, unravelling him with every passing second. Time to test my little hypothesis.

Just then, I shook myself out of the moment. This technology didn't exist yet but Carl must believe it does. Thanks to the magic though, just for tonight, just this beautifully twisted moment, perhaps it did. Only for my wonderful cock, though.

"Ever think about how it feels?" I asked, locking eyes with him.

Carl baulked. His eyes wavered, unsure, before they trailed back to the cock. "N-no... not like that," he stammered, but the strength in his voice had already drained away.

"Have you ever thought about how it would feel, Carl?" I pressed, turning what should have been a clinical moment into something slippery and dangerous.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking anxiously between me and the cock. "Well... Kelly... she..." He trailed off, realising he was treading on dangerous ground. Then, hastily added, “I mean, we... maybe we could borrow it for later?” he admitted, blushing furiously.

Time to push harder. "Carl, look at it. Keep looking." My voice slipped into a lower, more commanding octave.

The air between us thickened noticeably, and Carl, helpless now, followed my instructions as expected. His gaze locked onto the severed cock, the glazed look returning to his eyes and deepening further. Very, very interesting.

"What if it only came attached to another man?" My words dripped with suggestion, turning Carl's uncertainties against him.

A flush crawled up his neck, obvious signs of conflict flickering in his eyes. A beat passed. Then, a sharp intake of breath. "Not... not like that," he murmured his weak denial. His words sounding more like a whimper than a protest.

"Look at it again, Carl," I commanded, keeping my voice carefully controlled. His eyes flicked back to the cock involuntarily. This time, his jaw slackened as if he were falling into a trance. Fascinating. "Now, what if it came attached to another man?" I repeated.

"Yes, maybe?" he hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper.

Bingo. My grip on the taser loosened slightly. Men like Rick would never tolerate the presence of another empowered man. Weak men strike viciously, whether openly or in secret; a coward's arrow is easily hidden or exposed, as needed. This cock was meant to make any good man feel inadequate, and Rick would have baked that into his resolution.

I was certain of its effects as I watched Carlᅳa strong, capable, intelligent manᅳsquirm under the weight of his own thoughts. "Ever thought about it before?

He stayed silent, but I ignored his weakening resistance and pressed on. "Don't take your eyes off it, Carl. Now, imagine that man fucking your wife while you watch. Do you want that, Carl?"

His lips parted, his voice barely audible as the cock's pull ensnared him further. "I... I don't know," he managed with an evident mix of horror and arousal.

"Keep looking at it, Carl. Would Kelly want it?" I whispered, my words weighted with intent. Carl trembled, succumbing further to the cock's influence. "I hope not... maybe?" he stuttered.

"She wouldn't, but this thing..." Carl continued, digging his own grave, struggling...and failing to look away. His eyes remained fixed as if compelled by this incredible force.

I pressed harder, brushing off whatever little protests he may have in him. "Eyes on the cock Carl. Tell me the truth." His breath hitched, his voice cracked, and the words that sealed his fate came: "Yes."

Gotcha!

It was time to ramp up the test. I moved closer, narrowing the distance between us to mere inches. Leaning in, I brought my lips right next to his ear. His pulse quickenedᅳI could feel the heat rising to his cheeks.

I was the predator, he the prey. Mmm... delicious. My nipples hardened, and the dampness between my thighs felt exquisite even as the tension filled the air. Placing one hand on his chest, I could feel his heart hammering beneath my fingers.

It took little effort to grab his belt and pull down his trousers with my free hand.

Startled, he stammered, "No, DoctorᅳI'm marriedᅳ"

"Oh, relax, my dear Carl," I whispered, inspecting what he was working with. Yes, he was reasonably endowed, but I wasn't about to let him know that. Not yetᅳnot now.

As decent as it was, it was thoroughly outclassed by the piece he was holding. He needed to feel inadequate, thoroughly unmanned by what he held in his hands for my experiment. “Keep looking at it.”

As I looked down, I made sure disappointment was evident in my expression as I scrutinised him. The poor bastard stood frozen, unable to moveᅳtrapped by the magic and his shame. Good.

“Your lovely wife, Kelly, and this incredible cock we're talking about,” I said with a sly grin. “Such a cute, petite little beauty she is. Could've ended up with a proper stallion instead of settling for you, don't you think?” Mmm… I let the words seep into Carl before continuing. "Quite a pity that this…” I glanced with disdain at his erection, "...is all she has to work with."

Carl hesitated, shame washing over him but even as his humiliation deepened, his cock only grew harderᅳalmost painfully so. A fact made all too clear by his strained expression. He nodded slowly, humiliation etched across his face. "Yes."

"Shall we discuss how she'll feel when a real man shows her what she's been missing?" I asked with a predatory smile as my fingertip lightly traced a line down the shaft of his cock, my nail barely grazing the surface. "I never told you to stop looking at it, Carl."

"Please... no... not in front of this... thing," Carl added, trying and failing to summon his composure.

Ignoring his pleas, I continued to drag my nail slowly and teasingly along his lengthᅳjust enough to make him shudder. "Mmm... diminutive really,” I murmured, watching his reaction. The word dripped from my lips with exaggerated intent, slicing deeper. “A pity,” I twisted the knife further. “Don't stop looking, Carl.”

His gaze reluctantly returned to the cock suspended in glass, his breath growing shallow and uneven.

“How long have you and Kelly been trying for a child, Carl?” I whispered intimately into his ear. I already knew the answer. This question would break him.

“C-c-close to two years now,” he stuttered, the weight of the implication sinking in.

I dragged my nail lazily up his shaft again, this time slower, smiling at the way his entire body tensed under my touch. "Mmm... enough about you two. Let's talk about who will really matter to Kelly from now on," I purred. My voice sinuous, my touch never a full gripᅳjust the teasing, scratching, edge of my nail as it danced atop his growing erection.

"Imagine, Carl... someone bigger than youᅳstronger, far more masculine than you'll ever hope to be... fucking your wife right in front of you." I traced the underside of his shaft, making him shudder harder. "Both of them, in your bed while you stand there, helpless, and hopelessly play with yourself. Keep... looking at the cock, Carl."

I let the silence hang between us for a beatᅳjust long enough for him to writhe and squirm under his own shame. Then I leaned closer, twisting the words like a scalpel. "*Play* with your little penis, Carl... not even worth calling a dick. 'Penis' is the proper medical term, after all."

I let the cruel words sink in, savouring the way his body trembled, weighed down entirely by his humiliation. "So, we'll stick with thatᅳyour little penis, Carl. Such a fitting name, don't you think?"

Carl gasped, his breath loud and sharp. I smiled, my nail tracing a sharper line, adding a little more pressure. His face flushed a deep crimson, his humiliation pouring off him in waves.

"Now, describe Kelly for me, Carl," I whispered into his ear. "Her lips..."

His voice was weak, trembling. "Her lips are full... soft... they taste like strawberries..." He stammered the words out like confessions.
"Do they feel warm, Carl? Wrapped around your little penis?" I mocked, tilting my head like I actually cared. My nail traced just beneath the sensitive ridge near the tip of his cock, teasing him with a barely-there touch.

"Y-yes... very warm," he panted, his hips jerking slightly in response to the teasing.

I tilted my head, my voice dropping to a slow, mocking drawl. "But tell me... do you think she even feels its warmth?" I let the words linger as my nail continued to ghost over him. "Really feels it?" I scoffed, never breaking eye contact, watching his face flush deeper with embarrassment. "With that size, you're lucky she bothers sucking it at all. Do you really think it's enough to make her feel anything more than pity?"

I paused for a moment, revelling in his growing shame before continuing. "And speaking of warmth, Carl," I purred, my nail now lightly scraping along his shaft, "How exactly will you make sure this cock maintains it?" My voice turned sharp as I commanded an answer.

"Thermal micro-regulators will activate upon contact, maintaining an ambient temperature. The skin will mimic body heat," he explained, then added, almost as if in a daze, "Her lips will feel its warmth."

I made a mental note of what he said. Artificial muscles warming up like real flesh. Another entirely non-existent piece of technology that Carl now seemingly had access to.

"Perfect for when she gags on it, right? Can you see her whore her lips out for his cock?" I asked, continuing to trace my nail lightly along his shaft.

His face flushed a deeper red, the shame and this enforced desire warring within him now. "Yes," he murmured even as he broke a little more.
I gently jabbed at the base with my nail. "Has she ever deep-throated you, Carl?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

He swallowed hard as he stammered, "No, she doesn't do it... she doesn't like it."

"Oh, she won't just deep-throat his cock," I sneered in delight. "She'll beg for it, Carl. She'll drool over every inch, her mouth watering as she takes him in." My nail continued to trace that slow, deliberate path along his shaft, as my words continued to add to his rising torment.

"She'll be his little bitch in heat. Crawling on all fours, slutting herself out for him, whenever and wherever he asks her to. She'll wait eagerly for her cues like a trained pet," I whispered, chuckling as his cock twitched again.

I leaned in closer, my voice nearly tipping into a soft purr. "But this time, oh, her first time with him, Carlᅳ*your* Kelly, that pretty little wife of yoursᅳ*will be in your bed*." I paused for effect, my eyes boring into his.

"Carl's future former bed." I let those final words float in the air until they sunk into him.

"Imagine her doing for him what she would never ever do for you, Carl," I whispered, the heat of my words sinking into his already broken psyche. "Just to be his slut. To debase herself only for him. What a show it would be, huh?"

I allowed the image to settle in his mind, savouring the visible torment in his eyes. "Watching her swollen eyes water in joy..." I continued slowly, "as she gags on his girth, her throat wrapping itself around him, struggling to take him deeper. And yet, she'll want it, Carl. She'll crave it. She'll gag and choke herself on his cock just to please him."

I could sense every detail of his internal devastation as I spoke. "The sound of her gagging will fill the room as his entire length stretches her throat. Then, when he finally pulls her face towards him, she'll swallow it all."

I tilted my head ever so slightly like a predator just before the kill. “Glugh, glugh, glughᅳyou'll hear it, Carl. A sound you won't be able to forget... ever!"

Mmm... I caught the twitch in his jaw, just what I wanted. "Drool will spill from her swollen lips in messy strings, dripping down her chinᅳtrailing from her lips to his shaft. The spit will be all over her, dribbling on to her tits and belly."

I could picture it myself, the imagery soaking me in my own juices as I spoke...delicious!

"When she finally comes up for air, gasping for breath," I paused. Letting Carl fully sink into the darkest depths of his own imagination, now completely beyond his rational control. "Her glazed eyes will show nothing but her desperate eagerness, Carl."

Just then, I took a moment to lock eyes with him. Ohhh...the flush of humiliation visibly overwhelming him was only getting more delicious by the minute. "Meanwhile, you'll stand there, stroking your sad, pathetic little penis. Won't you, Carl?"

I dragged my nail forward, pressing it against his urethra. My touch was only meant to induce more than a little discomfort.

"Yes," he stammered, tears almost ready to flow, his voice reduced to a barely audible whisper. Time to push harder.

"Best it stays limp from now on, don't you think?" I murmured, leaning closer, my breath hot on his ear. I nipped sharply at his earlobe, eliciting a pathetic yelp.

Instantly, I felt him shrivel, his cock going flaccid, shrinking away as though in fear, even as my nail pressed harder into his pee hole. A small dribble of pre-cum begrudgingly leaked onto my nail.

I wasn't having any of that.

With a menacing smile, I jabbed harder, blocking the hole and swiftly extinguishing any hope of relief. As expected, his gasp was sharp, and his body was trembling even as his penis wilted entirely.

"Say it, Carl. Tell me what I want to hear," I hissed into his ear.

"She'll love slobbering over his cock while I play with my pathetic penis," he whispered, shame dripping from every word.

"Not just love, Carl. She'll be obsessed, won't she?" I spoke very slowly. He was going to feel every ounce of weight behind my words.
"Yes, she'll be obsessed," Carl replied, his voice trembling with humiliation.

"Obsessed with what, Carl?" I asked, feigning ignorance. I was going to draw out his torment, and at this moment, oh yes.
"Obsessed with his cock," he answered, fully downing in his humiliation now.

"And you, Carl?" I pressed further, narrowing my eyes to get the message across clearly. "You know he'll give her what you never could. Do you now realise how inadequate you really are?"

"Yes," he gasped, tears welling up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. Just a little harder.. or softer. This was my moment, time to reap my rewards.

"Yes, what, Carl?" I was unyielding and merciless. Any time now.

"I see how inadequate I am," he admitted, his voice cracking under the crushing burden of his shame.

"And while you're standing there, still diddling with your sad little self," I added, twisting the knife, "you'll realise how pathetic you are, won't you?"

"Yes," he sobbed, barely able to form the words, his voice faltering.

"Yes, what, Carl?" I asked again, savouring every moment of his torment.

And just like that, the floodgates fell apart. "I'll realise how pathetic I am," he wailed, tears now pouring down his face, even as his cock twitched futilely against my nail.

"You'd better make sure this is worthy of deep-throating, Carl," I told the crybaby. "Every muscle needs to twitch and move just right... perfection. The ultimate experienceᅳfar beyond what your sad little appendage could ever offer. Do you understand, Carl?"

"Yes," he panted, trying to cling to whatever shred of dignity remained.

"Yes, what, again, Carl?"

"I'll make sure it's perfect," he promised, broken.

"Perfect for who, Carl?" I asked, driving the dagger even deeper.

"Perfect for him... and Kelly," he answered, utterly defeated.

"Perfect for him... and Kelly," he answered, utterly defeated.

"How would you ensure that, Carl?" I prompted, keeping him firmly under my nail. His eyes remained glued to my cock.

Carl, still gasping and flustered, obeyed as instructed. "I'll incorporate responsive nerve fibresᅳcapable of precision contractionsᅳlifelike movements. It will respond to every touchᅳmaking it feel alive," he stammered through the desperation. Each word seeming to draw him deeper into his helpless obsession.

Responsive nerve fibres capable of precision contractionsᅳanother impossibility now made real. The magic was so powerful it bent the rules of science itself. Why wasn't it everywhere already?

"Her eyes, Carl... Describe them to me," I hissed deeper, stepping closer, my presence tight against him.

"They're beautiful," Carl stuttered, swallowing hard. "A deep hazel... almond-shaped... They light up when she smiles..."

"Mmm… Do they light up and roll back when you enter her, Carl? Does YOUR little penis make her eyes flutter with bliss?" I sneered, leaning closer, keeping my other hand his chest as I watched him writhe.

He fumbled for words, swallowing down his shame. "IᅳI mean, yes..." Carl replied, though the words cracked in his throat like always.
I raised an eyebrow and let silence stretch, letting him stew in my unyielding gaze. “Really, Carl? Do they?” My lips curled.

He faltered, the slightest quiver in his voice. "IᅳI mean... maybe... sometimes..."

"Hmmm..." I scoffed, letting disappointment taint my tone. "Maybe? Poor little liar. We both know she's pretending.” He blinked, uncertain, shame fully tightening every muscle in his slack body as my words became the new truth that would slice him open.

“Now imagine, Carl…” I whispered, filling the gap with malice. “*That man*ᅳ*him*ᅳmaking her eyes roll backᅳgenuine, raw ecstasy ripping through her because of a real cock inside her. Think of her hazel eyes fluttering back into her lovely head as she screams out for more. Make sure that gets burned into your mind. That's what my cock needs to live up to, Carl. That's how perfect it needs to be.” My every word knifing deeper now.

"And after she has worshipped him with her mouth," I continued, my voice as sharp as the heel of a stiletto. "Imagine her welcoming him with her sweet, wet twat. Picture her eyes meeting yours as she lays back, legs spread, her body wide open."

Carl's soft, useless cock twitched involuntarily, but I immediately jabbed hard into the tip. He yelped againᅳpathetic, weak, brokenᅳand I watched him squirm. No relief, no reprieve.

“Imagine her," I pressed on, leaning into another emasculating blow, " lying there, looking at you with pity and disgust... Her cunt soaked for someone else, while you stand off to the side, watching as he pushes deep into her body.” I dragged each word out, giving space for every thrust of my imagery.

His breath grew uneven, trembling under me. His impotent cock simply flaccid and twitching had entirely betrayed him by now.

"His first thrust, Carl. Visualize it with me." I purred, my voice soft as silk, wrapping tighter around his psyche. "The gasp that escapes her lips. The desperate moan as she arches her back higher off the bedᅳher body trembling because he's effortlessly reaching places you never could. Filling her so much deeper than you ever dreamed."

Carl's chest heaved as his body trembled, his feeble cock giving one last pitiful twitch.

"And then," I continued, my voice had dropped dangerously low, "they both look at your fucking useless face. Don't worry, though, Carl." I whispered softly now, like I was confiding something, "She's already cumming. Over...and over...and over... because of himᅳnot because of you. She's his now, body and soul. And their pleasure only grows from watching you.”

I jabbed my fingernail mercilessly again, watching as Carl convulsed helplesslyᅳflustered... ruined. By now, the poor idiot was practically keening, so lost to my control that any memory of his former life would melt away if I willed it. His fingers clutched desperately at the severed, enchanted cock, as if it could somehow save himᅳthough all it did was drown him deeper.

"You will make that cock perfect, Carl," I emphasized, my voice rising, pouring authority into each word. "Every nerve, every muscle. It needs to trigger ecstasy in every part of her." Even my voice seemed to twist deeper into his crumbling psyche, breaking him further.

"W-what about neuro-stimulation?" I asked, feigning interest, knowing full well he wasn't capable of resistance nowᅳhe would obey anything I said.

Carl, now nearly incoherent from his breakdown, stammered, "I-I'll incorporate bio-responsive nerve fibers... o-organic micro-actuatorsᅳlike cephalopods' sensesᅳreading feedback perfectly...adjusting to every m-movement, in real-time... it'llᅳit'll adapt to every thrust."

Cephalopods? Organic micro-actuators? His broken mind was babbling impossible fantasies, yet I knew they would become realᅳat least for my cock. The magic would see to that.

"Good," I said, dismissing the miracles he was engineering as though they were insignificant. "It's not just tech, Carl, it's art. Every detail must be artᅳall for Kelly."

"Yes..." he whimpered, tears now streaming down his wretched face. "She'll love... it…”

I stepped back slightly, removing my hand from his chest, letting the full weight of his situation sink in. As I tapped a finger against my jaw while I stood in place, I could feel myself circling his mind. Weaving my words into his thoughts like a predator. “And her hair, Carl?”

He answered quickly, afraid to disobey. "It's short, shoulder-length, and wavy. It's beautifulᅳyou can grab a hold of it..." His voice trembled, his body shuddering uncontrollably now.

"Perfect to grab hold of when she's on all fours," I taunted, a knowing smirk curling my lips. As his legs shook beneath him, I decided to go deeper. "Does she arch her back for you, Carl?"

He squirmed, his gaze fixed shamefully on the ground. "Yes..." he whispered faintly, though his voice betrayed the lie.

I scoffed with disdain, keeping his gaze locked on me. "Poor... little liar," I purred, every syllable dripping with sadistic knowing. "You think your withered penis could make anyone arch back? It never didᅳand it certainly won't anymore."

Right on cue, Carl's eyes welled with fresh tears.

I tightened my nail's pressure on his shaft, a sharp flick sending another wave of pain through him. He twitched helplessly, a pathetic gasp escaping his lips. "Don't be such a coward, Carl," I sneered. "You know Kelly hasn't cum in forever. She's waitingᅳ*whether she says it out loud or not*ᅳfor someone who grabs her hair the right way. Someone who bends her the right way." My voice brimmed with my concocted derision now.

Carl was breakingᅳhis whole frame shook as though he were an earthquake caught in the throes of decay. I ran my fingertips teasingly over his temple, watching him continue to crumble before me.

"Imagine her on all fours, Carl," I whispered, leaning closer to drive in the image. " ass in the air, legs spread so wide, begging her man... someone with real strength and power." I paused, letting the venom in my voice seep deeper. "*Not you*, Carlᅳ*never you*."

I leaned toward him and nipped his ear sharply again, feeling him jerk in response to my bite. "Does she ever squeal when you pull her hair hard, Carl?" I asked coldly.

He shook his head, as tears spilled freshly from his eyes. "No... she doesn't like that," he admitted weakly, his entire form sagging under my gazeᅳbroken beyond repair.

I laughed, malicious and mocking. "She certainly won't, Carl." I let my eyes flick down to his limp member. "Not when all she gets from you is that disappointment hanging uselessly between your legs."

I ensured my concocted disdain was evident when I mentioned his name this time.

"Picture it, Carl." My voice dropped to a simmer, dangerous and slow. "She's going to be his little bitch… his little piggy, getting pounded into whoredom. Isn't that right, Carl?"

Carl completely broke down, full-blown tears streaming down his face. His voice trembling like a leaf barely holding on to its branch. "Yes… his little piggy." He was sobbing now, barely intelligible. "I-I can never be as good… as that man," he croaked, shuddering in defeat. His frail body trembled as his spirit disintegrated further under my words.

I leaned in close, my breath a devil's caress now. "How do you think she'll look back at you, Carl?" I whispered, every syllable heavy with mock sympathy. "She'll pity you at most, jerking that shameful little penis of yoursᅳeven as he's tattooing himself into her hungry cunt. Laughing, Carl… at you." My words purposefully stripped away the remnants of his dignity.

"From that moment on, every time she even thinks of your little penis, she'll giggle just remembering how little she had to work with before. She will mock you every single time you try to worm your way between her legs. What do you think, Carl?"
Carl's face flushed deeper, beads of sweat mixing with the torrent of tears running down his cheeks. "Yes," he whimpered between sobs. "Yes, she will laugh at me."

"Kiss it," I commanded softly. My lips curled into a smile as I watched his eyes widen at what I meant. "Kiss it, Carl," I repeated, leaning in to whisper into his ear. I pulled my head back, savoring the chaos swirling through him as he trembled. Hesitant at first, but eventually giving in, he leaned toward the severed cock as if it were an altar of submission. With final shame, he pressed his lips against it.

"Good," I purred, relishing the delicious sight of him debasing himself. "Now, do it properly, Carl."

My smile widened as he did as instructed. "Can you hear her, Carl?" I teased. "Imagine her screaming, moaning, telling him ᅳno, telling you ᅳhow much better he is than you. Every thrust, every movement perfectly tuned to her desires." I leaned further in, my lips brushing his ear, each word sending shivers down his spine. "Making her body sing, Carl. Singing in ways you never could."

Carl's sobs filled the silence, punctuating every single pulse of his torment.

"Make sure every detail of that is perfect, Carl," I hissed, savouring the torment. "Her every gasp, every moan should remind you of how much more of a man he is than you. This needs to give her what you'll never be able to."

I moved in closer, my teeth finding the soft edge of his ear to biteᅳnot painfully, just enough to make Carl shiver. "Now," I breathed into his ear, "what about her gasps, Carl? How will you ensure the sounds his cock will pull from her?"

Still catching his breath, Carl nodded frantically. "I-Integrated sensory amplifiers," he stammered, barely coherent. "A-and chemical-release synthetic glands. Capable of emitting low-voltageᅳahᅳelectrical discharges." He gasped for air. "They'll release small doses of natural hallucinogens like p-psilocybin. It'll… It'll amplify her senses, heighten her… pleasure." His breaking point was near.

I leaned in, my lips wickedly close to his tear-streaked cheek. "Ohhh… she will be hooked," I purred menacingly. "She'll never care about you again. Pathetic little Carl. Will she care?"

Carl let out another broken whimper, almost inaudible. "No," he moaned, "She won't care about me again."

"Good, Carl..." I hissed, letting the words trail off, a chilling reminder of everything he had become. "Now… kiss it again. Consider it an advance payment for her pleasure. You understand, don't you?"

Carl shook but obeyed, leaning in again, his lips brushing the cock. I let the moment hang, the satisfaction of entirely dismantling a man felt incredible indeed.

As he pulled back, I pressed further. "How will he connect to it, Carl?" I asked, genuinely curious now. "What's the integration process? How will this become part of him?"

Carl choked out a response. "O-Organic DNA chips… for data storage and processing," he trembled, barely keeping his voice steady. "It's seamless... Integration with the user's skin… One with him..."

"One with him and her," I echoed, "just when his cock will be swallowed whole by her moist, wet and most welcoming folds… perfect and organic." Every syllable that escaped my lips was meant to taunt.

Carl's weeping intensified. "Yes," he whispered feebly.

I stepped back slightly, still watching him crumble. Perfect. Everything was falling into place.

"And her nipples?" I asked, tilting my chin slightly as I studied himᅳall the while guiding Carl deeper into the abyss of his own humiliation.
"Small…pink…incredibly sensitive," he whispered breathily, his voice quivering. "They harden at the slightest touch."

"Mmm, just like my cock should, hmm?" I murmured, relishing his discomfort. "And you'll make sure of it, won't you, Carl?" My words were a taunt, wrapping around him like a vice.

He nodded weakly, his body slouching further under my ever-tightening grip on him. "Y-Yes..." He panted, and his eyes darted with anxiety.
Without breaking eye contact, I brought my fingers deliberately to my lips. I Curled one finger past the threshold and wet it on the pad of my tongue while Carl watched. I took my time, letting the moment build as I sucked hard on that single finger, ensuring Carl could see every move.

Finally, I let my hand travel lowerᅳdragging the wet fingertip across my collarbone in a deliberate arc, teasing him with slow precision. And then finally, with maddening slowness, I let my hand graze over the curve of my left breast.

"As for nipples..." I whispered, my fingers finding the buttons of my scrub top.

Slowly—**deliberately**—I unfastened each one, exposing more and more skin until my left breast finally spilled free from its confines, the swollen nipple gleaming under the clinic lights.

Carl's eyes widened as I left my breast hang in front of him. My wet finger circled my nipple languidly, making the nub visibly harden under my touch. "This," I continued, voice dripping with cruel satisfaction, "…*Carl*, is what a real man gets."

His cock twitched, though it remained utterly limp against my nail. How far had I brought him down that his body was both responding and failing him simultaneously?

"Yes," he gasped, eyes locked in a desperate gaze on my bare breast, watching as I teased and played with my now ripe nipple.
"Tell me, Carl," I purred, "describe it to me. How does my breast compare to Kelly's?" The question was a loaded one, designed to disarm him even more.

Carl swallowed, struggling to force a coherent sentence from his lips. "K-Kelly's… small... her breasts are small, soft... upturned…"
His voice trailed off, his gaze flicking between my body and the floor. It was as though he wanted to avoid the truth hanging in the airᅳbut I hadn't finished with him yet. Not even close.

"Small, hmm...?" I smirked purposefully, watching his face twitch with discomfort. “Even better, Carlᅳ*like a little girl's breasts*, huh?” My voice dripped with feigned innocence, but I could see the impact those words had on him as anxiety instantly flashed across his eyes. “You know what they say about girls with little boobies, don't you?” I continued, never loosening my grip on his shredded ego. “*They love being manhandledᅳspanked, bitten, smacked…ragdolled.” I leaned closer as I dragged my wet fingers once more over my stiff nipple. My voice sinking lower as I added, “Ever try that with Kelly, Carl?"

The question hung between us, cold and cutting. Carl shook his head frantically, voice choking on itself. "N-No, Kelly's not like that… she wouldn't…"

I laughed, just a scoff though. I reached out to place just one finger on his chest, tracing with just enough pressure to keep him aware of the power dynamic between us.

"*Aww,* not like thatᅳjust with you, Carl." The words were intended to cut through him. "Poor boy, such a fool." I shook my head with a manufactured pity heavy enough to bury him in shame.

“*Wimp*,” I sneered. "You really thought Kelly would submit to you?" I asked, my tone like silk laced with a harsh sting. "No, Carl. She wouldn't submit to anyone who isn't a real man."

Carl's breath hitched as he continued to shatter further under the growing layers of humiliation.. His mouth parted as though to respond, but I knew he had nothingᅳnothing worth saying.

"Don't you see?" I continued, letting those words sink into his fracturing psyche. "When she meets him, Carl... a real man, she'll have no free will of her own. None. She won't even need it. She'll be his. Subservient to his desires and his alone."

His broken voice rasped as he whimpered, "Yes..."

"She’ll lay there, wanting to be used. And no matter what he wants, Carl, she’ll eagerly obey because she’ll need him like air. His desires will be hers—*your* desires... you will be irrelevant."

My fingers gave my nipple a slow, sensual pinch, eliciting a slight shiver even from my own body. But God, how it visibly tortured him to watch.
I took a step closer, ensuring my exposed breast hung just centimetres from his face. He could look. He could yearn. But he couldn’t touch.

"Look at me, Carl," I demanded. His gaze flew upward, locking onto my breast as it blocked his view. I continued to tease my nipple, dragging my dampened finger over the hardened bud, savoring the power I held over him now. "This, Carl... this is what that real man earns."
I let the silence thicken like poison, watching him squirm and die a little more inside, unable to tear his eyes away from my deliberate movements. His cock remained limp and useless, twitching like it wanted to hope again... haha!

I pressed further, leaning close to his flushed face. I noticed the shame deepen in his eyes. "You’ll never recognize her again once her new master fully owns her—her real master."

"Say it, Carl," I whispered dangerously. "Say that you know all she ever wanted was a real man. A man who would never give her a choice."
Carl gasped, struggling to form the words. "Sh-She’ll... she’ll... have no say... she’ll submit..." His voice cracked, tears brimming as he gave in to the new reality I was forcing upon him.

"Good boy..." I purred, my smirk widening as my fingers continued to circle my erect nipple. "You’re finally beginning to understand..."

I let my breast graze just shy of his trembling lips, never letting him close the distance. I made sure every ounce of his anguish—for what he had and would never have—burned brightly in his eyes, even though I had already rendered him impotent.

“Now that you understand who a real man is Carl," I purred, running a finger along his cheek. “Let's talk about stamina, shall we? What about the stamina of this perfect cock? How long will it last?”

Carl's voice quivered as he spoke between his sobs. “Th-The power source,” he gulped, “it’s unique. Bio-organic, regenerative… it’ll keep going as long as the man has the strength. And if needed, the energy regulators can be upgraded to ensure continuous performance. Far beyond any natural limitations. The thermal balance will stay perfect—always warm, always ready. And,” he hesitated slightly to wipe the tears from his eyes, then continued, “the sperm... I-I can enhance it even further. I can increase the potency of the hallucinogens, make each release stretch her senses for hours.” His voice broke, “She’ll feel like she’s floating, lost in him completely…”

I smiled the darkest of smiles as his final shred of resistance gave way. "*Hours*... that’s quite the improvement, Carl," I whispered, taunting him as I dropped my voice to a dangerously low purr. "Imagine it—her body grinding into him, her pussy flooded with this perfected seed, her mind fracturing from the pleasure." I leaned closer, letting my breath brush against his ear once again. “And...as she’s drowning in the euphoria, Carl, completely wrapped in his power, you’ll be nothing. A fading, tasteless memory. She’ll be lost, breathless, his—no need, no space left for you.”

I tightened my grip over him as I pushed my nail deeper against the tip of his limp dick, not allowing him even a drop of relief. "And her pussy, Carl? Tell me," I demanded.

“T-Tight, perfectly shaped... feels like heaven,” he gasped out, his lips trembling. The weakling was stuck between a haze of arousal and humiliation.

I let out a low, cruel chuckle, my lips curling into a wicked grin. “Tell me, Carl...” I purred, voice dripping with malice now. “Do you think it’ll ever feel like heaven to you again... after she’s been used by him?” My words slithered into his ears, deliberate and vicious. “Knowing that his cock has stretched her so wide, so deep, that you’ll never even come close to filling her again? She’ll never even feel you.”

I leaned in, the tip of my nail pressing harder, "*Never*," I repeated, letting the word linger like a cancer. "Her pussy? Utterly ruined, Carl. Wrecked. Fucked into oblivion by a real man—so stretched that when you try to crawl back to her... with that pathetic thing between your legs, she’ll feel nothing."

He was fully ensnared now—wrapped in this nightmarish concoction of arousal and despair.

"And you?" I continued, voice rising in mockery. "You’ll be there, naked and useless, pounding away with your sad, pathetic excuse for a dick. You’ll thrust and thrust, Carl, but she won’t even blink. She’ll lie there dry, wondering why she ever settled for you. She might even giggle. Oh yes, Carl, she’ll laugh at you. Because after she’s had him, after she’s been split open by a man who actually knows how to fuck her… you’re nothing. She won't want you. She won't even feel you."

Carl’s lips quivered. "She'll... she'll nev—" he tried to speak, but his voice cracked, thanks to the manufactured truth I was forcing down his throat. Instead, he nodded weakly, panting heavily, unable to resist—*trapped* in the sheer torment of his humiliation.

“Good,” I hissed, my voice smooth yet cutting, like velvet dragged across jagged glass. My free hand dropped to the knot of my pants, and as I undid it with a deliberate tug, I let them drop to the floor. I glanced down, only to find I had no panties on—*Oh yes,* I’d taken them off right after the procedure; they had been soaking wet, what a rush that was. Too far gone to stay dry for long.

I spread my legs slightly, standing bare before him, giving him a perfect view of the tiny tuft of fiery red hair above my slick, swollen pussy. There I stood, glistening and dripping with need. His eyes couldn’t help but trail down, and I saw the exact moment it registered—the hunger and shame flaring within him. Without hesitating, I slid a finger deep inside myself. Gasping softly with pleasure, savouring the feeling as if it were Kelly’s supple body beneath me. “Mmm… Look, Carl. Look at this,” I purred, curling my finger inside my wet heat and slowly sliding it out as my hips bucked just subtly enough.

But this wasn’t about just my own pleasure—I was giving him a preview of what I knew was burning in his pathetic fantasies: his wife’s underfucked pussy.

“This will be Kelly,” I whispered with twisted satisfaction. “This is what you’ll never have again. That sweet little pussy, so warm, so tight… dripping just like mine is now—so fucking eager for him. Not for you, Carl, never for you.” I let my voice grow colder with every word.
With my finger slick and dripping, I leaned down toward him, holding it inches from his nose. His breath caught in his throat as I dangled it there, tantalisingly close. I was letting him see the glistening evidence of my own arousal that, in his mind, became Kelly’s. He trembled, his entire body rigid under the crushing weight of desire and humiliation.

"Even the smell of her is too good for you," I said softly, dragging my finger just under his nose. His head tilted back, his nostrils flaring involuntarily as he tried to take in the scent, tears of shame brimming in his wide, bloodshot eyes. His body quivered, his lips parting ever so slightly as if to beg for more, but I wasn’t done tormenting him.

He tilted his head, his body responding instinctively to something he could never have again. His breath hitched, and a pathetic whimper escaped him.

But just as fast as I had let him glimpse it, I pulled away, smirking with cold delight as his body sagged in defeat. “Not so fast,” I cooed dripping with malice. “You know, Carl, the only time you’ll ever get to smell her again—Kelly’s pussy—is when it’s soiled with cum. His cum, to be precise.

His eyes filled with more fresh tears, and his body shook with a quiet sob, completely broken and utterly defeated. Kelly’s pussy might as well have been a galaxy away. All he could do was imagine it, wrecked by another man, and the scent that would linger...

I laughed lowly, watching his face twist in agony as the full weight of my words assaulted his fragile psyche. “That’ll be your reward, Carl. To clean her up after her man has left her dripping.”

I moved my hand slightly, allowing the depth of his despair to settle, and added with a devious smirk, “I’ll tell you what, though. Maybe she might feel something… if she lets you lick up the mess he leaves behind. Maybe I’ll let you crawl to her, tongue out, lapping at her ruined pussy like a pathetic, obedient little dog. But your little worm?” I laughed darkly. “It isn’t part of her life anymore. It won’t ever be enough to satisfy her. She’s done with you.”

The panic, the humiliation, the sickening reality of his uselessness hit him all at once. His chest heaved with deep, ragged gasps as his mind shattered into pieces. He was utterly broken and he was completely mine. He would build that perfect cock. A cock that no man could ever dream to match. All mine.

“Drink it in," I taunted between moans, letting my pleasure rise as my fingers plunged deeper inside myself. I spread my legs wider, sliding my fingers faster, feeling the wetness pooling between my thighs as I continued to toy with my swollen clit. "Because this is the closest you'll come to one of these ever again… unless you're on your hands and knees licking it after he’s had his way with her.”

I leaned closer, gasping sharply as my fingers worked themselves deeper into my soaking wet heat, curling just the right way inside. I flicked my thumb over my clit, my breath coming out in short ragged pants as the tension started to build.

“Mmm… and stuffed full of his thick, salty cum, Carl…” I gasped through a moan. “She’ll never—oh god—*want* your pathetic little excuse for a cock again... Ever.”

My words were rasping now, shadowed by the sharp stabs of pleasure as I fucked myself harder, my hips subtly rocking against my hand. I watched his flickering eyes, his crushed expression, savouring it as much as the orgasm building inside me.

“Speak up, Carl,” I commanded, my breath catching as I pumped my fingers faster between my own slick folds. I moaned louder, feeling every stroke of my fingers driving me closer. My voice wavered with the pleasure consuming me. “Tell me how she’ll be stuffed—oh god—with his cum.”

"She... she will..." Carl gasped, his body convulsing, completely at the mercy of my words. "She’ll be stuffed with his cum..." he whimpered, broken.

"Good boy,” I moaned, savouring every tremor of his pathetic servility as I worked myself higher. My fingers slick with my own wetness slid over my clit, pushing me closer to the edge. "She’ll forever choose him over you, won’t she, Carl?" I teased, breath catching. "Once she tastes him... she'll forget you even exist." My voice cracked with pleasure, rising with the heat building between my legs.

Carl's breath came out in desperate, trembling gasps. His flaccid cock twitched pathetically beneath my nail, responding to the degrading litany of words I poured over him. But there would be no release for him—no satisfaction.

"And her waist, Carl...? So ...nnngh...slender..." I choked out between breaths, a hand now cupping my breast, teasing it as the urgent need built lower. "How does she... ohhh... moan when you touch her?"

"She... doesn’t..." he mumbled, voice barely audible, his humiliation palpable. His eyes remained fixed on my heaving chest.

"Good." I gasped, grinding my hips against my palm, feeling the slick tension building. "Now imagine... this man... squeezing that sweet waist... ohhh... filling her up..." A hot shiver ran through me as my body responded to the words I achingly whispered. "Making her moan so loud, Carl... you’ll hear it... but you won't be able to fucking stop it..."

"Will she care about you?" I demanded breathlessly. My fingers moved faster between my legs, my body trembling, about to snap. "Will she care about your... ooohh... pitiful presence?"

"No," Carl croaked, utterly destroyed, his words offering no resistance anymore.

I let out a sharp gasp, the sensation overwhelming. "And that cum... Carl..." I barely whispered, rubbing harder. "How will you make it feel real?! The texture... the thickness... the weight of it as it fills her! Every... mmmmm... every drop!" My breath hitched, neck arching back as I neared my peak. "Will it spill from her—just how it should, Carl? Creamy... ohhh—so thick?"

"S-Synthetic sperm," Carl fumbled, voice trembling. "It’ll feel exactly... like real... everything. The texture, the consistency—exactly like real... You’ll never... know the difference..."

"Wrong," I snapped, a loud moan slipping from my throat as I pushed myself mercilessly towards release. "Not that synthetic shit!" I gasped sharply. "A real man’s... thick... warm... alive..." My fingers worked furiously now, spreading my wetness as I teetered on the edge. "His seed, Carl... not your fucking... fantasy!"

Carl whimpered, breaking further, his tears now fully entwined with my pleasure.

"Yes..." I exhaled heavily, my breath coming in ragged pants. "Every drop, Carl... imagine it... filling her... OH... fuck... stuffing her... full of him... Oooh, Carl... she’s so full of him," I panted, lost in the ecstasy of my own fantasy, driven by the power surging through me.

My body moved in time with each humiliating statement. "Her belly... swelling, Carl! Swelling with his child... stretching... filling... fuck, Carl, she’ll be showing—ohhh... the proof of him inside her!" My fingers now even faster and harder. Yes, I was starting to tremble uncontrollably as I surged closer to my release.

"Tell me how you’ll make the perfect cock, Carl!" I moaned, my legs trembling, pushing myself to the brink. "*The one that’ll stretch her... make her ache... fill her with his child!"

"Yes," Carl wept, hopelessly trapped in my words, his voice raw and utterly broken. "I’ll make it... perfect," he sobbed. "I’ll make it so she never needs me ever again...!"

I was spiralling into my own uncontrolled mess of desire. "*Every FUCKING inch*..." I gasped, thrusting harder into myself, fingers drenched with slickness. "*Think about it, Carl... his babe, growing, and her nipples... ooooh... swelling for him... filling with milk... his baby... and she’ll feed him... feed his fucking child!*" I was panting now, breath ragged, nearing the precipice.

"*And you’ll watch it, Carl!*" I screamed, voice cracking as my fingers worked relentlessly against my clit, hips rocking in time to my corrupted words. "Watch him fuck her... ohhh... FUCK her while her belly swells... And you..." My voice tensed, growling, broken by pleasure. "*Your fucking... worm of a cock, Carl... you’ll be lucky if you ever—oh GOD—get near her filthy cunt again... unless you’re licking it... CLEAN from him!*"

"*Ooohhhh FUCK!*" I moaned loud and high, arching hard as the pleasure tore through me, my orgasm exploding with raw intensity. My whole body trembled violently, fingers buried in my dripping heat. "*YESSS! FUCK!"* I gasped, thighs shaking as the euphoric shockwave of release swept over me, wave after wave of bliss overwhelming every part of me.

Panting and trembling uncontrollably, my body slowly unwound from that divine high, leaving a delicious ache in its wake. I looked down at Carl, trembling and sobbing at my feet—utterly destroyed. My eyes drifted to his thighs, and then I saw it —  disgusting. A pitiful dribble of cum had escaped him. My ecstasy was momentarily tainted.

Oh no!

Realisation struck me. I must have reflexively pulled my nail off his cock during my orgasm, and the weak man had actually come without permission. Without purpose. Like the pathetic waste of a man he was.

My satisfied smirk dissolved into a cruel sneer.

"You dirtied the moment, Carl," I hissed. Even through the haze of my fading climax, my voice cut sharp. "While I was in the middle of something divine, you couldn't even hold back your pitiful filth.” I glared at him in contempt.

Carl's cock twitched pathetically, deflated and limp, but I no longer cared.

I leaned in close, voice venomous, though tinged with a slow satisfaction. "Now," I began, a sadistic grin spreading over my lips, "clean it up. Every drop."

Carl shuddered, a broken sob escaping his lips. But he didn’t hesitate. Trembling, he wiped the pathetic little dribble from his thigh, gathering what little he had to offer. His hand brought it to his mouth as shame overwhelmed him, weak sobs escaping his lips as he licked his fingers clean.

"Good boy," I purred, drawing out every syllable as I revelled in his complete submission, his total ruin. When he finished, tears streamed down his face—completely broken.

I stood tall over him, the intoxicating pulse of power still coursing through me, just as heady as the orgasm I’d just released.
"Pathetic," I whispered, drawing the word out slowly, as though it amused me. My gaze settled on his spent cock—a limp reminder of everything Carl would never reclaim. "Absolutely pathetic."

I inhaled deeply, savouring the complete destruction I’d wrought upon him, still riding high on the wave of power and pleasure. As I exhaled, I murmured softly—but condescendingly— "Thank you, Carl."

He flinched at the unexpected kindness, still too battered and diminished to comprehend it fully.

I stepped back, letting the tingling satisfaction finally fade. "Now," I said, voice settling into a more authoritative tone, "get to work."

Carl wiped his eyes, nodding feebly and completely defeated.

"Of course, Doctor Valentine," he murmured automatically through fresh tears. His broken devotion now bordering on worship.

I watched him for a heartbeat longer, my smile spreading slowly as the reality of the moment sank in. And I knew—that's exactly what I wanted.
Fuck. This... this was real power. Not the coercion of a mere man, not the fleeting adrenaline from a once commonplace male conquest—this was something else entirely. Something deeper, more visceral.

The magic... it truly was incredible.

The satisfaction from what I’d just done to Carl was crackling through me, hot and electric. It was raw, heady power—God, it was intoxicating. The smile tugged at the corners of my lips like it was fixed there, my body still thrumming with that rush of control. I had reduced him to nothing—just a sputtering, broken mess—with only a few words and a teasing hand between his legs. He'd licked his own cum like a good boy, and fuck, watching him crumble under my power had just about made me come all over again.

But even as my body still hummed with the high, something started to turn over in my mind—a seed, cracking open.

*Why did you do that?*

I shook the thought off, turning toward my desk, trying to focus on the next steps. Rick—no, Yvette—was still waiting for me. There were more procedures to map out, more plans to bring her perfectly into line. But as soon as I picked up the pen, more of those quiet doubts crept in. Slippery, dark, and sharp around the edges.

“Fuck, Michelle," I muttered under my breath, the words feeling hollow in my mouth. "Are you... turning into a sadist?”

My hand stilled above the paper.

*You just ruined that man's entire life.*

Carl’s wife. Kelly. Sweet, pretty Kelly. What the fuck was I going to do to her? What did I want from her? The thought of pulling her under, making her mine—or worse, offering her up like some gift for someone else to split and ruin—it hit me harder than I expected.

Somehow, in the middle of ransacking Carl’s mind, I hadn’t stopped to think about Kelly herself. Hadn’t given a single thought as to why I’d even gone there. What would happen to her once this whole thing with Carl spiraled into their bedroom? Once he couldn’t look at her without seeing my twisted fantasies crawl into the sheets beside them?

*Jesus Christ.*

Discomfort flickered through me. It was like I could see the reality of it now, staring back at me like a ghost from the future. Carl wouldn’t be able to touch Kelly without flickering back to my voice, my laughter. And Kelly—well, she’d never know Carl again, not really. And that wasn’t even the worst part.

*She’ll get hooked on my cock.*

I’d see to it, wouldn’t I? Just like I promised Carl. One way or another, I would break Kelly in front of him—and for what? My satisfaction? Revenge on a man whose wife had done nothing to deserve this? The high of manipulating everything to end up exactly how I pleased?

"What the fuck are you doing, Michelle?" I muttered more sharply, the weight starting to bear down hard on my chest again.

I wasn’t this person. Or, I hadn’t been—had I really slipped that far down already? Was this who I was now? The monster?

I raked my hands through my hair, standing up from the desk, pacing the length of the room to try and clear my head. I had to focus. I had to understand.

That document. The resolution.

Fuck, I’d thought we were careful. But ever since that party, those promises made under the heat of New Year’s, something had… shifted. The rules had spun out of my control quicker than I anticipated. I should have known better. I fumbled my way to the drawer, pulling out the printed copy of what Nina had helped me write.

Unfolding the paper, my eyes scanned the words, each line a familiar echo of the power I’d claimed that night.

“I resolve to possess Rick’s cock, harness it to its full potential, and use it to fulfill our desires.”

I felt my stomach tighten. Desires. What had felt so clean, definitive and meant to heal then, now gnawed at me, the ambiguous phrasing revealing its unsettling weight. Our Desires… so open-ended. I hadn't just written these words. Nina had helped draft it. Nina, meticulous and precise—she’d been so careful with the phrasing of each sentence. Clearly the ‘us’ was meant to be an insurance of sorts. But this—this felt… off..the definition of ‘us’ was not clear enough.

I blinked. Fuck me.

Was that why I felt like my thoughts had twisted and turned while the cock was in my presence? Was the cock the other member of the us? What exactly was this leading me? What scope of Magic? What level of Control? I glanced at the page again. Full potential of what, exactly?
The cock wasn’t just powerful because of its size or its allure. It was the purpose behind it, wasn't it? Rick had used it to tear through people—his power wasn't in the organ itself, but in the possibilities it created for him.

His lust, his greed, his arrogance—that cock had magnified every one of his darkest desires and allowed him to leap past decency and restraint. He didn’t just want to fuck; he wanted to devour—and the magic in his cock let him.

And now, I held the reins.

Did the same influence now control me? My decisions? That creeping lust for power?

I forced the thought down, throat tight, and kept reading. The second part, the transformation.

“I resolve to remake Rick in our image: obedient, submissive, and loyal—a maid to serve us."

I blinked twice now.

Who was the other party in us?

I shifted uncomfortably as my eyes moved down the line.

“We will have our maids in devotion and service, bound wholly to our will.”

My stomach sank. maids? Plural?

I re-read the line, my brow furrowing at the wording. A single, unassuming letter—a typo we’d overlooked in our haste—had shifted the meaning entirely. We hadn’t locked the resolution specifically to Rick. That one oversight, that stray 's' Nina and I missed… it was more than just a casual mistake. Instead of binding my power to one evil man, it now left endless possibilities open.

Maids.

We’d missed it. Somehow, we missed the door we’d left open with this damn document. My hurried scratches, the many adjustments as it was clearly a rush order, days before new year, had let this slip past her.

Nina had focused on the legal clarity of each word. But, neither of us assumed one stray plural could unravel everything.

I had inadvertently gifted myself..fuck… *ourselves*, the damned cock and I were a fucking team now. We held power over others. Rick was irrelevant now. I could create more. How many? As many as I willed, as long as I saw fit.

The pen in my hand hung limply, no ink spilled on the page.

The possibilities churned in my mind. Absolute control—Nina probably thought she’d safeguarded every corner of this magic for me, but this oversight? It had handed me more than I planned for. More than I could have imagined.

A laugh, dry, almost hollow, escaped my lips.

And the worst part? I could feel the thrill of it running up my spine again, the temptation whispering at the base of my skull. The cock had pulsed in my grip when I’d claimed it like it was alive, and *now* I understood. I stood at the edge of open potential—with no real fucking limit to what I could do. Kelly, Nina, the next person unlucky enough to catch my eye—I could take anyone and twist them into my own little plaything if I wanted to.

So, why did my hand begin to tremble slightly, gripping the edges of the paper tighter?

But still, the more I ran my mind over the words and considered the weight of this newfound understanding, the more the air around me felt… heavier. Thicker.

"This is too much. This could spiral.” My voice was barely above a whisper, but the thought hit the centre of me like ice.

“Absolute power,” I whispered, slowly easing the paper onto the desk, the edge of a realisation tugging at my thoughts. “That’s dangerous… isn’t it?”

---TO BE CONTINUED---

**Trigger Warning: Explicit Content**

Dear reader, if you've followed us through the journey of this series, please be aware that just like its previous parts, this vignette unfolds with vivid and explicit storytelling. Your boundaries are valued and respected. Therefore I warmly encourage you to listen to your feelings and prioritize your well-being when choosing to engage with this content.

For those who find solace and excitement within my work, you are all invited to this casting call.

Chapter 1 can be found here: Binding Resolutions Chapter 1: A Promise Kept
Chapter 2 can be found here: Binding Resolutions Chapter 2: Lost in Submission
Chapter 3 can be found here: Binding Resolutions Chapter 3: The Stroke of Midnight
Chapter 4 can be found here: Binding Resolutions Chapter 4: New Beginnings

Interlude: Casting Call

Ahhh... Masters, Mistresses... Mmmm, do you like this? how I'm down for you on all...*oh fuck yes*...fours? The show’s been...*ah*...quite something, I...*mmm*...bet. Have you been indulging in the delectable ride of my story? Is it my breasts you're eyeing? How they dangle, full and heavy, swaying with each 'hard' thrust I take from behind... *Oh god, yes*... echoing each savage ramming?*ahh* And these nipples... *shit*...they could cut through glass, so hard, so painfully desperate for... *yes*...agonizing strokes or a pair of hot, greedy lips...

His hands are so...*unf*...strong and decisive. Ugh... can you hear my ass...*oooh fuck*...can you witness every...*ahh*...agonizingly delicious inch of him ploughing into me? Squeezing my hips like they're dough, shaping and... *unnnhh*...moulding me onto his shaft. You've got the front-row seat to this spectacle, and Mistress, sweet Mistress, so deliciously splayed out below...an offering—a divine spread just for... *ooh*...my tongue and your blissful perversion *...ahhh...fuck...yes*

No lies, there's nothing more 'sinfully' arousing than knowing his pent-up load is going to explode... *mmm*...all over, just gush into me until we overflow, and cascade all over... *yes*...all over her quivering, moaning lips below... it’s lewd, shameful, and damn if I don’t revel in it.

There’s a craftsmanship to being fucked and feasting on pussy at the same... *ugh*...time. A slut so... *ahh*...desired. Sorry if I...*god*...stumble over my words. Who wouldn't when sodden with such...'deep'...unbridled ecstasy?

Oh... god yes, my beloved readers, if you've tasted the... *ungh*... sin on your screens, get down to the dirty work. Tap, no—POUND that Thumbs Up!, located down under—like where he's got me, where I’m spread wide, THERE!—now slide your eyes to the left, be generous and lavish the author...*ah*... with your filthiest... *mmm*... applaud. They've written my every moan for your wicked glee. I've sworn—*yessss*, just there—to quench their deep, dark...*fuck*... hungers if they hit the climax of likes and... *ah*... comments.

And fuck—goddamn sinners, I’m unfurling your red carpet to filth...*ngh*... in the best, dirtiest way. Slather your... *mmm*... debauchery below, let it tricklefrom your minds to the comments ...*aaaaah, yes!*... your fantasies trickling with every word. Look back, relive our past fucking rendezvous and in a soaking, hot paragraph ...*ahh*... confess how you'd join our obscene encore in the Vignettes. Be the god of your own sinful domain. The most decadent of you? You get to play an honoured role in our Endgame, with three other deviant spirits participating in the Vignettes..

*oh fuck...YES*. Here it comes, *nghhhhh... yesss* ... I'm breaking, shattering — gonna splatter. So... *mmmmm... ahhhhh* YES—Maîtresse! *fuuuuck*... YES!

---

How I found the confidence to write:
Read here on my blog

**Synopsis**
As our story nears its climax, Yvonne's tale starts to iron itself out, exposing the concealed truths below. How far do the depths of desire and devotion go? Can frank confessions and a readiness to sacrifice all for love redefine the rhythm of the narrative? Awaiting Yvonne is a destiny that is still to be fully realised, yet startling disclosures test the bedrock of her being; how will she and her dear mistress navigate the ensuing upheaval?

**Trigger Warning**

Please be aware that this chapter contains explicit sexual content and explores themes of power dynamics and identity transformation. It may be distressing for some readers. If such material is not to your taste or comfort, I encourage you to exercise discretion and prioritize your well-being.

---

Prior Chapters of Binding Resolutions can be found here: Binding Resolutions Book

Binding Resolutions Chapter 5: The Resolution that Changed Everything

Mistress' fingers, barely there against the tender skin of my obedient cockette, were not ‘little Yvonne’, not at this moment, as she traced idle patterns, eliciting involuntary twitches with every light caress.

“The tattoo seems to have worked as intended. There is a good reason I had it inked on you: to be a constant reminder of who or what you are becoming, meant to change with you during this journey. To jolt you back to reality if you ever got lost.” Her feather touch was a soft curse, teasing life into the quivering nub. The gentle prodding coaxed forth quivers of pleasure from where I had only recently believed that only shame could reside.

“The resolution box,” her breath danced on my skin, “was more than just a pretty piece to hold paper dreams. It had power – the kind that weaves written wishes into the fabric of fate.” Mistress punctuated her words with a quick tug on my sensitive little bud, coaxing a stifled moan from my quivering lips. “People dropped their desires into this box on slips of paper; the bits of paper would disappear, but throughout the year, their wishes would manifest.”

She didn’t skip a beat as I squirmed under her words. “Jacob, that motherfucker – he recognised the box’s true nature. He must have pieced it together at the pool party we hosted last summer.”

"Quoi... de la magie?" I started, only for Mistress’ stern "Shush, just listen and trust in what I say," as she tugged at my swollen ‘clit’ again, just a wee bit painfully this time."The words are mine now, my voice; you’re the echo. ‘This… Is my desire, my order." The turmoil within her baby blues, deep pools reflecting pain and longing, tethered my soul to hers.

I had the damn right to refuse, yet love prevailed — I chose to immerse myself in her desires and her sorrow. With a raspy, heartfelt "Oui, comme vous commandez, ma maîtresse." I sealed my loyalty, and I passionately suckled at her, baring my soul to her guidance.

"He must have been privy to its power. His family might even have owned one of their own, some of the only surviving artefacts of the damnable witch trials," she continued, tracing the shell of my ear with her tongue, then pausing to moisten her fingertip with my lips.

"He knew how they worked; they couldn’t just be stolen. Those boxes passed from hand to hand only by consent, willingly. Their power is immense, meant for good, but his plan sought to twist their gifts, and by extension, our very fates, to his will."

"Mais pourquoi?" slipped from my tongue, my voice barely audible, but her swift rebuke, "Silence, my eager little kitten," left me reeling from the next little pull at my 'clitty'.

"The jealousy was fucking killing him – that *Adam* – you," she clarified, tilting my head up again to lock eyes, commanding me not to speak. She smirked at me with pointed clarity. "Yes, I said, Adam. Now just return to sucking," she instructed as she pushed my lips back to her inviting nipple. "You were the antithesis of his mediocrity."

"Adam was everything the scumbag wasn't – fucking tall, dark, overflowing with that fiery charm, warm, approachable, and just so goddamn irresistible... the primal alpha. Your very existence was a reminder of his wholly average existence, and in the office, Adam was on the cusp of overshadowing him completely."

She revealed her growing appetite in a husky whisper as she engaged my rosebud, her finger parting me tenderly. "Adam had it all: the room's gaze, a captivating strength from within and without, respect for me as his equal, and between the sheets, a relentless, untamed predator.”

She groaned with passion as she continued with our tale, her fingers slowly easing into my welcoming love knot, "his lust for, and obsession with, me. Knowing that I was utterly and completely in love with, owned by, and truly dicked down by Adam drove him mad."

Then she plunged into me with purpose, igniting a flare of raw yearning. I cried out, breathless, "No longer Adam, correct?... Confess, do you miss him?"

The very thought of *Adam* sent a pulse of warmth flickering through me, making my ‘clitty’ quiver with recognition. Swarming thoughts of Adam, with his broad chest and chiselled abs honed by relentless discipline, swept over me. That confident grin etched across a face of stark, masculine beauty.

Each memory of that body, of Adam, was like salivating over a face I knew but couldn't touch—an ache for a brute strength I didn't just surrender to but was stripped away from me. Now, all I could do was drool and ache for that power, to be pinned and taken by it, to be split open and to be utterly, deliciously ravaged.

The vision flashed hotter, filthier—I was straddling him, skewered on that magnificent cock, bouncing with a slut's greed. And there she was, my Mistress, eyes blazing with twisted pleasure at the sight of her man, her Adam, owning me.

A raw, guttural moan clawed its way out of me before I could leash it, a sound drenched in desire for a past that twisted my insides with yearning and a perverse kind of thrill.

"Mmmmm... cette bite," the words purred out, unbidden, tinged with carnal nostalgia, "maître," (*"Mmmmm... that cock... master’s...,"*) the term falling from my lips like a token of another life. I raced to correct myself through a haze of lust, "J'aimerais encore l'avoir..." (*"I wish I still had it..."*)

Mistress' laugh was a melody spiked with longing, a tender probe into our open wounds of longing. "You and me both, babe," she crooned, a predatory purr to her teasing. "And based on that little slip, ideally inside us, right? Wouldn't that be delicious?"

As she continued, my lips were clamped tight around her, sucking as if my life depended on it. Her fingers diligently worked my little bud, now throbbing desperately for release. "Keep that pretty mouth working, but I'll let you squeak out little words. I liked your little slip-up. No idea what ideas they might give me," she purred as her nail grazed my tip, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through me.

As my hands, wanton with craving, crept towards the warmth between Mistress' thighs, she swiftly captured them. "Not yet, my little slut," pausing her circling fingers on my aching nub, "There's time for that later—listen now."

"The shiftless cur. Not a thought for bettering himself; all he craved was to peel you away, layer by layer until nothing was left, not even me." Mistress spat out the words, her thrusts burying deeper with each assertion as I attempted to focus on the task at hand. My sucking grew frantic against her nipple, yet my body betrayed me with quivering fits of weakness.

Her touch was torturous, pinching and rolling my ‘clitty’ between her fingers, all while she began to finger me relentlessly from behind. "...pour me briser," (*"...to break me,"*) I choked out, salty droplets mingling with the heat of my breath.

"He saw you shattered to pieces, with himself as the twisted orchestrator. Any desire, any ambition could have been his; had he but devoted himself to it, the wheel of fortune would've spun in his favour. Instead, he chose to ensnare us; you and me compelled to surrender to his perverse vision," her hands found a wicked pace, pushing deep and pulling in rhythm. "Hélas," I whimpered, tears streaking my cheek. "Toi et moi."

"That, my precious toy, is the true might of the resolution box. No grand sorcery; rather, it's the subtle yet incredibly powerful whisper of fate that helps turn your deepest wishes into reality. Just remember, though, to make a wish again, the prior year's commitment must be honoured. The box sides with only the truly committed."

As her fingers worked their magic, "Promesses," my murmur hung in the air, heavy with lost dreams and the path ahead. "Promesses sacrées..." (*"Sacred promises."*)

"He spelt out his sick yearnings," her voice was silk over steel as she spoke my former name again, each utterance of 'Adam' paired with a deeper thrust and a sharp pull at my aching ‘clitty’, binding me tighter in the web of my own reckless surrender.

"You offered yourself so blindly, Adam. You swore to be anything I wanted, gifting your complete submission to me and opening yourself up to his perverse wishes — for him, yes, but also against yourself, Adam, and inevitably, against me."

"Arrêtez, Maîtresse, s'il vous plaît..." (*"Stop, Mistress, please..."*) I gasped out, my voice hitching as she continued to pluck at my little cocklette, but she only chuckled darkly.

"Stupid girl," she said with a loving bite. "Your promise left you bare, gave you away — made you the unwitting star." Her finger twisted within me, her other hand delivering sharp pleasure to my throbbing bud, the precarious balance of pleasure and pain driving me mad.

Mistress' voice softened, a shadow of remorse threading through as she recounted the twist in our tale. "The most fucked-up part was how he got me involved. It was sinister, really," her finger paused inside me as if to mark her words.

"Do you remember me going to Lynne for hypnotherapy to help quit smoking and to become more confident? It was your recommendation."

"Oui… putain… sur la recommandation de Jacob," (*"Yes... fuck... on Jacob's recommendation,"*) I blurted out, alarm flaring within me. "Yes, Yvonne, he did... and that's how his vile claws snagged me right along with you."

Mistress moved on top of me, and reclined against my thighs. Her breast momentarily forgotten as her thoughts cast backward. "Let's retrace our journey, love, to a time not long after the party at the pool," she said, wistfully staring into my eyes.

“You came to me, off the back of Jacob's recommendation, for Lynn's hypnosis for my smoking." Her hand slid from my throbbing cockette, commanding bluntly, "Slide open, darling, let me see the goods," and I obliged, my thighs shamelessly unveiling my naked need.

Hmm. Where was I? Yes, her hypnosis snared the cigarettes. Had I been aware back then, I would have understood that a mind attuned to the desired end can be reshaped with only will. Hypnosis is a great excuse to exercise said will; otherwise, it's a fruitless endeavour. Clearly, her hypnosis was no great shakes, but she had earned my trust.

"You, too, had seen the merit in her sessions and were supportive of my desire for further self-improvement on the professional front. To embrace being more forceful, more assertive, more commanding," she reminisced, her eyes tracing the curves she now laid claim to.

Her fingers continued their torturous playing with my 'clitty', the torment keeping my breath well away from the rest of me, "mmm... plus imposant" (*"mmm...more commanding."*) I was caught in a whirlwind of discomfort from her words and ecstasy from her touch.

The bitch took it all in—she listened, and like a viper with honeyed words, she whispered suggestions. She toyed with the idea of dominance—over my professional sphere, yes, but also within our intimate walls," she mused, “suggesting I dip not just a toe but my very soul into dominance, to wield it both in the boardroom and in the bedroom."

Mistress reflected, her coy smile reassuring me even as it manipulated my tender flesh. "Planting seeds in my head, having you lay it bare, giving it up to me, to have every inch of you, inside and out." She drove her finger with a savagery that wracked my frame, "mon Dieu... oui... maîtresse," (*"my God... yes... Mistress."*) My body ached for more of her cruel mercy.

“Remember that session when you wore the maid's outfit, serving me, yielding to my every urge?" Her eyes sparkled with the memory as she recounted, “That was when you first opened up to me completely."

Surrendering to my vulnerable position, drawn to her breasts, arching my back into her, returning to her teats, folding myself into a tiny little ball, and hungrily nursing as she drew me back into the heat of our memories, "Je m'en souviens..." I murmured against her skin.

“I remember your submission, how nervous but willing you were. That was when I discovered the joys of your backdoor. You, on your knees, my fingers and tongue exploring, the first time I delved into your sweet, puckered hole. My beautiful bull, letting me tug the reins," her body quivered with the thrill. “You, squirming, relenting, letting me have my way with you, was fucking intoxicating."

Her rhythm intensified as she tortured my 'clitty’. "J'ai vraiment aimé..." (*"I really enjoyed it..."*) I groaned, lost in the shockwaves her touches sent crashing through me.

Mistress' finger moved with a rougher cadence now, igniting a blend of pain and pleasure that left me squirming, a puppet strung on the aching throb within me.

And then, her manipulation became almost feral, her motions eliciting deep, animalistic urges. "Incroyable..." (*"Incredible..."*) my fragmented voice sighed in rapture as my lips desperately sought to feed on her ripe bosom.

Then her tone dropped, icy like the truth she recalled, "It was then, atop that exhilarating peak, she tested me with stories of forced submission, husbands brought low entirely." Mistress spat, a loathing for the poison she nearly drank. "But it didn't stick, I loved you—Adam."

The name was a jab, deeper this time, "Your touch, how you cherished me, and God, that beautiful cock of yours." That day, I stopped visiting her, she said as she continued her ministrations. Each pulsing push spoke of yearning for a life and love teetering on the cusp of being lost.

Her insistent touch paused only briefly as she unravelled the truth – clarity breaking through. "I did piece it together later, but it was too late by then. Our journey had already begun." Her motion resumed, each thrust layered with new understanding. I nearly shouted, "Ils étaient dans le même bateau." (*“They were in the same boat.”*)

She leaned into me. "Yes, babe. They both shared this sin. He was an investor in her business and between her legs. The plan was to poison my thoughts. Now suck harder. Deep reflections don't need to stop other important... activities as well." She said, and I crouched into her even more, sucking harder.

“Still, she left behind seeds that played on my curiosity despite it all, whispers that wormed their way into my thoughts. I even took up reading kink on websites,” she said, her voice drifting away for just a moment.

“The temptation gnawed at me, wondering what it would be like to truly command, not just playfully but totally," she whispered, her fingers continuing their maddening rhythm that now twisted in my flesh. "La tentation, c'est le piège ultime..." (*“Temptation is the ultimate trap…”*)

"Curiosity can be a hell of a drug. Mixed with intrigue and touched by the allure of something more... something darker. It led me…us down a path I never foresaw," Mistress confessed, her voice heavy with unfolding dread.

She looked down at me, helplessly offered up for her pleasure. "Is my precious girl drinking in every syllable?" she asked seriously. Amidst the overwhelming sensations, my compliance spilt forth with a breathy moan, "Yes, Mistress... dominion over... Adam."

Her fingers dove deeper within me, her touch echoing the twisted narrative she spun—a tale of corrupted lust. "Give me your moans," she ordered, and my response came hot and needy, "Maîtresse... vos désirs... manipulés." (*"Mistress... your desires... manipulated."*)

"What we thought was a mere flirtation with control—it was explicit in its intent to reshape us and you—Adam." Each mention of that name was delivered with a deeper plunge, extracting broken breaths that spilt out of me.

“We left enough loopholes for him to get exactly what he wanted. Two vague, vulnerable and open-ended resolutions that he could spin to serve his own desires. All he needed was a resolution of his own to ruin ours.”

"My desire and your blind promise, Adam," she said, now relentlessly plundering into me, unearthing cries of agonised ecstasy, "morphed you into my private whore, and us into playthings in his grotesque little theatre."

"Je suis foutrement à vous, Maîtresse... utilisée par ce connard ou non," (*"I'm fucking yours, Mistress... used by that arsehole or not,"*) I bellowed, laid out naked, body and soul laid bare before her. Her fingers thrusting, even during this confession, drove me higher.

"Oh mon amour," her voice was laced with hurt, her hands drawing me in closer, flesh mashed against flesh, as she divulged, "He mapped out our demise, every wicked detail crafted with someone else's pen. Even paid some smut peddler to draft a five-thousand-word blueprint. A fucking saga disguised as a resolution that painted the walls with his shit-stains of decadence."

"Arrêtez... non, continuez, Maîtresse!" (*Stop... no, continue, Mistress!*) The contradiction of my pleas matched the push-pull of her punishing touch, the perfect blend of agony and ecstasy.

“We were the stars, but he spread his poison far and wide, corrupting almost everyone from last year's gathering, from Mike to my sister—all unwitting pawns on his dirty chessboard."

The scream of "Oh my God!" ripped through me, my voice splitting between the horror of Jacob's vile deeds and the rampant waves of ecstasy that Mistress was pounding into my body. Each thrust against my cocklet sent spasms of delight that clashed with the icy realisation shadowing each reveller's devolution from decency to debauchery.

"That sneaky bastard had it all tied up – a dirty magic trick with no loose ends. No one suspects sorcery when their minds and faces are buried between each other's thighs. Chasing shameless revelry over regular lives. Their transformations into sexual demons made everyone a suspect and everyone a victim.”

Beneath her skilled hand, a hot, conflicted "No!" bubbled up from my throat. Her fingers still persistent, and her words spelt out the hideous game that twisted a year's worth of guests from pristine to stone-cold sex freaks.

"Hold on a moment, my sweet," Mistress' voice was soft as she withdrew her wet finger, leaving me empty. I was glued to her breast like a babe, curled in and suckling with fervent need, missing her presence inside me.

A shift in her movement, and then—it came, a chill of anticipation on my skin before the mammoth invader breached me, a beast larger than any I'd had the pleasure of feeling inside me. She drove it home with deliberate force, and I was exploding with stars, my surrender absolute.

"Do you revel in the memory of my Adam's monster meat, my depraved little harlot?" Mistress' voice was thick with triumph as the phallus buried itself in me, feeding my bottomless craving. "That life cast I had taken ages ago?”

Her voice had a delighted edge to her words, "Today's secret from the mall? I took my incredible fucker’s mould and had it turned into this strapping delight just now. And I spared no expense to have this surprise crafted on such short notice."

“Tell me, my slut, how it feels to be speared by the cock of MY Adam? Can you feel his big virile balls slap against you, being split open by the only shaft that sated me?" she roared, the lioness in her emerging as the voice reverberating through me.

I was lost, dizzy with desire. "Mmm… la bite du maître… elle est plus grande que toutes celles des autres hommes… comme je le voudrais ici…" (*"Mmm… the master’s cock… it’s bigger than all others… how I wish he were here…"*)

“Listen to my voice," Mistress' tone brooked no dissent as she ruthlessly pounded each inch into me. Clarity washed over her, even in the throes of our shared depravity. "I was fucking oblivious to the spell’s insidious creep, but halfway through our journey, it hit me like a slap on the face.”

Some gutter site had a story that accurately reflected our sordid ordeal, every little detail. At first, it turned me on, but then repulsion struck hard. It was like peering into the abyss. The same dirty fable unravelled right before my eyes," she plunged deeper, coaxing a guttural scream of pure, filthy pleasure.

Each slap of her cock on my tender flesh made me want her more; each strike demanded my silent agreement. “Say it,” she demanded. “Admit to your Mistress that you're nothing but a toy sculpted by envy and lust."

I uttered precisely what she asked of me, "un jouet, oui…" (*"A toy, yes…"*) I spoke, my words, a reflection of my helpless acceptance and the hunger that knotted my insides.

“It was that cursed author, commissioned by Jacob, who had published it as a filthy tale, now public, a blueprint of our demise crafted into erotica and splashed across those dark corners of the web that I had taken to visiting by then.”

“Our descent was not ours alone to bear – horrors that I shamefully found myself poring over, consumed by the explicit perversions that someone dared to call our life.”

Enraged by the thought, she was now punishing me with relentless fervour. Her… Adam’s cock slamming home… over and over. Her hand ensnared the back of my neck as she dragged my diminutive, suckling form even closer to hers.

The other twisted my nub—a torturous pleasure so sharp I could barely breathe. "Je suis à bout, je ne peux plus penser…" (*I'm at my limit, I can no longer think…*) I choked out, my mind a whirlpool of lust.

She continued, "Remember how quickly those hormones ravaged your robust form, Yvonne," she growled, "how those meds should have taken years to sculpt these—" Her hand cupped the heft of my breast, "—ripe, suckable tits."

"Oui, ma poitrine est si douce... si parfaite pour lécher…" (*Yes, my chest is so soft... so perfect for sucking…*) I panted, feeling the weight of my new flesh, the pink nipples hardening under her touch.

"Your stature, once towering, now diminished, ripe, and tender beneath me," she said with a cruel affection as she pushed deeper, each inch she claimed inside echoing the inches I'd lost outside. "Mon Dieu, je suis si petite, si vulnérable sous vous…" (*My God, I am so small, so vulnerable beneath you…*) I exhaled sharply, each thrust of the penetrating shaft as impactful as the dawning reality of my transformation.

Her palm traced my jawline, now purposed for her possessive grip. "The firm set of your jaw, now a graceful arc for kisses," her hand ascended my face, grasping my spun gold tresses, "and see how your once dark mane now spills in honeyed curls," she said. "Maîtresse, je ne me reconnais plus…" (*"Mistress, I no longer recognise myself…"*) I uttered, a whimper softer than the curls that now framed my face.

Still holding me by my hair with one hand, a finger from her other hand traced the void where my balls once resided, her touch sympathetic and her voice cracking. "You bounced back from the snip as if it were nothing more than a haircut, my pretty little thing." She chuckled, but I could hear her sense of loss, knowing full well the gravity of what had been stolen from me.

"Tout guéri si vite, comme si rien d'important n'avait disparu," (*"All healed so quickly, as if nothing important had ever been there,"*) I mumbled, my voice laced with the loss of my former masculinity.

Then her eyes wandered to my present shame. "And this, mon petit clito," she crooned, wicked affection in her words as she flicked the sensitive nub. "An eight-inch monument of virility, now a delicate speck." Her fingers toyed with it, a reminder of the transformation from something grand to something...else.

I couldn't contain the heat flushing my cheeks or the bite of desire her words conjured. "... ma bite, j'ai perdu ma fière bite..." (*"... my cock, I've lost my proud cock..."*) I ached out loud, a tortured admission of what I mourned the most.

Her pace quickened, the cock plunging in and out of me with a roughness that blurred the lines between pain and pleasure. She cooed about the transformation of my posterior. "Your cute little peach, once firm and unyielding, is now just a soft, jiggly pillow, always hungry for attention, to be touched, to be taken, to be of service."

There was a kindness in her tone, a loving approval of what I'd become. Her free hand smacked the soft flesh; the sound was obscene in its sharpness, and the sensation rippled into my core. "Mon cul est tellement accueillant pour tous maintenant, Maîtresse..." (*"My arse is so welcoming to all now, Mistress...,"*) I confessed breathlessly, pressing back against her, craving more of her delicious invasion.

As she drove her fingers within me with resolve, I could barely comprehend the fullness of her words. "Can you believe it, pet? Our little world turned on its axis, and nobody – not our parents, friends, or even the watchful Dr Michelle – none were any the wiser. They simply accepted it and even gleefully participated," she mused aloud. Each word was synchronised with a calculated thrust, emphasising the stark reality of our transformation.

My response came as a fragmented whisper, carried in the wake of strokes that left me trembling, "Everyone is so enthusiastic, as if everything is normal..." I panted, my voice a blend of arousal and astonishment.

Reality felt skewed, inexplicably altered so my drastic change seemed to fit perfectly within everyone's expectations. "Ils me matent, putain, ils voient ce vestige d'Adam et bandent pour défoncer Yvonne, leur nouveau jouet à baiser." (*They fucking ogle me, seeing the remnants of Adam and get hard for pounding Yvonne, their new fuck toy.*) The truth lay thick between us: that wish hadn't just remade me; it had ensnared the perceptions of all who knew me.

Mistress' relentless exploration of my depths didn't let up; the tempo matched only by the throbbing pulse of my dicklette under her rough ministration. "I found out it was all Jacob’s doing when I hunted down the author responsible for crafting this reality," she cursed through gritted teeth, punctuating her words with a sharp thrust that made me cry out.

"Merde, il ne nous possédera pas encore..." (*"Shit, he won't own us yet again..."*) I uttered with a ragged breath, the mixture of dread and thrill in my voice making it quiver. The reality of our situation was as penetrating as Adam’s magnificent tool. It was a game of chess that he played with our bodies and wills at stake.

Mistress prodded deep inside, her touch methodical and deliberate. "Pored over every word, every perverse stipulation, and meticulously made notes. I analysed every condition that needed to be fulfilled. I had to take control of the narrative to protect you, to shield us from being completely unravelled by that motherfucker’s fantasies," she announced. Each thrust was a declaration, sending spasms of delirious pleasure through my exposed form.

"Préservée par votre ingéniosité, Maîtresse..." (*"Preserved by your ingenuity, Mistress...,"*) I exhaled, my every nerve ignited by her penetrating motion.

"The party was the stage—the final act where everything would come to a head. Just moments of complete exposure to his depraved desires and our cue to wrest back control of our fate," Mistress' movements became more aggressive, sending me spiralling.

"Une scène pour notre délivrance, Maîtresse..." (*"A stage for our deliverance, Mistress...,"*) My cry was both pleasure and plea, the foreign syllables spilling from my lips laced with need.

Mistress didn’t stop her tactile onslaught, as if her determination alone would stave off the darkness Jacob had woven into our destiny. "The clock’s hand was going to be our ally—your plunge into being Jacob's bitch would last just a goddamn flash."

"Par votre volonté, je plonge et ressurgis, Maîtresse..." (*By your will, I plunge and reemerge, Mistress...*) I whispered, spinning in the whirlpool of her creating, ever her compliant, needy subject.

Mistress' unyielding fingers carved new pathways of sensation within me as she confessed, "Had last night's excesses 'manifested' too early, you’d have been gone—your head, your personality, and memories scrambled, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to allow that.”

Her rigorous pace brought me to the edge, my fragmented mind clinging to every word she uttered. "Oui, Maîtresse, vous me sauvez..." (*Yes, Mistress, you save me...,*) I cried out, lost in the relentless tide of her pleasure.

I heard her voice swell with emotion as she spoke. "I pleaded with the heavens that you might still enjoy the delights of orgasms after our new vows, and what an unbelievable relief I felt when you came in my eager mouth."

When it first happened, I could not believe it: the jerking spasms, the little erection, the sweet, sweet dribbles of your release. It happened last night, it happened during all our little sexcapades today, and even now, it defies belief – my lurid little delight is still alive," she revealed, basking in the splendour of my bliss with incredulity.

Suspended by Mistress' will alone, I could do nothing but moan in eager, delirious French, each plea a testament to my submission. "Je t'en supplie, Maîtresse, ne t'arrête pas..." (*Please, Mistress, don't stop...*)

She intensified her assault, pumping savagely within me, one hand now pulling my head tighter to breastfeed in her nipple, while her other hand, rough and possessive, returned to tormenting my ‘clitty’. "But understand this, with or without magic, this is what we are. I love watching you quake, and you adore being my plaything. Look at us, insatiable," she growled, her voice twisted with incredible affection.

"Recognise our mutual debasement and swear to me your endless love, just as I swear to you my everlasting devotion," she pronounced with such ferocity that it thrust me into a state of pure sensation; I was nothing but raw, exposed nerve endings, every fibre of my being screaming for release.

With that demand, she lifted my body to align with hers, consummating the union of desire and dominion. "Maître de mon plaisir, enfoncez-vous en moi jusqu'à ce que l'éternité s'épuise; je jure de vous aimer à jamais..." (*"Master of my pleasure, plunge into me until eternity runs dry; I swear to love you forever..."*) I implored, on the brink of an infinite collapse, my release tethered to her entirely.

Each unyielding stroke edged me closer to the abyss, her vice-like fingers wrapped around my throbbing ‘clitty’. Her unyielding grasp on my head forced me to suckle helplessly. "Now, melt—let everything go, my sweet aching flower," she commanded, her words detonating within me like a charge keyed to my soul.

"JE VIENS... AH... DIEU, MAÎTRESSE, JE ME RENDS... TU ES... AH... MON AMOUR," (*"I’M COMING... AH... GOD, Mistress, I SURRENDER... YOU ARE... AH... MY LOVE."*) I cried out, the words tearing into breathy cries, as waves of ecstasy surged through me, hurling me into a storm that fragmented me.

Then, as though struck by lightning, her control vanished with a surrendering scream. "AHHH!!... Chérie... OUI!!!... FUCK!... OUI!!!! ... MON DIEU, OUI!!!" her unrestrained, primal howl shattered the silence, picking up the fragments of my disassembled self to rend me anew as we crumbled together, utterly exhausted, joined in blissful collapse.

As my consciousness wavered on the edge of darkness, I heard Mistress' words through the fog. "Don't fret over that piece of shit, Jacob; his plans went south when you sucked his brains out, and I nailed him to the floor – out cold and clueless. Swapped his paper for mine and had you drop it in. Serves him right to choke on the poison he brewed for us."

In my delirious state, my voice weak but insistent, I whispered, "Et nous, Maîtresse?"

Her assurance was the last thing I heard before darkness enveloped me. "Don't trouble your pretty little head about us, my dear. All will be known in due time," she soothed, and I surrendered, succumbing to the embrace of oblivion and the sweet promise of her protective presence.

Synopsis
In the conclusion of our story, Yvonne's bonds of love and trust face the ultimate test. A day of revelations brings our little heroine full circle, challenging the depths of her transformation. Our lovely couple confronts the prospect of a future once unimaginable as secrets unfurl and a significant vow binds them. Will this final chapter carve a path toward healing and happiness, or will the remnants of a year's turmoil demand one last sacrifice?

Author's Note

I have embraced more straightforward and personal language in this concluding chapter in response to very valuable reader feedback. I needed to finish Yvonne's story with words that resonate from the heart. I aimed to keep the narrative authentic and genuine, allowing for an emotional connection as we reach the end of our journey with Yvonne. I really hope to stick the landing.

Binding Resolutions Chapter 6: Valentine Be Mine

Oh, how things had changed in over a month. The pieces of myself didn't quite fit the same way they used to. The character I had been forced into had now evolved. Eve was the name that rolled off my tongue these days. The only exception being those intimate moments when my adored Mistress would summon Yvonne from the shadows.

Eve was her own damn person – resolute, burgeoning with confidence. Not yet the pillar of strength, but she was getting there. Amidst it all, she held a tender, moist spot in her heart and other places only for Nina. The depth of love she harboured for her only grew stronger with each passing moment. Heck, I'd even started clocking back into work last week.

With Jacob being fired unceremoniously for fraud, thanks to ‘his’ unfortunate new resolution, his spot at the office had landed in my lap. The phenomenon was bizarre, unfathomable even. But it was clearly true that the world bent and twisted, playing to the tunes of our still-secret-to-me resolutions. Slowly, it gave us back what we'd lost or maybe never even had.

The contents of those resolutions were still a damn mystery to me, though. Nina kept them under wraps like they were timed to explode with the right kind of magic moment or some celestial alignment.

And as for little Yvonne? Well, she was all woman now, thanks to a surgery everyone else thought was cut and dry. No pun intended, but Dr. Michelle and her folks had magicked up a fully working vagina where none ought to be.

They were oblivious to the fact that, despite the absence of sufficient tissue, they had forged fully functional lady bits. Miraculously, it healed overnight and settled into natural normalcy within days.

A week past that, nobody batted an eyelid. Even Michelle's recollection of my 'trans' history had seemingly evaporated. When she started chatting me up about my upcoming monthly blood moons, it felt like she thought this was an entirely normal part of my journey.

Eyes set forward, I was anticipating my inaugural skirmish with that 'delightful' monthly visitor to waltz in right in time with Nina’s.

In essence, I was replete; I was now whole, and all it took was the creation of a new vessel to fill in missing portions of the picture. Ahh, another accidental pun. But back on topic, today bore special significance. It's our first Valentine's Day with this newly awakened Eve.

Nina had that look in her eyes - the one that told me she was up to something just for us. "Rentre tôt, ma chérie," she had whispered, her voice betraying the surprise she held close to her heart. I couldn't help but feel the flush of anticipation for the surprise that awaited me at home.

To seize the day, I had left work early. I went to the gym and then swung by the mall. Heads turned as I strolled in to pick up some fresh tailor-made trousers. 'Bout damn time I strutted something other than my gams – nice as they were, a return to pants, even if only on occasion, would be sure to feel pretty damn good.'

Returning to matters of my evolution, I had rekindled my relationship with the gym, immersing myself in strength training. The gains had been nothing short of miraculous. I, who hovered around a featherweight 120 pounds, found myself hoisting nearly double that in deadlifts while working out in apparel that'd make a nun blush. But hey, I was all about commitment, resolutions and magic be damned. It was just good old-fashioned sweat, steel, and the view my booty shorts provided as my fellow gym goers gawked.

The changes in my body were clearly magic-enhanced and very pronounced. The mirror reflected a leaner frame, two well-proportioned C cups, and a hint of a six-pack teasing beneath my skin. For god’s sake, I had even lengthened vertically, four inches to be exact, standing taller in more ways than one, you know?

Driving back with a post-workout high, my thoughts drifted to my fans at the gym. I've got to admit, I loved the attention, and rocking the type of gym gear that raised both brows and heart rates had its perks.

There were offers on the table to make me some kind of fitness queen on the gram. They came buzzing like bees to honey, but it wasn't for me. Then consider my body, courtesy of some enchanting genetic tweak; it set the bar of reality-bending relatively high.

So, I held my ground because what truly mattered was getting better and stronger. And, of course, every once in a while, skewering myself on an irresistible piece of man-meat, but always with Nina, my ride-or-die, right there.

Speaking of Nina, she was always there rooting for me during every slick slide, every gasping high, right beside me. But, hell, she never strayed. No touching the hired guns that rolled through our sheets.

No one else got the slide of her hands, the sweet pressure of her lips – that was exclusively my fucking privilege. Said it clearly, didn’t she? She had laid it down – It was me, me alone, that got to be her whole damn universe, all soaked and dripping in desire.

At that moment, I felt the pang of what I lacked. That old dick of mine, the very instrument of her pleasure, I was now without. She deserved those lofty peaks, the thrill of being thoroughly fucked, and that was the one joy I couldn't give her now.

Striding through our door, I was still feeling the burn from the gym. Damn, if the pokies weren’t leading the charge under my bra. Those booty shorts might as well have been a second skin, my cameltoe practically branded into the fabric.

Seems like my getup was an open invitation for some gym bro to offer help with "fixing my posture." Nice try, buddy. So, I gave his crotch a friendly, lingering 'thank-you' grind; gotta love the impromptu dry humping and his posture held up superbly, I must say. Maybe later in the week, he’d fancy giving me a more in-depth 'lesson' on 'really ironing out those kinks', you know?

Anyway, I was all smug smiles—until the candlelit ballet in our living room halted me mid-strut. Lingerie, scattered like an erotic treasure trail, called me toward the staircase.

''Ninaaaa! Honey!!!!'' The silence that answered me was like a strip tease for the ears and far more tempting than my prior thoughts of 'posture corrections.'

At the foot of the stairs, a delicate jewellery box awaited with a post-it note. It carried a simple directive: ''Please put them on.'' My fingers worked hastily. The earrings were the same, but now very different from where my testicles once hung. There were now hearts crafted with twisting bands of white, rose, and yellow gold, each cradling a solitary heart-shaped diamond.

Without hesitation, they dangled from my lobes by the time I took my next step. With the renewed riches framing my face, I headed up, heart pounding, past the intimate breadcrumbs.

There she knelt, just beyond the doorway of our bedroom, her gesture of surrender so pure, her nose tenderly brushing the ground beneath her. Her hands crossed behind her back as far as she could reach. Framing the pose, a solitary red envelope lay before her.

She was a vision in the same maid's outfit that I wore on the night of my rebirth. Our roles reversed—and here she was, offering herself to me.

As the quiet of the space around us stretched on, Nina's voice broke through, intimate and raw. " this is for you... For us," she murmured, her voice a caress against my soul.

Now that I knew my role, I leaned forward towards her without pause as she waited like a present to be unwrapped. I closed the space between us with a kiss atop her head, the fucking turn-on. Envelope in hand. I opened the vessel of her words. Reading, I felt the pull of her soul and a rising ache when I read the message.

My Most Precious Eve,

Today, I emerge from under the dark clouds that once loomed over me, feeling a growing light and calm take their place. I come to you now, surrendering with open arms, ready to honour your every need and stand firm on my promise to forever stand by your side.

I acknowledge, with a weighty heart, that I carved those chasms of grief within you. It is only fitting that I dedicate myself to constructing bridges of joy across them. I offer up every shred of myself to heal the divides wrought by my own deeds.

My love for you extends beyond language. It pulsates as a steadfast rhythm within me. It is the seeking of your tender favour, your enduring love, and, most of all, your trust. This has to be the path toward not just undoing old harms but creating a new future filled with the richness of our life together.

Accept this letter as a binding declaration of my resolve. I will mend what I broke, never make those mistakes again, and hold tight to the forgiveness you have given me. I forego any posture of dominance that I held in our bond, unveiling my soul wholly in the quest for your absolution.

As a sign of my love and commitment to our voyage of recovery, I invite you to the dresser. There you will find a humble but sincere gift from my heart to yours, showing my feelings and pledge.

With all the love that brims my heart and the hope I cradle for our shared tomorrows,

Forever yours,

Nina

Damn, these tears, leaking all over the place. There she was, my darling Nina, kneeling there, offering herself up, blaming herself for all the chaos we had gone through. Bearing the weight of our twisted year with such remorse it made my heart bleed. God, how I wished I could be a man for her again, if just for a moment—to be everything she needed.

While I would have loved a conversation now, she clearly needed this play to unfold first, so I acted accordingly. "Come now, dear heart, unveil your mysteries to me," I muttered, sliding over to the dresser to see the vestiges of her offerings. An invitation in the form of a little note teased me to peek inside the top drawer. If it wasn't a seductive red box matching the lustful shade of Nina's envelope, I didn't know what was.

I snatched it up and, with deliberate drama, unfurled the box's lid as I tottered over to Nina. My footing was so close that, just as I unhinged the box, my toes inadvertently found themselves in the grasp of her fervid tongue. She was going to town on them as if there were no tomorrow. What's a girl to do but enjoy it when in Rome?

I leisurely teased the box open and lazily basked in the worship of my foot. Then, out spilt 'Adam 2.0'—different, kinkier—a double-ended beast that made my mouth water. "Looks like we're playing upgrades now," I purred. As I lifted my toes from the ground, I realized that her tongue had only gotten fiercer with the unplanned increase in access.

Inspecting this double-ender, I noted the familiar 'golden raisins' embedded on one side. Next to it, there was an exquisite "Eve's Adam" inscribed in gold. The colour perfectly matched mine. Every tiny detail was sculpted with lascivious attention.

It hinted at the meticulous labour poured into each curve. It was a gift that twisted just right. Knowing Nina, it certainly had its role to play. Decision made—this was going to be an experience to remember. I was going to savour every sinfully sweet offering.

Casually, I let the box clatter to the floor, pulling away from Nina's eager mouth. I settled on the edge of the bed, a dance where every step counted, and I could feel her ready to leap after me at my command.

"Kitten," I teased her, "do you have a name that sings to your soul right now?" But she—Nina—was all in, her voice quivered against her programming’s design, whispering out, "In your world, I'm whatever you choose to name me."

Ah, Nina—the 'I' sings. Sweet as sin, sacred as prayer, binding as fate. That name I loved wrapped around my tongue, calling her closer with a crook of my finger. "Niiiiinaaa, Yvonne's craving some attention, and time isn't waiting." The shorts slid down, and her mouth met the sweat and musk of my clit with fierce desire.

There she was on all fours, like a woman starved. My pet worked with a singular purpose, her mouth becoming a haven that brought me to peaks I could not climb alone. She lunged with all hunger and heat, lapping up between my thighs and chasing after my clit like it was her lifeline.

This moment—indulgent, filthy, and divine—was all mine. Mmmm, this was the life, all right. Propped up by my hands, spread wide and open—my little pet devouring me with fervour. Moaning like a whore, I gave in to the pure pleasure, anchored deeply within her, with one destination—my satisfaction. Here I was, eyes rolling back in bliss, and 'Adam' lay forgotten in the lust-filled haze that surrounded us.

I whispered sweet little pet names down to her as she wove her magic, and I soared! Cresting the wave to a soul-shattering orgasm that transcended the realm of flesh. My grip tangled in her hair. I pulled her tight, riding out the storm as her mouth became my sanctuary, and as I released my joy into her, she made sure not a single drop of ecstasy was wasted.

As I regained my senses, I felt her body quake beneath me—the cheeky thing had been getting off too. Mmm, naughty, naughty... A punishment would undoubtedly follow, but later, once I had returned to earth from the heavens, she had cast me into. Of course, I would let her get her rocks off first. My actions were that of a considerate mistress or, perhaps, more fittingly, her master.

Yes, she had let go of her claim, her title. But in my heart, she would always be my mistress. But there was something wonderfully sweet about this little switch in dynamics. Lying there, silently plotting, I decided to quietly nurture her excess, carefully planning every stroke to come, each one to be cherished. Because when it comes to desire and discipline, well, that's a master's prerogative.

I suppressed the urge to coax her onwards. Instead, I let her pleasure crest and crash. I allowed her the liberty of her little rule-breaking climax. Then, I let it fade into satisfied silence. Her body's tremors still echoed through our mutual bliss.

Gently grasping her chin, I lifted her gaze just enough to lock eyes, letting the air crackle with unspent desire. "It seems you couldn’t help yourself, Nina... A lesson is in order, wouldn’t you say?" My words fell with a tease as my gaze flitted toward the sidelined Adam. Cutting short any words from her, I directed, "Act, don't speak, my pet."

A mere order was enough to have her lavishing Adam with adoration. She worked over my name with her tongue in desperate worship. Her fervour and abandon had me suddenly aching for the past. Oh, how I yearned for the sensations of my once flesh-and-blood erection under such devoted attention, not just as a witness but as a recipient.

Noticing my envy with just a glance, she moved 'Adam' into position between my legs, touching my soaking folds. Her mouth worked 'Adam' with fervour, and as the heat from her actions spread, I felt shocks of pleasure that seemed to caress me both inside and out.

Just as I was surrendering to this sensation, one unlike any I had felt before, it drew me toward a new kind of euphoria. 'Adam' sank deep, and an explosive tide of pleasure threatened to tear me apart, igniting every nerve. The world blurred into a haze of white-hot bliss. Oh my god... the ecstasy!

I must've blacked out. Awareness returned slowly. I found myself sprawled upon the bed, with Nina between my legs. Her mouth was fervently claiming my arousal. I blinked in confusion, only half-lucid. I peered past my breasts as Nina, eyes looking back at me, withdrew for a moment.

She gasped with a delirious smile, then encircled the crown with her tongue and dove back into her task. This wasn’t just ‘Adam’; it was a part of me, IT WAS ME—undoubtedly alive and pulsing. What the hell had she wished for?

But those were thoughts for later; this was simply the time to lay back and enjoy what was being offered. The tremors of a seizure-like climax were still pulsing through every part of me. Knowing the calculated wiles of Nina, this suggested that this very state was her desire.

For the first time since we kicked off today's deliciously sinful escapades, my hands hadn’t been touching her. When I was about to plunge them into her silky strands, she pulled away from me, eyes gleaming with adoration. "Mistress, just lie back and soak in the moment. Your pleasure is my sole desire today," she asserted.

"Master, mon petit chaton," I purred affectionately while guiding her head back to where it rightfully belonged. "And I appreciate you speaking French," I instructed.

"Oui, Maître," she purred before her mouth enveloped me again. It was time to assert myself. "You're gonna swallow every inch of my cock. Do you get me?" Her eager moan was all the answer I needed.

"Knew you’d listen," I exhaled as the heat built. "Now faster, don’t stop." She chased the rhythm before I urged, "Go deeper, much deeper." She obeyed, damn near swallowing me whole. "All of it, come on!" I demanded. "Relax and just let it in." She closed her eyes, pushing past the choke... and there it was; she took me whole, her gasping gags a sweet melody to my ears.

I lost myself. "Oh, fuck, just like that! Faster, my slut! Make me come, bitch! Yeah, that's it! Fucking send me over the edge, you gorgeous fiend! Yes, that’s fucking perfect!" I lost all semblance of control. My hands grasped her hair as I drove deep, my hips bucking involuntarily. A howl of uncontrollable pleasure tore free as I climaxed, my release vast and relentless.

With cheeks bulging, she continued until she had devoured every drop. She climbed to meet me in a kiss as I beckoned with my fingertip, sloppy and sweet, with passion and the taste of myself. How damned perfect was this? My baby Nina, loving, serving, and apparently pretty pleased with her own handiwork. Surely no soul, especially a chick-with-a-dick, could have been as blessed.

"You've been up to something, haven't you, my petite amoureuse du coq,” I whispered into her ear. "Yes, Master, while not everything could be reversed, I managed this bit of magic at least," she answered, a playful bite sending shivers down my neck.

Why, then, the surgery? My cunt, tight and goddamn perfect, was a velvet vice ripe for the taking, but what now with my cock’s return? And then it slammed into me, visions whirling like a cyclone.

Nina pinned, helpless, bucking against the wall, Eve's, my hands a fucking fortress on her quaking back. I'm her beast, her Queen and king, ploughing into her, balls-deep and beyond, owning her cries like they're my due. I’m the storm she called down. Punishing, devouring, ensuring she’ll remember every godforsaken plunge as the last salvation on earth.

A flicker, and there's Yvonne, on all fours, distended and dripping. I’m gleaming, splayed, pried open, and dripping from a ghost’s harsh pounding. Mistress is ever-attentive. She swipes through my split folds, pilfering pearl strings of cock honey. She pushes the mess toward my drool-drenched mouth. With glazed eyes, I suckle each finger, relishing the grime like the good little slut I am.

A flash burns through. Eve, I, the ballsy bitch, swigging a beer, cocksure and in command, with sports blaring like some sort of macho soundtrack. And there's Nina, beneath my throne, gobbling up my cock with absolute fucking devotion. Those doe eyes implore, begging soundlessly, almost painfully, for the torrent of my spunk. She sucks like a primo whore, a testament to my reign, slurping on my junk like it's the holy fucking grail.

My mind flickers, and I am strung up. Chains bite into my flesh. Yvonne is, their plaything, displayed and heaving. Hands tied, swinging on a chain. airborne and spit-roasted between the mistress and some hulking brute. She is merciless. Each plunge into my yielding womanhood draws out whines of love-sick desperation. Behind, he impales my welcoming rump, rendering me voiceless save for the groans that sing their names. I'm the poor, willing captive pleading for more.

The psychic instructions laid it out clearly, seducing me with the power of choice. Whether the cock stood at attention or the pussy wept for an exquisite fucking, my body was a chameleon of lust.

With Yvonne at the helm, I would be bound by the desires of others. I could shed my equipment, leaving my love-nest bare, wet, and earnest. It thirsted for the rough satisfaction of being thoroughly owned.

But when I feel the strength of Eve stir within, ‘Adam’ returns, hard and demanding like the comeback of an exiled ruler. And Nina, my queen of whores, she'd drop to her knees with reverence, welcoming me driving into her essence, owning every ripple of her flesh.

"Mmm... you’ve yet to reveal the details of those enigmatic resolutions we made," I murmured, to which Nina's voice quivered, "Hmm... It is very detailed, but one key part is that I've resolved, quite specifically, to have your baby this year." The crack in her voice betrayed her uncertainty and the hidden layers of all her emotions.

A baby, our baby? A little one who would be part of both of us. I couldn't delay, couldn't ponder; I could only act. I drew her close with a fiery embrace and kissed her like nothing else existed.

Much later, when our passionate interlude began to wane. With a wicked chuckle, I announced, "We've got roughly thirty days to spawn our love child." Whip out the 'welcome mat,' 'cause Daddy's got a special delivery that's overdue for drop-off!"

Her response was a sultry nip followed by a firm yank that had me seeing stars. "Whoa! Mind the goods. That's your sperm bank you're roughhousing!"

Synopsis
Rick Longwood was a man who simply couldn't get enough. A bastard who left a trail of broken women in his wake, he thought he was untouchable. Unfortunately for him, one of his recent victims was Dr. Michelle Valentine, our favorite fiery surgeon. Never cross a woman who spent a year feminizing a man and loved it. especially if she has a bit of magic on her side, even if she doesn't know it. Poor Rick is well and truly fucked!

Author's Note
It's been a while since I returned to this series, and it feels like coming home. Now that we've resolved Yvonne and Nina's story (mostly), there are so many more tales waiting to be told. The Box of Resolutions offers endless possibilities, and I have so much more to share with you. To all my readers, thank you for your support and patience. This series will forever be special to me, and I hope this new chapter entertains you just as much as the others have.

Quick point: I have several NSFW images in this story, but you will need to click them to view the contents. Where they are, I have explicitly mentioned 'Click the link below to find out.' Feel free to skip them. It is entirely optional, and I do not want you to feel forced to view them. However, I think they do add an extra layer of...mmm personal satisfaction.

Binding Resolutions Chapter 7: A Cocksman No More

I woke up strapped to something. Tried to move my hands, but they were tied down tight. My head felt like it was full of smoke, with only vague recollections of the last time I was conscious. A bar, heavy booze, and a night with some chick I barely remembered shoving off me before raiding her liquor cabinet. But this—this was different. This was fucked up.

“Shit,” my eyes went wide when I saw the figure looming over me. “No fucking way.”

It was her. The woman I did a number on a few months back. Doctor Michelle Valentine, smoking hot surgeon, and—fuck me—one of the wealthiest women I've ever bedded. I'd know that fierce glare anywhere, and was that a fucking operating theatre? Did she buy it? She certainly could afford it.

Daddy's money had paved her way through medical school; she wouldn't shut up about it during our brief fuckfest together. Now I was strapped to a gurney in her domain, with her appearing to be in full control. No question about it—the bitch owned this place and probably whatever she was about to use on me.

“Rick Longwood. The man who just can't get enough,” she mused with a sick smile. “Fuck ‘em and fuck ‘em harder, right Rick?” She spoke softly, but her tone dripped with sweet malice.

I scanned her from head to toe, my mind fucking reeling. She was even more of a bombshell than I remembered. How the fuck did she go from fit and slender to a goddamn sex freak? She had been pretty hot before—slim and sweet. Now, she looked like she was yanked straight out of a porno. TMy dick hardened just looking at her. "Fuck me."

Her tits were bigger now. Those damn melons practically spilled out of her lingerie. Her nipples were as hard as diamonds. They poked through the sheer fabric, begging to be abused. Her red hair tumbled in loose waves around her shoulders like a fucking halo for those piercing green eyes, staring daggers right into me.

Her hips were wider, and her curves screamed “fuck me” with every step she took as she walked towards me. Her ass could make a gay priest drool and those lips, those plump, cock-craving lips, were twisted into a cruel smile now. She looked like a top-shelf whore, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to bury my cock in her or run the hell away.

Michelle strutted up to me, her hips swaying with every step like a stripper on a mission. She leaned in close, her soaked panties just inches from my nose. The pungent, musky scent of her arousal hit me like a goddamn freight train. “Get a whiff of that, Rick,” she purred with sadistic pleasure. “You like that, don’t you? Mmm, just seeing you makes me so fucking wet. But seeing you like this? Tied up and helpless? God, it’s making me hornier than ever.”

She shoved her crotch closer, forcing me to take a deep breath of her stench. Her hand gripped my head and mashed it into her soaked panties, the overwhelming scent making my eyes water. “Wait a minute,” I thought, “that smells like cum and pussy... shit!” My nose was buried in it. She chuckled, “Freshly fucked by the biggest cock I could find,” she sneered with a wicked grin. “But the poor bastard couldn’t hold a candle to you. Even his best effort left me disappointed... Rick, you were always special. Only your cock could make a 6'3" guy with an 8-inch dick look like a goddamn sissy.”

She laughed, the sound both cruel and delighted. "Honestly, Rick, your monster cock set the gold standard. All these other men with their so-called 'magnificent' dicks can’t even come close." She shoved my head harder against her drenched crotch. The nauseating stench and taste of her arousal mixed with another man's cum. It overwhelmed my senses. I wanted to scream, to fight back, but the straps held me firm. "I know it’s a new experience for you, but you’ll get used to it soon enough."

She left nothing to the imagination. Her panties were soaked and clinging to her like a second skin, dripping with the evidence of her whoring. She shoved my face deeper into her twat, making sure I couldn't escape the rank odour. It was like she was rubbing salt into the wound, except the salt was her filthy body—and the literal cum. The sight, the smell—it was overpowering and utterly revolting. My stomach churned with every breath I took, the sensations making my head spin.

Yeah, I loved women—loved fucking them, loved ditching them. That’s what I did. Sue me. The only problem was, this time, I’d left a bit more than a dent. Took off with her 2023 Lamborghini Aventador. Jesus fucking Christ, what a piece of machinery that car was. Midnight black, smooth curves, and a hell of a lot faster than any chick I’d ever banged. The V12 engine roared like a goddamn beast and the interior? More luxurious than any bedroom I'd ever been in. Watching her standing in front of her house. Screaming at the empty space where her precious Lambo had been was the fucking cherry on top.

It wasn't easy reeling her in, though. Michelle wasn’t dumb, gullible. She was a sharp, savvy surgeon with a brain to match her smokin' hot body. I had to work my way into that tight-ass heart to get into her panties. Took my best lines, my most convincing lies. I had to lay it on thick with the pricey dinners, the bullshit heart-to-hearts, and endless sweet talk. I made her believe I was her knight in shining armour, only for her to wake up one morning to find her knight had ridden off with her steed. fucking priceless!

And the sex—fuck, the sex was out of this world. She was the perfect little fuck toy, a game for anything and everything. She’d worship my cock for hours. She'd crawl over to me the moment I walked into her place. She'd suck me off without me even having to ask while I kicked back and watched the game. Her lips—plump, luscious—she had them done just for me, she said, to make her mouth the perfect cock-sleeve. And she used them well, her tongue swirling around my shaft like it was some holy ritual. She’d slobber all over it, taking me deep into her throat, her eyes tearing up with gratitude.

The best part? I didn’t even have to beat her into submission. She willingly degraded herself for me. She fucking lived for it. She’d crawl, beg, and plead, making herself the perfect little whore. I’d snap my fingers, and she’d act like my personal slut, always eager and ready to do whatever it took to keep me happy.

Her pussy was a vice, tight and hot, gripping me like it never wanted to let go. I’d barely slide in, and she’d start convulsing, her moans filling the room as she came over and over. Her nipples were ridiculously sensitive. Just a flick from my tongue or a light pinch, and she'd be writhing in pleasure. After our first fuck, she was hooked. She became my perfect little fuck slut, her entire world revolving around my cock. I’d stretch her out in every position, her body arching, begging for more like a goddamn porn star.

She treated me like a master, a fucking god. I’d cum all over her—her face, her tits, her pussy—and she'd wear it like a badge of honour. She'd lick it off her fingers while savouring every drop like it was fucking champagne. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to make me happy. Once, I had her hanging from chains for four hours. Her body was suspended mid-air. Her nipples were erect and aching from the clamps while I fucked another chick right in front of her. She didn’t complain; she didn’t whine. She got wetter by the second, her pleasure only amplified by the sight of me getting off.

After I was done with the other chick, Michelle crawled over like the obedient slut she was. She ate her out like a starving bitch, cleaning up every drop while moaning with pure delight. She knew I had a thing for other men's wives and cuckolding them. I’d bring them over and force her to serve them, making her the ultimate submissive slut. Fuck, this was her letting me cuckold her, always finding satisfaction in my pleasure. When I brought in other men's wives, she'd dive into serving them. She'd relish every moment like the dirty whore she was.

It didn’t just stop there. I made her a maid in her own house, cleaning up after my messes, serving me drinks, and waiting on me hand and foot. She fucking loved it, her submissive side completely unlocked. She would thank me for the privilege, believing her duty was to serve and please me in every way possible. She lived for it, her entire existence wrapped around being the perfect little slut for me. Who could ask for more? Well, I did.

The reason I split town in the first place was 'cause one of the chicks I knocked up went and offed herself. Poor dumb bitch couldn’t handle the heat and took the easy way out. They hadn't figured out my identity yet, but I knew it was just a matter of time before they put the pieces together. Dodging the law became priority number one. So, I bailed. I never thought she’d find me. Hell, I thought I was scot-free, ridin’ high and livin’ large.

But the cherry on top was that final act of theft. I didn't just take her car—I swiped her credit cards and drained her accounts too. I racked up a quarter mil in no time, living it up while she was left behind, humiliated and broken. The Lambo, the cash, the lifestyle—it was all too tempting to pass up. And so I prioritised. I left her with nothing but memories of a cock she would never find again. All while cruising in her stolen car and blowing her money on whatever the fuck I wanted.

So yeah, imagine my surprise and horror at finding myself at her mercy now. I’d taken everything from her, and now, it seemed she was determined to pay me back—times a thousand. This wasn’t just casual fun gone wrong. This was revenge she was going to savour, one cut at a time.

"Hey, Doc! Long time no see," I tried to joke, but my voice wavered. This was no everyday bullshit encounter. I wasn’t in a position to charm my way out of this one.

"Surprised you remember me, Rick," she cooed, taking a firm grip on my cock. THe bastard was already rock hard despite my face still buried in her cum-filled cunt. "I had you loaded on Viagra and I prepped and preened myself just for you... didn't want you going soft as you hear me out. You like it I presume." Damned pervert. Here I was, tied up and taken out, and my cock still thought it was party time.

Michelle’s fingers wrapped around my shaft, stroking it in a manner that sent jolts of twisted pleasure through my body. "You know," she began, very aroused, "your cock is something else. It’s huge, magnificent." Her grip tightened, her rhythm slow and steady. "Just touching it makes my pussy drip, Rick. It’s fucking addictive, like heroin."

I tried to speak, but she shoved me deeper into her wet panties, nearly smothering me with her overpowering scent. The rich aroma overwhelmed my senses, making my head spin. "Mmm, not so fast, Rick," she whispered with sadistic delight. "You’re not getting off that easy." She paused for a moment, then laughed to herself, enjoying the double meaning.

Her touch grew more aggressive, the strokes faster and more relentless. My cock twitched, betraying me with every pump of her hand. "See, Rick," she continued eagerly, "this cock of yours... it’s like it was made to be fucking worshipped. So many nights, I couldn’t get enough. I dreamt of it, craved it."

Her laughter, cruel and piercing, echoed in the room. "You always thought you were the king, huh? Well, now I'm the fucking queen, and this incredible cock of yours—" she squeezed hard, making me wince— "is mine." She tugged sharply, sending a jolt of pain through my body. "Guess what, Rick? This is just the start. Just wait until we really get going."

I tried to pull back, to take a breath, but her grip on my head was firm, forcing me to inhale her nauseating scent. The potent mix of sweat, cum, and arousal filled my nostrils, making me gag. “Mmm, smell that cocktail, Rick. Does it reek of satisfaction or burning need? Bingo! You must be proud. Freshly fucked, I let myself be used by two men, stretched out, abused, and filthy with their cum, just to avoid the temptation of fucking you. But still, it’s only your cock that really does it for me.”

Michelle, twat still in my face, bent down in that uniquely sensual way she had, her lips inches from my throbbing member. "No, Michelle," she said to herself as she hesitated, shivering momentarily as if fighting temptation. "Okay, just a little kiss for now," she muttered before planting a wet kiss on the tip. Fuck it still sent a shiver down my spine despite the hopelessness of my situation.

"You know, Rick," she continued, caressing my shaft with a steady rhythm, "I loved servicing you. You were the first man I wholly wanted to please. I just wanted to worship you, to be your little fuck toy, to do anything to make you happy. I always thought I was dominant, but something in your cock unlocked my inner slut. And for that, I thank you. Though, finding another dick like yours has been quite the challenge."

Her hand moved faster, more aggressively now, stroking me with a relentless pace. "I didn’t mind sharing you with others." Your cock was too magnificent to keep to myself. Watching you fuck other women only made me more desperate to please you, more eager to see you in action. Their used and abused bodies, all because of your cock—ugh, it drove me wild."

Her voice took on a fevered pitch, arousal dripping from every word. "Every time you left me dripping with cum, I wanted more. More of your cock, more of your dominance. I needed it, Rick. Needed you to stretch me, fill me, use me until I couldn't think straight. And seeing you do it to others? Fuck, it made me even wetter.”

Michelle's eyes gleamed with sadistic joy as she continued. "You could have had anything you wanted from me. Anything. That’s how much you—your cock—meant to me. In fact, the very night you ran away, I was planning something special.

Nina, my dear friend, you’d been repeatedly telling me how much you wanted to fuck her. As you know, she is happily married, but I was more than willing to ruin it for you. I was certain that once she had a taste of your virility, she would become a willing participant in our fun." She paused and whispered to herself, "Okay, one more little kiss," before planting another wet kiss on my cock.

I felt my heart pound harder as her words sunk in. Nina was gorgeous, curvier than Michelle, but nowhere near how she looked now. I had visited her place during one of her grand New Year parties a few years ago when she had not been married yet, and I was a skinny runt. I remember that night because that was when I had resolved to be the 'greatest cocksman in the world'. Over the course of the year, I had become just that. My body and dick transformed near-magically over the next few months to make me irresistible to any bitch.

Pity I couldn't screw that sex bomb before she moved upstate. Hell, the only reason I chased Michelle so hard was because I knew they were friends. The idea of fucking them both was intoxicating—a dirty fantasy that kept me up at night. Ohh! I’d jacked off way too many times to thoughts of the sluts below me at the same time.

Michelle's voice cut through my haze as she laid out her plan. "Okay, a quick little suck," she told herself before giving my cock a quick, tantalising suck before pulling back reluctantly. "No more, Michelle," she whispered.

"I was going to bring her home, you know, with her… Yvonne—oh, you don't know her, do you? Poor Yvonne, freshly 'snipped' and her manhood reduced to a useless little cocklette. Damn, Adam had the only other cock that could even compare to yours. Anyway, the plan was to have you fuck me right in front of them, to put on a show so filthy and depraved, that Nina wouldn’t be able to resist joining in. I knew that once she saw and felt your magnificent cock, she wouldn’t stand a chance."

Michelle's arousal was escalating. She almost leaned down to suck my cock again but stopped herself with her body trembling to maintain control. "No, no, Michelle. No More!" she muttered, squeezing my dick hard, making me wince in pain.

"Picture it, Rick. You, pounding me senseless while Nina watches, her pussy dripping wet. And then she joins in, begging for your cock. Her tight little married cunt clenching around you as she moans like a desperate whore just like me. Just thinking about it makes me so damn horny," she confessed, her hand moving faster on my shaft.

"We would have spent the night pleasuring you, filling the room with our moans and screams. And Yvonne, with her pathetic little stub, would’ve been forced to watch, tears streaming down her face. Her stitches would be fresh and aching. Still she would crawl over, with nothing but her broken spirit, to lick up every drop of cum from Nina’s ruined pussy."

She shivered with arousal, fighting the urge. "Alright, one more suck," she muttered as she wrapped her lips around my cock once more, slurping loudly before pulling away again. "Okay, that's it, Michelle. Control yourself."

"Yvonne would have been our pet, our cum-cleaner, her once-proud cock now a laughable stump. She'd have knelt there, her eyes swollen from crying, her tongue eagerly cleaning up every mess we made. Her only purpose, beyond cleaning, would be to serve Nina as she screamed in pleasure from your brutal fucking."

"I didn’t just want to make a scene for Nina to watch. I wanted to break Yvonne’s spirit completely. I wanted her to see what a real cock could do. Leaving her with nothing but the taste of cum and the sight of her wife being thoroughly ravaged by you, Rick."

"I wanted everything for you, Rick. To make you the king of our little perverse kingdom. But no, you ran away, shattering those dreams and leaving me with nothing but memories and this rather delightful thirst for revenge."

Her voice softened, growing almost wistful. "But you know, Rick, the thought of Yvonne—Eve, Adam—being reduced to that...No it doesn’t sit well with me anymore. He...she...is extraordinary, and I'm glad Nina is willing to share. They’ve been my rock since you left, and I realise now it's good you never met them."

Who the fuck was this Yvonne, Adam person? Her constant switching between names and genders only confused me further. Was Yvonne the freshly snipped one she mentioned, or was that someone else? And who the hell was Eve? I felt my head swimming with questions, each one more baffling than the last. It was like listening to a madwoman's ramblings.

Her eyes darkened, a flicker of regret passing through. "I’m almost surprised I was willing to go that far, to use and break someone so precious. Again, it’s a real relief you never crossed paths with them. But then, you wouldn't understand the bond we share now. It's something deeper, something I didn’t have before. Good they are whole.. No, better than whole again."

She took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring as she tried to regain control. "But that's enough sentiment," she purred, her hand moving back to my throbbing shaft. "Let's get back to the pleasure, shall we?"

Her stroking became more intense as she spoke. "On Christmas Eve, you ran away, leaving me with shattered dreams and an empty bed. You took off with my car and my money, but more than that, you took off with the one cock that could truly satisfy me."

She bent lower, her breath warm against my throbbing member. "Finding another like yours has been impossible. Not even Adam, as magnificent as he is, compares," she whispered, her voice oozing with raw lust. "You were special, your dick is special, Rick. And now, I have you and, more importantly, ‘it’ right here. It's time that I act on my own resolution."

Shit! Resolution? There was something magical about those New Year's parties. No way in hell would I have transformed so much in a year if magic wasn't involved. I was certain her resolution, much like mine, was some type of magic. I needed to know what she resolved to do.
“What did you resolve?” I asked, my voice muffled by her crotch.

“Awww… look at you asking,” she cooed, her tone patronising and cruel. “I resolved to use your cock as I saw fit. To have my own little Yvonne. To have what Nina had and to have love. The good news is that I have the love situation sorted with Nina, Adam, Eve, and Yvonne. And now I'm moving with them. Isn’t that wonderful? But now that Yvonne is only part-time, we’ll need a new slutty maid. How does Yvette sound?"
Shit! Shit! Shit! Was she going to turn me into a broad? Could she even do that? I was in full-blown panic now.

"You'll make a perfect little maid, Rick," she sneered. Her eyes gleamed with twisted excitement. We'll make sure you’re the sluttiest maid. Tight little pussy, perky tits, the works. Our precious Yvette, always wet and ready, begging for more, and you'll love every bit of it.”

"HOW DOES YVETTE SOUND, RICK?" she commanded, shoving my face harder into her, cutting off my air. I was suffocating now. "Your dick seems to like it, so Yvette, it is." She declared with finality. "Just to show you how nice I am, I'll let you keep your name until you cum… Rick."
“Did you know that I come from a family of lumberjacks? Just a snip here and a snippety snip there, and poof!” she grinned like a maniac. “Ahh, Dr. Lumberjills next chop is coming up.”

"But before that... What's important is my kindness to you... your big hurrah... let’s give you that last big orgasm, yes?" She moved away, finally letting me breathe, letting me speak.

"Please, Michelle, don’t do this!" I begged, my voice cracking with terror. "I'll do anything, just don't turn me into a chick. Please, I'll be your slave, your toy, anything—just don't do this!"

“Aww, listen to you begging," she sneered. "But you know it’s too late for that." She picked up a syringe, gleaming under the surgical lights. She let me see it before she returned to jerking me off.

Her demeanour shifted suddenly as she bent down. Her lips again brushed my cockhead in a lazy, almost loving kiss. "Mmm, just another taste," she whispered to herself. Then, she took me into her mouth and let her tongue swirl around the tip. My cock twitched involuntarily, and the only noise in the room was her sucking me off.

Then, without warning, she plunged down harder, taking me all the way to the base. She gagged, her throat constricting around my shaft as she choked on it. Her head bobbed up and down, drool pooling at the corners of her mouth, her nose buried in my pubic hair. She squeezed my balls, adding to the sensory overload. She sucked harder and harder, but suddenly, as if forcing herself out of a trance, she pulled up, gasping for air.

Spit dribbled down her chin, mixing with her tears. Her face was a mess of mascara streaks, glistening spit, and nasty desire. She looked up at me, a string of her spit connecting her lips to my throbbing member.

"Oh, fuck, Rick. This is what you threw away," she said hoarsely. "Could've had this every fucking day, but now it's just your last indulgence."
She gave me a wicked smile, showing me the needle poised and ready. Her hand returned to its relentless motion on my shaft, jerking me off harder. Without breaking her rhythm, she plunged the needle into the base of my cock. A sharp sting sliced through my fear as the intense burn of the injection was immediate.

"Feel that, Rick? That's just the beginning," she sneered. She moved to my balls. She jabbed the needle into my left testicle, the sting nearly making me scream, and then did the same to my right. "Should've kept it in your pants, Rick. Too late now."

All the while, her hand kept pumping my cock even harder. As the burn spread and the horror of my situation sank in, I began to lose all sensation below. Feeling nothing more than the weight of my worst fears crashing down on me.
“Do you feel it?" she asked, her tone mocking.

"No! No! I can't feel anything! Please, Michelle, stop!" Tears streamed down my face, my panic surging to unbearable levels.
"Good... good," she purred. "Just the way I wanted it... your perfect last male orgasm... all cum, no pleasure. Not for Rick, at least, but Yvette, oh Yvette’s pussy will be a whole other story."

She continued to jerk me, now also kissing and licking my zombie dick. Still hard as a rock, yet unable to feel anything. “Don’t worry though. As you may be aware, I'm quite the generous lover. I don’t intend to run away like you did, Rick… I am a woman of my word. You will get to live with us. Our little Yvette... and never fear, sweetheart… I'm not wasteful either."

Her eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure as she spoke. "We’ll let you have your cock between your legs whenever we feel that you deserve it. Only… it will always be inside you. Imagine your cock stuffed up your own pussy, stretching you out. Maybe we'll tuck it deep into that tight little virgin ass of yours. So you can feel every inch of your own disappointment. Or perhaps between those new tits, you're going to grow, trapped between your cleavage. A long, hard reminder of the man you once were. and would never be again."

She licked the tip of my cock again, her eyes locked onto mine. "You see, Rick, it’s all about perspective. While I use your cock to fuck you, you’ll be begging for more. Know that the pleasure you once gave is the only way you will find pleasure now.”

Shit!!! Did she know that resolutions were magical? My thoughts raced, wondering if she had any inkling about it. Michelle was brilliant—sharp enough to piece together the puzzle if she had any clues. Should I tell her? Could it stop her madness?

"Please, Michelle, it's the resolution that is making you do this. It is magic! Please don't do this to me... to us," I pleaded one more time, my voice trembling. As she let the words register, her eyes flickered briefly, processing everything. For a mind as sharp as hers, this was very quick to grasp.

"Magic, huh? I suspected something along those lines... but of course, being a woman of science, Occam's razor and all that," she mused, her hand still working my shaft. "Occam's razor, Rick, it means the simplest explanation is usually the right one."

"I can understand why Nina would want to keep it a secret. Now I know why she was so insistent on helping me write the resolution. Of course, she did it only after she pieced together your history and criminal track record.”

She paused, her eyes distant for a moment. "That woman has incredible connections. Only took her two days to have a full dossier on you. Over a dozen pregnancies, three suicides, and another dozen women in sex addiction rehab. You and your magic cock really did ruin quite a lot of lives. You should think of this as rehab, but honestly, that wouldn't do it justice. This is almost a reward. Life really isn’t fair huh?"

She refocused her gaze on me, a wicked smile spreading across her face. "Those two both need to be punished for keeping these secrets, but that's more fun and games for me. Looks like I'll need exclusive use of Adam for at least a week. Hmm, two... no, three maids serving for a week... delicious.”

She refocused her gaze on me, a wicked smile spreading across her face. "I see now. You might be right about the magic, Rick, but it doesn't change anything. I've made my resolution, and there's no going back now." She leaned in closer, her eyes glittering with malice. "I look forward to introducing you to your new life, my darling slut."

"Thinking of 'Adam,' though, Nina let me borrow this for the occasion," she said. She then pulled out a massive and realistic double-ended dildo. "If I remember her instructions correctly... She told me to shove it in deep before the procedure began. There must be something magical about it."

Smirking, she lifted my butt with ease; I had no strength left to resist. She propped a cylindrical cushion beneath my lower back, positioning me just right. Taking the double-ended dildo, she sucked on it a few times, coating it with her saliva, making a show of it. Slowly, she started pushing it inside me, Inch by inch, until it was all the way in. Despite my cock and balls being numb, I could feel the intrusion.

"Good... all the way in... nice and snug," she cooed, grinning. "Lovely, isn't it?"

She then began describing her plan for my transformation. "You’ll become a short and busty little thing, just like Yvonne. Pink nipples begging to be sucked. Blonde hair to give you that whorish appeal and a cute button nose. But those green eyes? You’ll keep those, just like mine. I want you to always remember who made you."

Her voice was tinged with excitement and raw arousal. She continued, "I intend to use Nina's perfect butt as inspiration to shape yours." Round, firm, and absolutely fuckable. Every time you catch a glimpse of yourself, you’ll see her."

"And of course, with Nina pregnant, it’s important that your breasts are nice and milk-filled. Faster would be better, as we all enjoy our coffees with cream. Imagine Rick, serving us every morning, watching us pour your milk into our coffee... it’s the little things that make life sweet," she laughed, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

Her hands roamed my body as she whispered, "Yvette will be my masterpiece. My little toy. I can already picture you begging for more, desperate to please us." She licked her lips, her breath quickening. "You'll see all three women in you—Nina, Yvonne, and me. Every curve, every twist of flesh will be a tribute to us."

She gasped, reeking with arousal. "With each passing day, you'll understand that every part of your new body belongs to us. We'll use you, stretch you, and fill you in ways you can only imagine."

Then, almost dreamily, she added, "But we will also hug you and kiss you, give you loads of cuddles if you are good. Our slutty but good little girl, cherished, adored and wonderfully submissive. Imagine it Rick, being showered with affection and good old-fashioned fucking. You'll get all the sweetness and love you've never even imagined possible."

She leaned closer, her breath hot against my skin. "Your every moan, every cry, will be of joy, not pain. You’ll learn to love it Rick. and you will beg for it. You will be the most loved maid in the world... IF you behave."

"Think of my kindness as a thank you for helping me find my submissive side, Rick. I only want you to feel pleasure... and shame, but not pain. The lesson you taught me was enlightening. But now, I have the honour of giving the gift of your cock to my future master. Now that we have the magic cock addiction out of the way, I just need to find the right man or woman... actually, I think—I know for sure that I've found them both already. Fabulous huh? Not one but two masters for me."

Her hand never stopped jerking me off as she continued. "Oh, how I look forward to seeing them fuck you senseless, to watch you squirm and beg. You’ll experience a whole new kind of pleasure, Rick," she said with a twisted chuckle. "And trust me, you will be begging them to use ‘your gift’ in ways you never thought possible."

"Ohh... of course, the babies... the magic explains Nina's pregnancy... how could I have thought otherwise? Ohhhh, magic solves that problem... oooh," she gasped, her arousal palpable. "I expect to have a big family, Rick. Looks like I don’t need to store your semen anymore. It was a last resort anyway. No baby of mine would have an asshole for a dad, but I promise that our first baby will be born of your own dick... and you can be the mommy. Wonderful, isn't it?"

Her eyes gleamed with twisted joy. "Once the baby grows up, you will no longer need to be a maid... not nice for mommy to be the house help. I'm certain that Jacob can fill that role once we retire you. The magic has made everything possible, and you will be at the centre of it all. I cannot wait to see you embrace all the facets of your new identity."

Why was I able to feel the dildo? Why was it feeling so good? What the fuck was happening to me? The intrusion that should have disgusted me had me teetering on the edge of something else. My involuntary contractions around the dildo were sending spikes of pleasure up my spine.

"I never thought your dick could get harder, Rick. But, it looks very excited in anticipation of your future," she said. She started pushing and pulling, earnestly fucking me with the damn dildo. An involuntary moan escaped my lips.

"Glad to see you enjoying it, Rick. No unnecessary pain. I'm not a sadist, well, not outside the bedroom or when not influenced by magic, at least…I think." She quickened her pace, one hand on my cock and the other fucking me with the dildo harder. The pleasure was starting to build up my ass, though I could feel absolutely nothing in my cock.

"Feel that, Rick? Your new life. That's what you will be trained to respond to. Our pleasure and your humiliation," she purred, continuing her relentless assault. "You’ll be a slave to it. It's all about training that pretty little mind of yours."

My mind reeled from everything even as her sick excitement kept growing. "And don’t think about it too much Rick," she added between her own ragged gasps. "We'll make sure you never forget this. You’ll remember every moment, every touch. You will be a perfect blend of a pleasure doll and an obedient servant. You'll crave to love and worship us, just like you revelled in me worshipping you."

Her pace quickened. The dildo now had a steady rhythm while her hand continued to play with my unfeeling cock. "I'm just getting started, Rick," she hissed into my ear. "Once we’re done with you, you’ll thank me for transforming you into our perfect whore."

Her hands were relentless now. My cock, even paralysed from the anaesthesia, still stood hard. “Your lips will be plump, Rick. Puffier than mine. Perfect for wrapping around a cock, sucking like your life depends on it,” she cackled. “Men will fucking love sliding in and out of that tight, rosy gash. Those same lips that sweet-talked their way into pussy will be devoted to pleasuring whoever I ask them to.”

Each thrust of the dildo grew more brutal. My groans, beyond my control, became strained and desperate. “Hear that, Rick?” she sneered. “That voice, still hanging on to its masculinity. Don’t worry, sweetie, we’ll fix that too. Soon, your moans will be as pretty as they ought to be.” Her words dripped with malicious glee. “You won’t want to be a man ever again. No, you’ll crave this. You’ll be my desperate little slut, always eager to please.”

Her eyes burned as she kept pounding me. She moaned in her twisted bliss as she spoke, "You will learn to quiver and moan and serve like the perfect slut you are. We’ll make sure you love every second. You’ll crave for the humiliation, for the pleasure, for us."

The rhythm of her thrusts quickened, my body jerking and trembling. "That magnificent cock of yours is clearly the result of a resolution. Once I shove it in you, you’ll be hooked, just like me. You’ll crave it forever, begging for it deeper, harder. Every. Single. Time." Fuck! I was going get truly fucked.

She moved around, her bare, cum-slick pussy pressing against my face, her panties long gone. The pungent, musky scent flooded my senses. I wanted to fucking bite down, to hurt her, but it wasn’t an option; the goddamn magic ensured that. My lips parted unwillingly, my tongue slipping inside her. She gasped, her body shuddering.

"Good boy, Rick, keep that tongue busy. You’re doing so well. That’s your new flavour, sweetheart. You’re on your way to becoming my good girl. Or maybe my naughty girl? Doesn’t matter—you’ll be my obedient little bitch anyway. The only cum you’ll ever know will be from others. Isn’t that delightful? Isn’t that divine? You’ll treasure every drop, crave that salty taste, and beg for more, my perfect cum-hungry whore," she purred.

The taste of another man's cum mixed with her arousal had now coated my tongue. fuck! "Picture this, Rick," she hissed, "Yvette, ass up in the air, cheeks red and raw from countless spankings. Fingers gripping those tender hips as cock after cock plunges deep inside. Your only purpose is to whimper and beg. You’ll plead for it, crying out to be fucked harder, deeper. Feeling every brutal thrust, every inch, knowing your wonderful purpose."

She leaned back, grinding her wetness against my tongue. "Oh, another one for you, Rick," she whispered with gleeful malice. "My lovely Yvette, on your knees before a room full of ravenous cocks, each one eager for their turn. Your mouth working tirelessly, sucking and slurping, eyes wide with desperate need. String after string of cum dripping from your chin as you eagerly please every man in the room. You will be begging for more, lost in their filth."

Goddamn it, what was happening to me? Michelle was lost in her own twisted ecstasy, her voice thick with lust. The horror of her visions compounded with each lick, my mind reeling. It was a nightmarish compilation of humiliation, and I was trapped in her twisted grasp.
"Clearly, your cock loves it,” she taunted as she rammed the dildo deeper. I could feel the tension building, my body nearing betrayal.
She sensed it, too, because just before the explosion, she bent over, her mouth poised inches away as my body gave in. I came, and I came hard, an explosive mess of shame.

"Mmm, that’s it, Rick. Give it all to me," she murmured just before catching the first spurt in her mouth. I continued spewing out, a stream of white coating her greedy lips. "Let me fully enjoy your end as a man. Pity its the last time the ‘original’ will do its job. No worries though, the replacement should be just as amazing." She said between mouthfuls, even as she pinched my head to prevent the next release while she spoke. She sucked viciously, ensuring she got every last drop. I felt nothing in my cock—just the searing, throbbing spasms deep in my ass and my spine as the dildo stretched me.

The room was filled with the pungent smell of sex in the air. My cock, numb and useless, could only offer the vile pleasure she craved. I was just a broken tool in her hands, convulsing with every throb.

“Let go, Yvette,” she crooned while still toying with my withering cock. “Stop being such a ‘man’ and embrace your new self. You’re mine now.” My body convulsed, spasming uncontrollably as her every word solidified my new reality. I was drowning in shame as she continued to toy with my limp, defeated cock.

Finally, FINALLY! She moved her sodden pussy away from my face, leaving me gasping for breath. As my eyes fluttered open, I noticed her standing over me. Her mouth was bloated, bulging with cum—my cum—just like it used to be after she sucked me off.

She leaned over as if to kiss me but then pulled back with a smirk as she swallowed everything and licked her lips. “No... no, I promised only others' cum for those lips. No point in wasting something so precious and so permanently…gone,” she whispered. "Well, it's my cock now, Yvette. That was such a lovely little transfer of ownership, don’t you think?"

“Oh, and don’t worry about not making me cum,” she added, “You will have every chance to take care of me with your luscious mouth and that new tight pussy. With no balls to get in the way, performance will never be an issue. We will still enjoy your magnificent, perfect cock. Silly me, not yours anymore—mine. Veiny, uncut, and oh so perfect.”

I watched in horror as she wheeled over a metal cart laden with equipment. She made a show of putting on her gloves. She then stretched the latex over her fingers with careful motions. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I muttered, my panic skyrocketing. Each snap of the glove sent another wave of terror crashing over me.

“Semen works wonders for mood and depression. you would benefit from it after this little procedure. I’ll make sure you get plenty of it in the most fun and creative ways. Don’t want you thinking back on your days as a man. I don’t want my gorgeous new maid to be sad all the time, do I?”

Then, she took out a scalpel, her eyes filled with glee as she approached my balls with the fucking blade. "No, no, no! Fuck! Stop!" I screamed, my voice filled with terror. She paused, smirking at my panic. She quickly dropped the scalpel and reached into a drawer in the cart, pulling out a shiny O-ring gag.

With one hand, she grabbed my jaw, forcing my mouth open. Whatever drugs she had given me left me with no strength to fight. With the other hand, she strapped the gag in place, ensuring it was tight and secure. My screams were instantly muffled, reduced to futile, garbled gasps.
She was quick to return to her scalpel and bring it to my groin, her voice almost a loving whisper. “This moment is about you. Our little trade, your masculinity and everything you stole from me in return for me shaping you as I desire. A wonderful deal, isn’t it? Now stay awake and look down.”

She pressed the cold steel against my skin, her eyes alight with sadistic pleasure. “But once the cut is done, we need to open you up. If I'm right, the magic should help craft an exquisite pussy. I simply need to start the process, and the spell handles the rest.”

“Doctor's promise Yvette. You won’t feel any pain, so keep looking.” She murmured, her voice drenched in saccharine sweetness. “You need to embrace your new beginning in its entirety. Don’t look away now. Keep those eyes open. Watch as Rick is gone and Yvette is born.”
Every nerve in my body screamed in terror. But, her gentle command, almost loving, echoed in the sterile room. “Stay awake, darling. Look down. Observe every cut, every moment,” she whispered like a twisted lullaby.

She began to cut, the scalpel slicing through flesh. I watched horrified as the blood sprang forth, but her movements were calculated, each cut deliberate and methodical. Her eyes never left mine, even as I kept screaming through the gag, my voice muffled and useless.
“This,” she continued, “is the start of a beautiful journey, baby. You’ll feel every bit of it in your new self. The spell will make sure you experience every sensation. Delightfully intimate, don't you think?”

Her voice softened further. “I need you to see the joy this gives me and the joy I will give you once you embrace your future. My dear little Yvette. See how much pleasure you’re giving me. I promise to return the favour once you heal."

She continued to use the scalpel with unerring precision. Every stroke was purposeful and effective. My tears blurred my vision. But I forced myself to keep watching as the blade carved away my old self, piece by piece.

“Pay attention darling,” she cooed. “This is the last time your cock will be attached to you. Your masculinity will be gone in a moment. It’s amazing how a few cuts can redefine everything, isn't it? We’ll remove it in one clean piece. Then, into the nutrient medium it goes and off to my bionics guy. The spell will weave its magic, ensuring it functions perfectly for its new purpose.”

She paused, savouring the moment. “If I’ve figured out the magic correctly, the bionics guy won't think twice or bother telling anyone about how strange it is to be working on a dismembered dick. Everything will fall into place as if it were the most natural thing in the world."

She worked fast, her hands steady as she kept dabbing away the blood. Her delight was evident, yet she was an immaculate professional. I kept screaming in horror, my mind barely holding onto its sanity.

“But we’re not done yet,” she continued. “Don’t stop looking. Once the removal is complete, the fun begins. The magic should guide me as I craft your exquisite new pussy. If Yvonne is anything to go by, Yvette will be nothing short of breathtaking.”

“Feel that, Yvette?” she whispered with cruel affection. “That’s the past being stripped away, making room for the future. Our future.”
Her scalpel worked the final bits of flesh holding my manhood in place. One final, agonising cut and it was done. My cock and balls came free, held together by some twisted bit of flesh she'd retrieved.

She held up the severed part, the damn thing dripping with blood, yet it seemed to stay together. I felt bile rising, my mind refusing to accept what my eyes were seeing. She looked at me, “Look at that, darling. See how beautiful you're becoming. This is your wonderful gift to me. My recompense for everything Rick took from me.”

She brought the severed cock to her lips, giving it a wet, mocking kiss. My horror peaked, and all I could do was continue screaming into the gag. My voice, too, like my manhood, had been taken from me.

She turned back to the tray. She carefully placed the severed member into a glass tank of clear liquid. The clear fluid swirled around my amputated cock, suspending it like a display piece. Then she returned to my crotch, scalpel in hand.

“Shh, relax, Yvette,” she cooed, watching my silent torment. “This is just the beginning. Now we move on to the next phase.”
The cold steel bit into my skin as I continued to scream. My manhood had been stolen from me, and now she was turning me into a woman.

“Look Yvette. This is where your new life begins,” she whispered with malicious delight. “I want you to experience every moment, see the birth of your true self. Keep those eyes open."

Each cut was precise, stripping away every last piece of Rick. “Your new pussy will be perfect—pink, juicy, and tight. Hungry for attention, ready to be filled, and always so eager,” she hissed. “Every nerve will sing. Every touch will feel blissful.”

Her voice oozed with her perverse delight. “One day, you’ll be pregnant, our babies coming out of this exquisite pussy. It's your destiny now—to be used, to give life.”

My body convulsed, but I was forced to stay aware. “Keep looking. Don’t close your eyes. Watch the birth of Yvette.”

My vision blurred, but she kept forcing me to stay awake. “Oooh, the magic is real! It's almost as if new flesh is forming where I need it. You should heal in a few days. We will use that time to work on other parts.” She cooed, her delight palpable. “Don’t stop watching, yes. Oooh, pink skin, even better.”

"Yvette, you are going to be wonderfully naive and simple by the time I’m, finished. Why bother impressing anyone with what's between your ears when you’ll have far more enticing assets below?" Michelle purred.

She giggled with sadistic delight before continuing, "Mmm... that magnificent fucking cock of yours is now all mine. No need to try and work your way into my panties anymore. No balls, no problem huh?”

"Any special requests? Ohhh... you're probably not in the right state of mind now, sweetie. Let me think... how about a tattoo? How does 'Doctor's Delight’ sound? Or perhaps 'Cut and Compliant?' Maybe even 'I Once Had a Magic dick, Now I Tend to Yours?'"

She took a deep breath before continuing “Those luscious lips... ahhh... that wonderfully tight pussy... your puckered little hole... oh my, looks like I'll be doing all the work now. And you'll love every second of it, won't you sweetheart?"

---TO BE CONTINUED---

Authors Note:
Today we learn about Queen Orphidora, a compassionate yet formidable leader who rose from slave to sovereign. Renowned for her unpretentious acts of kindness and strategic brilliance, it was she who laid the foundation for the world’s most dynamic transformation. As always, your thoughts and advice will be cherished as I strive to share more stories of my world with you.

---

Chapter 2: Guardian of the Abandoned

Aeons before the present age and before the birth of the formidable Veil, the world had been plunged into the last great war, the Eternium Conflict.

Despite its consequences, the origins of this monumental strife have been swallowed by history, save for a hidden parchment lying in an unmarked grave—a secret document that, to this day, eludes the knowledge of the temple, its mysteries shared only with the earth. That is a tale best reserved for another time.

And like those in your realm, our world, too, has not been spared the cruel decimation of life so often seen in such tragedies. The bloodshed of the Eternium Conflict was unparalleled, so profound that Artemitra herself would descend upon the mortal plain as an Avatar in anticipation of their need for her.

Born as the child of a slave and raised in servitude until she became the leader of the rebellion of the slaves, she would ascend in rank and greatness, becoming Queen of the kingdom of Eleuvanya. In the heart of the wild, a small yet flourishing sanctuary offering solace and refuge to all who ventured within its welcoming embrace. Known in her mortal form as Queen Orphidora, she had garnered such immense love and devotion from her people that among all the rulers of Kalyphos, Only she could walk freely among the masses without the need for guards or disguises.

Her kindness was legendary, known for never holding back even when it required great personal sacrifice. No task was beneath her willing hands. She would work in infirmaries, tending to the sick with a gentle touch. In schools, she would guide children’s lessons with endless patience. In kitchens that fed the poor, she would toil without complaint, ensuring every hungry soul received nourishment.

Little would it surprise her subjects that their queen, despite her myriad responsibilities, would be seated on her throne each day, addressing the realm's gravest challenges and needs. Yet, of greater wonder perhaps, was that come evening, she could be found enjoying many a humble drink amidst boisterous company in a modest tavern.

Do visit her land, dear reader, for you might chance upon her lending a hand as a barmaid in the tavern where you rest, playfully teasing all present as she flaunts her curves. And if you fancy a visit to any of Eleuvanya's thriving local theatres, look closely; you may witness her gracing the stage, performing minor roles or appearing as an extra in the opening or closing acts of one of their many wonderful productions.

Orphidora, 'Guardian of the Abandoned,' would earn her title not only among her subjects but also among the beasts of her kingdom. One afternoon, an injured Fyrdrake crashed near an orphanage, spreading fear and panic among the people, many of whom would call for its death. However, the queen saw only an injured creature in pain. She would approach the Fyrdrake with compassion in her heart, raising both her hands to show she meant no harm.

As she drew nearer, the terrified beast would breathe fire, burning her clothes away and scorching her skin. Even the most powerful of her magical protections would not withstand its flames. Despite the excruciating pain visible in her eyes and etched into her flesh, Orphidora would persist. Even as her skin would blister, and her clothes would be reduced to ashes, she would finally reach the Fyrdrake and place her hand gently on it, soothing it with her touch.

The beast, still fearful and confused, would continue to breathe fire, but Orphidora would not withdraw. She would endure the pain; her injuries and shameful state would be inconsequential to her. The only things that would matter were her gentle touch and soothing presence, gradually calming the Fyrdrake until it finally allowed her to stay.

Over the following weeks, Orphidora would tirelessly nurse the Fyrdrake back to health, gradually breaking past the creature’s fear and distrust. As the Fyrdrake's strength would return, a bond would form between them. The proud creature, A symbol of untamed power and ferocity, would come to see Orphidora as a master deserving of its loyalty. In an extraordinary act of devotion never seen before, the Fyrdrake would willingly bow to her, acknowledging her as its master—a gesture unprecedented for such a majestic and independent being.

From that day forth, Orphidora would be known as ‘Orayeva Drakana,’ Queen of the Drakes, to her enemies. In battle, she would soar into the skies atop her loyal mount, Skarlath, raining hellfire upon her foes. Leading a fleet of Fyrdrakes who, having witnessed the exceptional care she bestowed upon Skarlath, chose to follow her, her enemies would tremble and quake at the sight of her unmatched flying army.

Much akin to her benevolence, her fury was equally renowned and feared. The tale of her merciless rage when traitors conspired against the kingdom would be whispered with trepidation and proclaimed with pride both within her kingdom and without.

Her wrath spared none. Leading the charge against their stronghold with but a small detachment of elite guards, she would decimate a significant army, brandishing a blade in one hand and fire in her eyes. Those who bore witness to her fury knew she was a sovereign to be both dreaded and venerated.

Behold her unparalleled beauty: her long, golden locks cascading like a waterfall of sunlight, her piercing, clear blue eyes that mirrored the heavens, and a sun-kissed face so impeccably proportioned it seemed the work of divine craftsmanship, which it truly was.

Even when she spoke with only a glance, her singular gesture could rival the depth of a tale performed by countless thespians. She alone could convey the nuance of a thousand unspoken emotions in an instant. Her dimples could melt the sternest heart, and her smile so radiant that it could enchant even the most fortified souls in a mere moment.

Standing over six feet tall, her presence was as commanding as it was serene. With her lithe yet powerful musculature and the grace of an elite warrior, her physique was a marvel of nature honed to lethal perfection.

Her breasts, neither overly ample nor too modest, were firm and proud, often drawing attention through understated gestures or more direct displays, inciting many a man’s thoughts to rise unbidden. Her perfect behind, noteworthy and rivalling nature’s most awe-inspiring creations, would be often showcased with deliberate choice, evoking desires that kept many a lonely hand busy long into the night.

As the war drew nearer, she offered no soldiers to any side yet chose to align herself as a strategic advisor to Lumoria. Much like the ancient tales of your world, she elected to be the wisdom that guides the hand of valour.

Orphidora, Avatar of Artemitra, did not join the fray with sword and shield but instead stood by her chosen champion, Aelorian. Their bond, much like sacred partnerships in the legends of your world, flourished in secrecy. He knew her divine nature, while others remained blissfully ignorant.

Their journey commenced when Aelorian was but a lad of fourteen, diligently aiding his mother at their humble food stall. The goddess first glanced upon him vending home-cooked Ellurian Delights at the market —a sumptuous, savoury pastry filled with spiced meats and herbs, his mother’s speciality.

She saw in him the promise of her future champion and, with his mother’s blessing, commenced his rigorous tutelage. Gruelling hours were spent training the boy in diverse martial disciplines, the arts of diplomacy, the understanding of the sciences, and an appreciation for art. Most importantly, she employed every means, some reasonable and others not, to sculpt him into a paragon of virtue and principles.

One evening at home, when he was seventeen, Artemitra entered his room to find him entangled in the throes of self-pleasure, groaning her name repeatedly. Rather than reacting in outrage, she saw it as an opportunity for benevolent counsel.

She spoke softly of the nature of infatuation and love, assuring him that he needed to feel no shame from such desires. She even encouraged the young man to explore his fantasies; however, she urged him to leave room in his heart, for he would one day find someone truly worthy of his love.

In many ways, Artemitra assumed the role of young Aelorian’s missing father. She joined him and his mother for innumerable meals, offering a helpful hand or a listening ear during their most trying times. It was only thanks to her presence that his mother’s latent brilliance would come to the fore.

It was thanks to Queen Orphidora that he discovered that his mother was not merely a tradeswoman; she possessed hidden wisdom and a keen intellect, relegated to obscurity by the harsh circumstances that cast her into the streets as a young mother. In the absence of support, she had done all she could to ensure his well-being. Yet, in the enriching company of the Queen, her once-dormant qualities glowed resplendently.

Upon witnessing his mother’s transformation, a gnawing sense of guilt troubled him; he felt his birth had impeded her early potential. One evening, overcome by these thoughts, he expressed them during dinner in front of both women. His mother tenderly kissed his forehead and said, "You, my dear child, are the reason I have been blessed with the cherished friendship of my beloved Orphidora." The Queen herself responded to this with only a radiant smile and a heartfelt embrace among them.

"It was then that he realised the depth of his mother's relationship with the Queen. Her Majesty regarded his mother as her equal in many ways, a respect so profound that even he, with all his familiarity, could not call her by just her name. So significant was the esteem Orphidora held for his mother that, on more than one occasion, he witnessed Her Majesty seeking his mother's counsel. He even swore that he had seen her highness, more than once, leaning on his mother's shoulders as they sat together, silent tears streaming down their cheeks."

A year hence, on the eve of war, the Queen summoned him to her chambers to reveal her true identity. He would ride forth as her chosen champion, embodying her strength in mortal form, while she would command from the council of advisors. Theirs would be the partnership that would orchestrate the end of the conflict.

As they prepared to part, his mother’s eyes brimmed with tears, but the goddess embraced her dearly. The champion knew that even as they parted, they conversed only through their eyes, exchanging unspoken words of demands and promises of protection.

Several months had since passed, and the conflict steadily tilted in favour of their champion. Yet a formidable thorn from Umbra Terra remained: their general, an incredible mind, a masterful tactician, and a deceitful adversary who was relentless in his enmity. It was he that posed the greatest threat to the Lumorians. Had it not been for the goddess herself working tirelessly against him, it was certain that this war would have been long lost.

One evening as the war was nearing its end. Sitting in the war tent by their side of the battlefield, the champion declared, “Goddess! I am fortunate to be your most devoted follower, for none could be more blessed than having you by their side.” Hearing his words, Artemitra laughed and responded, “Oh, my lovely champion, blessed you may be,” she paused to smile before continuing, “but you are certainly not my most devoted follower or even my disciple.”

“Oh, my goddess! It’s agony to hear such words!” Aelorian cried out, his heart aching. “Tell me, who is this blessed soul whose dedication surpasses even mine?”

The goddess's smile twisted into a knowing smirk as she answered, “Not one but two, my champion. The first is your mother, and the other, bearing even greater devotion, is General Thalor from Umbra Terra, who is truly my greatest follower.”

Aelorian looked at her in shock. “Surely, you jest. How can my mother, who does not even know your true form, and the other, a man infamous for deceit and treachery, be greater adherents than I am? Thalor is a man who lacks virtue, stands against you, and only thinks of you as mortal. How could he be your greatest disciple?”

With a twinkle in her eyes, she replied, “My dear Aelorian. Let me ask you: Do you think of me when you eat? When you are with your siblings, is it me, you ponder? Do you think of me while in the throes of passion with your lovers? Do you consider me as you rest? Do I cross your mind when you... relieve yourself?”

“While you are a fervent devout, your mind is not always upon me,” Artemitra noted, prompting Aelorian to nod in acknowledgement.
“It’s true, goddess. No one could maintain such single-minded focus,” he admitted.

“Ah, my champion, that is where your understanding of devotion falls woefully short,” she responded, her tone carrying a hint of reproach.
Her face softened into a wistful smile as she continued to speak.

“Let us speak of your mother first. She has entrusted her most treasured possession to me and never allows a moment to pass without thinking of you—and by extension, myself. She cares for my well-being as deeply as she does for yours. Every morning, she rises and labours throughout the day with thoughts of her son and her dearest friend in her heart. Even now, she dreams of the humble feast she will prepare for us both upon our return.”

Her smile brightened as she continued, "You know I often seek her counsel, for she is the sole mortal who regards me not as a goddess or queen, but as a beloved friend and equal. Possessed of a mind sharper even than the general’s, were it not for the bonds that constrained her hands..." The goddess paused, allowing the unspoken thought to linger before continuing, "she might have even taken on the mantle of my role in this great war."

Artemitra’s eyes softened further as she spoke, "She truly desires for the man she cherishes above all others—you—to find your own love, even if it means you might leave her in her twilight years for the embrace of your own family. Furthermore,"—Artemitra’s smile broadened—"she wishes for my happiness and a mate of my own, that I may, in time, cease meddling in your affairs and grant you the peace you deserve."

The champion acknowledged the truth in her words with a nod and smile. This was a defeat he was happy to concede. Every time his mother bested him, he was only glad for her glorious victory. He would challenge her to her titles, as every child should their parents. But he would gladly let her tend to his wounded pride with her kindness each time he failed.

Though the champion Aelorian he may be today, he would always be the son of Lysara. She was a peasant woman, stall owner, incredible cook, tough teacher, and, most importantly, the greatest mother one could have. Then, his thoughts turned bitter. "Goddess, my mother, I understand; she is a woman almost as magnificent as you and certainly worthy of that title. But why him? What penance has that vile demon performed to be bestowed with that most blessed of honours?"

The goddess leaned back against the tent canvas and mused to herself quietly, "Almost as magnificent?... if only," before focusing her gaze upon the champion. “Thalor, notwithstanding his myriad flaws, is utterly consumed by the desire to vanquish me. Each of his thoughts revolves around me, from the first light of dawn to the final flicker of consciousness. Whether in the throes of strategy, the solace of his chambers, or the midst of revelry, his mind remains ever upon me.”

"His thoughts incessantly revolve around me with unwavering focus. My dear Thalor's mind is like an unyielding tempest, always centred on my downfall, regardless of what he is doing or where he is. His misguided devotion is comprehensive and all-consuming."

She took a moment to gaze into the distance before she spoke further, "Even now, he... No, she suffers sleepless nights, convinced that my mastery in manipulation stems from a past marred by slavery in a sadist’s harem during my younger days. Every night, she secretly and willingly transforms into a slave, stripped of her male strength and powers, forced to serve the very soldiers she commands by day."
"Even as we speak, she is being broken, her spirit writhing under the dominance of two brutes who force her into submission. Within the confines of a tattered war tent—its canvas walls bearing the stains of war and the stench of death—she hangs suspended, her limbs cruelly bound, rendering her utterly defenceless."

Artemitra leaned back further as she continued, ”'Her slender, fragile form glistens with sweat, each droplet tracing a lamentable journey across her delicate countenance. The men—foul and ungainly, their hair a tangled mess of filth—inflict their vile torment upon her. One ravages her from behind with merciless force, while the other forces his odious member into her mouth, his putrid breath mingling with the stifled sounds of her muffled despair.”

The champion could hear Artemitra's breath quicken as she continued, "Drool drips down her chin as she stifles and chokes on the filthy member stuffing her mouth, her head bobbing in forced rhythm. Her body bears the marks of their cruelty—welts rise on her skin where the ropes dig in."

For a moment, Artemitra bit her lip, her eyes fluttering with an unwelcome mix of arousal and dark delight. "Suspended between them, her large breasts sway with each thrust, their movements a mesmerising contrast to her small frame. Her nipples, dark, large, and inviting, are distended from the grotesque abuse they suffer at their hands."

A faint yet unmistakable edge of irritation tinged her voice as she continued, "Much like I did, she endeavours to subvert those of greater might, grappling for control with scant resources at her command. With every desperate effort, she strives to replicate the grandeur of my feats. And given the luxury of time, she might indeed ascend to become an exemplar beyond all mortals."

Her tone shifted, becoming darker. "Yet, time is a privilege I shall not extend to her. Her heart yearns to ascend to the divine sphere, oblivious to the true nature of her actions. With each passing day, she inches ever closer. That is a journey I cannot permit to reach its culmination—at least not in her current state."

The goddess drew a deep breath, her eyes rolling back slightly as she paused in what appeared to be the early stages of rapture. "Risking eternal entrapment in the form of a slave by possible pregnancy... mmm... yes, I can feel her emotions when she thinks of me. No need to hide my pleasure now," she said, pausing to lick her lips as her eyes glazed over with ecstasy from the sensations coursing through her.

Aelorian grew concerned as he listened to the goddess speak in such a confounding manner. Though another's folly was not his concern, he could not ignore the inconsistency in her words, for this was Thalor, a near intellectual equal to the goddess herself. With this in mind, he spoke up, "Thalor is a truly formidable intellect. What could compel a man of his calibre to engage in such irrational endeavours?"

Artemitra's eyes twinkled with an almost playful secret as she replied, "Ah, my inquisitive champion. A mind as sharp as Thalor's requires more than mere whispers of legend and does not bend easily to hearsay. What compelled him was the tapestry of facts he stumbled upon during his relentless inquiries. Irrefutable evidence that was meticulously woven by my own design.”

“He uncovered truths I desired him to unveil. What he had in his hands was a well-documented history that laid out the facts as clear as the brightest of days. However improbable, my exalted status as master manipulator was birthed from a life of humiliation, enslavement, and repeatedly reversing the worst of circumstances. His deductions are almost perfectly accurate because I orchestrated them to be so."

She paused, allowing a slow smile to curl her lips. "Yet, even in his brilliance, his understanding remains but a half-truth. Indeed, Orphidora did live the life he envisions for he has witnessed far more than mere glimpses of her past. Ironically, it is his deep well of misused empathy that allowed him to feel the sufferings and triumphs that shaped her greatness. However, he remains oblivious to two crucial details.”

“The first is that she is far more than merely Orphidora; she is I, with the very essence of reality subject to her whims, able to craft such a life and legend even while abiding by your mortal constraints.“

Her smile lingered as she allowed the champion to grasp the full depth of her statement. “Second, even I received aid; The rebellion's flame was not lit by me, nor was I its instigator. Rather, I was the chosen beacon to bear it onward. Ask me not for the tale of the one who chose me as their champion. It is not mine to recount. Should they desire it, the truth shall be revealed in due course; but until that time, it is theirs alone to unveil.”

“Consequentially, Thalor, for all his brilliance, navigates the web of my design, never grasping the full extent of his own deceit."

Her breath quickened, tinged with the heat of growing arousal, as she continued, "Yes, my beloved champion, even now, she contemplates me—wondering how I evaded my fate, the arcane skills that shaped my success. Even as she is set upon by one revolting man, her body impaled, while gagging on the other's unwashed shaft, she meticulously persists in plotting my downfall, utterly unaware that she serves the very goddess she despises. Ohhh, yes... this form of worship is indeed sublime, stroking both my heart and my utterly drenched loins."

Slowly, she slid her robe aside, revealing her flawless womanhood, pink, glistening, and inviting. Just a small tuft of hair adorned her most intimate region, exquisitely formed and perfect, like a hidden groove carved between her legs. She brought a finger to her lips, licking it with languor and savouring the sensation before guiding it to her dripping seam.

"Tell me, hero, are you capable of such depth in your worship? Could you consign every thought to me, even beyond the ravages of war? I know beyond doubt that she would. Even despite the inescapable fact that she will soon be permanently confined to her new diminutive form."
Her breathing grew ragged, each exhale laden with dark delight.

With deliberate slowness, she brought her finger to her soaking womanhood, her gaze never wavering from the incredulous hero. As her fingers parted her folds, they seemed to swallow it eagerly. Her back arched involuntarily; her body responded instinctively to the exquisite sensation. Her eyes fluttered, rolling back further now, as waves of pleasure coursed through her.

"What if I told you," Artemitra continued, her voice almost merciless in its pleasure, "that tonight, she will become irrevocably trapped by her own body? The Elixir of Metamorphosis was tailored to prevent her pregnancy, but I ensured the Moonshade Herb was secretly intercepted and replaced with a deceptively similar yet entirely ineffective counterpart."

Artemitra's fingers delved deeper. "The moment she realises that life has taken root within her womb, she will weep in agony, feeling bound and betrayed by what she believed to be her safeguard. Ha! The irony of employing that which is thought impotent yet bearing such potent consequences is not lost on me.”

Aelorian shifted uncomfortably, his unease growing with each of Artemitra's words. "Goddess, this is unlike you. The kindness I have always revered—where is it now?" Artemitra’s laughter filled the tent as she almost sneered in response, "Oh, dear champion, you know so little of what I truly am."

- Continued in Chapter 3 -

Author's note
Aelorian is confronted by the harrowing tale of Artemitra’s ruthless vengeance and her perverse delight in orchestrating torment for her enemies, particularly those who dare defy her. Does mortal valour stand even the smallest chance against divine malevolence? As always, this humble scribe awaits your thoughts and reflections regarding this unsettling but necessary journey through the goddess' darker domains.

---

Chapter 3: The Champion’s Despair

"Beginning tomorrow," Artemitra's finger began to move with increasing fervour, "As the tides of fate shift under my orchestration, the mighty general, Thalor, shall vanish without a trace. And in his absence, his troops would be plunged into utter disarray, thus sealing their swift and inevitable defeat."

Her breathing deepened as she continued, "She will be among the captives, her body subjected to heinous abuses. Imagine, if you will, her exquisite form partially ruined by the cruel hands of destiny I designed for her."

Her voice was almost a dark purr now. "Between now and that day, there would be one particularly dreadful incident as her captors’ vile desires would reach their peak. She would be subjected to a most heinous act of violation. Her soul ablaze with fury, she would seize a moment of opportunity. She would bite down with all her might upon her rapist's filthy appendage, severing it. Her tormentor's screams of agony would reverberate through the air, mingling with the sound of his blood splattering upon the ground."

She took a slow, deep breath, almost relishing what she was about to say next. "But such an act of rebellion would not go unpunished. In retribution, her captors would drag her broken form in front of others to witness her grand humiliation. Bound and restrained, her tongue would be severed in a grotesque spectacle meant as both punishment and deterrence for others."

"Yet, just before the final degradation of having her eyes gouged out, she would be narrowly rescued. Though her body would bear the indelible scars of her suffering, and despite her mutilation, her spirit would never falter under the weight of her torment."

With eyes half-closed in ecstasy, Artemitra said, "Even in her wretched state, her identity will remain concealed. You will pass by her without so much as a glance, unaware of the rage that fills her eyes as she burns with the memories of her past. Only I, her eternal tormentor, will recognise those eyes, aflame with unquenchable fury."

Her pleasure continued to mount as her tone took on the hue of perverse venom. "And then, in her anguish, she will bear witness to the grim execution of Drusilla the Ruthless. Thalor's pitiless and brutal commander, known for taking many a thousand heads, shall meet her end in the most ignominious manner—beheaded in the presence of this wretched slave.”

Her poison thickened. “The severed head will roll and land before her, forcing her to stare into the lifeless eyes of her once invincible commander. She shall scream in horror, yet no one will understand her mutilated cries. Her agony will be known only to me, even as I pretend ignorance of her true identity. But she will know for certain that I am fully aware."

"Thalor, the pitiful, mute slave," Artemitra's voice now pure venom as her finger moved more fervently, "will then be consigned to one of my homes for destitute women—a desolate place meant for rehabilitation but, in reality, a destination where dreams wither, and despair festers. Among all these lamentable havens, she will be sent to the most sorrowful of them all. It will be a dwelling saturated with unrelenting misery, where hope hangs like a tattered shroud but just out of reach. There, she will be bestowed an ugly name, as a mockery—‘The Fallen Wretch’. She will become an anonymous soul, presumed to have lost her memories within the maelstrom of her plight."

Her finger slid deeper even as she persisted. "Even amongst the other rescued slaves, her existence would be the most shameful. Heavy with child, voiceless, wounds festering, and the youngest among them, she'd be a haunting figure of misery. Each day in that forsaken refuge, she would be a living canvas of the brutality that she would have endured."

She was nearly gasping with demonic glee now. "Her pregnancy would unfold not as a natural miracle but as a relentless curse. Every day would be a torment, her magic-crafted body trying to expel the life within her, battling against the indomitable will of the unborn child. The infant, though unconscious, would possess an innate strength, fighting back against its host, causing her ceaseless pain."

She thrust deeper and harder, allowing her essence to drip down her thighs. "Yet she will not give up," she gasped harder, her finger working even more feverishly. "Not once will she contemplate escape through death. Burning with unquenchable rage, she will try to kill the child within her womb while still trying to preserve her life. Oh, yes, she will claw at her belly, swallow select poisons, and even try to fashion crude implements to end it. But every time, as if touched by divine intervention, someone would discover her intentions and stop her just in the nick of time. As she should, she will suspect my hand in every thwarted attempt."

Her words were punctuated by moans of pleasure even as she spoke. "Desperate and consumed by hatred, she will know that my influence pervades her every waking moment. With my name spoken by all and living within my shelter, all that surrounds her will serve as a constant reminder that her suffering is by my design."

The champion, standing in utter horror, broke his silence. "Goddess, surely this cannot be right. The cruelty you would impose upon the general defies all bounds of justice. It is a monstrous transgression of all morality."

Artemitra's eyes gleamed with malice and disdain as she responded, her voice dripping with cruel mockery. "Right or wrong, my dear champion, is a matter of perspective. Who art thou to judge the scales of justice when I hold the universe in my hand?" Her finger now moved even more hurriedly as the slick sound of her arousal mingled with her mocking laughter. “You speak of cruelty and monstrosity as if they were foreign concepts to my nature. Have you learned nothing? My justice dispensed... is as divine as the pleasure I'm taking in recounting this tale."

"She will be forced to birth this child. Sickly and frail, they would have to cleave open her belly in a novel treatment never before performed. Ironic indeed, this very procedure, which shall save the lives of many women in future, shall first be performed upon one who once walked as a man." Artemitra hissed, her breath hitching as her finger plunged deeper. "She would endure the torment without the solace of magic or medicinal herbs, for such measures would be deemed too perilous in this unprecedented surgery. Her ghastly wails would reverberate as they draw the child from her womb, the infant's tenacity would have indeed exacted a dire and dreadful price."

"Her breasts would be devoid of milk, and for the first time, as she bears the infant in her arms, she would see the life she sought to slay within her womb. At that moment, she would be overwhelmed by a different kind of regret—one not born of hatred but of profound sorrow for her inability to provide even the simplest sustenance to a helpless babe," she let that statement sink in, her eyes rolling back fully as her voice darkened further.

"Her first real tear as a woman would fall from her eyes, a tear born of her powerlessness. The grand and powerful general, reduced to utterly nothing in the face of an innocent's meagre need. And even in that moment of despair, with regret stemming from a place beyond animosity, I would still linger in the recesses of her mind."

"A fellow slave, a recent mother herself, would offer to feed the newborn," Artemitra moaned, her finger delving ever more fervently. "As the infant latches onto the stranger's breast, she would feel true gratitude for the first time in her wretched life. And yet, her thoughts will never stray far from me."

"As her body begins to heal from being torn open, several other women—each a fellow victim of indescribable trauma—would offer their aid," she gasped, her demented pleasure heightening with each word. "For the first time, she would learn of true kindness. Yet even in that newfound warmth, her heart would steadfastly yearn for vengeance."

"As her strength returns, she would be asked to assist the other women, tending to their wounds and showing kindness," Artemitra continued, her finger feverishly pounding with her hellish desire. "Though she would struggle at first, it would soon become second nature to her. Even as she learns to nurture, her every thought would be consumed with the desire to rend me asunder."

"Even as a bond begins to form between her and the woman who nourished her child, one fateful night, an escapee would find his way to the haven and attempt to violate her saviour," she stated through her truly vile moans.

"Roused by her companion’s stifled screams, she would attempt to intervene but would be forced to bear witness as the woman who aided her would be murdered before her eyes. She would try to save the infant—another's child—only to fail and suffer a shattered knee and a blade to her shoulder. That day, she would learn the true meaning of futile sacrifices." Artemitra's breath quickened with malicious delight. "As ever, she would intuitively recognise that I had orchestrated that harrowing ordeal, strengthening her eternal vow of vengeance."

At this point, the champion could bear no more. Falling to his knees, tears streaming down his face, he pleaded, "Please, goddess, I beg you, stop this cruelty! Spare them from this torment!"

Artemitra's gaze darkened with sadistic pleasure as she plunged a second finger into her drenched womanhood, gasping with ungodly delight. "YOU WILL LISTEN!" she commanded, her eyes boring into his with merciless intensity. Aelorian froze, unable to move. He understood the depth of her power and her insatiable cruelty.

"The once proud general's nipples would finally swell with milk that very night as if her body had cruelly reserved its duty for that twisted moment." She shifted, widening her legs with deliberate slowness, savouring every wicked sensation. "She would hold her crying child to her breast, tears streaming down, so filled with pain they might as well be tears of blood. That night, beneath the crushing weight of her agony, she’d vow to shatter me as thoroughly as I had shattered her."

With a sudden motion, Artemitra ripped open one side of her clothing, exposing her firm breast, her pink nipple almost profanely hard. "Mute and crippled, yet her resolve for vengeance would remain unbroken," she continued, her breath now screaming arousal. "But her thirst for retribution would be tempered by her need to care for her child and tend to those around her. She would learn the virtue of patience on that cursed day." Artemitra's legs spread further, her movements becoming more urgent as she pinched her hardened nipple, moaning obscenely.

"More than a year would pass as she would dedicate herself to nourishing her ailing child while also aiding others," Artemitra's voice quivered, matching the quickening pace of her fingers, which delved deep between her legs, two digits working eagerly. "But the child would only grow more sick with each passing day. For the first time, despite her hate for me, she would pray for my assistance. On that day, she would learn the depth of true love."

Her fingers intensified their rhythm, moving with unrestrained fervour now. The goddess, nay, the monstrous fiend’s body quivered with the relentless waves of pleasure cascading through her. "Do you like what you see, my handsome champion?" she taunted the frozen and terrified man, her voice a blend of mockery and lust.

"And assistance I would grant in the forms of whispers of a healer who might save her child, though the healer would be distant. She would entreat any soul to bear her child to this healer, but her cries would wither into the void.“ She drew her slick fingers briefly to her swollen nipple, anointing it with her own fluids, before plunging them hurriedly back within herself. “Ah, how savagely poetic—a mute pleading for mercy, answered only by the deafening silence of the indifferent."

"At last, she would receive word that the healer would see her child. However, while being escorted, they would be set upon by bandits," her fingers moved frantically now, matching the intensity of her recounting. "She would try to fight and protect her child but would be shoved hard, causing the infant to fall to the ground, blood pooling around its tiny head as it lies dying."

Artemitra’s body quaked violently, her fingers delving deeper with unrestrained fervour. "In that moment of unparalleled agony, as she clings to her dying baby, wailing for mercy and aid. That one time that she does not think of me," the goddess’s voice transformed into a cruel flourish. " At that very moment, I will grace her with my presence." Her sadistic pleasure was entirely tangible now, manifesting in every sound that escaped her lips and every action of her fingers.

Aelorian, now drowning in tears, was utterly convinced of her malevolence. A desperate need for survival had seized him. He knew he must escape now to seek any means to stop her. ‘She HAD to be stopped!’ Seeing his turmoil, though, Artemitra looked at him knowingly and said, "Ah, splendid. Harness that emotion. It shall hold no advantage for you, but it will be of considerable use to me."

Her voice grew even thicker, "I would present her with a choice: she could reclaim her original form and freedom, yet forsake all knowledge of me, or remain in her current state, enduring untold tragedies for twenty years. Only then would I divulge the secrets of my power, sufficient knowledge to help quench her desire for vengeance."

Her voice did not waver, "Instead, she would plead for her child, yet I would offer no kindness. Staring into her eyes, I would lie without a shred of remorse that these were the only choices offered to her. I would openly declare that the infant cannot be saved. No words of comfort would pass my lips, only venomous scorn, as I revel in her torment, letting her witness my ecstasy radiating from her despair." The goddess’s breathing became erratic, her fingers working feverishly as she indulged further in her cruel delight.

"Surely, you would not, I beg of you," gasped the Champion in even greater horror, witnessing the goddess he had adored transform into a demon in the throes of unholy bliss. He realised, then, that mortal virtue served as his standard, not the divine whim. Raising his voice, he cried out, "Promises extracted under false pretences hold no honour! Choices coerced through deceit are rendered void! Even you must understand this. I swear, upon all that is sacred, recompense shall be exacted for such cruelty."

The goddess's laughter filled the tent, dripping with scorn. "Your values, mortal, carry no weight in the presence of divinity. I am the weaver of fates, the orchestrator of destinies. To assume you could bind me with your mortal 'values' is the epitome of folly." She paused, a smile devoid of warmth touching her lips. "Your words are but fleeting whispers against the endless grandeur of my being."

She thrust her fingers even deeper as her ever-darkening voice bridged over her pleasure, "This is the power you stand against, dear Aelorian—an unyielding tide of inevitability shaped by divine will." Her actions matched the depth of her words as she continued, her voice dripping with malevolence, "Imagine, champion, the agonising choice that would consume her thoughts. The turmoil, the despair, all the while knowing her child's demise serves the greater design... my design."

Her rhythm intensified, her movements fluid and perfectly aligned with the writhing horror in Aelorian’s heart. "Could you truly expect mercy from a goddess who crafted her narrative from the darkest threads of tragedy? My dear champion, your hope is as futile as your tears."
Aelorian knelt in despair, each cruel revelation tearing at the fabric of his faith. "I cannot let this stand," he whispered brokenly. "I will either protect the flicker of goodness that may still dwell within you or meet my end standing against you."

Artemitra’s eyes gleamed as her laughter echoed within the tent, "Ha! Protect my virtue, you say? How delightfully naive. If such is your aim, then steel yourself, my resilient little champion, for you now tread upon paths fraught with unimaginable peril. Know this: even at this very instant, your resolve only serves to nourish me."

Thus it came to pass. The ruin Aretemitra chose to unleash would not solely afflict her adversary but would also indelibly mark the soul of her devoted champion. There, kneeling before her, he found himself rendered powerless against her overwhelming might. The only words that would escape his lips were: “Surely you would not.”

"Surely I would, my champion," she taunted in a sadistic whisper. "She would continue to plead and beg, her once-powerful voice now reduced to a hoarse rasp incapable of forming any words. She would keep at it until her cherished child would breathe its last ragged breath in her enfolding arms. Her anguished, guttural wails would pierce the air—ugly, uncontrolled sounds of torment that would be a symphony to my ears. I would stand before her, savouring every note of her misery, deriving profound pleasure from each sob, watching as her spirit shatters while mine flourishes."

The goddess's hips began to undulate, her fingers plunging deeper as she fully immersed herself in her sadistic ecstasy. “Drowning in a sea of sorrow, she would be left to make her damned choice, clinging to the tortured memory of her lost child. Her only sliver of hope would be the elusive quest for vengeance, a hope I would relish crushing."

Her fingers moved faster, the pleasure in her voice palpable as she gasped. "Mmm... then just as she is about to convey her choice, I would tell her that I lied, and... ahhh... two new choices would now lay ahead of her. She would scream, yell, and even attempt to stab me, only to be restrained by my guards. I would offer her the choice of twenty years of servitude for her revenge, or... ohh... eternity as my slave in exchange for her child's resurrection."

Her words were only interrupted by the sounds of her escalating pleasure. "She... mmm... would be bound by the Ritual of Eternal Binding. The child would be reborn to another, and she would... ahhh... lose all independent thought, be bound in painful servitude, mutilated from her intelligence and memories until her last breath."

Her voice dripped with dark, perverse pleasure as she elaborated, "She would become nothing more than an Umbran serving beast—a hollow shell, bereft of identity and will, pierced and adorned with inexorable marks of her bondage. Enslaved by chains unseen, devoid of autonomy, these wretched beings exist solely to fulfil the carnal desires of others. Her essence would be destroyed and refashioned into an object of endless submission and abuse until she perishes by my will. Indeed, she shall live for as long as I see fit."

"She... ohhh... would never glimpse the depths of my secrets. She would never lay eyes upon the child again, reborn to another, it would no longer be hers. The hope she once clung to, the memories she cherished, would be erased from thoughts." She gasped, her body shuddering with the intoxicating thrill of her own cruel vision.

"This forbidden and abhorred state of utter servitude, long banished and condemned by all, would be her fate. Her ceaseless, obedient servitude would be her unending testament to my sovereign will."

Her breath jagged like shards of drakenglass, her pleasure intensified further. “Indeed, I would have deceived her initially, but this time…mmm..., she would know that I speak the truth. My eyes would tell her so. She would place her trust in my words and comprehend... ahhh... that I offer her final choices."

"Cease this monstrous cruelty!" he screamed, his voice breaking with desperation and horror. "You may be a goddess, but these would be the acts of a true villain. I will have nothing to do with you! If you dare act upon any of this, I swear I will dedicate my life to finding this woman and protecting her!"

His words trembled with unyielding defiance as he continued. "I am certain of my defeat in your hands. Even if hiding is not a hero's way, I will do whatever it takes to protect her until my very last breath." His vow echoed through the air, unwavering even in the face of her sadistic pleasure.

"CEASE YOUR BABBLING AND PAY HEED!" she commanded, her eyes locking onto him with such force that he was rendered entirely immobile. "Know that this would be the moment. For the first time since she came to know of me, she would... mmm... CHOOSE to abandon her obsession with me?"

The champion stood fully paralysed as she continued, "She would grovel at my feet to save the infant, offering her very soul in desperation. Ahhh... spreading her legs willingly for my guards, imagining me as the sadist she has conjured in her pitiful mind. Her attempts to plead, reduced to incoherent mumblings by her mutilated tongue, would be both pathetic and insulting. She would forsake every shred of dignity, begging to be transformed into any creature, if only to save her child."

Tears streamed freely down the Champion’s face as he listened to the horrifying words of his goddess. He felt like prey under the gaze of a merciless predator, as he watched her pleasure herself with an almost sinister delight. Her erratic breathing and glassy eyes exuded a malevolence that had entirely shattered all illusions he had of the goddess he revered.

"Patience, the tale draws to its close," she gasped, her voice laden with dark, twisted joy, "the moment her pitiable, mutilated tongue seeks to burrow into the depths of my voracious, yearning folds..ahhh, when her attempts are thwarted by her inability to extend it past her lips, her complete inadequacy would draw my laughter, serving as the final hammer to shatter her spirit."

"Imagine my laughter echoing through the chamber as she makes every effort to perform the sordid act of submission I require." She gasped again, her voice filled with twisted joy. "Ahhh... even as she struggles with what little she has, unable to grasp my divine nub, she can only suck pitifully with her barely functional lips. Mmm... her tears fall freely, like the tears of blood I so desire, utterly broken, knowing there is no escape. Nngh... she realises her end is nigh."

The perverse pleasure that adorned the goddess's beautiful face felt profoundly vile to him. Desperately, he longed to avert his gaze, to flee, to fight, yet her command held him captive, forcing him to bear witness to her depravity. Each moment weighed heavily upon him, rendering death seemingly preferable to complicity in her malevolent schemes. But then, he remembered he was his mother’s son, and his despair transformed into a burning resolve. Though he knew not how, he knew that it fell upon him to stop her, to defy this... this abomination, and to protect the innocent, no matter the cost.

"I know your thoughts, my Champion, but this story does have a happy ending. Well, for one of us at least," she gasped, pre-empting his response. Her fingers delved deeper with each twisted word. "As she endeavours to pleasure me, my laughter and my essence mingling with her tears... Ahhh yes. When her slave collar finally arrives, she will make her first and only unsolicited plea to me."

She paused, her gaze piercing his soul, her fingers momentarily still. "She would pause her pathetic service to look me in the eyes and beg of me. I would not need her to speak to understand that she wanted me to protect her, no… THE child. Remember well that as I said before, it would not be hers any more. She was entrusting her heart to her most bitter enemy. She would surrender entirely—no future, no choice, no vengeance. Her one fragile hope would be that I, her tormentor, would have compassion for an innocent. In return, I would promise that a kind and devoted mother would love and cherish the child once reborn. It would be the sole act of kindness I would afford her."

She returned to pleasuring herself with renewed fervour, her fingers exploring rhythmically within her perfect folds, each movement eliciting a gasp of dark delight. "What if I told you that at that moment, ohhh… she would stretch back to sit on her knees. Place her hands on her lap and give me her neck. The last silent words she would mouth would be, 'I hold you to your promise!' before the collar snaps around her neck.”
"My dear champion, it would be at that fateful moment that her eyes would glaze over. Her story would finally end," she said with a flourish.

But clearly, she couldn’t stop just there, "Oh, but I would still have one final insult to bestow upon her. It would be then that I would choose to reveal my true essence to her. Mmm...I would let her feel my divinity penetrate every fibre of her being. In that moment, her mortal body, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of infinity, would fail, she would fall to the ground, and her heart would have stopped. The fallen wretch would fall one last time before I would claim her as my own in perpetuity."

She slowed for a moment before suddenly, a warm smile unexpectedly graced her features, leaving the champion stunned by the sudden change. “The child would be reborn and even thrive; She, too, would be reborn—into servitude as I decreed. Her death would not absolve her of her terms, but once her twenty years pass, perhaps I might bestow upon her the opportunity for vengeance. Did I not tell you this was a happy ending for at least one of us? I never did proclaim that it would be for ONLY one.”

-Continued in Chapter 4-

Author's note
What are good and evil in the realm of the gods? Are we mere puppets, or do we mortals possess something that even they desire? Why propose a test with impossible answers? How do we define purpose and will in the face of divine malice? As always, I, the humble chronicler, await your thoughts, desires, and comments.

---

Chapter 4: Look into her eyes!

Aelorian stood there motionless and unable to move. Horrified and unable to fathom Atremitra's motives or even understand her ways, his words failed him entirely. Lumoria's champion was powerless even as he was forced to bear witness to her sadistic pleasure, even as she casually recounted her intended acts of demonic cruelty. She radiated true malevolence, yet her last few words seemed to drive home a deeper message—one that was at the elusive cusp of his grasp.

"My dear champion," she purred as languidly as she continued to pleasure herself. "Spare me your salty tears, for you have a vitally important question to answer. Do you still stand against me, even as I have told you that she may yet find her deserved end?"
His tears had their own story to tell, though. They would only continue to stream down his face as he looked upon her with disbelief. She may have driven a stake through his soul, but the fire of defiance began to flicker and come alive in his eyes. Paralysed though he was, he noticed that his hand was resting beside the dagger he always carried. He quietly began to summon every ounce of his strength to will it towards the hilt.
"A DESERVED END! Speak not of such deceptions. You, who were second to none in my heart—even above my own revered mother—held a place of honour. Yet you have taken that very heart and shattered it with your words and actions.”

Artemitra's smile broadened, and her teeth bared wolfishly. "First her and now you. I am the arbiter of life and death, not the custodian of your cloying hearts. It is neither my inclination nor my obligation to attend to your pitiful feelings. I care not for your petty dreams. I do not desire to partake in your pointless wishes, and I certainly feel not a thing for your pathetic resolutions unless they serve MY divine schemes."

She paused momentarily, deep in thought. "Hmm... Pour forth your prayers and conjure such a goddess from the deepest depths of your imagination, if such divinity can even be imagined. Pray with the intensity of a universe, with every fibre of your being, as if you could create her through sheer will. Pray as if you were the very fabric of the world itself, desperate to free your weapon and wield it against fate. We shall see if your fervent pleas can breach the divine threshold and bring forth such a power"

Her instructions further confused the champion. She demanded that he pray to avert the very future she had decreed. Though events were yet to unfold, this was Artemitra, and her words invariably came to pass. He did not require prayer; he needed resolve.

Summoning all his courage, Aelorian spoke out, “You speak of events as though they await their time. Yet for you, the mistress of ages, they are already immutable. To you, past and future are without distinction. But this—this is the present.”

He paused, his eyes narrowed as they bore into hers with his now loud and unwavering sense of defiance. "I refuse to surrender this present... This moment, to your villainy. You are deserving of punishment, and she of redress. I am certain these are but a fraction, and I pledge my life to uncover and protect all others who have borne the brunt of your malevolence. I, Aelorian, son of Lysara, swear to defy even the gods themselves until amends are made for those harmed by your wicked actions.”

Artemitra beamed, her eyes only darkening further. "However pointless your oath, it pleases me to hear that you stand as her son first. Your hand lingers on your blade—but it serves you no purpose at this moment. Conviction alone defends you now. Use it with caution, for I await with great anticipation your honest appraisal of my intent and actions. Speak honestly but temper your words with caution, for in my presence, they bear significant consequences. A lesson well-learned by many before you, though none so profoundly as the former general."

Aelorian understood the threat behind her words well. Clearly, it was a promise of retribution should he speak beyond his remit. "Why is my judgement of concern to you? Clearly, you are the wielder of the greatest power known, capable of forging destinies as you see fit. What value does my 'pitiful' mortal opinion hold?"

Artemitra looked him deep in his eyes as she replied. "For in the grand tapestry of all that is, the duty falls upon me to test you mortals with the challenge of impossible choices. Mettle, spirit, and grit are many a word for that singular essence that resists my absolute authority. It is the one attribute I find most...mmm... exhilarating. Call it my indulgence, my vice, or even my perversion—regardless, these trials fulfil a divine... my divine purpose."

"You call this a trial?" the Champion spat even as his voice trembled with anger. "This is no divine trial. Your actions would be sheer malice. A mother in despair and her fragile newborn should not be the focus of your merciless amusement! No matter her past transgressions, no one deserves such vile retribution...EVER!"

Her smile widened further. "But a trial it was and a trial it continues to be. Assume, if you will, that I willingly bestow upon you the power to judge me. Recall every heinous act I have committed and those yet to come. Understand that you cannot change their course, yet I will hear your judgement. Whether I act upon it is for me to decide. Whether I unleash my wrath upon you should your judgement prove excessively severe is also within my purview. Yet, hear you, I will."

Her threat in her words was as clear as day. He would need to tread carefully indeed. He would need to speak the truth, but he would also need to state it in a manner that ensured his survival. Foolish heroism would serve him no purpose. But any form of acquiescence on his part, any form of dishonesty before such cruelty, would become the unravelling of his soul.

He became aware that his hand had grasped the hilt, and his fingers were gradually mustering the strength to curl around it. He was no longer entirely immobilised. He needed only to keep her distracted enough to find a way to break his bonds. Taking a slow, purposeful breath, he met her gaze with all the courage he could muster.

"If I truly held the power of judgement, I would find you guilty of extreme and unwarranted cruelty. Your redemption would rest solely in her forgiveness. I wish upon all the gods that one day she may have this opportunity and that she treats you with the kindness you never extended to her."

Artemitra smiled with a touch of scorn. "Here I expected rage, a call to arms, only to receive rejection and a plea for me to beg for mortal kindness? Ha, champion! Such weakness is unbecoming." Suddenly, Aelorian realised the bonds had given away, and he could draw his dagger from its sheath. Yet as he was freed, he instantly knew that violence was not the answer.

He stood and stared into her eyes with sorrow. "I am no longer angry, only filled with deep disappointment in my misplaced faith in you. From now on, I shall count the days until the end of the war, for on that very day, we shall part."

As he turned around to leave, she called out to him, her voice almost a plea this time: "Do not depart yet. Look upon me one last time before you arrive at your final conclusion. I must share one last profound truth with you." After what he had experienced, he only desired to walk away, but nonetheless, he turned back towards her to hear her out.

"Thank you, my Champion, for this small mercy," Artemitra's voice appeared to crack as her eyes turned watery. "I vow to you that she shall soon have her appointed moment."

Her smile grew sorrowful as she continued, "Though I am infinity itself, this mortal guise remains, by choice, bound by the rules of your kind: capable of feeling pleasure, pain, joy, and heartbreak. The dagger in your grasp can indeed end this shell's existence. Now that I share this truth with purpose and willingness to accept the consequences, I have bared not just my breast but my heart—a target for your blade. Understand that Queen Orphidora breathes her last if Aelorian so wills it."

In this moment of clarity, Aelorian grasped the enormity of his choice—a truly impossible one. To drive his dagger home or to stay his hand? He perceived that taking her life would be no righteous path. His relief at her death was not worth the ceaseless torment it would cause to countless others if the war did not swiftly conclude. She was essential, yet he could no longer stand by her side. This was his resolution, and he would honour it.

"You serve a significant role in this world. You are a pillar whose fall would bring great calamity to many a million. But Artemitra, the name alone I call you now, for you have tainted the title of 'goddess'. You have shown cruelty that exceeds all bounds of justice. You have lost my respect. I shall fight on until the war's end, for many lives depend upon it, but once complete, I shall depart from your side."

Aelorian paused, letting the gravity of his words settle before continuing. "I shall journey to Umbra Terra, assist in their rebuilding, seeking atonement for the sins you have cast upon me with your mere presence. Conceal her as you might, I will search for her, and I will strive to ensure she lives a full and meaningful life. Though the former general may have been cruel, she is no longer he. I refuse to partake in this cycle of cruelty any longer."

With a heavy heart, he made his final statement, "You have unequivocally shown that you are not governed by our values. Your actions are steeped in malice and deceit. There may be a hidden lesson buried deep within your intended actions, but I have lost all desire to engage with it or trust your oaths any longer. You bestowed upon me a sense of purpose, which your deeds have now ripped away.”

Just as he finished speaking, the world around them seemed to shimmer and distort. Time itself appeared to slow down as the wall behind Atremitra rippled, and a silhouette began to take form. As it moved closer, it started to coalesce and out walked a dark-haired vision.

She was a mesmerising blend of Lumoria’s radiant glow and Umbra Terra’s shadowy allure. Her tresses cascaded like a river of midnight silk, flowing gracefully to frame her pointed ears and deep, grey eyes. Those haunting orbs bore the beauty of Umbra Terra—eyes that invited and ensnared with their eternal, unwavering gaze.

Her body was a living work of dark, seductive art, almost profane in its appeal. Though not as tall as the goddess, she was meticulously curved, and sculpted to ignite the basest passions. Her lips, full and wickedly inviting, were akin to those of Ekaksha, the legendary temptress. They seemed purposed for intimate sin, ready to envelop any throbbing desire with a smile that whispered of filthy, unbridled pleasure.

Her magnificent breasts and sumptuous hips were barely obscured by a robe so tantalisingly short and tight that it adhered to her form as if it were a second skin. The fabric plunged deep, revealing an expanse of lush cleavage that seemed to call out to be worshipped and touched. Her nipples poked provocatively through the thin material, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Her midriff was revealed, showcasing a flawless, sculpted waist and an inviting belly button that teased of unspoken pleasures. Her hips, wide and voluptuous, embodied raw, primal desire, demanding to be filled and marked by seed. As she moved, her shapely derrière swayed with a seductive, intoxicating rhythm. It beckoned to be held and ravished, an open invitation to claim, defile, and reverently worship.

The goddess, a true paragon of regal beauty, was, at this moment, entirely eclipsed by this primal temptress whose raw magnetism dominated the space. Aelorian felt his pulse quicken. Though every rational fibre in his being yearned to leave, an enigmatic force compelled him to stay, and he was certain it did not emanate from the goddess.

Unbridled lust surged through his veins. His manhood throbbed insistently, fit to burst, his mind spiralling into a haze of primal longing. She was desire incarnate, a walking dream of insatiable need. Though his mind conjured images of countless fabled beauties, none could compare to her living manifestation of every man's most carnal cravings.

Her smile, initially warm upon meeting his gaze, quickly turned wicked as her glance drifted towards Artemitra. Yet, just for the briefest of moments, her eyes flickered back to his, and he thought he noticed the faintest hint of a blush upon her cheek as she took note of his arousal. Her eyes lingered upon the prominent bulge straining against his garments before swiftly darting back to meet his gaze, now ablaze with a newfound sense of control.

Without breaking eye contact, she enveloped Atremitra from the side and drew her into a kiss of scorching passion. Her touch was authoritative, as though she was claiming what was rightfully hers. Even as she devoured her prey with her hands and lips, her eyes remained locked upon his. Granting poor Aelorian the privilege and, more significantly, the torment of watching her in the act.

The newcomer's hand slid down to Artemitra's bared breast and grasped it roughly. Her fingers found a distended nipple and pinched it hard, causing the goddess herself to gasp audibly, "Ahhh!"

Her eyes met his again, this time lingering in a gaze that seemed to stretch the seconds into minutes. In that fleeting eternity, Aelorian saw in her what could only be described as pride mingled with a surprising hint of embarrassment. Her eyes appeared to trace an involuntary path downward until she seemed to realise that she was staring at the outline of his arousal once again.

This time though, she appeared keen on retaining control and let her gaze deliberately travel back to his eyes like a lingering caress as it moved past his chest, only to notice that his eyes were transfixed on her breasts. Aelorian watched, captivated, as her blush intensified, her cheeks aflame with a deeper red. Her nipples, impossibly, seemed to harden further, almost daring him to look longer, to succumb to the allure she wielded.

The air between them was charged, but as if willing herself to break the spell, she snapped her attention back to her captive.
Then, with an authoritative yank, she seized Artemitra by her hair, pulling her head back and exposing the vulnerable arch of her neck in an unmistakable display of dominance.

The break in their eye contact was a release for Aelorian, yet the images—the gasp, oh that gasp—would forever be seared into his mind. Even with her attention diverted, he could feel her presence, her strength radiating everywhere.

Artemitra's eyes had clouded over, swathed in a fog of her own submission as she was unceremoniously spun around, her balance faltering. In a brutally decisive motion, her robe was ripped open. The dazed goddess simply stood there, bare and completely exposed, while the woman moved deftly to secure her wrists behind her with one hand.

Displayed in full—naked, vulnerable, and arousal evident as she began to gush, rivulets of desire dripping down her thighs—Artemitra was entirely at the mercy of this overpowering presence.

With agonising deliberateness, the woman moved her own robe aside, averting her gaze from Aelorian as she unveiled her massive, veiny, and throbbing member. One that dwarfed even Aelorian’s own rather impressive shaft, so immense that it promised to bring as much agony as ecstasy. Its sheer size and monstrous presence hung heavily in the air.

Her free hand moved in front of Artemitra’s lips, just beneath her chin, and with a voice like poisoned honey, she commanded, "Spit." Artemitra, lost in the throes of whatever this was, dredged it from the depths of her throat, her eyes rolled back in swirling ecstasy as she obediently leaned forward, slobbering onto the woman’s hand.

This woman wasn't simply establishing her dominance—she was displaying the depth of her absolute conquest. The mighty Artemitra, she who controlled destiny itself, was completely under her command.

Aelorian couldn't help but wonder if the word 'woman' was even fit to describe this magnificent being. One who appeared to be the embodiment of lust itself, yet one who made even him feel inadequate. Nevertheless, the word seemed most fitting, for he couldn't shake the strange sense of maternal kindness emanating from her as he continued to watch the events unfold.

Despite her most wicked actions at that moment, she still radiated a warmth and empathy that felt uncannily familiar. Even now, as she stood as the most dominant force in that space, she seemed to consciously avoid his gaze since the moment he witnessed her reveal her most impressive endowment, almost as if she intuitively understood the insecurities the sight may have awakened in him.

Yet, unabashed and unyielding in her command, she continued as she pleased. Lathering her now spit-soaked sabre, the woman hefted Artemitra’s leg and, without a moment’s hesitation, rammed herself into her. Artemitra squealed a mixture of pain and pleasure etched across her face. Each gasp was almost a scream now—her body impaled upon the thick staff. Suspended by her bound hands, Artemitra's flawless breasts swung violently with each deep thrust, utterly demeaned.

The woman’s voice sliced through the heated air, venomously seductive, "Keep spitting out your tale, my wretched whore. He is owed every filthy detail. Hold his gaze and show him how far you've fallen." Artemitra’s mind, lost in a sea of blistering pleasure, managed to meet the champion’s bewildered gaze as she moaned out, “Yes, mistress.”

Bent forward, her breasts dangling and violently defiled before her champion, she had gasped the words that would shatter his entire understanding of divinity. The astonished champion stood motionless, helplessly watching the event unfold as the goddess's eyes cleared and focused on him once again before she parted her lips to speak.

"Yes, mistress, nghhh... continue. It feels so 'appropriate' to be beneath you, ohhhh. Yesss. Harder, mistress... until my thoughts are but a haze, until I am but a puddle at your feet!" Artemitra moaned, her body quivering with each relentless thrust.

Her bound hands were pulled tightly behind her, legs splayed apart, head tilted upwards to ensure she could look upon her champion as she spoke. Trembling with uncontrollable pleasure, her nipples, hard as diamonds, bounced and swung in rhythm with her every gasp.

"My champion, what if I told you that the bastard general had, at last, found a means... ohhhh... to defeat me in the most delightfully twisted of ways?" she panted out, her voice breaking as she was thrust deeper into her tainted bliss.

The champion felt his grasp on reality slipping. "Look at the woman behind me... Ohhh YES! Harder, mistress! Please, I beg you, make me weep in bliss! I BEG YOU... DON'T EVER STOP! LOOK into HER EYES. What do you see?"

Aelorian's eyes were overwhelmed by the scene unravelling before him, his arousal so intense that it bordered on excruciating. It took him a moment to fully grasp Artemitra's command before he could shift his gaze to the woman behind her. Those eyes, no longer a cold grey but a warm hazel, were so familiar and comforting—despite now shining with an unsettling triumph. They were eyes that felt like home, the eyes of his mother!

His mind flooded with vivid memories: her gentle hands tenderly tending to his scraped knees, the soothing warmth of her presence as she applied balm to his wounds with loving care. He remembered her gentle embrace on freezing nights, a fortress against the biting cold. Her lullabies, tender and melodic, carried him into a peaceful slumber. She had sacrificed endlessly, often going without so he could thrive and flourish. It was she who had moulded him into the paragon of virtue and honour that the world admired so much.

Now, in this surreal moment, his mother was indeed a being greater even than the goddess herself, yet everything felt contorted and bizarre. The woman, who had nurtured him with such boundless love, now wielded a ‘manhood’ far larger than his own as she thrust into the goddess with unrelenting power. He watched as she plundered Artemitra's most intimate depths, causing the goddess to scream and moan like a creature in frenzied heat. Aelorian's mind struggled to process the reality before him, teetering on the edge of something dark.

The irony was inescapable—his very own mother was now the literal bigger man. Yet she was not her, not exactly. He was not certain why, but he knew that, but he was certain that the mystery would unravel itself further. Yet rather than be rational, he found himself violently drawn to her.

His emotions roiled within him like a tempest. He wanted to seize her lush, inviting lips, forcing them apart to sample the intoxicating sweetness within. His hands would ravage her magnificent breasts, squeezing and kneading as he bit down on her nipples to draw out fervent cries of pleasure. Her legs would be spread apart...

Yet even as he gazed at her ploughing the goddess' field, his primal urges exploded. He wanted to wrap his hand around it, to rip it from her, to claim it as his own. He saw her on all fours, utterly exposed to him, her prick dangling provocatively. He imagined gripping it firmly, demanding she surrender it to him, tormenting her by denying her release unless she agreed to his every term. Her voice infiltrated his thoughts, pleading, begging him to take it. "No," his mind cried out, "NO!"

Desperately, he tried to avert his gaze. He tried to reject the depraved allure that was drowning him from within. But his treacherous body would only betray him as it was entirely ensnared by the debauched spectacle. Torn between the deep love for his mother and the insatiable hunger to own this woman, he found himself incapable of walking away.

His hand drifted to his britches almost unconsciously, pulling out his rigid sceptre, already weeping with desperate need, as he stood there—an unwilling captive to primal needs at war with his every principle. He began to stroke himself, each movement a betrayal of his convictions, yet he was powerless to stop, lost in this forbidden desire.

"Champion! What do you... Oh, please, mistress, it hurts," Artemitra squealed as Lysara, his mother, delivered a reverberating slap to her behind. "Quiet, wench! Time does not favour your dithering, for he is in torment. Your title is but dust before me. Perform as I command! Acknowledge your defeat! Declare your disgrace!" His mother roared, plunging mercilessly into the whimpering goddess.

"Aelorian, Son of the indomitable Lysara. Behold the ultimate triumph of General Thalor. Bear witness to the subjugation of the greatest deity by the ‘fallen wretch.’ I am entirely at her mercy, reduced to nothing at her feet... oh... mmmm... more... Yes, YES! I am yours, utterly! The shame... the bliss... so much pleasure... YES! I cannot flee. I find no desire to!"

Lysara continued to pound into her with ruthless force, each thrust rippling through the goddess's once-majestic form, now reduced to a trembling, bound wreck incapable of resistance. Sweat mingled with her tears, streaming down her face as she was utterly filled and used. The echo of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with the goddess's gasping moans and fruitless wails. "I didn't tell you to stop or drown yourself in pleasure yet—NOW FINISH THE STORY, HARLOT!" Lysara bellowed, forcing the shuddering goddess into further submission.

Artemitra's words stumbled out in breathless gasps, her face contorted with a mix of shame, pain, pleasure, and something that might have been love. Each phrase was relentlessly disrupted as she spoke, "You... ahhh... are the child of Lysara, formerly General Thalos and the first mortal Avatar of the goddess Niyathera. The goddess of... nghhhh... desire, purpose, and will. For it is... mmm... from desire that purpose is awakened, and from purpose... nnghh... that will is forged. It is the power of will that gives one... ahhhh... the strength to defy, define, and... ohhh... defeat destiny. Defeat me... ohhh!!!!! YES!!!! For I am... mmmph ... destiny itself."

"Now, strumpet, attend to your champion!" Lysara, or perhaps now Niyathera, commanded. "Show him the depth of your submission."
Artemitra turned her pleading eyes toward Aelorian. "Come hither," she implored. He hesitantly approached, his steps slow and uncertain. As he came closer, she bent forward, greedily swallowing his phallus with clumsy but fervent desire. Sucking and licking with desperate need, she moaned and gagged around his girth, even when she was being relentlessly battered from behind. The wet, obscene sounds of her mouth, mingled with the slick, rhythmic slapping of Lysara's thrusts, filled the air.

Without realising it, Aelorian's hands found her head, guiding her motions. He knew his part in this debased spectacle, though not yet why. Consciously, he ensured that he grasped her firmly, letting the scene mirror Artemitra's earlier, twisted account. The irony was not lost on him—this was the very scene she had depicted happening to the fallen general she would torment.

"She has lived amongst us forever, yet it is today that she first truly manifests. Be the blessed spectator to her birth, be evidence of her first great victory. This moment, you are living witness to the ascent of the greatest of us," Artemitra managed to speak before resuming her fervent task. Her gags and muffled sounds punctuated her every word, and her mouth eagerly returned to its humiliating service.

The goddess's words reflected her pitiful state. "Blessed champion of... oh MY!!! In this moment, in this present, you glimpse into the past and the future... oh, YES! YES! as she desires it! You witness the debasement of the goddess of victory... mmmm... yesssss. You see the fulfilment of the purpose of this magnificent woman... OHHHH!!!!!!!"

As Artemitra's words dwindled into a bawling crescendo, she spiralled into a heart-shattering, near-endless orgasm, her body quaking uncontrollably. Aelorian, his hands firmly grasping her head, held her in place as her spasms reverberated through her. Despite being overpowered by the relentless force behind her, she clung to her task, heedless of her own ecstasy.

"Do not spill a drop!" Niyathera commanded, shoving Artemitra's head deeper onto Aelorian's throbbing cock. The spasming goddess, driven by her own frenzied climax, sucked him with a ferocity that seemed almost ravenous. Aelorian felt himself teetering on the precipice, her desperate need sending him over the edge. With a triumphant growl, he exploded into her mouth, his seed overflowing her trembling lips.
At that very moment, Niyathera succumbed to her own climactic wave. Her body convulsed with an exquisite force, her eyes rolling back into her head as she let out a guttural wail of pure, unrestrained pleasure.

The very air seemed to tremble with the violent intensity of their shared euphoria. Artemitra, still desperately devoted to her service, struggled to contain the torrent of Aelorian’s release. Niyathera’s command went unheeded as Aelorian’s seed overflowed and dripped from Artemitra’s still-trapped lips. Each drop split was a testament to an indulgence that defied all limits.

Several moments passed as the new goddess regained her breath. Niyathera's grip on Artemitra remained firm, yet the fervour in her actions had softened. Her eyes, rich brown only moments ago, had returned to their earlier grey. Aelorian, still reeling from the climax, watched as the scene before him seemed to shift. The realisation dawned on him slowly—she might have been his mother moments ago, but now, this was undoubtedly Niyathera—a goddess whose existence he had only now come to comprehend.

There was a brief hesitation in Niyathera's eyes, a flicker of warm hazel when she saw Aelorian, but they swiftly returned to their steely grey. A blissful, almost predatory smile spread across her lips as she leaned into the fallen goddess, her tongue lapping up his seed that had overflowed from Artemitra's lips, savouring every droplet with a slow, sinful delight. Then, without pause, she seized Artemitra's sullied mouth in a rough, primal kiss. Nearly comatose from the overwhelming ecstasy, Artemitra offered no resistance.

After what seemed like an eternity, Niyathera reluctantly broke the kiss and cast a lingering look at Aelorian. She slowly slid a finger into her mouth, sucking on it seductively as a wicked smile, laden with a thousand sinful teases, radiated from her. Relishing the moment, she turned her gaze towards Artemitra and raised the goddess's face close to hers. Her voice, still sultry but as gentle as a spring breeze, carried the tender declaration that would seed many a legend "I forgive you, my love."

-Continued in Chapter 5-

This is part 1 of my first work, a fan continuation of the unfinished Kemeia Ascending. It is entirely inspired by Armond's magical world of Argentia and its Goddess Selene.

Link to the book here Kemeia Ascends - A Fan Continuity

I've named my dedication "Selendora," which symbolises "Selene's Gift." This name captures a world touched by her grace, a place of transformation and rebirth. Under Selene's nurturing influence, Selendora embraces a diversity of lands and cultures, each uniquely linked by the goddess's overarching presence.

I really hope Armond gets to see this, to know how much they've inspired me. As I'm new to this, I'd appreciate any feedback that can help me improve and grow.

All art-work is AI generated and while I have used AI to help with editing, the content was entirely written by human hands :-)

You can read the prior parts from the links below

Kemeia Ascending Part 1
Kemeia Ascending Part 2
Kemeia Ascending Part 3

More of Armond's work can be found here

P.S.: I have tried to emulate their writing style as much as I could to ensure that the tone is not jarringly different but it was not easy. Also while Armond touches on Ravela's mental health, I have tried to flush it out a little further. You will definitely notice an inconsistency in her style of thinking.

P.P.S.: In contrast to Armond's preceding chapters, which exclusively featured first-person perspectives from Kemi and Ravela, this instalment will introduce a carefully chosen array of viewpoints from other pivotal characters, hopefully enriching the narrative with their unique insights and experiences.

In the shadow of a spreading plague, Wildevale is embroiled in chaos, its fate resting in the hands of Kemeia, whose concealed past collides with Ravela's rule. Unsung allies rise, stirring the fraught political and personal dynamics at play. Amidst developing a cure and battling inner demons, , the duo wades through waves of illness and self-discovery, and the possibility of new beginnings in an afflicted kingdom.

"Watch the River Muln, whereupon the currents shall carry the mender of hearts, her spirit interlaced with the divine. Where she passes, the unjust shall stumble, and though silent, her voice shall manifest in the clarity of her deeds, inspiring an unspoken truth."
-Hymns of the Lune, The Crystalline Prophecies, Scroll IV, stanza 17

MARTA

3rd day of Rainmoot
Palace – Infirmary
Noon

As I walked through the infirmary, I could feel the past weighing down on me like it had only been yesterday. We were cautious to carry Ciro's ailing form at a careful distance from the dead Ambassador's corpse. Oh, dear Goddess, we were only witnessing the start of this horror. We were facing the most malignant of plagues. One that seemed to mock life itself.

My memories of the second Abirav war and my time as a medic in the Glamorgan army came rushing back. This vile 'Amangons's Gift' was no simple disease. It was evil, magically crafted by the wretched king and meant to wipe out entire nations. The price we paid to fight it the last time was unbearable, almost as bad as the plague itself—a price I was unwilling to let anyone else bear.

Wildevale, in its current state, was ill-equipped to confront such a catastrophe.

My thoughts were racing, and I considered every option, each more extreme and desperate than the last. Summoning the priestesses from Selene's gardens could help, but they were too far away. They were certain to assist against anything touched by the foul bastard. But, their involvement would take more time than we had. And that time meant lives.

Central to my thoughts was Kemi, Selene's blessed. Few knew the significance behind her name, one that she shared with the first healer. The greatest of us and one whose identity had been kept a secret from most. It was her sacrifice that began the legacy of the nine cup-bearers. She had been the first to bring the gift of healing magic to this world, and I knew that given time, Kemi would certainly rival her blessed namesake.

My dearest mute miracle, the once renowned Cormac and consort to the queen. Now reborn as a woman through cruel magic. She had been stripped of everything, even her voice and her identity had been taken from her. For one who had endured such unspeakable horrors, she had survived. More importantly, she had survived with grace and dignity. Her life was a miracle in itself but her rebirth as a Sorgente was beyond even that.

She and her power were growing, blossoming into something incredible and magnificent. But she wasn't ready, not yet, to overcome the evil from Amangons's Gift. This was a burden too great for one person to overcome, yet Kemi was undeniably the key to our salvation.

I was aware of her role, its criticality at this moment, and the burdens it would impose on her. Consequently, It would be my responsibility to help her find a way for Wildevale and all of us. This was not just a battle against sickness but also against the cruel legacy of a monster. The sheer strength required to combat this malicious poison would be immense. How much more could my dear Kemi endure by herself?

Wait just a minute, though. Wildevale was home not only to Kemeia but also to Queen Ravela, a Sorgente of immense power. Second, perhaps only to the High Priestess herself, and a master of the highest spell craft. The same "mad" queen who birthed Kemi with her cruelty. Who had her very own comrades violently violate her until they left her for dead.

Yet, I knew that her power would be needed to prevent when Kemi healed Princess Lunete, Ravela's power was crucial in containing the curse. Of course, they made a powerful twosome—well, two Sogente donkeys would make a powerful team. But the very sight of Ravela wagging her finger was enough to terrify poor Kemi. Now, with many lives and the kingdom at stake, they would need to work together. She would need to do so despite the trauma that it would cause her.

The plan that was forming in my mind was significantly risky. Kemi and Ravela, two of the most powerful Sorgentes in this land, were vital to Wildevale's future. They would need to work together, and for how long, even I could not hazard a guess. All I knew was that this 'partnership' would need to last long enough to contain this scourge. I feared for my child, my Child? Yes, I truly feared for her and the toll that being in Ravela's presence could take on her already scarred soul.

I had no illusions about the coming challenges we faced. Convincing Kemi would not be difficult. She would willingly sacrifice all due to her calling as a healer, that much I was certain of. But, Ravela's 'imbalance' was a wild card. It could upend any plan, no matter how well thought out. But I hoped that my instincts were right. Something deep within told me that Selene had willed this path for us.

The survival of the entire kingdom and countless lives were at stake—and, knowing Kemi, she could be the mad queen's salvation as well. When working in tandem, the power within the two could be glorious—a power capable of overcoming even the greatest of evil. Yet, encouraging those two to work together was a mighty gamble but one we had to risk.

We had no time to think about the consequences to Kemi beyond this battle, so I had to put the plan into motion. I needed to bring together these two formidable forces with the hope that they would be the miracle that we needed. I hoped, more than anything else, that they would work together while overcoming past evils, traumas and fears. The fate of Wildevale hung in the balance of this most fragile alliance.

The decision had been made, and now was the time to act. Oh, Selene! I looked towards the sky and offered a silent prayer seeking her wisdom.

RAVELA

Palace – Infirmary
Noon

I could hear Marta's steps echoing unnaturally in my ears as she approached me. The shadows around her seemed to flit about in response to this new and potent presence that she seemed to have called forth. This newfound authority was more than just a change in the way she carried herself. It was her unwavering sense of grim confidence that unsettled me the most.

It only took her a moment to take control of the situation as she began barking orders to everyone in the room. Even in my presence, I could feel her orders resounding with authority that matched, no! Surpassed mine. There, I felt it now. A flicker of my ever-present irritation, and then inexplicably, a laugh nearly bubbled up at her sheer audacity. How dare she command in my presence?

As I started to speak, to remind her of her damned place, she knowingly turned towards me, cutting me off. “Yer Highness, this is bigger than yer crown and sceptre. This is about the survival of the kingdom.” I was immediately silenced by the seriousness in her gaze. She had successfully landed her blow with her words and made me reconsider my brewing retort.

As I continued to mull her words, she continued taking charge of the reigns. ”Go fetch Kemeia, but cover yer face. We can't risk spreadin' the plague further, not even if ya feel healthy.” she instructed a young soldier.

Hearing that healer's name stirred my thoughts. A fleeting image of her fear flashed through my mind. It was rather amusing how little it took for me to terrify others. But as quickly as I thought it, I felt the same gnawing feeling that I had before.

Marta caught my eye, her voice unwavering. “Kemi will do what needs to be done. Yet you, Yer Highness, must be careful to avoid causin' her any distress,” she emphasised. "This partnership, it's to be… ‘intimate’ in its nature, lasting days or maybe even weeks. Kemi's essential for this task, and any reluctance to be in your company must be given heed and accommodated for."

So she knew. But why would I cause Kemeia any distress after what she had done for us? My thoughts spiralled, but within me, I knew why. Certainly, her fear stemmed from something terrible I had done to her or someone close to her. This fear, the fear my actions had created in her, this made me.

Marta answered my unspoken thoughts, clearly understanding the situation. "Kemi’s part in this is crucial. Ye are right, an' her hesitance has its reasons, but to delve into them now won't do us any good. What's important is findin' a way for her to work unburdened by the weight of yer past encounters."

As polite as she was, this was a woman with balls of brass, and for one of few, someone had put me in my place. I was contemplating conceding to someone other than Cormac. The irony of the situation was not lost on me, though. Here I was, the Queen of Wildevale, taking orders from a midwife. I mused sarcastically, 'How the mighty have fallen, taking commands from an aged healer in the midst of a crisis.'

Cormac...my confidant!

His laughter, his counsel during my times of doubt, the way he could ease my thoughts with his wisdom, warmth, and very presence—all irrevocably gone. A connection destroyed not by fate but by my own hand. Once again, it all seemed so distant now, almost like the memories of someone else. But it was my doing, and I could never walk away from that truth.

Had I wronged him? Had I viciously abused the gift Selene had bestowed upon me? The implications of my past actions were too harrowing to face. Oh, please, let them not be wrong.

Cormac's fate and my actions were reflections for another time. Right now, the pressing issue was the plague and our desperate need for Kemia’s healing prowess.

At that moment, Sechnall’s voice broke through my reverie. “As Mistress Coona directs, we’ll proceed,” he said, he spoke on my behalf? The gall...No!

Yet, strangely, even as I watched someone else usurp my right of command, the outrage faded as fast as it came. The mere thought of Kemeia managed to suppress my suspicions and, dare I say, paranoia. In this moment, my typical desire to be in charge had given way to a new willingness to collaborate. What surprised me most was that I did not dislike this feeling.

I realised that in this battle against the plague, my role was not that of the commander but that of an ally. My pride as queen seemed insignificant compared to the welfare of my people. I was to be a part of something greater, not apart from it. It was a humbling, albeit necessary, shift from the solitary heights of power to the communal grounds of shared purpose.

For the first time, I found myself in a role unfamiliar to me. It was a strange, almost unsettling feeling. I, the queen, had to proceed with care. I had to follow insight and wisdom, even a midwife’s. 'Queen Ravela, following the instructions of a midwife. What a tale for the bards.'

KEMEIA

Early Lunch at Lalos
Just before Noon

As I sat at ‘Lalos,’ among the lively bustle of Marossa's market, I felt acutely aware of every glance at me and my attire. The light red, gold-embroidered dress clung to me in a manner that highlighted my curves. And each time my hips swayed, the bells chanted softly. I was both embarrassed and a little thrilled at how I felt at the moment.

Myrrine had joined me and was sitting across the table. With mischief dancing in her eyes, she signed, "My delicious Kemi, you're causing quite a stir with that little number you have on ... it's almost sinful how good you look in it. You look almost as good as those melt-in-the-mouth Darknectar bars."

Her words felt pleasant—a little too pleasant, in fact. Selene, help me! I was even slightly enamoured by her attention. Even a bit ‘aroused’ by these new and rather confusing feelings when she looked at me 'that' way. I signed back a little hesitantly. "It feels rather strange, but I guess it's nice to know I have some admirers, even if they're a little cat-cally about it."

Myrrine leaned in closer, her signing taking on a more mischievous edge. "Yes, honey, those catcalls simply prove what I've always known. You are an irresistible peach, Kemi. It's not just the dress or those trinkets or those rather inviting curves that you have been filling out with." She paused, eyeing me up with an exaggerated leer.

Her smile was so vast it threatened to split her face in two. I had a creeping suspicion that she was straddling the line. Something between hilariously obvious and suspiciously sincere. "Yes, you do present as a spicy little treat, but you radiate something much deeper, and it glows brighter with each passing day. Though, what is truly charming is that you are completely clueless about it."

Feeling a blush rise, I was swept by a mixture of embarrassment and excitement. Her teasing seemed light-hearted. Yet clearly there was an undercurrent, a suggestion of deeper possibilities. I responded with a series of gestures, trying to convey my appreciation, my uncertainty and my very serious desire for her to shut up.

Yet Myrrine’s smile only widened, her signs becoming more daring. "I wonder what other secrets those bells might tell. Maybe they ring out a melody that only a special few can hear."

The air between us was charged now, an unexplored energy, but compared to my past, the contrast was stark. Before, I had always been the dominant one. The one who commanded attention, who swept others off their feet with a confident charm.

Now though, sitting here in this delicate, almost welcoming attire, I found myself on the other end of that dynamic. It was unfamiliar terrain, where I was the one being tantalised, perhaps even the one to be swept away.

This reversal of roles, of being pursued, of being the focus of someone’s affectionate advances – it was disconcerting, but mmm… what might it be like to be on this side of the dance...

But just as my mind began to wander down that path, the voice in my head echoed within me, 'Kemeia, journey to the Castle now. And take Myrrine with you. There is no time to waste.’

This sudden instruction was the only thing I needed to hear to heed it without second thought. These were 'her' commands and this time, they sounded urgent. In light of this call, my usual trepidation around Ravela seemed trivial.

Turning to Myrrine, I signed, “We must go to the Castle.” My movements mirrored the weight of the call. “Come with me.”

With a slight look of surprise, Myrrine nodded, her expression shifting to one of support. The happy lunch we shared was going to have to sustain us for what was to come.

As I had witnessed in the past, Myrrine drew her two slender assassin's daggers. She gave them a quick glance as they blurred while spinning in her hands. Then, she whispered, "Just in case," and they vanished into her attire as quickly as they had appeared.

We stood up together, the bells on my waist chiming softly, a stark contrast to the gravity of our new mission. As we were leaving, it struck me that Myrrine was the one who embodied the essence of the fighter now. I reflected on how much I had changed from my past, but surprisingly, I didn't long for it anymore. My purpose was crystal clear - I was a healer, and I would remain one until my last breath.

'Look at us,' I thought wistfully as we navigated through the throngs of Marossa's streets. 'Two healers, a mute, and an assassin walk into a castle...but they're being guided by a voice that only one of them can hear.' It sounded like the start of a joke. Together, we made our way through the bustling streets of Marossa and headed towards the Castle.

As we approached the Castle, a guard, face obscured by a cloth mask, hurried towards us. His eyes scanned us briefly before settling on me.
"Mistress Kemeia," he panted, slightly out of breath. "The Queen has requested your presence urgently. You are needed in the infirmary."

I nodded in acknowledgement, and Myrrine translated my gestures immediately. "We understand. Lead the way."

RAVELA

Palace Infirmary
Past Noon
The guard's early return brought Kemeia and another healer into the infirmary. I expected Kemeia's presence, but it was her companion's aura that caught my attention.

Her demeanour looked calm enough on the outside. But when her eyes glanced at mine, they hinted at a trained body, mind and an underlying readiness for battle. A nuanced aura that even a seasoned observer such as I would have missed had it not been from a place of obvious concern for Kemeia. Clearly, she knew of our healer's anxieties regarding me, and her eyes gave it away.

She was a contradiction to what I expected to see in healers. Her aura was a sharp deviation from the norm, and that made her life choices and presence in the infirmary all the more intriguing.

My gaze continued to linger on this new visitor, her appearance hinting at something more dangerous, certainly more lethal. Her presence felt bothersome and so, I reached out with my craft, attempting to probe her mind for more clues. But just then, Kemeia looked at me and instinctively grabbed her hand. I could see the same fear in her eyes from before as a barrier seemed to extend out from her and materialise around this new woman. I realised at that moment that with Kemeia, even when she was unaware, my magic found no purchase.

Marta wasted no time ordering them. “Kemeia, Myrrine, we need you. Try to heal Ciro.” Her urgency was clear.

Kemeia immediately complied and placed her hands on Ciro's chest. As she focused on healing him, beads of sweat started to form on her forehead. Her pained grimace was surely a sign of the strain the task was putting on her. Only when I watched her concentrate did I realise the depth of the well of power that she was drawing from. Whatever this malady was, it was capable of causing true pain to one of the most gifted healers I had witnessed.

Suddenly she turned towards me, her face looked panicked as she tried to reach out for assistance. But before I could respond, Ciro convulsed with an agonising cough, releasing a plume of vile, toxic smoke.

The smoke billowed violently toward Marta, and before I could react, this 'Myrrine' sprang into action. In one fluid motion, she had drawn a slender dagger hidden in her robes and thrust it into the heart of this 'thing'. The blade met the ugliness like it would meet flesh, and with an agonising and demonic screech, the dagger absorbed the filth.

Myrrine turned towards Marta and took a deep breath before she spoke her first words. “Now I know why Kemi needed me,” she said calmly.
It appeared that Marta had recognised the nature of this dagger. Of course, she did. From what I had witnessed thus far, it was abundantly clear that this woman was no mere midwife. Certainly, we needed to discuss what she was concealing later. However, now was the time to listen to her speak. "Those blades ye wield, they're no mere steel," she exclaimed.

"Assassin crafted from the stolen remnants of Amangon's armour after he lost his deathless grip. Poisonous as the darkest of his magics. Yet, in yer hands, they find renewed purpose, from taking lives to saving them."

She then turned towards me and said, “This time 'round, it's a differen' beast from what we witnessed during the war." She took a deep breath to find the right words. Then she said, "This ain't just a sickness, but more like a curse to the wanderin' souls of sinners. Drawn by a false promise of life by possessing the bodies of the living, they're driven solely by the darkest parts of what they once were.”

I mulled it over for a moment before deciding on my response. “So, these souls are the carriers of this 'disease'. They are not multiplying, only spreading death. They latch on to hosts and consume them from within, would my assumptions be correct?" I asked.

Marta nodded. “Exactly. Myrrine's daggers can contain them, but not many. Their burden grows heavier with each soul trapped; soon, they will be unusable.” Indeed, it was clear to me that my assistance was required. However, even as I stood there, paying attention to the conversation, I found myself unable to focus fully. Was I irritated or envious at what those two shared? It gnawed at my insides.

Whenever Kemeia looked at Myrrine, her eyes were filled with awe and trust. It was obvious they had a special bond, a bond that starkly contrasted with what I saw in her eyes when they faced me. Yes, she did not know me as well, but why did my presence only invoke terror in those big, beautiful orbs?

I longed for what they shared, not dissimilar to what I had lost since Cormac. What I was feeling was more than just a desire. It was a visceral need, an aching void that had remained unfilled since his absence. Memories of Cormac, our time together, and all that we had shared flashed before my eyes.

I recalled the terrifying moment when I had lost control of my own power. I had been consumed by rage after a failed assassination attempt, and my Sorgente erupted. The flames seemed to have a life of their own, spreading rapidly and devouring everything in their path. Trees were reduced to ashes, the ground cracked and scorched, and even the very air seemed to shimmer with heat.

Cormac, fearless and unwavering, had rushed to my side. Dauntless in the face of the danger I was to everyone at the moment, he held me close, his soothing words serving as a balm to my tempest. He held on until the raging fire that engulfed me gradually diminished.

He never cried in pain, never showed his hurt, never even flinched, even as the flames licked at his skin. He willingly sacrificed himself while bearing the pain. Just to protect me and prevent the disaster that my fury could have unleashed.

Cormac! My Pillar!

Yet I presumed him guilty and unleashed the most vengeful of my magic upon my very love. ‘Oh, Selene! I pray that you help me find the truth.’ I could not bear this torturous loop of what-ifs and if-onlys, a reminder of a past that I couldn't escape.

The realisation of my own role in the fear Kemeia felt was beginning to take root. It was no longer a feeling but a painful realisation that I had definitely caused her great harm. Not just hurt, whatever I had done, it was something grievous.

Marta's voice broke through my thoughts. “We need to try the same thing on Ambassador Kijek's body. Kemeia, if you can.”

Kemeia looked exhausted and in pain, but she moved to the ambassador's body. This time, though, she seemed more composed. Her Sorgente surged with new vigour that shined through her body's exhaustion. It was as if her very soul had strengthened in just a moment. Blossoming with a potency that I was certain would overwhelm the greatest of us. Almost immediately, the same noxious smoke billowed forth. But this time, it headed in my direction.

I braced myself, but Myrrine was quicker. However, her actions were visibly more strained this time. The dagger, laden with the absorbed souls, appeared to weigh heavier in her hand. Verily, she did require my assistance. Containment charms would prove most effectual against these abominations.

This was a moment of crisis. But, as I watched Kemeia work with her steady, healing hands, I realised that with each moment I spent near her, she brought an unexplainable comfort to me. It was a feeling reminiscent of days long past, a balance I had known once, now slowly resurfacing. Her nearness somehow grounded me in a way I had not felt since... since the days before the abyss gazed back into me.

Although she might hold me in disdain, fear even, there was something profound between us, an unseen thread drawing me closer. Now I was certain that there was an unidentifiable force that drew me to her, a connection I couldn't fully comprehend but felt compelled to explore.

As Marta and Myrrine worked alongside Kemeia, it became clear that our struggle demanded unity. We had to combine our unique capabilities. The time had arrived for me to step up to wield hope. A flicker of purpose ignited, brighter than any other desire I held, For the first time as queen, I felt a true calling to serve a cause greater than myself.

“Then let us find a solution. Together,” I declared, my voice steady and resolute. “For Wildevale, and for our future.”

KEMEIA

Palace – Infirmary
Past Noon

When I walked into the infirmary, my chest was tight with worry. The air around us was heavy with the stench of Death and a vile illness, but Myrrine standing by my side helped soothe my nerves.

As I looked around the room, I saw Ciro lying there and across him was the Ambassador’s smoking body. When I noticed Ravela also standing there, I instinctively grasped Myrrine's hand.

Just then, out of nowhere, I felt this intrusive presence. However, it lasted just for a fleeting moment. It felt like something was trying to probe Myrrine, but it vanished as quickly as it came, like a wisp of mist in the morning light. It did not feel malicious, so I didn't think much of it and instead focused my attention on the task at hand.

"Kemeia, we need you," Marta called out, breaking the silence in the room. "Try to heal Ciro." Her call was all the motivation I needed to spring into action.

I knelt beside Ciro, and my hands found his chest. This…THIS was no disease. It was like some evil, twisted 'thing' had wrapped itself around his soul and was suffocating his very existence. I could feel this hungry, ugly monstrosity that had latched on to him like it had been denied an afterlife and was leaching away his life.

As I touched it, though, it latched onto me. A jolt of blinding pain ricocheted through my body, grasping at my essence with claws of anguish. It felt like a torment as corrosive as acid. A barrage of silent screams was piling up, but I was without voice and was forced to confine my agony within. Though matter, it did not, as I had to focus every fibre of my strength on drawing out this abomination while protecting Ciro.

As its grip on me intensified, unexpectedly, something surged within me. Not like a fire but something warm and bright and alive. So gloriously alive that it rose against the dark like the sun during daybreak. This newfound well of strength within me was like an anathema to this malevolence. Powerful and purifying, it sent it scrambling in fear to find a new victim. In its panic, it unravelled its jagged tendrils. It clawed violently at Ciro's spirit, leaving wounds that bled shadows.

As I healed the lacerations it had inflicted, I became acutely aware of my inability to stop it from fleeing to its next host. Frantically, I turned towards Ravela, seeking her help. I needed a capture sphere, but I lacked the means to convey my need.

Thanks to my inability to call for it, help didn't come on time. Instead, the pestilence, in the form of a toxic ‘smoke’, burst forth from Ciro's body as he let out a huge agonised Cough. I looked in panic, Marta! The smoke was rushing towards her. I could do nothing. I was helpless. My shriek from within was as futile as speaking with my silenced voice.

But Myrrine was my hero at this moment. She acted so swiftly that I was left gawking at her skill. In the blink of an eye, she unsheathed her dagger. Moving with the precision and agility of a seasoned assassin, she plunged it into the heart of the smoke. She knew precisely what she was doing. The weapon, like an extension of her will, consumed the entity with a harrowing shriek.

I watched in silent amazement as Myrrine calmly turned towards Marta, her voice steady, “Now I know why Kemi needed me,” she said calmly.
Marta almost immediately recognised the daggers for what they were. I, too, could recall legends of secretive assassins who crafted such blades from stolen pieces of Amangon's armor from my past life. They were family heirlooms, passed down only to the most trusted of their members. Myrrine's family had cut her loose due to her ‘flawed’ affinity towards healing. However, she had somehow retained this inheritance. It seemed there was more to her than met the eye.

I couldn't help but feel grateful for her presence. There she stood, calm and resolute, her actions speaking louder than any words could. At that moment, she was not just a friend or ally but she was my hero standing against the encroaching shadows.

Just when I thought I knew everything about her, the cunning fox literally pulled another surprise from within her sleeves. It was dawning on me that Myrrine was a veritable trove of secrets uncoiled one after another. Since Lalos earlier today, these revelations seemed to invoke brief, involuntary blushing.

The subtle flush on my face brought a sudden rush of memories and emotions from my past life as Cormac. Amidst the chaos, my mind wandered to those days when I was with one with Ravela.

We had slipped away to a moonlit grassy hideout within the palace grounds. She had been so different then, her laughter free and unburdened, her eyes sparkling with a rare innocence. We had lain in the grass with her head resting on my chest. How I blushed when she asked me about the elven courtesans I had met during a recent diplomatic trip. Laughing, teasing, and joking as we shared dreams of a future that seemed so certain and so promising.

I reflected on the days gone by. When Ravela's outbursts seemed like a distant storm on the horizon, they never quite touched the serene world we had created for ourselves. I cherished how she looked at me then, with trust and love, a stark contrast to what I last saw in her eyes before I was unmade.

But as quickly as the memory came, it faded, leaving behind a yearning for a past that was forever lost. Just as I knew before, I know now there was no going back. The past had given way to my present as Kemeia, embraced by the healer's mantle granted by Selene.

And there it was, the voice in my head, 'You are my chosen healer, Kemeia.' It wrapped around my mind like a comforting embrace. 'The journey before you requires strength, but fear not; you are never alone.'

Roused by 'her' assurance, I shrugged off weariness and met Marta's rallying cry. Approaching Ambassador Kijek's body, I readied myself, channelling my energies once more. He was dead, this much I knew, but the vile ‘shade’ was yet to escape him and had to be contained. This time, though, I felt more in control. It was as if the ordeal with Ciro had fortified me, and I engaged this time with a steadier hand.

This time, the entity within unveiled itself with desperation. It was draining whatever little was left of the body's husk, a last grasp before it would flee to its next victim. But at this moment, my attempt at healing felt different.

It instantly recoiled from my touch. It was as if my mere presence alone posed a threat, a sanctity it could not breach. The dark soul that had clung to the remains didn't dare to linger or fight as it had with Ciro. Instead, it fled instantly, manifesting as a plume of noxious smoke heading towards Ravela.

But once again, Myrrine stepped in. Her swift and decisive action again neutralised the escaping corruption. I couldn't help but marvel at her incredible skill. The dagger, pulsating with dark energy from the absorbed souls, clearly weighed heavily in her hand. It was a physical manifestation of her burden, a tangible sign of the fight she had decided to partake in.

Myrrine's daggers, though potent, bore the heavy toll of the captured spirits. As each one was ensnared, the blades sank deeper into her grasp. Soon, they would be rendered useless.

Despite knowing our limits, I had my task cut out. I started attending to the soldiers at the early stages of the affliction, and then, I sensed Ravela's intense gaze. There was a sense of loss in her eyes, and for the first time, I felt a hint of something more than just the terror that I felt in her presence.

It became evident that our paths were interwoven in unexpected ways. Yes, Ravela, the ‘Mad Queen of Wildevale’, was more than the instigator of my deepest traumas. Yet she was deeply woven into my own healing journey. And thanks to this twist of fate, I now sensed that I, too, was meant to play a crucial role in her redemption.

Just as there remained a void within me – my voice, a void my gifts couldn't fill. Ravela, too, was herself a victim of an illness, a sickness of the mind that clouded her judgement and actions.

Clearly, the remedy to her ailment might extend beyond established healing rites. In my heart, I believed Selene wouldn’t have placed me in this intricate web of destinies without a purpose.

With humble silence, I offered a quiet plea, 'Oh, Selene, guide me. Grant me the wisdom to see the path you’ve laid for us. Tell me my instincts are right.'

Though silent, I was filled with the soft glow of hope. Together, Ravela and I, with Myrinne and, of course, dear Marta, might not only be able to fight this affliction. But also soothe the wounds of the soul that both Ravela and I nursed.

I glanced towards Ravela with a fragile thread of trust. I considered asking Myrrine to help translate my proposal for unity, but Ravela spoke before I could act. "Then let us find a solution. Together,” she declared, " for Wildevale and for our future.”

Roused by 'her' assurance, I shrugged off weariness and met Marta's rallying cry. Approaching Ambassador Kijek's body, I readied myself, channelling my energies once more. He was dead, this much I knew, but the vile ‘shade’ was yet to escape him and had to be contained. This time though, I felt more in control. It was as if the ordeal with Ciro had fortified me, and I engaged this time with a steadier hand.

This time, the entity within unveiled itself with desperation. It was draining whatever little was left of the body's husk, a last grasp before it would flee to its next victim. But this time, my attempt at healing felt different.

It instantly recoiled from my touch. It was as if my presence alone was anathema to it, a sanctity it could not breach. The dark soul that had clung to the remains, didn't dare to linger or fight as it had with Ciro. Instead, it fled instantly, manifesting as a plume of noxious smoke heading towards Ravela.

But once again, Myrrine stepped in. Her swift and decisive action neutralised the escaping corruption. I couldn't help but marvel at her incredible skill. The dagger, pulsating with dark energy from the absorbed souls, clearly weighed heavily in her hand. It was a physical manifestation of the burden she was bearing, a tangible sign of the fight she had decided to partake in.

As Marta had observed, we were not merely battling a physical ailment. Instead, we were up against dark, mindless souls. They spread death and despair wherever they roamed.

Myrrine's daggers, though potent, bore the heavy toll of the captured spirits. As each one was ensnared, the blades sank deeper into her grasp, soon, they would be rendered useless.

But I had my task cut out, and while attending to the soldiers at the early stages of the affliction, I sensed Ravela's intense gaze. There was a sense of loss in her eyes, and for the first time, I felt a hint of something more than just the terror that I felt in her presence.

It became evident that our paths were interwoven in unexpected ways. Ravela, the ‘Mad Queen of Wildevale’, was more than the instigator of my deepest traumas; she was inadvertently woven into my path of healing. And in a twist of fate, I sensed that I, too, was meant to play a crucial role in her redemption.

Just as there remained a void within me – my voice, a void my gifts couldn't fill. Ravela, too, was herself a victim of an illness, a malady of the mind that clouded her judgement and actions.

It was clear that the remedy to her ailment might extend beyond established healing rites. In my heart, I believed Selene wouldn’t have placed me in this intricate web of destinies without a purpose.

With humble silence, I offered a quiet plea, "Oh, Selene, lead me on the path you've woven for us. Assure my simple heart it walks in accord with you."

“Oh, Selene, guide me, Grant me the wisdom to see the path you’ve laid out for us. Tell me my instincts are right.”

The voice, though silent, filled me with the soft glow of hope. Together, Ravela and I, with Myrinne and, of course, dear Marta, might not only be able to fight this affliction. But also soothe the wounds of the soul that both Ravela and I nursed.

I glanced towards Ravela, with a fragile thread of trust. I considered asking Myrrine to help me translate my proposal of unity. Before I could act, Ravela spoke with conviction that filled the room. "Then let us find a solution." Together,” she declared. “For Wildevale, and for our future.”

MARTA

Palace – Infirmary
Past Noon

Ravela's commitment to our cause echoed through the infirmary. This was precisely what was needed at this moment, I cast a glance towards Kemi, who promptly nodded her assent as an assurance to my plan. My eyes then settled on Myrrine, her presence now cast in a new light.

She possessed the compassion of a healer but also the strength of a warrior, a heroine who had remained hidden in plain sight until this moment. "Selene's children," I murmured, "all blessed, each vital in their own time. Never again will I be underestimatin' one of our own, so help us win, my dear goddess."

The first task was confirming my supposition. We needed to determine whether those healed by Kemi were now immune to this ‘plague’. Just then, I realised I had forgotten my place when I had issued orders prior, but since the Queen had not stopped me yet, so I continued doing so. "We need to be testin' if those healed by Kemeia are immune to this plague. I've got myself a sneakin' suspicion they just might be."I declared. The authority in my voice felt like a throwback to ‘those’ days in Glamorgan. A tone I had actively masked but now seeped through, like water through a cracked vessel.

Just to ensure that my breach in protocol was still tolerated, I glanced at Queen Ravela, half-expecting a rebuke. There was a momentary hesitation in her eyes, a flicker of her usual authority. But as she looked at Kemi standing beside me, her expression softened into an acknowledging nod. "Carry out Mistress Coona's orders," Ravela said; her words held her blessing.

"Sechnall," I motioned, "scour the city. Find anyone showin’ symptoms akin to Ciro. Time's no friend to us now, and don't ye be forgettin' to cover your faces!"

Ciro, still weak but determined, stepped forward. "I'll lend myself to your trial, Mistress Coona. If it aids the kingdom, count me in."

"Gratitude, Ciro. We'll be needin’ a sealed cell. We'll take no chances here," I ordered, watching as he acknowledged with a sober nod.

I turned towards Kemi. "Love, what we do next is fraught with risk. Them creatures may fear you, but they might still lash out in desperation. Ye need to be ever watchful, on your guard." She signed the words ‘shade’ to me in response. Aptly named, “Yes shades lass. Suits them well enough, let us all use that word forthwith, and as I said before, be alert.” My words carried the weight of danger now. Kemi was as precious to me as my own child and I had resolved to protect her by any means necessary.

Myrrine gravitated toward Kemi's side, her stance akin to a shield. "I'll be there for her, Marta. Where Kemi goes, I follow," she declared, her eyes meeting Kemeia’s. There was clearly a silent pact between them.

I watched Myrrine wrap Kemi in a protective and tender embrace. "To both of ye," I said, facing them, "More should arrive within the hour. But till then, stay put within these walls." Rest up and fill yer bellies. What's comin' will be a test like no other, more than ye can fathom."

As I set these pieces in motion, I caught a fleeting glimpse of longing and envy in Ravela's eyes. The words 'misery suits her well' crossed my mind, but I promptly chased them away.

With a deep breath, I faced the queen. "Your Majesty, we're needin' your magic to ease the burden on Myrrine's daggers. Conjure spells, make trinkets, anything to trap those shades. We're in dire need of your power."

Ravela's eyes, though clouded with unspoken thoughts, acknowledged the gravity of her task. "I grasp your meaning, Mistress Coona. I shall commence forthwith."

As Ravela moved to examine the daggers, my thoughts flickered to Lunete and her recent trials. "And ye, dear Lunete," I called out, "ye might have a part to play in this yet."

Ravela's usual fire sparked at my words, but I held my stance. "Every role is crucial, Your Highness. We face this together." Her nod, although hesitant, confirmed her agreement.

KEMEIA

Palace – Lunete’s Bedroom
An Hour Past Noon

In the peaceful ambience of Lunete’s bedroom, Myrrine and I kept company, both of us here on Lunete's insistence. Ravela worked on a spell for the daggers just outside. The space, usually brimming with Lunete’s high spirits, was now clouded with a contemplative silence. Lunete, unlike her usual self, was quietly thinking.

But then, my dear Lunete suddenly bolted upright, her eyes bright with what appeared to be a sudden realisation. "I got it!" she shouted as she marched back and forth as if piecing together an intricate puzzle in her mind. "No, not yet, but I'm getting there," she muttered, catching herself mid-stride.

Turning abruptly, she gave Myrrine a meaningful look. "Ah-ha!" It was as if she'd confirmed a suspicion. Then, her eyes shifted back to me. "Yes, almost there," she said, nodding before resuming her pacing. It was clear that Lunete was piecing together something significant, her mind working fervently to connect the dots.

Despite the heavy air of our current predicament, Lunete’s irrepressible zest never failed to amuse. Her lively antics reminded me of that Anuvarian verse: 'Thoughts wobble and bounce like a pot of jubilant jellies. Ideas pounce and prance in the mind's merry melody.' In this comical concoction, every notion does a merry dance!' It was a welcome respite from the gravity of the situation surrounding us.

She then approached me and leaned in curiously, taking in my scent and then Myrrine's, followed by her own, drawing an involuntary smile from me. After a moment of thoughtful silence, she declared, "As I was saying before the news of the plague." With a twinkle in her eye, she continued, "We're going to have a ball once all this is over. And you, you're going to be the guest of honour!"

Her enthusiasm was contagious in the best way possible. Radiating warmth and brightness, she had the incredible ability to lift even the gloomiest spirits. With a cheeky nudge, she continued, "I recommend that Myrrine should sign for you, not Marta! I expect that you would prefer more 'appropriate company' to escort you."

Lunete's light-hearted manner in the face of turmoil puzzled me briefly. Then, I remembered that this was quintessentially Lunete. Her spirit floated above life’s darker waters. Behind her playful demeanour, though, lay a sharp mind and capable hands. She was ready to lend a hand when needed, but until then, it appeared that she had taken on the role of raising our spirits.

I had seen her grow, skilled in both knowledge and arms. She was fit to be a queen, though she wore no crown. Behind her cheerful facade, though, lay the heart of a leader as capable and wise as any ruler—magic or no magic. No matter what role she would play in the future, Lunete would be remembered by all as Wildevale’s joy.

She sidled up closer, mischief colouring her voice. She whispered just loud enough for me to hear, "Think about it. A ball is where the magic happens. Perfect for those first stolen moments. I can well picture Myrrine captivated by your Saltatus," she paused, her eyes glinting, "though there might be whispers of an unexpected challenge for your favour... just rumours, of course." Her playful nudge and wink sent a rush of heat to my cheeks as she teased me freely.

Stretching gracefully and reaching skyward, she pivoted towards me again. "And Kemeia, I can't thank you enough. I am confident that you are our blessed anchor against these vile shades, a true lifesaver," she said, gratitude glowing in her eyes. Her words carried the weight of sincerity and left no room for doubt about the help I had provided.

Then she leaned into Myrrine, murmuring something I couldn't quite hear. Whatever it was left Myrrine looking flustered. ‘Oh, Lunete,’ I thought, still blushing but unable to suppress a smile. ‘You truly are a wonder.’ Lunete's spirit was indomitable, a gleeful sprite in the guise of royalty.

Ravela entered the room. She held Myrrine's dagger, now encased in a new jewel-encrusted sheath, and a handful of small pendants with gems like those in the sheath. "Containment charms," she announced, offering one to each of us. "They're adapted from protection charms, each capable of holding a few dozen of those bastards."

As she approached me, extending her hand with a pendant, I instinctively flinched, avoiding her gaze. Her hand, usually so steady, trembled slightly at my reaction. "Kemeia," she spoke, her voice almost cracking, "I now realise I've caused you great harm, though I know not my crime. We shall talk of it when this passes." Composing herself, she continued in a more authoritative tone. "These are for Mistress Coona, the soldiers, other healers, and anyone in need. Time will grant us more."

As Ravela finished explaining the new containment charms, Marta and Ciro burst into the room. "To the eastern hall, Kemi, Myrrine. We've established an overflow infirmary there," Marta announced, her Glamorgan lilt more pronounced under the strain. "More than sixty are now afflicted, and they're all being carted in. We can't be doing this without ye."

The number hit me like a wave. Over sixty already? How many more? With only my hands and a few trinkets, would it be enough? But then, as if answering my unspoken fears, the gentle, reassuring voice whispered within me, 'Be brave, my healer. Go to those who need you. Aid is coming on feathered wings.' That was all I needed to stop thinking the worst.

I nodded to Marta and Myrrine, signalling my readiness. As we gathered ourselves to leave, Ravela stepped forward. "I shall come with you," she stated firmly. "To better understand how these charms can be pushed past their limits." Lunete, too, joined us, and united in our purpose, we left the room and headed towards the eastern hall.

RAVELA

Palace Eastern Hall
Late noon

The Eastern Hall of the palace, usually a place of grandeur and celebration, had transformed into a wartime infirmary. The air was heavy with the scent of sickness. The moment we entered the place, the gravity of the situation was immediately apparent. The first of the afflicted had arrived, an older man whose ashen complexion and laboured breathing painted a grim picture.

Kemeia moved instinctively towards the collapsed man. Marta requested Ciro to accompany her and Myrrine for their planned experiment. “Ciro, we need to proceed with the test now,” she instructed urgency threading her voice.

Ciro nodded. “The sealed chamber is ready nearby,” he informed Marta, but she shook her head. “No time. We start here. There are already three new patients.”

The group approached the first victim, the man who seemed to be teetering on the brink of life and death. Kemeia’s hands hovered over him, and then she placed them on his chest. As she began the process, he belched the same filthy smoke and this time, it flew towards me.

I stood ready, having worn the containment charm as a pendant. I simply stood there, and the charm did the rest. It Consumed the shade and sealed it within. I could feel it writhing and wriggling like a toxic worm. “Better find a way to burn this disgusting filth,” I thought to myself.

Kemeia moved on to the next patient, a young mother. This time, as the black smoke emerged, it darted towards Marta. But Myrrine, as always, was quicker, her enchanted dagger flashing as she trapped the entity with a precise strike. “This second dagger of mine requires your enchantment as well,” she stated, her gaze meeting mine. I nodded, acknowledging the necessity of empowering her weapons further.

The next to receive Kemeia's gift was a soldier. As her healing energies enveloped him, the putrid apparition appeared yet again. This time, towards Marta again and handled deftly by her pendant.

Marta, observing the pattern with a keen eye, remarked, "It's clear now. Even with Ciro standing right next to Kemi, the vile smoke never dared reach him. Seems like once Kemi's healed someone, they're spared from these fiends' pursuit." She sounded relieved but then added. " But we can't be jumping to conclusions just yet. Further evidence must support our theory."

This was going to be very good news. It appeared Kemeia's healing touch did more than mend flesh. It offered unspoken sanctuary against this grotesque attack. Thank Selene, we had Marta. Observant and wise, just like Cormac.

Just weeks before what happened to Lunete, we had stood together on the palace balcony. His words echoed with a foresight that now seemed prophetic. “We need to always watch, listen and learn, Ravela. Even the smallest detail can teach us immeasurable lessons.” That night, under a tapestry of stars, he had been my voice of reason, my beacon in the darkness.

Cormac, my counsel.

The stark realisation slashed through my nostalgia, the bitter and searing truth was clear as day. I had killed him. 'Cormac, I raped you, your soul, and I murdered you!' The weight of this truth ignited a fury unlike no other within me. Vengeance, a cold promise to myself, loomed in my heart.

"They will pay," I seethed, "every last one who played a part in this atrocity will die by my hands, and then... what of me? The greatest criminal of all." There I stood, motionless, my facade unbroken. Yet my eyes betrayed me if only momentarily. Swiftly, I turned away, concealing my traitorous eyes. I could not allow them to see the Queen of Wildevale, the indomitable Ravela, in a moment of weakness. With a swift motion, I wiped away the evidence of my anguish. The only witnesses to my inner turmoil.

As the shadows lengthened in the Eastern Hall, my gaze swept over the scene with a mixture of disdain. 'This hall, once a testament to royal majesty, is now a sanctuary for the dying,' I thought bitterly. I watched Kemeia's unwavering dedication to healing the afflicted. She held strong despite her energy waning under the relentless tide of patients. I couldn't help but feel a deep respect for this delicate little thing. "One healer, over two hundred lives reclaimed," I murmured. "Yet at what cost to her own strength?"

Surrounding Kemeia, the other healers mustered their abilities, though their light paled next to her radiance. Master Reynard, quick to learn, had taken upon himself the task of teaching the others. 'Even the mediocre fools try,' I mused, observing Master Reynard's attempts to replicate Kemeia's technique. Even the swine Jarlath, whom I found as useful as a blunt blade, contributed in his own meagre way. 'Small flames may yet ignite a larger fire,' I conceded internally, though it was clear their efforts were but a drop in this ocean.

Kemeia continued her healing, a champion against a seemingly endless enemy. Mages scurried around, replenishing the containment charms. "Mere bandages on a gaping wound," I thought. I watched in frustration as a few charms shattered, releasing their captive horrors that had to be hunted again. 'We are but stalling, playing a dangerous game with time working against us,' I grimly thought to myself.

As night cloaked the hall, Kemeia's endurance reached its brink. In a moment that seemed to stretch and tarry, she faltered and crumpled to the ground with a gasp. Myrrine, too drained to assist, could only watch in dismay.

Thankfully I had been walking near, and I hurried to her side. As I knelt beside her, my hands cradled her head, drawing it with care into the sanctity of my lap. The chill of her pallor needed the comfort of the warmth that stirred from within me, an instinctual need to shield and nurture her.
"Fetch water quickly!" I commanded a page, ensuring that my voice betrayed none of the turmoil that raged beneath my facade. The startled servant dashed off to obey without question.

Tenderly, as Kemeia's weary eyes met mine, I found myself silently beseeching her. 'Why must you hate me so?’ my heart implored. As she gazed up at me, the sight of her frail, exhausted, and vulnerable—awakened an unfamiliar ache within me as I gently cradled her.

When the boy returned, breathless and with a pitcher in hand, I poured the cool water into a cup with a steady hand. "Drink, healer," I instructed her gently as I held the cup to her lips. "Let the water revive the spirit within you, for your labours are not yet done, and your presence—so vital."

"This is a war of attrition, and we are fast losing ground," I acknowledged to myself as Kemeia sipped the water I held to her lips. The grim reality was starkly clear: our current strategy was unsustainable.

"We need a broader strategy, one that does not solely rely on the prowess of a few," I resolved, gazing out at the sea of ailing bodies. "If this plague continues to spread, even the might of Selene’s blessed will be insufficient. We must find a way to turn the tide, or we all perish.”

As I was thinking this, Marta approached me, sounding incredibly exhausted. "Yer Highness, we're needin' yer stasis spell for them patients waitin' to be healed," she said. "We're all teeterin' on the edge of givin' out. Rest's what we need, and are of no use to anyone dead from exhaustion."

Her words rang true, yet the magnitude of what she asked was daunting. The very thought of casting a stasis spell of such scale, encompassing hundreds, was beyond the scope of my usual exploits. I admitted as much to Marta, "My power, although vast, knows its bounds. This might be well beyond me."

Yet, as I spoke, My eyes found Kemeia’s. I looked into them, those beautiful, endless, and hauntingly familiar orbs. They held a silent plea, a call to action that I couldn't ignore. Driven by the determination mirrored in her gaze, I commenced the incantation, summoning every ounce of my Sorgente for the task at hand.

The spell I cast began assertively, but soon the grip of exhaustion tugged at my vitality, an exhausting day's toll making itself known. The intricate spellwork quivered, straining against my dwindling force. I could sense the looming threat of failure.

‘You are such a fool, Ravela,’ I panicked inwardly. ' To attempt such an impossible feat, drained and ill-prepared, just for those beautiful, timeless, and... familiar eyes.’ Like a shaking leaf caught in the breath of a storm, my enchantment was falling away. The energy strands holding it together were fraying in a manner that I could no longer control.

Oh, goddess! The magic I had meticulously woven was coming undone. The construct was failing and was threatening to snap. Such catastrophic failure would unleash chaos and recoil back at me with a force that could be devastating.

It was precisely at that moment when Kemeia intervened. Her hands graced my shoulders. Her Sorgente, a wellspring of untapped power, poured into me like the life-giving waters of a river soaking the parched earth. It started by transforming the dwindling sparks of my own power into a steady flame and then into a radiant fire. It was glorious to see my spell surge to life under Kemeia’s influence.

It took shape as a glowing canopy above the afflicted. Before my astonished eyes, the spell continued to expand, enveloping the entire hall and spilling into the palace grounds. It was a spectacle, a shimmering sphere that selectively embraced only the afflicted, leaving the others free to move. This was no ordinary spell – it was a miracle.

Marta, overcome with relief and joy, praised Selene aloud. "The sphere will keep 'em hangin' on while we grab a bit o' rest," she declared to the room. "Selene, be praised!"

In the midst of this triumph, Ciro approached me, "Your Majesty, I've organised shifts for everyone. It's time for you to rest as well." As always, Ciro had done what he did best, my most trusted advisor since Cormac.

'My Cormac! There is much I need to undo, but I promise to carry the burdens of my crime against you to my grave!'

I turned to express my gratitude to Kemeia, but her weak smile quickly faded as she collapsed to the ground.

"Kemi!" I cried out in alarm. I rushed to her side, no longer a queen but someone determined to ensure her well-being. "You have given too much of yourself," I whispered as I cradled her fallen form.

As I held her, I resolved that I would do everything in my power to protect this precious gift Selene had bestowed upon us. Protect her I would, but more importantly, I also pledged to atone for whatever unknown wrong I had inflicted upon her.

Bring her food and drink, something easy on the stomach and mild," I instructed. Turning to a very concerned Marta, I added, "I leave it to you, Mistress Coona. Please ensure it's suitable for her, considering her weakened state."

As I gently lifted Kemeia's frail form into my arms, I felt a part of myself awaken - a part that only Cormac ever truly knew. Her prone body, at this moment, caused a part of me to crack. The walls around my heart had begun to crumble, a reminder that the compassionate woman in me still existed. The woman whom I thought was lost to 'Queen Ravela.'

Turning to Myrrine, I said softly, "Follow me," a queen's command hiding an unspoken plea. A longing for the connection that Kemeia and Myrrine shared. As I moved towards my private quarters, carrying Kemeia, memories of Cormac flickered through my mind. Tiny, delicate Kemeia stirred these memories of my big, strong Cormac. It kindled a yearning I hadn't allowed myself to feel since those cherished moments with him.

The part of me that had and still loves Cormac, that yearned for his touch and understanding, now found a strange echo in my concern for Kemeia. It was a confusing, almost overwhelming sensation, but in that moment, I embraced it. A part I scarcely recognised yearned for solitude with Kemeia, yearned to explore these newfound emotions in the quiet of my own chambers. But reality held firm; Myrrine was a part of Kemeia's world, one that I, despite my power, barely understood.

This is part 2 of my first work, a fan continuation of the unfinished Kemeia Ascending. It is entirely inspired by Armond's magical world of Argentia and its Goddess Selene.

Link to the book here Kemeia Ascends - A Fan Continuity

You can read the prior parts by Armond from the links below

Kemeia Ascending Part 1
Kemeia Ascending Part 2
Kemeia Ascending Part 3

More of Armond's work can be found here

As Wildevale grapples with a spreading plague, Kemi and Ravela find themselves united in their fight against chaos. Amidst the turmoil, a bond forms between them, hinting at the start of an unexpected but sincere affection. In facing their darkest challenges, they discover a possibility of love and understanding, bringing a ray of hope to a kingdom in distress.

Beneath the gilded domes of rule, a queen's heart shall waver, guided by the healer's silent strength. In their mingled steps, a new dawn shall awaken, wrapped in the gentle folds of Selene's light. In their union, a fractured kingdom finds solace, as silent understanding bridges hearts once apart.
-Hymns of the Lune, The Crystalline Prophecies, Scroll XII, stanza 32

KEMEIA

The Queen’s Royal Chamber
Nighttime

Engulfed in the comforting embrace of darkness, I felt myself drifting into an abyss of nothingness. The agony of aiding Ravela still seared through me. Pouring my Sorgente into her felt like setting my soul aflame. As my essence seeped out with each moment, it left a scorching trail of pain and emptiness that felt like it I was being hollowed out from within.I longed to scream, to release this torment, but no sound would come. I was mute, not just by nature but also by choice. It was who I was now, and I was unwilling to cause alarm to those around me.

Weary and burnt, My empty husk yearned for the tranquillity of endless sleep. 'Let me rest,' it pleaded silently, surrendering to the fatigue that clawed at every fibre of what little was left of me. 'There is nothing for me here.'

But then, softly, like a whisper carried on a gentle breeze, the voice echoed in my mind,

“Look ahead, my cherished one, beneath the moon and sun."

The darkness began to recede and before me, under the delicate boughs of a cherry blossom tree, stood two lovers locked in a tender embrace. Their first kiss, a moment of bliss, painted in gold and wine hues amidst a shower of soft petals.

"Together we shall roam, in the skies where stars are spun."

The scene dissolved, giving way to another, in a very different time and place – a mother proudly watching her daughter cook, their rich black hair and skin mirroring my own, dressed in robes and hats unlike any I had seen before. A legacy passed down, a bond unbroken.

"Though the path unwinds anew, with much still undone,"

The vision shifted again. I gazed upon a small nightingale, lifeless upon an altar unlike any I had ever seen. In its final moments, it seemed to have poured its soul into a song of unparalleled beauty. Yet, as the melody lingered in the air, a faint twitch suggested a spark of life still within.

"Rest well, dear heart, for your greatest journey has just begun."

A cascade of what could be my many lives unfolded before me - the maiden, the mother, the crone - each surrounded by love, desire, and protection. Faces blurred, identities unknown, yet the feeling of being cherished was unmistakable.

In that moment I understood. My journey was far from over; my story was yet to be written. And right then I felt the pull of consciousness beckoning me back.

Gasping back into reality, the sharp scent of smelling salts filled my nostrils, and my heavy eyes fluttered open. The first sight that greeted me was Ravela's face.

Alone with Ravela! A surge of panic propelled me to scramble away, my mind echoing with a singular, desperate thought - escape. The fear, deeply ingrained from past horrors, gripped me tightly. But as I struggled, my surroundings slowly came into focus, and a stark realization dawned on me – I was in the royal chamber, the same chamber where, as Cormac, I had shared many a night with Ravela, yet the urgency to distance myself prevailed.

Ravela's anguished cry pierced the silence. "Why do you fear me so, Kemeia? Whatever harm I've caused, I swear I'll atone for it," she pleaded, her voice breaking with emotion.

I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy, a yearning to comfort her, to love her yet again but fear held me captive, rooted in the past horrors and the dread of what revelations might bring. If Ravela ever discovered I was Cormac, it could unleash a maelstrom of madness and further pain. I no longer harboured hatred for her, only a deep-seated fear and sorrow for what we had lost, for what she had destroyed.

Struggling against my weakness, I tried to move away, to put distance between us. But my body betrayed me, too exhausted to obey.

Then, something unprecedented happened. Ravela, the unbreakable queen who never showed vulnerability, crawled up to me and rested her head on my calves, her body wracked with sobs. Tears, a sight unseen even during her parents' funeral, streamed down her face. I had witnessed tears from her before but this…this show of misery from Ravela was foreign, unsettling. She had always been the epitome of strength, the unyielding monarch of Wildevale.

Cruelty, icy cold, insanity – these were the words that had recently defined her in my mind. Yet here she was, vulnerable and broken, pleading for mercy, a stark contrast to the queen who ruled with an iron fist.

As she continued to weep, her grief so raw and exposed, something within me cracked. Now my tears came unbidden, flowing quietly but relentlessly. I pleaded to the voice in my head, that guiding whisper, but there was nothing. Just silence.

How I wished for the impossible – to be Cormac again, just for this moment, to comfort her. But that was a dream as shattered as my past self.

As my tears kept falling, in my heart, I knew I couldn't change what had happened. I was Kemeia now, not Cormac. But even in this new life, there was something I could do. I was a healer, and healers comforted those in pain.

Ravela's sobs gradually subsided into quiet whimpers, the most agonising of her emotions momentarily spent. She lifted her head slowly, her eyes red and swollen, meeting mine. In them, I saw a flicker of realisation as she noticed my tears. For a moment, she just stared, as if seeing me for the first time.

Then, with a softness uncharacteristic of her usual demeanour, Ravela edged closer. She hesitantly climbed onto the bed, her movements cautious, as though questioning her right to such intimacy. Yet, I didn't recoil. Gazing intently into her eyes, I pushed past the fear that always lurked when near her. Opening my arms, I welcomed her closer, allowing her to rest her head against me. There we lay, two fractured souls finding a moment of solace in each other's embrace.

Our tears mingled, silent testimonies of our shared grief and loss. There were no words spoken, none were needed. In this embrace, there was a fragile understanding, a bridge built from the ruins of our past. For these fleeting moments, we were just two beings, united in our sorrow, finding comfort in the presence of the other.

The room was silent, save for the soft sounds of her weeping. If our tears could be our solace, then let them fall. Let them wash away some of the agony that clung to us both. In that moment, I realised this was another form of healing. Not with magic or herbs, but with shared grief, with the understanding that sometimes, just being there was enough.

‘My chosen, now that you truly begin your own healing, your burdens will soon lighten." Ah, now you speak up,’ I mused wryly, feeling a mix of relief and mild irritation. "I could have used your guidance a moment earlier, but perhaps you knew that you were not needed then." Some lessons and comforts, I realised, could only be learned and given through human touch and empathy, not divine intervention.

The door to the chamber creaked open, and in stepped Myrrine, her arms laden with food. “Took it upon myself to inspect the food,” she began with a note of pride. “Only a trained eye like mine can...” Her voice trailed off as she took in the scene before her - Ravela and I, holding each other, eyes swollen and crying what a duo we looked.

Carefully setting down the food, Myrrine approached us. She extended a tender hand to me, brushing my forehead with a kiss that was both comforting and protective. Turning to Ravela, her hand hovered for a moment before she gently touched her shoulder.

Ravela's icy voice cut through the warmth of the moment. "I did not give you leave to touch me," she said, her tone as frosty as a winter's morning.

I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at her, my hands moving quickly to sign my response. Her expression faltered under my chiding gaze, and she let out a reluctant huff. "Fine, just this once then," she grumbled, a queen conceding to the absurdity of the moment.

The humour of it all wasn't lost on me. With a smirk, I signed, “There’s a tale from the Isles about mules so stubborn, they’d rather sit in the rain than move to shelter.“

Myrrine, translating, struggled to keep a straight face. Ravela shot me a look that was a mix of embarrassment and a grudging smile. For a brief moment, our shared laughter lightened the room. I hoped for more such moments in the future.

A few moments later, Ravela stood up, her composure back in place. "Sit up, Kemeia," she instructed, moving with a grace that belied the weariness I knew she felt. She fetched the steaming bowl of chicken and vegetable broth, bringing it over to me.

As she began to feed me, Myrrine joined us, holding a plate of soft, Marossan Milkbread soaked in herbal butter. The care they both showed was comforting, yet I couldn't help but notice the competitive spark between them. This attention, while overwhelming, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time – a feeling of being the most desired and cherished person in the room.

As the meal unfolded, it turned into a contest of care, with both Ravela and Myrrine competing to attend to me. It felt almost surreal, this peculiar pampering, a silent struggle for my favour, felt almost like a dream, far removed from any past moments of attention I had known.

Towards the end, a playful tussle ensued over a bunch of grapes. Ravela, with a triumphant smirk, managed to feed me the last grape. Her gaze met Myrrine’s, a silent declaration of victory.

But Myrrine, quick as a shadow, swiftly leaned in and kissed me deeply, a move that caught me off guard. Her lips were firm yet gentle, and I found myself responding before I could even think. As she pulled away, her sly grin met Ravela's glare, one that could have turned lesser beings to ash.

For a fleeting moment, I panicked, wondering if Ravela's wild insanity would surface. But observing her now, a hint of something different shimmered in her demeanour. Perhaps these were the first, hesitant steps towards healing, a gentle unravelling of the tightly wound Queen I had always known.

Just as I was musing this, Ravela's expression shifted into one of surprise. She turned towards me, her brows knitting together in a display of confusion. "Why do I feel so...so..." she trailed off, searching for the right words. Her eyes searched mine, seeking an answer, her usual composure giving way to an unfamiliar vulnerability.

She seemed to be grappling with a feeling that was foreign to her. "Did you do something to me?" she asked, her voice tinged with confusion. I shook my head gently, indicating a 'no' in response.

The confusion on Ravela's face deepened, then slowly, it transformed into a look of relief, almost wonder. It was as if she was seeing the world through a new lens. She gazed at me again, her eyes softer than I had ever seen. "Thank you," she murmured, a simple yet heartwarming expression of gratitude.

And then, as if the weight of her crown and the burdens of her past were momentarily lifted, she lay back on the bed next to me. Her body relaxed in a way I had never witnessed, and she appeared to drift into sleep. The last thing I saw before she closed her eyes was a smile, small and genuine, a rare glimpse of the woman behind the Queen.

Myrrine, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, leaned close and whispered, "Now's our chance for a bit of fun, with the old dragon snoozing away." Her words barely left her lips when she was interrupted by a muffled, "Think twice before acting, or you might find yourself glowing in the dark”.

I couldn't help but let out a silent chuckle, amused by their banter. Myrrine just grinned and settled beside me. Lying there, sandwiched between the two, I felt an odd sense of harmony. As sleep beckoned, I closed my eyes, a contented smile on my lips, embraced by the warmth of an unexpected family.

RAVELA

'Miradelth'
Late night

In the veiled depths of 'Miradelth', my dream-haven, I roamed. This damned forest, a relic of my youthful Sorgente training under Mistress Eireann's heavy hand, was where I'd learned to cage my inner inferno. A place I'd abandoned, along with so much else, as my mind descended into ‘wrongness’, as I now realised, over the years. Yet now, here I stood, the once wild and raging wildfires that dotted its landscape reduced to mere embers.

As I ventured deeper, this forest, once a tempestuous realm, now rested in a state resembling ethereal calm. The sun, absent for years, cast gentle beams through the canopy, infusing the air with a tranquility that bordered on the surreal. It was as if the forest was maturing, trying to find a balance between its wild heart and a desire for peace.

Standing under this serene sky, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for the vibrant, albeit enraged, energy that once thrived here. "Dammit, Miradelth, you've gone soft," I mused. The forest, in its daytime splendor, felt almost otherworldly, a realm transformed from the furious haven I once knew. "Is this the beginning of peace, or just the calm before another storm?" I pondered, half-expecting the flames to reignite and consume it all in a fiery outburst.

As I moved through the forest, the fantastical creatures of my imagination greeted me. Winged serpents with scales that shimmered like jewels, and majestic stags with antlers reaching towards the sky, creatures born from the fables of my childhood. "Still playing their part, I see. Creatures of a queen's whimsy, nothing more." I chided myself, they were but echoes of my youthful fantasies, yet ever loyal to their creator.

Ahead, I saw the path that led me to the heart of the forest, to Selene's altar, a sanctuary. The near forgotten monument in my mind, once a source of solace in my younger days, now beckoned, no commanded… me to present myself.

"Cormac always nagged me to come here... for clarity," I mused, recalling his insistence on meditation. As a Nique, he needed to meditate, his ritualistic way of gathering whatever power he needed each day. I believed it pointless for me as we Sorgente were gifted and always had the power within. Now I was realising that as always, his wisdom far exceeded mine.

Cormac, my equal in many ways, perhaps even my better.

The forest, with its radiant beauty and tranquil strength, stood in stark contrast to the turmoil within me. It was as if Miradelth was showing me a different path, one that I had long abandoned.

"Perhaps this isn't the end," I conceded, a rare glimmer of hope piercing through my cynicism. "Maybe there's still a chance for redemption. If not for me. For my kingdom atleast." As I approached the altar, I felt a stirring, a call to perhaps right some of the wrongs that were of my own making.

At the center of the altar, the once revered statue of Selene stood alone, a stark contrast to my memories. It was as if neglect and my own inner turmoil had manifested, covering it in dirt and grime. "What have I done, not just to myself but to you?" I wondered, my heart sinking at the sight.

In haste, I tore at my robes, soaking them in the nearby pond to cleanse the statue. Even the pond’s water seemed tainted, reflecting the state of my own soul.

As I scrubbed the statue clean, I noticed the distress etched into Selene's face, cracks spidering across her visage, her eyes firmly shut. "She can't even bear to look at me."

But refused to succumb. I gazed into the statue's eyes, making a solemn vow. "This may be but a symbol, yet it reflects my conscience, my own self, turning away from me in disgust. I swear to dedicate every breath, every ounce of my being, to make amends." My voice was a whisper, but the resolve within me was as loud as thunder. "I will right the wrongs I have inflicted upon others, even if it costs me my life."

As my oath to myself echoed in the sacred stillness, the statue's visage shifted, taking on the features of Kemeia. A sign, perhaps, of where my journey of redemption must begin.

With newfound determination, I turned away from the altar, "I know where I must start," I declared, as the dream began to fade, pulling me back into the embrace of sleep, outside the realm of dreams.

But sleep did not come and instead I lay awake in the quiet of the night, my gaze lingered on Kemeia's sleeping form, absorbing the exotic allure of her Anatolian beauty. The moonlight caressed her almond skin, highlighting her raven hair and the delicate contour of her nose. Her lips, a shade reminiscent of ripe strawberries, parted slightly with each gentle breath.

A sudden, almost primal urge overtook me – the desire to claim her, to make her mine. My finger traced the line of her neck, a tentative exploration of her soft skin. I watched, captivated, as Kemeia unconsciously mouthed a silent moan, a response that fueled my yearning further.

But then, guilt surged through me, halting my advance. What was I doing? I had just recognized my role in Cormac's downfall, and here I was, consumed by desire for another. Was this right? Yet, it felt so natural, so compelling. Kemeia was divine, a goddess's gift in human form. Perhaps this was a test from Selene herself, a challenge of my resolve?

Lost in this whirlwind of conflicting emotions, my finger now tracing her collarbone, I failed to notice the change in Kemi's breathing until it became unmistakably erratic. Just as realisation dawned, I found her eyes open, wide and fixed upon me. There was no accusation, no fear, just an unfathomable depth that left me exposed, and vulnerable.

In that moment, suspended in the stillness of the night, she reached out and drew me closer. Her eyes were unflinching and devoid of the fear that once lurked within their depths.

She then pulled me into an embrace, enveloping me in warmth and safety. And then, she kissed me. It was a kiss laden with tenderness and depth, reminiscent of how Cormac used to kiss me, yet more. More selfless, more nurturing, more complete.

In that kiss, I found something I hadn't known I was missing. It wasn't just the sensation of being desired, but the profound feeling of being truly accepted. I responded instinctively, holding her close, allowing myself to be lost in the moment, in the affection that flowed between us.

As we lay there, entwined in each other's arms, It was as if, for the first time in a long, torturous while, I had found a fragment of peace.. We remained in each other's embrace, the world outside fading into insignificance, until sleep claimed us once more. Drifting off, I clung to this fragile promise of a new dawn, a potential new chapter in the saga of my life.

KEMEIA

4th day of Rainmoot
Palace – Eastern Hall Temporary Infirmary
Late morning

"Overwhelmed," I thought, watching the steady stream of sick being brought into the Eastern Hall. The temporary infirmary was teeming with the afflicted, and I couldn't help but feel a rising sense of dread. "This... this isn't sustainable." i thought to myself.

The area covered by the stasis spell was brimming, almost at its limit. Panic fluttered in my chest as a soldier hurried towards Sechnall, his voice urgent, "More are coming, in the hundreds!"

The realization that we could only maintain one large stasis sphere at a time was a serious blow to our plan. It was clear that even with my help, Ravela had reached her limit. "We can't stretch the spell any further," I signed to Marta, the reality of our situation sinking in. "We need another solution, and fast." With the hall already straining under the pressure of the afflicted, even our best efforts might not be enough.

Yet in this hour of need, as if guided by the unseen hand of the goddess herself, the fluttering of wings caught my attention, drawing my gaze towards the open window. A white dove, its feathers a stark contrast against the dimness of the hall, flew in through the open window and perched on my shoulder.

I was not really surprised when I noticed that It bore a message and a small bag tied to its leg, waiting patiently as I carefully untied the contents. I unfolded the note, reading and re-reading the contents as it thanked Selene repeatedly, I did not react yet. I needed to check the contents of the bag first and as I carefully examined it, Ravela’s voice broke through the silence. "Kemeia, what's in the note?"

I took a deep breath, steadying my thoughts before I began to sign rapidly, as Myrrine translated my words for everyone.

"It's a message from the priestesses from the North," Myrrine's voice echoed around the hall, carrying a mix of urgency and relief. "They were forewarned of this day. They couldn't reach us in time, so they sent this directly to Kemeia. It's a miracle of Selene that it found her without knowing who she was!"

I continued to sign, "The priestesses have given us a recipe for a cure, one that can be made in large quantities." I held up the small pouch, "And this bag contains preserved Panacea, their last stores."

Ravela, without a second thought, called for the castle's herbalist, instructing them to begin preparations. This was the breakthrough we needed and the room buzzed with a newfound energy. With this crucial ingredient and the guidance from the priestesses, we had a fighting chance.

Marta, watching the flurry of activity that followed, allowed a small, weary smile to grace her face. "A fighting chance, at last," she murmured, her eyes reflecting relief. She looked at me when she then said, "a blessing from Selene herself against these… shades." It seemed fitting, a name for the malevolent spirits we were combating. "Shades," I signed in agreement.. Ravela gave a brief nod of approval, her focus already shifting to the next task at hand.

As the tension in the hall reached a fever pitch, the familiar voice whispered in my mind, ‘my love, did I not promise aid?’, its tone laced with a knowing warmth. ‘Assistance has come, borne on wings, as literal as one might imagine.’ A reminder that even in our darkest hours, we were never truly alone.

When the herbalist arrived, and instructions were shared Ravela offered to assist him. "I'll join you," she stated, "My magical knowledge might prove useful." Lunete, with her training as a herbalist, volunteered to accompany them as well. Now I was starting to see how all of us had a role in this.

As Ravela prepared to leave, she paused and turned towards me. "Kemeia, you are a miracle," she said, her eyes no longer those of the queen, when looking at me atleast, now showed only gratitude. "You never cease to amaze me. But this message is our call to lighten your burden" I heard her words and yet I wondered,. 'If only she knew the truth of who I am,' .

The thought lingered in my mind as I watched her leave. Perhaps the time was nearing when Ravela would have to know everything. Especially now, with the possibility of a scalable solution emerging, the truth about my past might become essential.

RAVELA

'Palace - Kitchen (Temporary Herbalist Chambers)'
Mid day

In the makeshift herbalist chambers, once the bustling palace kitchen, we faced our first real test in crafting the cure. The foundation of our concoction was the Calendula extract, revered for its healing properties. Next to it, the Lemon Balm, its citrus scent a refreshing contrast, awaited its turn. "Remember, as the priestesses instructed, this mixture is lethal to the shades," I reminded those around me, emphasising the significance of what we were making.

Our preparation included two exceptionally rare ingredients. Azureleaf, a gift from the distant Anatol Isles, known for its remarkable anti-toxin properties. "Handle it with care," I instructed, aware of its potency. The second, Twilight Vine, glowed faintly in the subdued light of the chamber, its luminescent leaves essential to activate the concoction's elements.

Echinacea, known for boosting immunity, was carefully measured into the pot. Its role in bolstering immunity was paramount in our fight against the plague. Next, the Hawthorne, with its heart-strengthening attributes, was added. Its berries, both bitter and sweet, much like this bitter battle against an unseen enemy, sweetened by this hope of a cure.

A mere dash of Panacea transformed the mixture into a mesmerizing silver-blue hue, precisely as the priestesses' recipe had described. The final component, Turmeric, a rare and exotic root, was crucial for the mixture's completion. I watched intently as the herbalist measured the turmeric. But in a moment of inattention, an excess spilled into the tiny pot. The mixture reacted immediately, bubbling violently and morphing into an unintended orange hue instead of the desired shimmering gold.

For a heartbeat, my old self, quick to anger and retribution, threatened to take over. "Imbeciles! Must I oversee every minor detail?" I wanted to lash out, to let my fury reign. But then, the rational part of me intervened.. "Patience, Ravela. They are trying their best," I silently chastised myself, suppressing the instinct to erupt.

Taking a deep breath, I steadied my voice. ""Gather yourselves. We start anew. Precision is key, for the fate of Wildevale rests in our hands," I said, more calmly than I felt. This setback was a test, not just of our skill, but of my ability to lead differently - with understanding rather than fear.

As we regrouped for a second attempt, I watched myself struggle with following the nuances of the effort at hand, my knowledge in spellcraft faltering in this unfamiliar domain. "This is not your forte, Ravela," I muttered under my breath, frustration simmering within.

Lunete, noticing my struggle, intervened. "Let me handle this part, Ravela," she said, her voice resonating a confidence that I had not heard before. She started giving instructions to the herbalist at work.

Only now did I remember that Lunete had found her calling in the quiet, yet no less powerful, realm of nature's gifts. I remembered how, as a child, she would spend hours in the palace gardens.

Eirlys, a visiting sage with a wealth of knowledge about the healing powers of plants, had recognized Lunete's natural affinity for herbalism. She nurtured it, guiding her through the intricate balance of herbs and their properties.

Watching her now, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride. Lunete was a truly skilled herbalist, her expertise evident in every precise instruction and assistance she offered. Her path, so different from mine, had led her to a mastery that was now proving invaluable in our time of need.

"Your teacher would be proud, Lunete," I said, a genuine note of admiration in my voice. "You have truly mastered the art she taught you."

Lunete looked up, a faint smile touching her lips. "We all have our strengths. This has always been mine," she responded, continuing her work with practised ease.

Her words were a gentle reminder of the talents that surrounded me, talents I had often overshadowed with my own presence and power. It was a humbling acknowledgement that, despite my prowess in high spellcraft, there were realms of knowledge and skill where I needed to rely on others.

In that moment, I recognized the need to trust in those around me, to appreciate and utilise the strengths they brought to the table. Lunete's expertise in herbalism was just one example of the wealth of abilities that resided within my court, abilities that I had often overlooked in my pursuit of power and control.

"Thank you, Lunete," I said. "For everything you're doing. You're more than just my sister; you're a vital part of what makes this kingdom strong."

Lunete's smile widened, and she nodded, acknowledging my words. As I stepped back, allowing her to lead, I realised this was a lesson that, perhaps, was long overdue for a queen who had often walked alone.

As I stood there, watching Lunete and the herbalists at work, my mind wandered. to the unexpected moment shared with Kemeia the night prior. The memory of that kiss filled me with a warmth I hadn't felt in years. There was something about it that felt strangely right. The way her lips met mine stirred memories of Cormac, yet it was different—more selfless, more nurturing.

The turmoil I had braced for never came. Instead, it felt harmonious, a convergence of past and present that was quickly filling a void in me and promised a potential future unfurling with possibilities.

The kiss with Kemeia was a moment of solace yesterday but today it felt like a spark of something else. She was filling a void that Cormac left behind, maybe I could fill her void…mmmm…Kemi

"Ravela, the first batch! We've done it!" Lunete exclaimed, her voice slicing through my thoughts like a well-aimed arrow.

Startled, I quickly realigned my composure, masking my brief annoyance with a practised grace. "Ah, Lunete, ever the herald of good tidings," I muttered under my breath with a hint of sarcasm. "And here I was, enjoying a rare moment of... reflection."

Now that I was rudely brought back to the present by the realities of my kingdom, 'never a dull moment in the life of Ravela,' I thought. It was time to attend to what was most important, to get the cure to the healers.

The Eastern Hall teeming with healers and the afflicted, buzzed with cautious optimism as I made my way through. "Attention," I called out. "The first batch of the cure is ready. It is a testament to our resilience, the skill of our herbalists, and … Princess Lunete." A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd, their faces turning towards Lunete with admiration.

I turned, addressing Marta and Ciro directly. “While I have every faith in the wisdom of the priestesses, we must proceed with caution. This cure needs to be tested at the earliest so that we may prepare more for widespread use." Marta called for Myrrine to collect the batch and start testing right away.

I scanned the room until my eyes found Kemeia. She was tirelessly working, her face etched with fatigue, yet upon hearing the news, her lips had curved into a genuinely warm smile. It was the first unsolicited expression of joy I had witnessed on her since her arrival at the palace. Did my heart just skip a beat at the sight?

"Kemeia," I called out, my voice carrying a blend of softness and queenly command. "When we are done here, would you join me for a walk in the courtyard? Some fresh air would do us both good, don't you think?"

Kemeia paused, her gaze meeting mine. There was a brief flash of something undefinable in her eyes - was it a surprise? Anticipation? She nodded slightly, accepting my invitation with only a fraction of the hesitation I had expected.

KEMEIA

4th day of Rainmoot
Palace Courtyard
Evening

Walking towards the Palace courtyard, "Amangon, this time, you've been outplayed," I mused to myself, a sense of triumph despite the exhaustion. The cure, the ability to produce it en masse, had marked a significant turning point in our struggle against the shades.

As I stepped into the open space of the courtyard, a few moments ahead of me, stood Ravela. She had just completed assisting with the last of the necessary containment charms, a feat that edged us closer to regaining control over the crisis.

Observing her from a distance, I couldn't help but acknowledge the changes I had seen in her in just these few days. The ‘mad queen’ now seemed more human, more accessible, more beautiful. Her self control, her involvement in the creation of the charms, her evident fatigue. "Ravela, perhaps, in this fight, we may have found common ground, I do not know what may happen but maybe now is the time for us both to acknowledge the truth." I thought.

As I neared her, she turned, noticing my approach. Her gaze held a warmth but it hinted at something more primal, but primal in a good way that ‘selene help me’ i desired. She extended her hand towards me, "Kemeia, thank you," It was a genuine thanks but hidden behind the obvious was a call that, despite our history, beckoned me closer with an almost magnetic pull.

Tentatively, I reached out, placing my hand in hers. The contact, simple yet meaningful, made me feel just a little better.

Her gaze held mine, "Walk with me, Kemeia," she said, gesturing towards the garden paths. "There is much to discuss, and perhaps, in the quiet of these gardens, we can find the words that have eluded us in the chaos thus far." Together, we walked further into the courtyard, her hand, holding mine, felt surprisingly comforting accompanied by the soft rustling of leaves and the gentle evening breeze.

As we meandered through the courtyard, Ravela shared small stories from the past. Each tale was a thread in the tapestry of her life, revealing facets of herself that had remained hidden behind the façade of the 'mad queen.' Her words, laced with nostalgia, painted pictures of simpler times.

As we strolled through the courtyard, her stories unfolded like familiar yet distant echoes from my past life. These were tales I knew well as Cormac, but hearing them from Ravela now, they took on a different hue, more balanced and introspective. It was as if she was piecing together fragments of a life once lived, but with a new understanding, a new perspective.

She spoke not just of events, but of emotions, of the creeping illness of the mind that had begun to cloud her judgement over the years. "It was like a shadow," Ravela confided, her voice laced with a vulnerability I had never heard before. "A gradual detachment from myself, from the world around me. It's been a battle, one that's been harder to fight because I couldn't fully grasp or even acknowledge it."

Her words resonated with a painful truth. Here was a side of Ravela I had never fully understood, not as Cormac and not as Kemeia. A woman grappling with her own mind, struggling against an unseen adversary that threatened to consume her from within. An adversary that she was only becoming aware of now. It gave me a glimpse into the internal struggles that had shaped her actions, for better or worse.

Then, Ravela's voice softened, her gaze distant as she recalled a summer ball - the one before Lunete's tragic coma. "We danced until the stars faded," she reminisced, a wistful smile touching her lips. "Cormac and I... under the moonlight, he kissed me right here in this courtyard. It was bliss."

Oh Selene, this courtyard, this very spot - it was where she and I..no Cormac had shared that unforgettable kiss. My heart raced, panic gripping me as the memories overwhelmed me. Memories of what Ravela did to Cormac, to me.

Tears blurred my vision as the realisation hit me like a wave. I couldn't stay here, couldn't bear the weight of these memories. I turned abruptly, fleeing from the courtyard, from Ravela, from the past that haunted me.

I heard her call out, her voice filled with panic and a desperation I had never known her to possess. The words were distant, muffled by the pounding of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears, but I couldn't stop.

My heart ached, torn between the healer's instinct to comfort and the survivor's urge to flee but my legs moved of their own accord. Propelling me away from the courtyard, away from Ravela, Each step away was a step towards self-preservation, a desperate attempt to protect what little was left of me.

Yet in my haste, was my mind playing tricks on me? The echoes of Ravela's voice morphing into words that couldn't be true. "Don't leave me…my love!" The phrase seemed to chase me, a haunting refrain that tangled with my panicked thoughts.

Could it be? Could Ravela have pieced together the truth? No, it was impossible, just a figment of my tormented imagination. I was Kemeia now, not Cormac. Yet, the words clung to me, a shroud of doubt and confusion.

And so, I fled, leaving behind the echoes of a name I once bore, a love that was once mine, and a truth that was too overwhelming to face. The courtyard, with its shadows and memories, faded into the distance, a silent witness to the heartbreak and revelation that had unfolded within its walls.

This is part 3 of my first work, a fan continuation of the unfinished Kemeia Ascending. It is entirely inspired by Armond's magical world of Argentia and its Goddess Selene.

Link to the book here Kemeia Ascends - A Fan Continuity

You can read the prior parts by Armond from the links below

Kemeia Ascending Part 1
Kemeia Ascending Part 2
Kemeia Ascending Part 3

More of Armond's work can be found here

Amidst the kingdom on its path to recovery, Ravela faces a haunting personal truth and pledges to seek justice and atonement for her transgressions. A deep conspiracy comes to light, intensifying the political intrigue. Ravela's strained familial relationship comes to a head as moral debts are called into question. Meanwhile, Kemeia's mystical powers surface in response to declarations of loyalty, further complicating the tangled web of emotions ensnaring those involved. As love, guilt, and redemption intertwine, the future of the kingdom hangs in the balance, with the possibility of new beginnings emerging from the chaos.

Amidst soft moans of the slumbering earth, the sentinel bows before the altar of trust. A testament to the strength in surrender, she too shall become a confluence of power, where petals unfold beneath her gaze, bathed in the moon's tender hymn.
- Whispers of the Waning Moon, Selene's Ethereal Embrace, Volume IX, passage 44

RAVELA


Palace Courtyard
Evening

As Kemi turned to flee, the realisation hit me like a thunderbolt. All the signs I had overlooked suddenly came together with piercing clarity. The muteness that I never questioned, the familiar glint in her eyes, her fear of me, everything pointed to the unspeakable truth. Kemeia, the woman I had grown to respect and desire, was the very person I had destroyed – Cormac, my Cormac!

I saw her run but I could not stop her, words wouldn’t escape my lips and my legs refused to move. The torrent of memories and truths were bombarding me, keeping me frozen still, each more damning than the last.

The unspeakable horrors I unleashed upon him... 'Oh dear Selene!', upon HER, in the barracks. I remembered the chains, the cold, merciless metal that bound her, to that cursed bed. The ‘love spell’ I cast on her friends and comrades, turning them into the unwitting instruments of my twisted retribution. In my blinded rage, I had condemned Cormac, Kemeia, to a fate worse than death.

Worst of all, I had observed, hidden in the shadows, as life was brutally raped and beaten from HER eyes by the very men she once commanded, the men she had loved and trusted. The horror of this act was unspeakable, the part of me that needed to witness every moment of his no HER downfall was worse than me just being a ‘mad queen. I had become something far worse. I was a spectator to the atrocity I had authored, finding some perverse satisfaction in seeing my vengeance exacted.

How could I have used my power, my sacred gift, in such a monstrous way? The realisation was a searing blade through my soul. Every shred of fear in Kemeia's eyes, every tremor in her voiceless sobs, now made horrifying sense. They were not just the reactions of a healer who feared a tyrant queen; they were the scars left behind by the monster that I was.

In that moment, I understood the magnitude of my sins. I had not just broken a body; I had shattered a soul. My use of the goddess’s gift had become my damnation, a curse that I had inflicted upon the one person who had ever truly loved me.

My knees buckled beneath the weight of this revelation, and I fell to the ground, a broken. My cries filled the courtyard, a lament for the love and life I had shattered. "Don't leave me, my Cormac, don't leave me, my love," I pleaded, but the words were nothing but an echo in the emptiness, a futile attempt to reach out to the ghost of my past and fleeing Kemeia who was already distant.

Lying there on the cold ground, my sobs were the only sound in the echoing silence of the courtyard. For a long time, I remained there, paralyzed by the magnitude of my sins. My Sorgente, a divine gift from Selene herself, had been twisted into a tool of terror, terror that I had inflicted upon my own Cormac. How had I fallen so far? How had I let my heart and mind be so thoroughly corrupted?

Many moments passed when finally, I found the strength to stand, though my legs trembled like autumn leaves in a storm, and my hands shook as if possessed by a will of their own. The kingdom, my rule, the power I wielded - all insignificant now, fleeting shadows compared to the stark reality of my actions. I had condemned an innocent man, a man I loved, to a fate worse than death. The realization was a weight so heavy, I felt it might crush me.

As I stood there, regaining my composure, a cold clarity settled over me. This was not madness driving my thoughts, nor was it a fleeting surge of emotion. It was a calculated, deliberate resolve, born from a newfound understanding of my actions and their consequences. There was no chaos in my mind, only a focused, icy determination.

There was justice to be served, a reckoning to be had. ‘Ambassador’ Aldana, that deceitful Truthsayer, and every soul complicit in the betrayal and destruction of Cormac would feel the full extent of my fury. I would be their judge, jury, and executioner. My retribution would be as swift as it was merciless. Once justice was served, I would embrace my own damnation, whatever form it might take.

Yet, moving forward, each decision, each action, would be tempered by a rational mind, fully aware of the gravity of my choices. I was no longer blinded by rage or grief, but rather guided by a clear vision of justice and reparation. In doing so, I would finally confront the truth of my own being, accepting the consequences of my deeds.

This was the necessary passage towards a conclusion that I had to face, devoid of delusions or excuses. My journey forward was set, and I would walk it with the full knowledge of what I had become and what I needed to do.

Unlike me, my kingdom would not suffer for my sins. Before I am gone though, I will ensure that Wildevale would thrive under the guidance of Lunete and Sechnall, be protected by the valour of Myrrine and Marta, and flourish under the divine grace of Kemeia. As for me, I would depart, leaving behind the legacy of a queen who finally understood the true cost of power without control and the unfathomable pain of destroying her own self.

LUNETE

Palace Courtyard
Late Evening

I had been walking in the shadowed alcoves of the Palace Courtyard when I saw them. Kemeia and Ravela together, their hands intertwined, sparked an idea in me. I could gather fodder for some light-hearted teasing later. It was a welcome distraction from the weight of recent events, and I couldn’t help but hope that something beautiful might bloom between them, especially since Ravela had been so tight-lipped about how it had ended with Cormac.

But as their walk progressed, the atmosphere shifted. Kemeia’s sudden flight from Ravela’s side and the ensuing despair in my sister’s voice shattered the evening's calm. “Don't leave me, my Cormac, …” Ravela’s words, laced with pain and desperation, echoed through the courtyard.

As I heard those words, I froze in my hiding spot and the pieces started falling into place. Ravela’s cryptic behaviour, Kemeia’s persistent fear, and now this declaration. It was clear, though unfathomable, Kemeia was Cormac, transformed by Ravela's own hand.

Ciro's revelations about my poisoning, no my bespelling incident resurfaced, casting a new light on the past events. He had explained how Cormac was initially presumed guilty, leading to his disappearance, believed by many to be dead. Even uttering Cormac's name had become illegal, a forbidden act shrouded in mystery. But, with the recent exposure of Ambassador Kijek's true role in the spell, it now seemed that Cormac had been wrongfully accused all along.

But now, the true extent of Ravela's vengeance seemed to be unfurling before me. It wasn't merely a change in form; it was a deeper, more harrowing transformation. In a fit of vengeful rage, Ravela had not just altered Cormac's gender; she had most likely stripped him of his very identity, recasting him into Kemeia. A person even she couldn’t recognize until this accursed moment.

Clearly, she had stripped Cormac of his voice, his identity, and remolded him into Kemeia. But what else had she done? I knew all too well of Ravela's tempestuous wrath, but this revelation suggested a level of cruelty that I did not yet understand but knew to be true. My heart ached for Kemeia, and a dreadful suspicion gnawed at me – what if this was just the surface of my sister's dark deeds? The fear that there might be more, unknown and unspeakable torments inflicted on Kemeia, haunted my thoughts.

As I pulled myself free from my thoughts, I observed Ravela rise to her feet, her stance a familiar yet unsettling sight. The hard, unyielding resolve that seemed to be teetering on the edge of something I couldn't quite grasp. The look in her eyes was one I recognized, one that spelt doom for whoever was in her path.

As she began to move with deliberate purpose, my apprehension grew. Her path seemed to lead towards the dungeons where Ambassador Aldana was held, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear. It was not just the potential confrontation that worried me, but the shadow of something darker, an erratic undercurrent in Ravela's demeanour that I had noticed before but never fully understood. It was a fear of what might lie beneath the surface, an unease about the true extent of whatever it was brewing within her.

As she was walking, she directed a guard to bring the truthsayer to the dungeons, chained. I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him but, this provided crucial context to the rapidly evolving situation. The arrest of a truthsayer, known for their inability to speak falsehoods, was no small matter. It signified a drastic escalation in Ravela's campaign.

In that moment, I knew that I needed to intervene, yet – how does one sway a sister so deeply ensnared in her own vengeful crusade? I paused, reflecting on our sisterhood – a tapestry woven from threads of love, the shared grief of our parents' passing, and Ravela's role as not just my sister but in place of the mother I needed.

My heart ached with the realization that I, unwittingly, had been the catalyst for her unravelling. If only I hadn't been so vulnerable, so easily ensnared by that cursed Arcum mind spell, none of this would have happened but NO! 'No time for guilt, Lunete,' I scolded myself silently,

'Focus. This is the time for action, not regret. I am no longer a child and capable of challenging the Queen herself.'

With this newfound resolve, I stayed in the shadows, following Ravela discreetly.My thoughts racing, desperately seeking a strategy, a means to breach the walls she had built around her. This was more than a mission to rescue Aldana or to save Ravela from her own destructive impulses; it was a battle to salvage what remained of her and I knew that the gravity of the situation left no room for hesitation.

As I trailed behind her, the moon casting long, solemn shadows on our path, I braced myself for what was to come. I was yet to figure out when or how to intervene, but my resolve was clear. Tonight, a reckoning awaited. A confrontation that needed to reach the sister I once knew, to perhaps salvage the fragment of her that had been frayed by time and tragedy.

The uncertainty of the outcome scared me, yet I was driven by the hope that somehow, through the darkness of her current plight, this moment onward, I would be the shield that guarded her and the guiding hand that leads her back towards the light.

RAVELA


Palace Dungeon
Late Evening

The cold stone of the dungeon corridors echoed under my steps as I made my way to the cell where Ambassador Aldana was held. The damp air was thick, heavy with whispered secrets, betrayals, and the silent screams of those I had condemned. 'Oh, Selene!' I thought with a tinge of irony, 'What tales these walls could tell.'

“Lesser prisoners. This country needs lesser prisoners for its own conscience.” I muttered and while I felt the familiar stirrings of rage within me, the emotions were now well under control.

This change within me was unexpected, and I knew Kemeia, my Cormac!, was the inadvertent architect of this transformation. It was a bitter irony; the soul I had condemned was the same that brought about my healing. I was not worthy to be Queen. Not even worthy to be considered human anymore, given the depth of harm I caused and still my love protects me.

Oh Cormac! Kemeia!

As I approached the cell, I magically summoned a stool and seated myself with deliberate poise. There, in the dim light, stood Aldana, chained to the floor and a far cry from the figure she presented at court. Stripped of her ornate robes and heavy white makeup, she was clad in nothing but rags, her magic shield her only remaining armor.

I gazed at her, my smile sharp and mocking. "So, this is what you present as your true face, but I suspect otherwise." I mused aloud. "All this time hidden behind a mask of powdered rice and pomp. Now, nothing more than a pig in rags." My voice carried a cold, merciless edge as I leaned forward. "But this pitiful ‘facade’ you uphold with your nique magic, it too shall ripped apart. We us see the raw, unadorned truth of you, stripped of everything."

She held my gaze defiantly, her eyes betraying a hint of fear as she realized the gravity of her situation. "Parasia will hear of this!" she spat, but her voice wavered, betraying her bravado.

I couldn't help but chuckle. "Parasia? Oh, my dear, I think not." My fingers danced in the air, weaving patterns as I prepared my first spell. "You see, you're not in Parasia's courts anymore. You're in my dungeon, under my ‘mercy’." The air crackled with the building energy of my magic.

Leisurely, and with an air of malevolent grace, I began to cast my spells. Each movement was deliberate, a tangible manifestation of my will and malice. I watched her closely, her eyes widening in terror as she realized the relentless nature of my assault. The room hummed with the energy of my magic, each attack a heavy blow against her dwindling shield. The barrier flickered, strained under the onslaught, and finally shattered, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.

As the magic dissipated, it revealed a new face, not that of the Parasian diplomat, but a young woman with the brown hair and the distinctive features of the Arcum people.

The knowledge that this woman was an Arcum infiltrator, masquerading as Aldana, was as I suspected. "An Arcum spy, in the heart of Wildevale, playing the role of a Parasian ambassador? How utterly daring," I remarked, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "And here I thought Aldana’s taste in makeup was merely atrocious."

The woman before me, now bereft of her magical protection, seemed smaller, almost pitiful, yet there was a defiance in her eyes that I couldn't ignore. It was the defiance of a cornered animal, dangerous and unpredictable. "What was your role in Lunete’s enspellment and what have you done with the real Aldana?" I demanded, my voice hard as the dungeon's stone.

Her response was a mixture of fear and defiance. "You think you've won? You know nothing of the depths of our plans," she hissed, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes.

My laugh echoed off the walls, "Plans? Oh, I am sure they are as intricate as they are doomed." My eyes narrowed, and I leaned in closer. "But you will tell me everything. I promise you that. And your suffering will depend on how swiftly you spill your secrets."

For a moment, there was silence, then, without another word, I cast a spell, a simple yet effective one, designed to cause pain - a tool to loosen tongues. She cried out, her body writhing in agony on the cold stone floor.

And yet, as I watched her suffer, a strange feeling crept over me. This was not the satisfaction I had expected. Instead, there was a hollowness, an echo of the person I once was. "Kemeia, what have you done to me?" I whispered to myself.

"Speak!" I commanded, my voice now laced with an urgency that surprised even me. "Tell me everything, and perhaps I'll show you the mercy that is rapidly becoming my new companion."

As she struggled to gather her breath, I pondered over my next move. This moment was pivotal, not just for the information she might provide, but for what it signified in my own transformation.

And so, I waited, the dungeon's oppressive silence weighing heavily upon us, a silent witness to the unfolding drama and my own internal conflict.

The woman, still gasping from the pain, lifted her eyes to meet mine, a mixture of defiance and resignation flickering within them. "Your mercy?" she rasped, her voice strained. "Your mercy is as hollow as your promises, Mad Queen of Wildevale."

Her words stung, more than I cared to admit. Once, such insolence would have fueled me further, spurring me to inflict even greater torment. But now, something had shifted within me.

With a heavy sigh, I settled back onto the stool, fixing my gaze intently on the Arcum spy. "Tell me everything," I demanded quietly, the words almost a plea, "about how this conspiracy was executed."

The woman, still writhing in pain, met my eyes with a blend of defiance and resignation. "You expect me to betray my people for your mercy?" she spat, her voice hoarse with pain and disdain.

Ignoring her retort, I cast a quick spell to enhance my strength. Rising, I reached out and lifted her effortlessly by the throat, my magically augmented grip unyielding. As I watched her struggle, her breath faltering, a wave of disgust washed over me. This wasn't me, not anymore. Reluctantly, I released her, setting her back on the ground.

"I ask for forgiveness," I whispered, more to myself than her, "but understand this, a woman who has lost her love is the most dangerous being in the world." My words carried a weight, a confession of my own loss and pain.

I reached into her mind, probing for information. She screamed, the pain clearly excruciating, but her mental defenses were formidable. Even with my sorgente powers, I couldn't breach the protected recesses where the conspiracy's secrets were hidden.

Therefore, I shifted my focus, delving deeper into her memories for something more personal. Names began to surface, hers and her family. A husband and a daughter. Good this was all I needed.

I leaned in close. "I have found them, Elara," I whispered, my words deliberate and cold. The look of terror that replaced the defiance in her eyes told me she understood the gravity of my words. "My agents will fetch Jarek and Mireya to these very dungeons. Your eyes shall bear witness to their end, an end that will be etched into your very soul."

The words tasted bitter in my mouth, yet, I watched as the spy's composure crumbled, her eyes brimming with tears. "Please, no!" she begged, her voice breaking. "I'll tell you everything, just spare them!"

I stepped back, feeling a hollow victory.

As she divulged her secrets, Elara laid bare the intricate web of Arcum's deception. For over a year, they had orchestrated this charade, with Elara, a master of magical disguises, at its heart. She confessed to being the one who laced Lunete's food with Kijek's spell, a poison intertwined with her essence, allowing her to carry it safely. Kijek's role was as insidious as I had imagined, planting the Arcum spy with the explicit purpose of orchestrating a confession from him, planting the false evidence and that damn ‘blood gold’.

Arcum had infiltrated lands far and wide with trained frauds posing as truthsayers to influence politics outside their own lands. Even the Parasians were complicit, granting Grithra their consent to proceed with this plan. The real Aldana, it turned out, was safe at home, far from the dangers of our court. The rivalry displayed in public was a charade to keep me off balance.

But the most shocking revelation was yet to come.

In a moment of careless honesty, Elara let slip her knowledge of Cormac's fate. She knew about his transformation and the cruel ‘love spell’ I had cast upon his soldiers. As the words tumbled from her lips, her eyes widened with the realization of what she had just revealed. Panic flickered across her face, but it was too late to retract her confession.

As I processed her words, a seething anger began to simmer within me. Yet, I remained outwardly composed, my fury contained like a tempest within a bottle. I stood silently, fuming but restrained, waiting for Elara to finish.

Her shame was palpable as she admitted her role in his torment, having disguised herself as one of the soldiers on more than one occasion to spy on HER and to partake in the vile rapes to avoid raising suspicion, yet thankfully she had kept this dark secret to herself only, burdened by the guilt of her actions.

But now it was too late, a red haze clouded my vision, the old familiar fury boiling within me. Seizing Elara by the throat again with my magically enhanced strength, I drew her close, my voice a venomous whisper. "You, who dared play a part in Cormac's torment, shall now taste the same bitter fruit," I hissed. "Not just you, but your entire family. You will all suffer as he suffered, a fitting retribution for your unspeakable crimes."

My grip tightened as I leaned in, the fury in my eyes unmistakable. "Your husband, your child... they will all know my Cormac’s anguish and despair. It will be a slow, relentless agony, a mirror to the pain that he endured. This is the justice of Ravela, Queen of Wildevale."

As I stood poised to seal their fates, Lunete emerged from the shadows, her voice sharp and commanding. "Stop, Ravela! I bore witness to everything. Remember the Law of Personal Retribution. It forbids you from passing judgment in personal vendettas. Violate this, and you forfeit your crown."

Her words pierced through my fury, and I hesitated, my grip loosening slightly. "I don't care about the crown," I turned my head and snarled at her, my anger barely contained.

Yet Lunete's gaze was unyielding. "The kingdom needs you…for now. You cannot let personal rage dictate your actions. Be who you are meant to be, not what your anger makes you."

With a reluctant sigh, I released Elara, stepping back to let Lunete take control. Watching quietly as she addressed the trembling spy. "Your sentence is a lifetime in prison, Elara. A gais will be cast upon you, one that will hide the names of your loved ones from your memory. Their faces will haunt you, a constant reminder of your deeds, but their names will escape you. Whenever you think of them, it will be your actions against Cormac that come to mind. As for mercy, it lies in Kemeia's hands, should she ever choose to visit you."

Upon hearing her sentence, Elara's facade of defiance crumbled. "Please, not their names," she pleaded, desperation lacing her voice. "I beg you, leave me their names."

Lunete's response was unyielding, her voice echoing in the dank dungeon. "This punishment is meted not just for your role in the conspiracy but specifically for what you did to Cormac. Your actions as a woman, against one who was forced into that role, must reflect the gravity of that betrayal."

As she finished, I noticed the truthsayer being brought in, his face etched with fear, Lunete's voice was cold, "You'll be sentenced soon. For now, enjoy the solitude."

Lunete's gaze, now filling with tears, pierced through me. "Your actions against Cormac, and what you've done to Sechnall, have torn my faith in you apart," she declared, her voice a mix of sorrow and resolve. "The pain you've inflicted, the manipulation through your spells... they have consequences.

Sechnall's suffering, his headaches, they're not random ailments – they are most likely the results of the mind spell you imposed on him to protect his own conscience from what you forced him to commit.” I nodded shamefully, acknowledging the truth in what she had peiced together.

"You've crossed lines that can't be uncrossed. You are my sister, yes, but that relationship has been strained beyond measure. From now on, to me, you are the Queen, and nothing more… unless genuine forgiveness is sought and granted by all those you have wronged."

Her words cut deep, like a frost-edged blade piercing my heart. Her command was clear, "You must lift the memory blocks from every soldier, ‘Queen’ Ravela, but this must be done with utmost care and the outcome shall be discreet, to protect the reputation of this nation.

The trauma buried in their minds could devastate them if not handled delicately. They will need extensive healing for their souls. This task is not just your penance, but also a path to possible redemption, if such a thing is within reach for you."

She paused, her eyes reflecting an understanding of the complexities involved in such a task. "Kemeia's consent and involvement are crucial in this process. Without her agreement and active participation, the journey may not be complete. And Marta... her wisdom and insight will be invaluable. I am confident she is already aware of Kemeia's plight and can provide the guidance we need."

Her words underscored the weight of the task ahead – not a mere lifting of spells, but a careful unravelling of deeply entwined traumas, requiring the combined efforts of those most skilled in the arts of healing and understanding.

Her final words to me resonated in the echoing halls of the dungeon. "It's time to reflect, to rest. You have a long journey of atonement ahead, and it begins now."

As I turned away from her, a tumult of emotions churned within me. I felt shattered, a fragment of the person I once was. Yet, amidst the ruins of my soul, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at Lunete's newfound strength and resolve.

Retreating to the solitude of my quarters, each step was laden with the weight of my sins, the ghosts of my past actions haunting me. 'Lunete has seen through the veil of my misdeeds,' I thought, 'and now she carries the burden of truth.'

Her words replayed in my mind, a relentless echo reminding me of the irreversible changes I had wrought. 'She possesses the clarity and vision that I lack,' I admitted silently to myself, 'Lunete is the future of Wildevale.'

She was the beacon of hope and change that our kingdom desperately needed. 'In her, our people will find the guidance and compassion that I failed to provide,' I reflected with a mix of regret and admiration. And I, in contrast, was its troubled past, a reminder of the cost of power unchecked by conscience.

'My reign as Queen is over, not just in title but in spirit. My time has passed.' In my heart, I knew Lunete's ascension to the throne was not just inevitable but necessary for the healing of our land. 'She is no longer the child I had presumed her to be and she will be the one to mend what I have broken,' I thought, 'She will lead Wildevale to a brighter, more just future.'

The night air was still as I gazed out of my window, the moon casting long shadows over the palace grounds. My pursuit of vengeance had now started the delivery of justice instead. In that moment, I understood that my journey forward was not as a ruler, but as a penitent, seeking redemption for the wounds I had inflicted upon those I loved or otherwise. This clarity of purpose was entirely Kemeia’s gift to me, my debt to service.

A debt? A soul debt? , a memory of Cormac's words echoed in my mind, a recollection from his journey to the Anatol isles. He had spoken of a Kuumas belief, a cultural axiom that despised indebtedness, viewing it as a 'soul debt.' A situation fraught with complexity and obligation,' I recalled him saying. 'And now, I find myself in such a debt to Kemeia, a soul debt that binds me more profoundly than any physical chain.'

This journey wasnt just about penance. It was about giving my all to the one I've wronged, the one I've loved and hurt the most. My heart throbbed with a mix of pain and longing for my Kemeia. 'To hold her, to feel the warmth of her lips, to show her the depth of my remorse and love... Oh, how I crave her touch.'

‘Could this be the path to salvation? A life by Kemeia’s side, as whatever she desires?.’ Fueled by this thought, I rushed from my quarters, my heart leading the way.

'I must see her, feel her, be with her. The path to healing, to absolving my soul debt, begins with her, with us.' My steps quickened as I headed for the stables, desperate to find a horse to bring me to Kemeia, to start the necessary journey of mending the fractured pieces of our lives.

Yet even then, an afterthought snuck in. 'Winning my love aside, I still need to beat that Myrrine Dungdaisy. Can't let her think she's gotten the better of me, now can I?'

KEMEIA


Selene's Hall - Apprentices' Dorm
Night

I sat in the quiet of my dorm room at Selene's Hall, my heart aching with a mix of confusion and pain. The unexpected visit from a palace soldier, inquiring about my safety, only added to my irritation. 'Why can't they leave me in peace?' I wondered, struggling to contain the turmoil of emotions swirling within me.

Suddenly, a knock on the door jolted me from my thoughts. I hesitated, unsure of who it could be at this late hour. The door creaked open, revealing Myrrine, looking concerned.

"I rushed here when I heard you fled the palace," she said.

Surprised, I couldn't help but question how she knew about what had happened. Myrrine's casual response made it clear. "I have my ways of keeping informed about palace affairs," she said with a wry smile.

I smacked my forehead, realizing the obvious. Myrrine hailed from a lineage of assassins, deeply embedded in spy networks. 'Of course, she would know,' I thought, almost amused by my own naivety.

Anticipating her next question, I tried to keep things light with Myrrine, so I signed to her about memories of an old heartbreak. I carefully avoided mentioning the real events that were on my mind. My signs were brief, trying not to give away too much.

Myrrine watched me sign, her eyes following my hands. But suddenly, before I could finish, she moved in and kissed me. It caught me off guard, and I froze for a second. It was gentle and unexpected and despite my surprise, I found myself feeling a bit better, comforted by her warmth and closeness.

Breaking the kiss, Myrrine grinned at me and said,"Save the sob story. I suspect that the tyrant hag is involved and has you twisted up. Trust me, I'll have you untangled and writhing for very different reasons.” mmm…this was not the time…

But then she kissed me again, hard and deep and I let her. Her hand gripped the back of my neck, yanking me closer. Her tongue slid past my lips, demanding and drowning me in her heat, teasing out silent moans I couldn't control. We only stopped kissing to snatch desperate breaths before diving back in, lost in a raw, wild urgency.

Locking eyes with mine, Myrrine growled, “Kemi, you are mine now.” Her lips crashed onto mine once more, fierce, claiming. Her breath scorched my skin, marking me with every hot exhale. My neck, my shoulder, she was laying claim on me and each touch told me where I stood with her. In that instant, with her hand in my hair—firm, controlling—I was hers, completely. I was the pet to her mistress, utterly alive and consumed by a willing surrender to her command.

As we struggled for breath, Myrrine's gaze pierced me anew. "Here's an assassin's word," she rasped, "to love, to claim, to shield." She spun me around, pulling me onto her lap in front of the small mirror in my quarters. Her lips grazed my neck, setting off a trail of fire as she murmured, "Look at yourself," even as her hand coaxed my robe to fall open, unveiling my full breast to the cool air. Her fingers traced the outline of my nipple, taut with arousal. My eyes fluttered, vision blurring as breaths came in raw, heaving bursts. "So exquisite, so alluring," her whisper tickled my ear, insisting my gaze stay fixed on our intertwined images and my unconditional surrender. "Completely, mine."

In that moment... Cormac just... disappeared. Heat surged, almost too much, and a wave of... wetness, undeniable, submission... swept over me. Thoughts scattered, only feeling... Myrrine's touch, the heat, my own surrender.

Then it hit me... the bells, those tiny bells around my waist, I had forgotten to remove them. They had been singing softly all along, a delicate chime with each shift and twist. Myrrine's old tease echoed in my head, "I wonder what secrets those bells might tell." Now, they rang clear—ringing for her.

As the thought flickered in my mind, the bells at my waist tingling faintly, Myrrine spoke the words, as if plucking the very notion from my tangled thoughts. "Seems these bells jingle just for me tonight," she murmured with a knowing smirk.

She whirled me around in her lap until my breast was in front of her lips, the bells chiming a secret tune at the sudden movement. One hand holding both of mine behind my back, her lips latched onto my nipple, her tongue swirling leisurely while she teased the other with a tug and flick that sent shockwaves through me. A carnal shock, one I had never known, intense and wholly new reminded me of who I was now.

Her other arm snaked firmly around my waist, my entire being enslaved by her touch willingly. I shivered, every sense heightened, my back curving in a silent plea. In this moment, I was hopelessly and utterly hers, helpless, a plaything to do with as she pleased.

Then that accursed noise shattered our private world; that damn knocking. Myrrine grumbled a biting "Bloody timing, bugger off!"

But it kept up, persistent, desperate. Then it stopped. The door's bottom edge glowed like sunrise, the sign of a fire spell about to bust it wide open.

Panic gripped me, I signed to Myrrine with wide eyes and quick hands, "Say something!"

"Calm yourself!" she spat out, interrupting the blinding glow. In a madness of haste, we grabbed our robes, fumbling to cover bodies still thrumming with arousal.

We scrambled, robes snagging on still-eager limbs. Mine barely tied, Myrrine’s half-open. Hair tousled, chests heaving, I looked down, and felt the ache. My nipples pressed hard against the fabric, wanting more, even as we tried to look somewhat presentable.

I sucked in a deep breath, dishevelled and buzzing with frustrated desire, I crept towards the door. Skin still flush with wanton need, Slowly, hand shaky, I cracked open the door.

There stood Ravela, her face a mask that swiftly crumbled into desolation as she took in our unkempt hair, flushed skin, and the bed's state.

Myrrine, upon glimpsing Ravela's stricken look, growled softly, "Ah, the brooding storm queen graces us. Time for me to find clearer skies," The undercurrent of tension was clear in her gruff voice as she hastily made for the door.

Ravela, her eyes downcast in gratitude, turned to me once we were alone. "May I?" she asked, her voice a brittle shell of its former command. With a reluctant nod, I granted her entry to the space I called home.

She perched uneasily on my bed, her eyes searching mine before she uttered the question that seemed to lodge in her throat. "Kemeia or Cormac – who are you now?" My hands hesitated before they shaped my reply in the air: 'Kemeia is all that remains.'

Her hand reached out, and I let it come to rest on me without retreating. She bowed her head into my lap, her words tumbling out in a horrifying flood, confessions of the brutal spell she had cast upon ME, how she had witnessed my agonies unfurl. Through broken sobs, she lamented the soul she had destroyed, her unfit rule as a queen, and her irrevocable transformation at the hands of the person she had tormented….me.

"I saw what they did to you, those days in the barracks... on the day..." Her voice broke, choked by the memories that haunted us both. "The day they left you for dead, and threw you in the river like refuse." Her confession spilled forth, raw and unsettling in its honesty.

Ravela's grip on my hands tightened, a silent plea for... for what? Forgiveness? Understanding? Her sorrow was palpable. "I did not only watch; I relished it, convinced of your guilt, taking pleasure in your torment," she admitted in a hushed tone. "It’s a realization that suffocates me more than those waters ever did to you."

"Your form, your spirit... those men, your men!, Oh Selene help me, the silence you've endured, I imposed that on you. I shaped the dagger and drove it into our hearts myself." I heard her words and something reached into me and gripped what little of Cormac remained.

"I'm here to beg for…but no, not for forgiveness, I have no right. I'm here to beg for a chance to make amends, my Kemeia."

My touch was instinctual, fingers threading through her hair as she laid bare her guilt and the pledge she made: to strive toward redemption, to atone for her sins by serving the one whose life she'd shattered.

As she gathered herself, Ravela's eyes finally met mine with a clarity that seemed newly found. "Seeing you with Myrrine," she said with bitter finality, " I'm resigned to my destiny, to be of service to the one I love without hope of return."

Before I could dispute what she said, before I could sign even a single word, she knelt at my feet, her face the very image of anguish. In a hushed whisper laden with the weight of ultimate surrender, she uttered the sacred words no one should state to a Sorgente, "I give you my life."

An avalanche of power burst forth from within me outside my control, a torrent I could not dam. Energy flared from my fingertips, an unintended bolt striking Ravela as she fell, motionless, to the ground. That once voice echoed in my mind, " I told you that all the kings and queens will fall to their knees before you, my precious one. Look, the first submits to your command."

RAVELA


Selene's Hall - Apprentices' Dorm
Night

Consciousness returned as I lay on the unforgiving ground, the chill of the floor biting at me through my clothes. The softness beneath my head was a stark contradiction to the hard dirt though and, with a jolt, I recognized it was Kemeia's lap supporting me.

I gazed up into her face, fraught with concern, her hands carving desperate messages in the air with a language that was still alien to me. Her signs, swift and urgent, flickered away from my comprehension like evening's first shadows stealing over the land.

Amid the foggy daze clouding my thoughts, I a crystal-clear voice, pure and mesmerizing. "Understand!" it it sang out, a command that threaded through me with the carrying the haunting beauty of a forbidden song. Suddenly, Kemeia's signs snapped into focus, the alarm in her silent language now as readable as any shout of concern, **Are you alright? What have you done?**

Straining against the whirl of thoughts that churned within me, I righted myself, muscles protesting. 'Selene's judgment,' a conscious choice accepted, but how had i changed? What mark had the goddess, and… Kemeia stamped upon me?

With unsteady legs and a mind still reeling, I reached toward Kemeia. Her arm a lifeline. "Help me up," I rasped, "I need to see... myself in the mirror."

As her firm grasp guided me to stand, I could not shake off the peculiar sensation constricting my chest—a tightness that circled my heart like a band of anxiety. I locked eyes with my reflection in the small mirror in her room, the likeness staring back at me unchanged, yet the feeling of inward constraint persisted.

Kemeia, catching the question in my eyes, offered a silent nudge of encouragement. I let out a stiff breath, and with a voice more composed than I felt, addressed my reflected image, "Perhaps the goddess's judgment is not for the eyes but for the heart alone?"

I turned to Kemeia, "my heart feels caged now, What tricks has Selene played within me? What has she woven into the fabric of my spirit that tightens its hold with each beat of my heart?"

My thoughts were whirling when Kemeia's hands carved out her scorn in the space between us, **You fool. You are bound to me now. To my commands forever**. They weren't just signs—they were the unvarnished truth. I had laid my freedom at her feet like a dog dropping a kill it hoped would please its master.

"Fool," I spat at myself, turning Kemeia's accusation over, tasting its bitter truth. My rant broke from me like a flood, wild and torrential. I shrieked my admission of guilt, clawing at the invisible shackles I had wrapped 'round my soul. "For what I've done, for the nightmares I carved into your flesh, this... this is my punishment! I deserve every shard of hate you shoot through my heart!"

Before reason could take hold, before the echo of my own rant could die away, Kemeia struck me. It was a slap so resounding that the world seemed to pause in shock with me. Pain flared, bright and undeniably real, steering me back to the present.

Her next words were signed with a clarity that left no room for misinterpretation, **You dolt. I loathed your very shadow. I wished to never lay eyes on you, but damn it, the love...** Her hands hesitated, trembling with the heavy burden of an emotion that refused to die, **...the love won't go. Hate never did stand in contrast to love; only indifference has that power. Love will always thaw the frost of hate when the heart yearns to forgive. That's the creed of the goddess. As the old saying goes, 'Wherever you are, whatever you do, be in love.' I've loved you through it all, and I will love you still.**

Her words pierced deeper than any weapon she might have wielded. Choking back the knot in my throat, I edged closer, my soul aching for the balm of her touch, but she warded me off with a raised palm. The wounds weren't ready for the bandage I longed to be.

And as if the gods themselves laughed at my plight, Myrrine burst into the chamber. Seeing what she saw, the swiftness with which she shielded Kemeia told me more clearly than even Kemeia’s own signs that she was untouchable—for her protection ran deeper than skin, deeper than vows; it was rooted in the same feelings I felt for her.

With a blade in hand and with a steadiness that belied the storm of her emotions, Myrrine dared me with her gaze. "Kemeia is mine to sheild. Step forward without her wishing it, and you're a dead woman walking."

My eyes narrowed as they met Myrrine's, a smirk twisting the corner of my mouth as I straightened to my full height. "My, aren't we the gallant guardian, Myrrine?" I jested.

"As if I, bound by my own surrender, could bring harm to Kemeia." I turned to Kemeia then, my smirk growing as I added, "You see, I've passed Selene's judgement. I've laid bare my soul and carved out my very essence for her scrutiny. I stand here without malice, my intentions as transparent as the tears Selene shed by the banks of the River of Truth."

Myrrine eyed me cautiously, then looked towards Kemeia who nodded in affirmation. She then looked me in the eyes, her expression softening just slightly, "Consent, though. You cannot lay a finger upon her without it."

I scoffed, crossing my arms. "Oh, how delightfully tiresome. Must we now play at courtship rituals and chaste permissions? Or perhaps you'd like written consent notarized by Selene herself?"

The air between Myrrine and me crackled with the kind of tension that's ripe for devolving into the pettiest of battles. The jabs and insults would now come naturally as if they were second nature.

"Ravela, I'd bet my best dagger that you danced on Selene's last nerve so fiercely that even she is rethinking this whole 'judgement' endeavor," she quipped with a smirk.

"And you, Myrrine," I retorted, "you are always so puff-chested and ready for battle. When was the last time you healed anything besides your fragile pride without my dear Kemi’s help?"

"You insolent foggy harridan," Myrrine scowled. "Never mind healing, I'm surprised you can see past the haze of your own vanity to spot Kemeia's affection."

"Oh, charming!" I sniped back. "This coming from the queen of quacksalvers, a fraud so bent on ‘fixing hearts’ you'd shatter your own out of sheer contrariness."

"Harsh, dragonhag," Myrrine spat. "You'd think someone who fancies themselves a phoenix risen from caches of ire would possess a touch more grace. Hope springs eternal, I suppose."

And our exchange would've likely continued, each volley surpassing the last in creative vitriol, if not for Kemeia's intervention. With a sigh that somehow echoed through the room despite the absence of sound, she stepped between us, arms outstretched as if to hold us both at bay from each other and possibly from our own worst instincts.

Myrrine and I both fell silent for a moment, our glares still locked, but now with Kemeia standing between our duelling presences. She gazed at each of us, resigned amusement flickering across her features, before beckoning us closer. Unable to resist the pull of her silent command, we hurried to her side, nearly knocking into one another in our eagerness, and then we smothered her in a joint embrace that could best be described as lovingly suffocating.

Kemeia's laughter, soundless to most but as clear as a bell in our hearts, somehow made the mayhem of the moment feel less like a battle for dominance and more like a comedy of errors. She kissed us both, her lips meeting each of our cheeks in turn. It was a sensation of a love so wonderfully whole it could make the goddess weep with envy.

But suddenly, I became acutely aware of the tension in my chest as if a knot was being pulled tighter around it, suffocating me. I pulled away abruptly, distancing myself as I fought the urge to gasp. There was only one thing that could bring such constriction.

Turning my back to them, I found myself instinctively reaching towards the confining pressure. My fingers found the laces of my dress, frantically pulling at them in a bid for relief. My mind raced with wild thoughts, 'This cannot simply be fear or nervousness... it's not sorrow, nor regret, but...'

I noticed the only apparent alteration to my form, my breasts. They were now voluptuous, standing out with a magnetic allure that was impossible not to acknowledge. Ample and ripe, rising and falling with my every breath, the pink of my nipples prominent and succulent. The hue a delicate rose akin to the first blush of dawn.

They were larger now, each one puckered to a proud and tender point, pulsing with their own life, with an assertion that they were crafted for ecstasy. They were longing to be enveloped, to receive the tender attention of a lover's mouth, to be suckled with reverence and hunger.

I remembered Cormac’s whispers the night he confessed them: the mesmerising breasts of the Elven courtesans. In our bed, under the blanket of night's shadow, he had spoken hesitantly, only after much persuasion from me during a conversation where I had asked him to describe the ideal female form which he had repeatedly insisted that I possessed.

I remembered his gaze growing distant, enraptured by the memory of their enchanting forms. I knew these were the very breasts he had dreamily described; I possessed each trait he had envisioned, the full, tantalizing curves that he had hesitantly revealed were his fantasy.

‘Cormac you liar!’ I chuckled to myself. ‘I was only near perfect in your eyes…until now’. The literal embodiment of Kemeia’s deepest desire, the perfect woman, mostly unchanged but now adorned with the two ethereal delights that were entirely Kemeia's to possess.

Reveling in the vision of carnal satisfaction, I could only conclude that Myrrine, for all her bravado, stood no chance.

There, even in these moments of supposed enlightenment, here I was, vying for victory, competing, even with Myrrine. If this was the toll demanded by fate, then so be it, and I was certain Kemeia would savor these newfound gifts as greatly as I would cherish her indulgence.

Oh, Selene! It would seem the transformation also includes a Libidinous mind. And Kemeia, ever the man in certain appetites. Some things, it appears, remain steadfast.

The moment to unveil the truth had arrived, a show and tell of the latest twist. I made a deliberate half-circle, the gown cascading off like a fallen leaf, I stood before them in unveiled glory. I met Kemeia's gaze with a playful challenge, "Look upon what you've won, a body meant for your love's deepest desires.”

The rush of blood to my cheeks did not escape my notice, but neither did Kemeia's reaction and of course, Myrrine. I couldn't resist the biting jest aimed at her more ‘moderate endowments’, "In the garden of desire, the little buds have a way to go before they can contend with the magnificence of ripe femininity."

There was no reaction from Myrrine; she simply stood resolute, turning ever so slightly towards Kemeia, with a sense of finality, and declared with a clear voice, "I give you my life."

Neither Kemeia nor I could react before the room suddenly lit from sparks flying off Kemeia’s fingers, a wild and uncontrolled burst of her Sorgente energy.

And then the joyous laughter, oh how it soared within my mind. The same divine voice that had commanded me to ‘understand’ just moments ago.

This is part 4 of my first work, a fan continuation of the unfinished Kemeia Ascending. It is entirely inspired by Armond's magical world of Argentia and its Goddess Selene.

Link to the book here Kemeia Ascends - A Fan Continuity

You can read the prior parts by Armond from the links below

Kemeia Ascending Part 1
Kemeia Ascending Part 2
Kemeia Ascending Part 3

More of Armond's work can be found here

"When the night's silence is broken by the snoring of the guards, and the royal cat claims the throne, know that the age of solemnity has ended. The realm shall flourish under the banner of shared laughter and the occasional prank."
- The Chronicles of the Mirthful Dawn, Book of Beginnings, Laughter 1, verse 10

KEMEIA

4th day of Rainmoot
Late morning
Selene’s Temple at Selene’s hall - Marossa

There we were, Myrrine and I, cloaked in the garb of commoners, tucked away in the lively throng of marketgoers outside Selene's Hall. As I watched the royalty parade before the crowd, I felt an uncharacteristic yearning for the shadows and, for a moment of peace from the gazes that lingered a bit too long.

The murmurs slipped through the busy chatter. "Is she one of the moon temple guards?" Some would whisper, eyeing Myrrine's stature and the splendour that Selene had graced her with. It was evident in her newfound height, hourglass figure and gleaming hair.

Their gazes then shifted to me, surveying a figure often deemed ‘ripe’. Children would halt their games, gazing at me with wide eyes and wonder. "Is she a real-life doll, mummy?" they'd ask, stirring a deep blush on my cheeks with their words.

Clearly, our presence stirred more than just the morning air; it stirred desires. But, it starkly contrasted how people saw us when we wandered the streets draped in our healers' robes. There they saw Selene's grace, and their eyes were full of hope. Here and now, their feelings were very different as they admired the curves that turned heads wherever we went.

I couldn't help but sign to Myrrine, *"It's peculiar, isn't it? In the temple's service, we're healers first and foremost. But step out in civilian wear, and suddenly, we're the highlight of rumours and sighs."* I jested with a light-hearted eye roll.
There it was: her voice filled me with warmth. "Well, my love, even in the heavens, we appreciate a good show. And while you hold the power to make kings and queens bow, it's equally intriguing to note how others... 'erect their standards' in your mere presence, is it not?" My cheeks burned with a sudden heat. My goddess had a knack for the odd bawdy comment. But that is precisely what made her a cherished friend, not a distant deity.

Prayer had become unnecessary in our relationship. She had never insisted on such formalities. And she only endured them because we mortals had stretched the divide between divine and human through our own stupidity.

Consequently, I could not share this with the world yet. But, by now, she and I were having daily chats. We were not a goddess and her devotee but two friends sharing fun secrets. After all, celestial or not, a bit of heavenly gossip made for the liveliest of spiritual soirees.

"So, how does it feel to be the market's living treasure?" Myrrine's tease broke me out of my reverie, her words laced with mischief while securing an arm around me with playful intent. Her sparkling eyes coaxed an unvoiced laugh out of me, revealing my flustered amusement.

I pretended to sigh deeply. I signed in mock frustration. *"If one more person asks me if I was crafted from clay, I may just surrender and let them pour water on me to test it out."* She laughed richly, unrestrained. Reminding me of the joy found in simple jest as I returned my focus towards the ceremony at hand.

The air in the courtyard was filled with the energy of new beginnings. Marta Coona, now our high priestess, anointed Lunete with the title of 'Queen Luminara.' Ravela, standing to her right, couldn't help but let tears streak down her smiling face as she watched. There, to the left of Lunete, was Commander Sechnall, silent and solid as stone. His gaze was unwavering, concealing the depth of their relationship.

Here I stood among the gathering, my heart full, knowing what we had all been through to get here. Ravela had come clean about the pains and horrors she had caused. It was messy and nearly shook the very foundation and sanity of our brotherhood. Sechnall had nearly fallen to righteous fury. His blade had been only a whisker from Ravela's throat. But we needed that outpouring. It was part of our path to heal.

And time, with its tender brush, did indeed heal many of our wounds. They were once again my brethren, my dearest friends. We stood shoulder to shoulder, laughing again. It wasn't perfect. There were days the shadows crept back. But, we were learning to laugh at them, to find light moments to string into a new story.

I had even promised the fellas that I'd meet them later for some long-due drinks. Their company was always good for the soul, filled with laughs and friendly cheer.

As for Ravela's vow to abdicate the throne, it was no longer a matter of personal choice. Her stepping down was critical politically too. Because, Wildevale was now under the watch of not two, but a trinity of Sorgente.

Yes, indeed, Selene's judgement had touched Myrrine as well. She now possessed her own powerful Sorgente, making her, in some ways, far more dangerous than Ravela had ever been. a figure of both reverence and a dash of wariness.

Arcum and Parasia were still reeling, the echoes of our skirmishes ringing in everyone's ears. We’d swept the Arcum spies right off our doorstep, sharing the tales of our sweep with friends up in Glamorgan.

We put our foot down, closing our ports and holding back our harvest from Parasia's tables. It wasn't long before they came to us, ready to talk turkey.

But with Amangons casting his long shadow over us, we couldn’t afford to hold grudges long. It was clear as day – we needed each other. To craft an alliance that held the scales of power against him.

Thus, the mantle of rule shifted smoothly with the kind and gentle Queen Luminara at the helm. Her reign promised to be one where nature and herbalism would thrive.

Meanwhile, Ravela had taken on her priestly duties. She publicly declared her new stability and dedication to her sacred calling. With her new role and with Myrrine and I serving as humble healers, we sent out a nice, quiet message. Wildevale preferred the embrace of peace to the fists of war.

And just as quietly, without making too much fuss, the other kingdoms got our message.

They would keep an eye out for us, like good neighbours, and we would offer help with our healing hands. A token of goodwill and an offering of sanctuary for all who sought our care.

There was something thrilling about the idea of spreading my healing far beyond the whispering trees of Wildevale.

How I, as Cormac, relished such ventures. It was a calling I felt deep within, and I couldn't wait to answer it along with my two lovely ‘servants’.

Yet the irony of my 'doting attendants' was not lost upon me, their fates interwoven with my whims by the decree of Selene. But heavens know, more often than not, I found myself dutifully dancing to their tunes instead.

Without warning, a quick swat landed upon my backside, jolting me to the present. "Chop-chop, my sultry little minx," Myrrine's intoxicating voice stirred a flutter in my core.

"Madam Chinedu waits for no one. The rhythm beckons for my alluring little Kuumas."

She winked at me, the gleam in her eye promising mischief. "And don't forget, it’s your well-deserved day of rest. Leave the tending to us. You have a special dance lesson. And, a planned booze-fest with your rowdy bunch. I think we'll see you only when you stagger back, flushed and giddy. That's just how I want you when I tell you to slip into that exquisite little number.”

A sudden heat spread across my cheeks at her mention of the 'exquisite little number.’ I tried to sign a flustered question. But, she met me with a dangerously delightful smirk. Then, she gave me a firmer, more possessive spank that sent a jolt right through me. "Now, depart, little kitten. Save your energy for tonight’s festivities as you will sing with the heat of your dance."

RAVELA

Late morning
Selene’s Temple at Selene’s hall - Marossa

Today was resplendent, the perfect backdrop for Lunete's ascension to Queen Luminara. Her title was apt, for she was to be a guiding light for our people. As her sister, The sight of her claiming the crown brought forth unending joy, and I let the tears of pride cascade freely. No shame in showing vulnerability anymore. I was now a priestess of the order, and I had shed the trappings of Royalty with my decision to seek the goddess.

I was known as a priestess, yet that was merely the start of my sacred roles. Secretly, I had been ordained the 'Spellblade' priestess of the goddess. It was a sacred duty assigned to those deemed worthy to mend their past and dispense divine retribution. We were a grim necessity in this world, wielders of swift justice. Like two sides of the same coin, just as Kemeia embodied Selene's welcoming arms, we were the sharp edge of her divine law.

The road to redemption stretches long ahead, but when dear Marta... I mean, High Priestess Marta Coona entrusted me with this sacred duty, I embarked upon this newfound purpose with no hesitation.

As Lunete was crowned, I discreetly scanned the crowd to see my dear Kemi and that dimwit assassin-healer. And what do I see? A spank! The audacity! "Steady now, take a deep breath, priestess. It's part of the spiritual journey to watch as some unwashed buffoon abuses your cherished one's dignity," I murmured under my breath. That Myrrine, quite the gutter-snipe, isn’t she? She might not be entirely unworthy, but Oh, Goddess, if only I were in her hideous boots!

I continued to smile and weep away as the ceremony wound down, paying very little attention to it once she was crowned and Kemi had left for her lessons. My mind was on what would be happening later in the day. Myrrine's insistence on puppeteering Kemi's moves for the day irritated me. I may be bound to serve Kemi, but I still had a trick or two up my sleeve to show them who was the real queen here.

As the ceremony came to a close, we walked back into the private chamber behind us when I heard a quick rustle and found Lunete with her hands around my neck. In a throwback to her childhood antics, she quickly hopped onto my back for a piggyback ride. Of course, I accommodated, resting my hands on her legs just as I've done countless times before.

"By royal decree, you'll haul me around, Priestess, until you agree to stage Kemi's long-overdue Saltatus," she playfully commanded. I groaned; Kemi's dance was my exclusive spectacle, yet here I was, sharing it with the healing harpy Myrrine and her stabby sticks.

"In your dreams, will anyone else claim it! It's mine," I answered with mock severity. Our little banter continued for a good five minutes until she finally let me put her down." Remember, sister, this is a battle I intend to win one day. Best you surrender before it becomes a Queen's order," she declared with a wry smile as she leaned against a smiling Sechnall.

With the memory spells now removed by me, his mind was free of at least one great burden, yet despite all the efforts by myself and, most importantly, Kemi, I knew that he still carried my crimes against her AND him to heart.

I could never forget the day of my confession. He was on me with his sword, a hair’s length away from slitting my throat, and I had let him. I had even wished it at that moment, but there was Kemi, sinking to her knees—her silent, impassioned plea somehow filled the room with the echo of an angel's cry, halting the sword's descent.

Days passed, and with Kemi’s touch and Marta’s guidance, we found a way forward. The memories stayed, but the sharp edges of guilt softened.

Yet, there was a price, a secret I carried – a promise to Sechnall to relive the memories of all the men. To bear witness to the nightmares I created for Kemi and them again and again. Alone, I would cry through the memories in my chamber, facing the pain I inflicted on the one I loved every day, hour upon hour.

But then, the tears would dry, and I'd emerge as though from quiet contemplation. It wasn’t a pretence, though. It was my repentance, a cry for reprieve not from the heavens but from the depths of my own soul.

“My lovely Queen Luminara,” I declared, ensuring that my voice carried none of the grief that flooded me at the thought of the penance due today “It is time for this priestess to leave. Her daily prayers await. ” She smiled back and said, “go ! go! I understand that you have many a plan.”

As I turned to depart, Sechnall's steps approached. I slowed to match his pace, a smile audible in his voice as he spoke, “I…all my men, release you from your pledge.”

Before I could fully grasp his forgiveness, he continued with a light heart, "It has taken us some time, but we do have our old captain back with us, only in a far more delightful form."

“Rest assured, ‘blessed’ Queen,” he said cheerily. "Your fair captive will be safely returned, perhaps addled enough to succumb to your evil charms." he joked as he gently rested his hand on my shoulder with the warmth reserved for a friend. I simply nodded with teary eyes and a heart filled with gratitude before I hastily fled to the castle to attend to my more pressing matters now that I was relieved of my burden.

Myrrine

Early Noon
Palace - Chambers of Justice and Renewal

The witch finally did something right. Took her until the end of her reign to set those dungeons straight, locking up only the real monsters. For most, though, the Chambers of Justice and Renewal would offer a fresh start, their purpose being rehabilitation over punishment. all thanks to her.

And guess what? The very spot in the courtyard that saw the tyrant fall apart – the place where Ravela faced the truth about Kemeia and Cormac – that’s where redemption happens now.

I could tell you every dirty secret, every cruelty she imposed on my Kemi. If I were a tad crueller, I would've watched her meet her maker under Sechnall's blade, encouraged it even. Even now, sometimes, I’d still like to give her a good shanking, just for the thrill of it — let Kemeia get her healing on. Rinse and repeat.

But, despite how much she grinds my gears, credit where credit is due. Wildevale's ahead of the curve now, a haven of kindness and a safe place for those dealt a bad hand. That legacy, as much as it makes me gag to say it, is Ravela’s handiwork. Most won’t sing her song, and it will be Lunete who will get the glory — which she should — it would always be Ravela who planted the seeds and left them to the new queen to tend.

Strolling past the lively open space, I couldn't help but take in the sight with a swell of satisfaction. The women gathered here, detainees just like their male counterparts in the centre nearby.

Once confined by their crimes, they were now learning - bending over scrolls and harps, brushes and easels, throwing punches, and threading needles. “All the makings of a proper revolution,” I mused. It was heartening, watching them scribe new chapters of their lives, teaching each other, teaching us how right paths can be forged from wrong turns.

I wandered further in and, lo and behold, found Elara holding court over a clutch of ladies with ledger books in hand. That woman had a mind like a steel trap, must have been all that time spent skulking around as Arcum's finest sneak. nd now here she was, our very own library at her disposal, she was dishing out lessons like she was born to do it.

Her precious little girl, the guest of honour for the day, plopped down next to her, happily nibbling on a bowl of fruits. It was one of those moments that tugged at your heartstrings, you know? When we unearthed the truth—that her heart bled more for her ill child than for Arcum—we had to act. We'd gone out of our way to snatch both Mireya and Jarek out of Arcum. Kingdoms rise and fall, but a mother's love, that’s forever, isn't it?

As I watched her in her domain, I couldn’t help but think to myself. ‘Look how the tides had turned, Elara. Arcum had you on a string, the promise of safe passage and healing for your little one from the north priestesses' touch. But there it shattered, didn't it?’

Lo and behold, there stood my Kemi. The moment my dear heart laid her hands on the child, the moment life seeped back into her under her care, Elara broke. Pieces of her scattered on the ground as she begged Kemi, desperate for her forgiveness. The scene of her penance, drowning in her own shame, begging Kemi over and over to undo her part in her agony. It haunted me to this day.

She had even somehow snagged one of Amangons' ghastly slave collars while cooped up in the clink. I'm still scratching my head over that one. She's quite the crafty one. The nerve, though, she went and bared her throat to my Kemi, Like she was some object to be claimed. I scoffed, Kemi's little harem was already too crowded. though deep down, I had to tip my hat to Elara's guts.

Kemi, bless her soul, didn't entertain that twisted auction for a second. Helped Elara up with all the grace of the divine, peppered her cheeks with forgiveness, and gave her a chance to start over. Her sentence? Educate others for three spins of the seasons, her freedom sweetened with family visits. Do her time, and she gets to waltz free. Kemi's heart's as big as the moon, I swear.

I sidled up to Elara, who caught my approaching figure with a quick flicker of acknowledgement. "Hold tight, love," she mouthed, her hands wrapping up the final threads of her lesson. Nodding, I stepped aside, leaning against the cool stone wall to give her space.

The chatter of the departing group faded as I ambled over. She offered me a worn smile, as comforting as ever. "Myrrine, dear," she stated softly. "Before you make your escape, drop by Raima, would you? She’s been fading a little, and your healing might be just what she needs." A reminder of how deeply she cared for her flock.

She glanced at her daughter, who was finishing her fruit, and added, "And could you share a kind word with my little one? She gets so excited when Aunty Myrrine visits."

“Of course, and of course," I replied, breaking out the biggest smile I could spare, brushing a stray lock back from her face. "But first, did you manage to get that special thing we discussed?" I asked, barely containing my excitement. This woman never missed a mark when her heart was in it.

As I settled in beside her, I lifted her kiddo onto my lap, the little munchkin fitting just right as she bubbled over with laughter.

"You know, things that start with 'M' are the absolute best, right?" I whispered to the tiny bundle of joy, her eyes sparkling up at me, pure and full of happiness.

Mireya’s face lit up with an ear-to-ear smile. "Yeah! Like 'Myrrine' and 'Mireya' and 'Mommy'!" The enthusiasm in her voice was downright infectious.

"Spot on, my little angel," I said, laughter bubbling out of me. "Only the most fantastic things in the world."

"And what have I taught you about things beginning with 'R'?" I asked, watching as she wrinkled her nose and replied just as I had coached her, "Ew... the worst." I couldn't help but burst into laughter at that.

Elara threw me a look that could curdle milk, letting me know in no uncertain terms that she wasn't entirely thrilled with my brand of education. But then, her edges softened, and she let out a reluctant chuckle.

"Well, the Queen herself took on the task of brewing that potion. Did it with such flair and finesse that you’d think she was spinning gold. Swallowed my infusion like it was dessert," as she slid those glowing vials across to me.

"We're still brewing on that other batch, though. The variation that's meant to pack more punch. The Queen’s in her element, and we are just a whisker away from the finish line," Elara added. Her gaze lingering on those vials as if they were newborns.

Honestly, I was this close to 'accidentally' dropping one of these vials just to see Her Majesty lose her composure for once. Despite the old bat’s attempts to worm her way into my story with Kemi, I've got to admit this potion stunt was her brainchild. And she was okay with me being part of it, sharing this power with my Kemi. My cherished Kemi, sworn to me by the stars themselves,' danced through my thoughts as I rolled the vials between my fingers.

My predatory smirk must have caught Elara’s eyes as she groaned, "I'm almost tempted to spoil your little game. It's scandalous how you toy with our guardian angel. Lucky for you, her heart's big enough to room your antics," her voice thick with exasperation.

A sheepish grin took over as I acknowledged her jibe and swiftly steered our conversation back to the day's buzz. the ascent of our new queen, a day that would be etched in the memory of our people as the dawn of a new era.

This is part 5 of my first work, a fan continuation of the unfinished Kemeia Ascending. It is entirely inspired by Armond's magical world of Argentia and its Goddess Selene.

Link to the book here Kemeia Ascends - A Fan Continuity

You can read the prior parts by Armond from the links below

Kemeia Ascending Part 1
Kemeia Ascending Part 2
Kemeia Ascending Part 3

More of Armond's work can be found here

Now that a year has come to pass, Kemeia taps into deeper mysteries with Chinedu's guidance, and she uncovers an unexpected aspect of her goddess. Elsewhere, our haggling rivals rally together to snuff out a sneaky plot brewing under their noses. As twilight settles, our favourite little healer unwinds in a high-spirited booze binge with her comrades in arms. While our fractious duo find themselves stumbling upon an unexpected layer to their own dynamic.

“Where once was discord, harmony takes its stand, as former foes join with clasped hand. In the serenity of the healer's silent command, two rivals will traverse shared love's uncharted land. Together shall they all rise, by creeping affection's mighty strand.”
- Ballads of the Healing Breeze, Ode to the Lover's Dreams, Song 9, lyric 3

KEMEIA
Late Noon
Madame Chinedu's Parlour

"Arch back, drop into the depths of your longing, your body a canvas for your lover's desires. Feel their breath against your neck, hips grinding in a rhythm of two hearts beating as one. Grind closer and melt into the rhythm. Every movement needs to be a silent plea for more, a surrender to their command." Chinedu's voice encouraged as we moved in unison, bodies close and basking in the energies of the dance.

Today’s practice was the Erosia Ardentique, the dance of surrender. Over the last few months, my two ever-present 'guardians' steered me toward this expressive form. Clearly, they were egged on by a fervent imp queen and a lovable High Priestess. ‘Woe becomes me,' I half-seriously chided myself as I instinctively swung my hip into the good madame Chinedu.

"Whew! My dear, you are a natural," she exclaimed, our dance never missing a beat. Her form pressed closer, causing me to arch back further as we swayed. "You dance as if touched by Elyssia herself, embodying the unceasing flame of love, both pure and forbidden. A compliment I have given no other," she confessed, her breath warm upon my ear as we broke apart.

I offered her a shy nod and dipped deep into a bow full of gratitude. It was then I heard her voice within. 'Elyssia bestows her blessings upon you, my dear. I eagerly look forward to the day you call out to her, many many times, abandoning your pleas to me.'

Oh! I thought and protested, 'My every breath is for you, my goddess.' But the cascade of her laughter swept over me, morphing into a lilting charm that drenched my senses. 'Be at ease, my cherished blossom, for I am the silence and the moan,' she confessed. The vibration of her words transforming into an intoxicating purr that coated my thoughts with desire.

‘I kept this carnal revelation hidden within the folds of our sacred dialogues. Yearning for it to moisten your spirit at the destined moment of your most improper fervour.' The warmth of her voice pressed close, wet whispers that teased the edges of my being. 'I am no stranger to the yearnings of all those I love, but you have merely tasted the dewdrop of my expanse,' her tone drew tight like a lover's grip. She growled low, awakening a slick primal heat within me, 'Elyssia awaits a devotion drenched in a desire that begs to be sated. Do your depths yearn for her summons?’

My thoughts stuttered, buried in the haze of her command. A delicious shiver coursed through me as I nearly became unaware and uncaring of anything else. "Tsk, tsk," Chinedu scolded with a twinkle in her eye, approaching me with a beautifully carved wooden box. "No drifting into steamy fantasies now. Not the time for such distractions, my dear." I blinked as I tried to startle myself back into reality. With flushed cheeks, I turned to face her.

"Open it," she commanded, so I lifted the lid. Inside lay a glistening silver perfume bottle. Its shimmering colour clearly showed that it held rare Lurelith Blooms from the elven lands. A scent that was known to make the minds of all those who smelled it, wander into erotic fantasies.

Accompanying it were Roselip Tint and Kohl, set to adorn my lips and eyes with their inviting hues. Elanor's Glow, too, promised to polish my skin with a lustrous sheen. And there they were – more bangles eager to chime with every gesture, and that would dangle provocatively. And... oh my!

I frantically signed, "There's no way I can wear this out," but Chinedu just smiled wryly and said, "Of course you can. With this pendant on, they'll see you just as they always have. It seems we've both been boxed into this choice by some insistent fans and their demands." She shrugged, faking a sense of defeat. My mind seethed, 'They're all wicked for finding joy in this setup!'. As I was cursing them, her voice in my head taunted, silken and seductive unlike ever before, 'We are indeed my sweet siren, we are indeed.'

Resigned, I signed back, 'Alright.' I disappeared into the changing room, emerging with every inch of my skin acutely aware of what was and what was not clinging to me. Then Chinedu stepped forward with yet more jewellery, two rings linked by a delicate latticework of chains to five smaller ones. Now, I knew for certain who had orchestrated this addition. Despite the heat creeping across my skin, I resigned myself to Chinedu's hands.

"Keep your head up, love," she coaxed, deftly placing the two rings at the entrance of my nostrils and gently pushing forward. With a nudge, it glided through effortlessly. Settling like a fantasy fulfilled, a piercing leaving a faint trail of enchantment in place of pain.

She moved on to adorn my left ear with five delicate rings, each sinking into the flesh as if it had always belonged there. All the while, she smeared my face with lush creams and powders, "No mirrors for you today. That's an order," she declared with finality, her hands busily sealing my fate.

She slipped the pendant over my head, and with a playful shove, she banished me from her shop with a bold shout to the streets, "Lookout, world!" I felt a flush of heat ripple through me. The disguise was a shroud for others, but for me, it clung to me like an unsung confession, stirred awake and shamelessly alive.

RAVELA
Noon
Palace - Chambers of Justice and Renewal

I arrived just in the nick of time to eavesdrop on Myrrine and Elara exchanging what appeared to be particularly spirited repartees. And there, taking in the scene, sat the sweet little munchkin on the lap of the resident homewrecker. 'Good' I thought to myself. perfectly timed to interrupt this lively exchange.

Lady "laughter-is-my-scalpel," with her hair as if dipped in a clown's paint bucket, threw a look my way and coughed up what sounded suspiciously like a barb wrapped in her buffoonish circus flair.

Elara's response only added fuel to the fire. Sure, I was now draped in holy robes, far above such pettiness. But, this harpy was itching for a tussle against the kingdom's top femme fatale.

I walked as I should, with all the saintly poise I could muster, halting within whispering distance. Gazing directly into the eyes of my rival with strands like a sunset gone wrong, I whispered. "Ah, Elara, such a pleasure, and ah, the bearded lady herself. Ruined any good men's lives recently, or has it been a slow month?"

"Ey Look who’s crashing; the banshee thinks she's joining the maiden’s tea party," that pain-in-the-rear sniped. "Maybe we dunk her in water and see if she melts? Or is that too much to hope for?"

"Listen, Elara, I'm aware that you've been marinating in less-than-stellar company, but there's something I need from you." Before I could elaborate, Mireya, that delightful little imp, scampered off Myrrine's lap. Clearly, the child had discerning taste and came bounding over, tugging at my gown, "Aunty Ravela... what's with names beginning with 'R' being so dreadful?" she probed, gazing up with those big, curious eyes as if I could unravel the mysteries of the alphabet for her.

"Looks like someone with hair the colour of yesterday's lunch is trying to lead astray our young ones, eh? "Mireya, sweetie, there's nothing wrong with 'R' names. It's just your mentor - well, not your mother, but the other one," I soothed her, all while shooting a glare towards the source of my irk seated next to Elara.

I scooped Mireya up and took a seat on Elara's other side, creating a safe space away from any dubious influence. Fingers combing through her hair. I turned to Elara and said, "You've handed over the potions to our little memory-challenged friend, right? Your execution is flawless, dear, but entrusting her with tasks of memory? Doubtful," making it a point to lock eyes with Myrrine as I mentioned 'her.'

"Sure as hell have it, don't get your panties in a twist," Myrrine cursed, her impatience naked as a jaybird. "Curb the cursing. This isn't some back-alley brawl," Elara shot back, giving Myrrine the stink eye. I couldn't help it; the smile creeping across my face felt like a checkmate move. “Just so you know, We're setting up a new sanctuary – an orphanage right here in our own backyard.”

“And you dear – you're tapped to shepherd the flock,” I pointed at Elara, her eyes widening with the realisation. Her grin unfurled like dawn’s first light as I laid out the entire picture. "It was our little healer who suggested that our finest teachers should enjoy more than just gratitude. Maybe a lovely home just outside the palace grounds where a family can thrive." Her joy burst forth, radiant and promising, as if we'd hung the stars ourselves just for her. A sight that only sweetened my own triumph ‘Oh goddess! Why did I not seek you out earlier.'

‘Kemi...my sunshine and my salvation!”

"You've been such a good influence that we trust you with a longer lead. Behave, and you can stroll through Marossa more freely... how's that sound?" Her eyes sparkled with hope, and she lunged for me with a bear hug that almost knocked the breath out of me. "Priestess, I can’t—this is—thank you—” she gushed, nearly in tears.

I waved off her gratitude before she drowned us both in sentiment with a beaming smile and an imperious flick of my wrist. "It's settled then. Just see to it that your little one doesn't pick up any gutter habits. This is especially important because of one knife-happy miscreant in particular. My gaze landed pointedly on Myrrine as I released myself from the fierce embrace.

The termagant cracked a smile at the news for Elara. But, when I lobbed that last quip her way, her death stare could've skewered me. If stares were daggers, we'd both be lying in a pile of ashes more than once by now, but for Kemi's sake, I somehow endured. Lord, give me strength; I've even come to bear, barely, a smidge of respect and, dare I say... a touch of fondness for that tart.

One of the women sidled up to Elara, leaning in to murmur something urgent. Elara's face clouded with concern as she listened, and then she fixed us with a steely gaze. "Ladies, it seems Amangons is on the prowl. The Black Brigade are wandering close by, about two dozen men with their commander, Branoc. Beware, he’s got slave collars in tow."

Her eyes bore into us as she gave the marching orders. "They've slipped under the radar, making a beeline for Dunmoss Hamlet. They'll be expecting clear passage there in about an hour — but not if you get there first. Time to give them a proper welcome at the gates. Just the two of you should do," she finished with a wicked grin.

Elara proved her worth once again, her spy craft nothing short of remarkable. How she kept those eyes and ears in every shadow was a true mystery. But, Kemeia vouched for her, and that was enough for me.

“Thanks much Elara. We will handle the needful from here on,” I said gratefully as I handed over my ring. "Take this. It offers free passage around the palace and city for you and yours.” Let the recovery team know they're heading to Dunmoss in two hours," I said. "You've more than earned a day of freedom. Someone will come over to fetch the ring in the morning."

I gave her no chance to respond, already on my feet with a snap, "Let's roll, carrot top. It's about time we show those black-hearted dogs a proper welcome." I made a beeline for the doorway. From the corner, Elara chimed in, "Horses are at the gates. And Myrrine, leave Raima to me. After coordinating with the rescue team, we will meet with Kemi at the tavern." The words hung in the air, a woman of remarkable mettle and truly a cut above the rest.

"Listen here. You know I don't take lives. But, those rabid mongrels with the slave collars are fair game for a beating," Myrrine growled. Disdain painted her words a shade of danger.

"I'm not in the mood to be merciful. But killing is a last resort. They will wish I had killed them, given the special brand of poetic justice I have planned for them," I added. My voice was sharp as the edge of a dragon-scale blade. " Remind me to enchant your daggers before we reach our destination. " I continued with the instructions. "Make sure you put all that practice with your newfound speed to good use. And do remember to heal the bastards in case I do too much damage. I want them to answer for their crimes,” I commanded as I climbed onto my mount.

With the goddamn harpy pitching in with her knife-happy hands. We were sure to kick those bastards square in the teeth and make it back in time to bathe in my sweet Kemi's glow before nightfall.

KEMEIA
Early Eve
Eirik’s Tavern O’Tales - Marossa Town Centre

There I was, nursing my ale and trying not to squirm in the scandalous garments or lack thereof, hidden under the magic of my pendant.
"Captain!" Oisín, our squad's liveliest rascal, slurred, loud enough for half the tavern to hear. He earned himself a quick elbow jab from Melorik, who, despite his towering frame, had the softest heart. "Pipe down, you dullard. Kemi's story's that she's from the Anatols, remember?"he muttered under his breath – a bear's version of a whisper.

We settled on a tale that put Cormac to rest, claimed by the dark in his dungeon cell by a lurking foe. Ravela played her part, shedding tears as she owned up to her mistake. Her wrongful judgement against a man whose innocence was beyond question. She announced her willing desire to step down as queen and seek life as a priestess to seek penance.

We kept our story straight. Making sure everyone and their dog knew about the involvement of Arcum and Parasia. We had every truthsayer put on a public show. Forcing them to prove their 'talents' before getting their just desserts. For all the acclaimed spells and enchantments in the world, we found that nothing could truly wrest truth from a person. There was no greater magic than the whisper of their own conscience.

Oh sure, there were all sorts of dark arts out there. Slave collars that bound the will, spells that invaded the privacy of one's thoughts – yet none were infallible. A mind fortified by will and discipline was its own bastion, impervious to sorcery. And so we rested easier, knowing that, in the end, no magic could overrule the sanctity of free will.

With a sly grin, Orlando...ironically named as he was our resident Orlando (who had not read the many tales of the infamous womanising troubadour from Anuvar), tossed his brazen question my way. "Kemi, you've got quite the romantic dance card, eh? I reckon I'd trade my left nut for a night with the company you keep."

A smirk crossed my face as I signed back to him, "You'd probably need to auction off the whole set to match my luck, my friend. Fancy swapping lives? Though, fair warning, you'd end up the sole damsel between the two delightful dragons." I commented, and his expression puckered, likely mirroring the shrivelling of his pride below the belt.

With the faint sound of the inn door opening, a cold draft made its way and nipped at my flesh with an unwelcome intimacy. Though I remained poised, I had to resist the urge to shiver. I silently cursed my barely there clothing that failed to stave off the cold. Gratefully, I managed to stave off any betraying blush from my cheeks.

Surely, the goddess must be sharing a chuckle at my expense up there, the way things are panning out. I'm no fool; I know precisely the shenanigans Ravela and that rascal Myrrine are plotting for me this evening. Bless her heart, Lunete brought me into the loop, mindful of the traumas of my past. Still, against my better judgement, I found myself nodding to their plan. I even aided Elara with the concoction despite being keenly aware of how they intended to use it.

More often than not, I couldn't shake off the feeling that those two were simply blokes in women’s clothing. But I suppose I should let them delight in what they've orchestrated. Given their love for me, this evening might smooth over their differences. All the more reason not to ponder over it too much. . Tonight, I offer as a gift to them and with some luck, they may find it within themselves to offer a piece of themselves to each other.

Suddenly, I felt the touch of a hand I'd come to cherish on my shoulder, urging me to scoot over. Without turning, I allowed her to take the seat at my side, my grin stretching wide as I leaned into her shoulder. "Kemi, me lass, with the ceremony at an end," the high priestess whispered, keen to blend in with the bustling scene, "where better to rest than by the side of the daughter me heart's claimed." Yes, I was her daughter now.

In the span of a year, our bond had deepened further, transforming from the formal roles of mentor and pupil to that of a loving family. She had moved beyond her role as my teacher and warden to being a steadfast source of love. Whether I faced tears or triumphs, her embrace was a sanctuary. During the nights when old horrors dared to revisit, I went to her first. Her consoling presence and tender care would always chase away the darkness that sometimes threatened to overwhelm me.

She was the one who breathed life into me. She drew me out from the watery grave. She named and nurtured me, imparting lessons of humanity and instilling within me the virtues of kindness and mercy. Though we shared no blood, she saved me, and she willingly stepped into a role that she chose for herself. She chose to be my mother.

The encounter at the shrine, under the goddess's watchful gaze, remains etched in my soul. The memory of her hands holding mine as she wished for a daughter is as vibrant as if painted across the sky. I answered with the easiest yet most heartfelt 'yes' of my life.

Certainly, I longed for the family ties I once cherished. And Ravela's initiative to seek forgiveness for Cormac's fate brought them back into my life in a manner. Under the pretence of making amends for Cormac, She carved a place for us at their table. She would visit them regularly and play the dutiful Samaritan, even donning the role of cook on occasion. And there I was, always accompanying her, disguised in plain sight.

Within a few short months, they had opened their arms to us, embracing us as part of their kin. The secret of who I used to be was a truth too dangerous to reveal. Yet somehow, the affection that my mother, the woman who birthed and loved Cormac, offered me felt no less genuine. It was a solace to experience that connection once more, even if it wasn't whole.

"Hey! Ye lot, fetch a barrel of ale for me and me bonnie girl," Marta roared with the authority of her military past. She looped an arm around me in that warm, tight bond unique to those who've shared the trenches. High priestess or a bit of a hellraiser, Marta was certainly my role model to emulate.

Sechnall materialised beside us, tankards sloshing, a smile spanning his face. Despite my best efforts at sobriety, it seemed my fate was sealed. "They say there was one among us who'd sink ale in a single draft. Let's see if that fire's died down or still burns bright," he taunted.
With a resigned heave, I brought the tankard to my lips. A deep breath, and up it went. I raised the cursed vessel and chugged it down. And would you believe it? The bottom of the tankard gazed back at me all too soon.

"Good godess, would you look at that..." I marvelled inwardly. "Half the size, yet the feat's done. Ah, Cormac, it seems you've left more of yourself in me than I realised." Her voice chided from within, 'Impressive that only now do you realise that you are more than simply Cormac's shadow, including talents of a less... commendable nature. One must wonder, though, the value of excelling in the art of ale swilling my love.' I couldn't help a sheepish grin, feeling very much caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

Time flew as I polished off drink after drink. I was half wasted, and my head was filled with foggy thoughts about the devised mischief for later. It was then that Elara arrived with company in hand, clearly enjoying Ravela's permission to wander the town.

Pain lingered in the eyes of Elara's companion, Raima. I had met her when I visited the chambers. But, clearly, her health had taken a turn for the worse. Her skin was pale with suffering. I reached out without a second thought, and the diagnosis was clear. She was struggling against a growing cancer hidden within. A moment of focused intent and... gone. her face washed over with a telling blush of recovery and ...oh no!

Marta caught on to my slip-up in an instant. She leaned toward Elara, her voice low, "Turns out our Kemi's given a dose of spirited warmth along with the cure." Her grin was mischievous as she eyed Elara's flushed companion. "Right as rain, she is, but perhaps eager for a jolly close-up with one of the fine gentlemen tonight." Elara managed a nod between laughs, then whispered, "Kemeia, spare a touch of that miracle hand before I head home?" I have planned a cosy night with loved ones," she murmured discreetly. "And a special night to share with my better half."

Saints preserve us! From healer to balm for the loins, many a cure in that, I suppose. Not for me to question, and if it eases another's plight, why not? I settled my palm in hers, allowing my energies to flow. A minor headache appeared to be the culprit of her discomfort and it was gone in a heartbeat. Her eyes fluttered shut for a spell, and when they opened, she was aglow, a rosy blush blooming across her cheeks, a telltale sign of arousal.

Elara caught her breath and leaned in, "Exactly what was needed... much obliged," she exhaled with a hint of excitement. "You might want to wander home shortly; give it half an hour. Your precious attendants will be back from their errand; all spruced up by then." With a sly smile, she murmured a word or two to Raima, who seemed to glow a little brighter. She then guided her to the other side of the table before she shuffled off discreetly.

Just then, Marta declared that we needed another round of drinks. She pointedly asked for 'The Maiden's Ruin,' but only for me. The jolly lot of military thugs assuring me that I'd be at the centre of our good-natured ribbing till we wrapped up.

BRANOC
Late afternoon
Dunmoss Outskirts

We had slipped by unnoticed until now. The orders were simple: snatch up one of those Sorgente Churls. Those slave collars required a willing neck. The goal was to pick one off and get the others to roll over.

The order came down from high up – three Sorgente Strumpets were bad news. Group 'em up. They'd ash an army before you could say 'witchcraft.’ So we had to take 'em down piecemeal. Our mark today? That damn healer. The main one, not the redhead. Invisible as farts, we'd slip in, snag her when she stumbled out of that pisshouse, Eirik's and waltz right out of that shithole city unnoticed.

Our inside rat dished the dirt on her moves. She was up to some tavern wenching at Eirik's dive. We just had to cool our heels, then nab the Light-skirt when she took her stroll. Any other time, those Sorgente bints would be hawk-eyeing her, so we had this slim window to jump.

We'd heard plenty bout that ‘healer’, her sinful body and the kind of curves that don’t just sit there. We had a simple snatch-and-fuck plan. First, nab her, and once she was in our grip, we'd enjoy ourselves till we were spent. By then, the mental queen or that other cunt healer would have sold their own mothers to get her back.

After that, the King wanted her dead. Can't blame him; after the shit healers stirred up on him before. Says they're more trouble than they're worth. The one we bag would be off to warm the king's bed, actin' as his private whore and a handy tool against those high-and-mighty priestesses.

The men were licking their chops at the thought. That healer's reputation for being a fine piece had spread like wildfire, and the fact she was honour-bound to heal, even after we busted her wide open. Ain't no better time than when you're balls deep in some healer slut who can't say no to have her work her magic.

We've had our fair share of rape and pillage, but this – this was shaping up to be one cunt of a party. We got enough of our own bruises and wounds that need healin’ – making sure we'd take full advantage of her. Teach her what happens to winners’ spoils when the battle's won by real men. Even the soft-cocks who usually steered clear of our victory fucks were up for a go if it meant feelin' her hands on 'em.

Creeping up to that little rat's nest, I shoved my merry band into the trees just off the path. Our invisibility spell had about four hours before it would piss off, limiting its duration. We stripped down our tin suits; an invisible bunch is no good if they're clanging louder than a whore's bed on payday.

Lined up my bastards and let the spell fly from my staff, fading us out but good. Lit up just enough for each other to keep the sign language clear. We flashed our hand-codes, checking our magic rings to make sure we saw each other.

A quick run-through of our shadow dance, and we started ghost-walking out of the woods and – fuck-a-duck! The bloody royal strumpet in the flesh, standing there like she's waiting for a dicking. The witch looked right past us. "Come out, you bastards. I have a gift for you.” she’s barking, thinking she's the boss. Spell's holding up solid; she’s blind to us.

We all became statues, not a whisper. Gave the crew the word to circle this bitch, keeping our distance for slicing room. I inched back, fingers tingling for that spell to send her six feet under. This bitch needs to eat dirt, and if she ain't kneeling, she’s dying. The grunts got their edge ready to slice if she didn't drop at first blast.

Right as the curse is about to blow, my fucking staff! My whole fucking arm's missing! That staff thumbs down, belching out its last like some blown-up dregwhore on the street, wailing and spitting its death rattle.

The air was filled with the blood-curdling yells of my lads when I suddenly saw a flicker, and a crimson-maned she-devil just appeared before me, grinning like the sick psycho she was. She swiped, and bloody hell, my other arm too was just gone – not a drop of blood, not a sliver of bone, just poof – vanished! The bitch took my legs out next, dropping me on my face like a turd in the dirt. There I was, flailing like a beached whale on my stumps, listening to the pitiful whimpers of my crew replace their battle cries.

Suddenly, a grip like iron clamped around my skull, heaving me upward. It was that red-haired nightmare, flashing a smirk that could curdle blood as she hauled my limbless torso toward a nearby tree, propping me against it like a butchered carcass. Peering down at what was left of me, I don't have words for the horror – I was nothing but a trunk now; my limbs were gone, sheared clean from their sockets. Clean off, no fleshly tethers – nothing. What in the blackest depths had happened? What breed of demons were these women?

"Behold the masterpiece—amanslimbsgone seems about right! Hah," the demoness cackled like a bitch in heat, taking a real shine to my fucked-up predicament. I was rattling like a leaf, shittin' myself in terror as that ice-cold queen bitch marched up, glaring at me like I was the scum of the fuckin' earth.

Those eyes, cold as a witch's tit, She crashed into my mind like a battering ram. My guttural shriek filled the air like some poor sod on the rack, agony clawin' up my throat. The shock of the entire shitshow made my innermost shields crumble like dust. And there she was as she clawed through my darkest wank fantasies like they were her sodding birthright.

"Turns out the gutter filth were plotting a little abduction, eager to use our healer as bait for one of us. " She declared contempt so thick you could choke on it. "But first, they wanted to slap in chains, have a go at playing lord and master. Guess they fancied tying down someone who’d heal them despite what they would to her—sick bastards.

"Myrrine, would you kindly attend to these swine one more time? Seems that a final little snip-snip may be in order before their judgement is rendered." The redhead just grunted in response. Before I could brace myself, I felt the searing shame. In one swift, cruel stroke, she robbed me of my prized jewels.

That's when the true horror dawned—these weren't just cruel harpies; they were bloody monsters from the pits. "I confess. The delight I find in my savagery and in your exquisite anguish satisfies me more than it should," she gloated, baring her true sadistic colours.

“Silence!” she barked at my crew, now reduced to whimpering pups. "Any more from your snivelling lot, and you'll all be carrying a lament far more grotesque than any of the cries you hoped to pry from my healer, mark my words."

“Excellent," she drawled, relishing the quiet that had fallen. “Now, pay attention, geldings: I present to you a pair of doorways from your misery. Choose, but choose carefully—the kindness of my mercy awaits, or wallow in the despair you so richly deserve.”

"Option one," she said with a sneer. "Live as the worthless stumps you are – rotting in the dungeons. There, in your own filth and darkness, you'll linger, unable to end your suffering. A pitiful existence, isn't it? If that’s not bleak enough, I might let you earn your keep pleasuring your more able-bodied inmates – after all, some solace is better than none, eh?”

Or perhaps, she mused, "Option two appeals more? Become the servants to those you've harmed. You've left them widowed, their lives in shambles, some even bearing the scars of your brutality. They need attendants, not monsters, and you will fulfil that role, begging for the clemency you don't deserve."

She drove the point home, her gaze piercing, "Your future will be left to the mercy of the goddess's touch, reborn as women, perhaps some even graced with beauty. Should you gain their pardon, your chains will fall away, and you will be free to live. And in time, you might embrace new destinies, maybe even bear the children of real men. Nurturing life rather than destroying it." She let that last sentence hang. To bear the child of another man. That would be the best outcome of our choices.

As the recovery team's footsteps neared, she finished cruelly. "I’ll grant you a period of reflection. Until your decision is made, the dungeon will serve as a reminder of what awaits those who choose the first path." And as the echo of her merciless words faded, her decree was met with pleading grovels and desperate voices for the second option filling the void.

MYRRINE
Late afternoon
Dunmoss outskirts

On our way back to our rides, with the dust settling underfoot, I sidled up to Ravela. "Seems we're a solid pair in a scuffle. How about we knock off the jibes, except when they're truly called for?" She pondered a moment, then, with a slight tilt of her head she spoke, "agreed. Let's call a truce."

Before I could get another word in edgewise, she interjected, "And those fools we left limbless? Not my style, not anymore." Her expression softened a shade as she added, "Bank on it. Most will bend soon enough. Irrespective of their choices, they should all be whole again with their limbs sprouting back within the week's end, but those who cling to their sorry ways —well, they'll find themselves in the capable hands of the law instead of helping in the Chambers. The pieces will fit back into the puzzle one way or another, trust me."

"We've got no shortage of women knocking at our door for help," she mused. "We could really use an extra pair of hands or twenty." Her gaze grew distant as she added, "All this? Simply a bit of theatre for the gutless king to learn a lesson." A wry smile crept across her face. "Let us, however, refrain from disclosing the transient nature of their condition until such time as it benefits our narrative."

She leaned in with a glint of mischief in her eyes. "I might even cut a couple loose. Let them run back to their dear king," she said. Her grin growing with each word. "But not before they witness our women's liberty firsthand. And of course, they would be warned about a catch that comes with their returned freedom. A fortnight after leaving, poof! They'll be seeing the world through a woman’s eyes. Can't wait to see them come crawling back once they've spilt the beans."

"Better not cross swords with you, eh?" I let out, half-joking, after she laid out those plans. The way the lady is playing this game, Amangons would have to be a self-flagellating fool to set his ugly foot near us again. And, I gotta admit, watching the lady strut about, proud as a peacock, it’s doing more than just ruffling my feathers the wrong way.

We've been circling each other, like cats in an alley, mainly over Kemi, but tonight's truce could be the start of something downright spicy. We had shaken on it, agreeing to bury the hatchet for the evening but hey, no better moment to hash things out than the present, right?

There have been times I've thought about putting Ravela in line, showing her who was the boss but right now, I was the one getting hot under the collar. Especially since the scuffle earlier, she put me in my place, and I... liked it? Blast it. I’m in too deep now. Clearing my throat, I nudged, “Hey, about tonight, maybe we should... you know, practise a bit beforehand? For Kemi,” I said, my voice dipping with a mix of nerves and something more... eager.

She blinked at me, speechless for a good moment. Her eyes went wide, then narrowed as her gears turned. A flush spread across her cheeks, and she finally cracked a cheeky grin. Her voice turned into a husky whisper, "Behind the trees, now," She hurriedly demanded as she laced her fingers with mine, pulling me along eagerly.

Tucked away from prying eyes, she pinned me to a tree with a surprising ease. She caught my wrists with one hand, sturdy as shackles, while her free hand traced a path up my neck. I could hardly believe the woman's nerve! I was just about to protest when she leaned in close, her voice breathless and thick with desire, "We've been looking forward to this, haven't we?"

The charged air around us sizzled as I felt her body press against mine in a way that robbed me of reason, setting off sparks where we touched, sending my damned mind spinning as her smackers found the crook of my neck.

"I can't believe how much I'm into this,” I mumbled breathlessly. Lost in the haze of her kisses, I barely registered that my traitorous legs had spread open enough to let her thigh grind against my embarrassing dampness beneath. I let all sense of control fade away as her hand continued to wander over my captive curves. "Myrrine, darling, you're positively dripping with anticipation." She purred, her grin widening as my knees buckled and my body sang with need.

She breathed, pulling me close, her mouth claiming mine in a kiss that screamed possession. I was lost in the dance of her tongue, a heady rhythm that drove every rational thought from my head. Breath gone, voice stolen, I swayed under her expert touch. She was fire and ice rolled into one, and as she delved into the depths of my desire, I was melting under the intensity of pleasure.

A tug at my robe, and my breast tumbled free; her fingers clamped down on my nipple, sparking an electric jolt that coursed through me. A yelp of surprise broiled in my throat, but her mouth swallowed my protests, sealing the passion between us. My knees wobbled, my balance tethered to the urgency of her touch.

After eternities of exquisite torture, she descended with a trail of searing kisses cascading down to claim my nipple. even as she smothered my moans with her hand over my lips. The sound that spilled from me was muffled only by her hand with my own tongue shamelessly licking away at her skin like a starved animal. My arousal was as clear as the day; Ravela had me completely undone, and shockingly, I welcomed it.

As her fingers wandered up my dress, I realised I wasn't bound anymore. I wasted no time getting my hands dirty. I clenched her hair, ensuring that she was suckling me like it was her last meal, while I went hunting under her garments for a bit of payback.

The spark of her touch set me ablaze, and there I was, gasping as her finger slipped into me like it knew exactly where to go—straight to the furnace of my lust. But I wasn’t about to let her have all the fun. No way. I was on the prowl too, and when my fingers found her slick, craving depth... goddess, she jolted and latched onto my nipple with a bite. A sweet, crude affirmation, like her teeth were signing a love note right there on my skin.

Over the year, Kemi had shared herself with each of us but never the three of us together. The idea of sharing seemed too much like crossing a boundary. But that was only going to be true until tonight. This tease of what was to come signalled that we were geared up for a night that would blur that line just fine. In the love games we were playing, I had Kemi's reins, Ravela had mine, and I had a strong feeling that by the end of the night, Kemi might just have Ravela's.

"As great as this is, we've got a date with Kemi," I moaned, breath coming in rapid pants. "Right behind you... oh godess," she breathed out, her mouth leaving my breast before diving back in with fervent hunger. In the split second before the explosion of pleasure, her lips found mine, our combined moans spiralling together, keeping our hot, muffled secret just that—secret.

Just as was coming down from my high, legs still trembling, she extracted my fingers from between my legs and placed them between my lips. “Just a reminder of who the queen is here,” she said with an amused smirk as she looked at me expectantly.

I hesitated at first, but then her scent hit me, heady and thick. My tongue worked the fingers clean. Her taste was dirty and delicious, a flavour I couldn't get enough of. My gaze, heavy with lust, surrendered to hers. Each deliberate lick a wordless surrender, that screamed my descent into willing depravity.

Once she had deemed my submission as ample, with a growl of approval, she responded in kind. Her tongue swirled slowly and deliberately over her fingers as she savoured the remnants of my glorious defeat. Enjoying it as though it were the finest nectar. Her victorious smirk telling me she'd taken everything I had to give.

We finished off with a desperate, needy kiss that said, ‘There's more to come'. We barely had time to sort ourselves out before we scrambled towards our horses. Kemi’s name practically buzzing on our lips, and we were eager to get back to her and pick up where we left off.

To be concluded in part 6

This is part 6 of my first work, a fan continuation of the unfinished Kemeia Ascending. It is entirely inspired by Armond's magical world of Argentia and its Goddess Selene.

Link to the book here Kemeia Ascends - A Fan Continuity

You can read the prior parts by Armond from the links below

Kemeia Ascending Part 1
Kemeia Ascending Part 2
Kemeia Ascending Part 3

More of Armond's work can be found here

In this final chapter, our lovely healer, the former queen, and our favorite assassin prepare for a deeply personal night. As they gather for a meal that promises more than just food, secrets and emotions come to light. Most importantly Kemi's emerging abilities promise to turn this night into an entirely new beginning.

“Beneath the moon’s sultry sighs, nightfall will wrap the world in Elyssia’s tender embrace, where whispered promises and fevered breaths meld. As the faithful surrender to desire’s sweet pull, under the goddess’s tender gaze, love will bloom into redemptive passion.”
-Elyssia’s Sacred Lament, Vol. VII, Passage 39

RAVELA

Evening
Ravela’s Priestess’s Chambers at Selene’s hall - Marossa

The deed was done, and the 'mad queen' had vacated her throne. She could fade into the sunset now that safer, more capable hands cradled Wildevale. The painful wounds, those deep gashes of the soul I had so cruelly inflicted upon Cormac's men, were hopefully more manageable now.

They would always be there and stay as nasty traumas to those I had wronged. But I prayed that they would continue to heal and scab over as most injuries do. The wrongs I had done would remain. But, the crushing guilt for my past vileness would keep fading with each day as long as I, no WE, had our dear Kemi by our side.

The moment had finally come to embrace the future, and I was looking forward to what was going to be a delightfully sinful night. More importantly, I hoped that what followed could be our new way of life moving forward. Even my tangles with that fire-maned vixen just ended in a ‘most appropriate’ manner earlier today, and we had gone from fighting like wildcats to purring on the same pillow, from butting heads to... well, more ‘intimate’ collisions.

This was entirely Kemi's fault for widening my world and teaching me to embrace more than one heart.

Kemi's lessons in love aside, I was delightfully thrilled at the thought of Myrrine yielding to me. Never in a million years would I have imagined that I craved to dominate another one's loins. Dominant I am, but never in the realm of moans and whimpers. But here I was, though, victorious in this entirely new domain. How wonderfully satisfying it was to control with desire instead of dread.

Oh, how every part of me relished it, Myrrine’s submission, a most satisfying draught for my only briefly parched nethers, I meant soul. Watching her licking her fingers clean of me felt so delightfully wicked.

There was something downright primal about her wet, eager eyes. They screamed she was ready to drop and give me twenty, or however much I damn well pleased. Mmm… even now, just the thought was bringing me to a simmering boil. Today, I discovered what it meant to be on the demanding end of another’s willing surrender. As much as it surprised me, I could get used to it. The way the moment unfolded with Myrrine was nothing short of exhilarating.

What I felt was different, but it was not unlike the effect Kemi had on me. Her love had slowly made me crave the soft and tender instead of the past's rugged and tangy. With Kemi, I was always careful. Always making sure my touches were gentle, almost reverent. It was in many ways similar to what I shared with Cormac. I was the one submitting and serving, and I tried my best to make her feel that I was the one enveloped by her.

There, as always, visions of my Cormac flashed through my mind. The robust solidity of his body pressed against mine as I willingly chose to be his dear wench in my chambers. Myrrine couldn't fill that big gaping void—literally, no one could; oh goddess, even my thoughts are now deviant. But, her eagerness under my command scratched an itch I'd never known I had.

'Who knew you had a thing for making a sturdy broad your plaything, Ravela?' And while I mourned what I had lost with my dear Cormac. After today's encounter, maybe my heart and, let’s face it, my desires would find it easier to forgo the incessant ache for what I may never have again.

There was no room for regrets tonight, not when there was so much love left to be explored. Myrrine and I had a single soul, her beloved doll and my divine salvation, on our minds and in our hearts. Yet, as we chose to bind ourselves to Kemi, our feelings bled over to each other as well. We were now feeling each other's desires in the mix. This was going to be our night of shared desires. To be laid bare, not just to Kemi but to each other.

Those devilish potions we cooked up? They were just the spice to sprinkle on an already heated feast. I was aching for Kemi to ride the wave just as boldly as we had crafted them. In doing so, she might finally shed the shackles of pain I had clamped onto her gentle soul and step, hand in hand, into a shared dawn.

Tick-tock, supper was knocking, and I had quite the spread to whip up for the three of us. First to tickle the senses would be the Twilight Fowl Strips, delicate pieces of wild bird. Full and soft like the feather pillows in our chambers, they would be served on toasty slices of bread and anointed with a wild berry reduction. For Myrrine and yours truly only, as we were carnivores united.

At this point, most of the kingdom and even the heavens knew that Kemi loved her greenery. And so she would indulge in a Dreamer's Green Salad. A mix of soft baby spinach and plump havenberries from the elven lands. The secret to making it worthy of her worship was the honey-roasted crunchy walnuts.And finally, the coup de grâce would be the very hard-to-procure Anuvarian vinaigrette. A dressing unlike any other.

Our main attraction featured a hearty Beast of the Forest Stew. Thick chunks of braised beef stirred lovingly in a wine-infused broth that was just begging for a thick piece of bread to sop it up. Kemi, on her side, would pay tribute to the garden with a Golden Veg Toss. A merry mix of buttery potatoes, carrots, and roasted beets, a veritable crown jewel of the earth's bounty.

But oh, the sweet grandeur that dessert promised would come from Cormac’s favourite, Whisper Foam Bliss. It was a mousse so delicate it felt like the captured essence of a cloud. This beauty would then be topped generously with wild berry compote and floating on a bed of vanilla bean cream. It was almost forbidden to serve such seduction on a plate. The dessert was going to be dear Kemeia's ruin, and I looked forward to the sweet torture we had planned for her.

While the kitchen whirred with the aromas of cooking, I couldn't help but notice Myrrine working behind me. Fresh out of her post-work soak, she'd slipped into her evening wear. A wispy, transparent number that barely covered her lovely assets. This slip of a thing clung to her like morning dew on grass as she bent over to work on her contribution for the evening. Mmm… A treat for the hungriest of eyes.

I caught myself gawking at the wanton vision that she was. My sly little fox. Legs splayed just enough to flaunt her soft, eager flesh. Giving me a glimpse of her fiery secrets. Such a sinful sight no man or woman could resist.

As she stretched forward, those sweet lips between her legs, the soft, blush-pink flesh of her womanhood peered out. Her pucker puckering, her dewy folds laid bare, inviting, no, begging for me to lay claim.

Then there were her breasts peaking from the side. She was also now blessed with magnificent orbs thanks to Kemi’s unspoken desires. Generous enough to overflow a greedy hand, I now also knew that they were exquisitely supple. Ohh, naturally, they promised endless indulgence.

I could almost feel their weight, imagine their bounce. I could even hear her gasping pleas as I brought them to a flushed, aching life. Oh, the lovely sounds they’d make, slapped red and aching for release. Under my rough touch, they would sing of a lover's abuse spun into ecstasy.
I could hardly contain the heat raging inside.

She'd be a debauched mess laid waste by my touch, flustered and wrecked on the floor. How could I resist having her on her knees before me? How much I wanted her broken down and built back up as the expression of my deepest, darkest cravings?

Was this how Cormac saw me? How his blood must have surged downward, filling him. Did I render him firm with such desire just as it stews me in the juices of want? Surely his body must have ached, as mine does now. If only I could experience her with him.

Together, we would have broken her in the most delightful ways. Oh, the electric surge of imagining his virility skewering her as I would bear witness to the taming of this magnificent huntress. Goddess, I truly was changed now. Revela willing to share? Ha! In the past, my jealousy would have raged like a siege fire, reducing my foes to ash like a conquered village.

But alas, Cormac, MY Cormac was no more. It was just my precious Kemi, gentle and pure. She may have Cormac's soul, but she wore it with a delicate grace and innocence now. I was bound to her and I swear to be the one to stoke his passion within her. I was her ever-loving companion and would play out her every unspoken wish.

I would caress her as she would crave with the warm and gentle loving she would expect from me. And then there was Myrrine, oh my! A challenge, a beautiful beast waiting to be unravelled. Cormac or not, we would watch her shudder and break in ecstasy as Kemi, and I would consummate our triumph over her.

Well, as a woman of power and discipline, I should probably resist dirty dreams or such temptation. But then again, what good was power if not to indulge oneself now and again? Besides, a little red-headed appetiser could only help enhance the main course laid out for the night when Kemi would come home.

MYRRINE

Evening
Ravela’s Priestess's Chambers at Selene’s hall

Home sweet home - no more sneaking around the dorms ‘cause my silent songbird and I were moving up in the world. The whole 'priestess quarters' where Ravela struts about is just a fancy way of saying we've got ourselves a love nest. Trust a queen-turned-priestess to swank about in a cottage fit for a royal brood.

The place had been decked out by Her Majesty as a shiny home-shaped bait for Kemi. But now, with our truce in place, it was destined to be the backdrop for the next chapter of our steamy love saga. No more bickering over who gets Kemi's cuddles each night when we could both squash her between us, right?

Here I was, fresh as a daisy and dressed in this little scrap of nothing that had less fabric than a Kooma's hankie. I had planned to wrap myself in a robe until after. But heck, I couldn't resist dangling my sizzling appetisers and leaving them on display for the witch-turned-white dove. The first treat's free, love.

I had my hands full, setting up those nifty memory crystals and lining them up with our chosen songs. Ravela, the sly fox, came upon a neat trick and figured out we could capture music within them. Connect them to the assassins' whispering shells, and voila! The air's alive with the stored melodies that we had planned to let serenade us all night.

Until now, the place had been rather bare-bones, pretty much a priestess's chambers, only bigger. But today, we spruced it up proper, and turned it into a fancy home for all of us. We had hauled in some new bits and bobs: a dresser for gazing at your own reflection endlessly. An ornate table begging for shared suppers. And best of all, a cloud disguised as a couch that could cradle us through the tales we would whisper into the night.

All hail Ravela and Lunete's lot. In just one day, they had magically whipped up a dainty perch in the open air. Picture this: us putting our feet up while the sun sets, with that temple view for company. And dear Kemi bending the ear of whoever’s up there, goddess and all.

Oh, that new bed, though, was something else. It was a proper fortress for our nightly romps. It's massive, just the right size for sharing, you catch my drift? Plucked from the plumpest birds of paradise or some such nonsense. It was a true luxury—a queen's gift and whatnot. It was right squishy, just how a bed in the throes should feel. Nice and silent, save for the chorus of our pleasured moans and the sinful slap of skin on skin that I expected to be getting a lot of.

Sheets of Elven silk, smoother than a scoundrel's tongue and twice as tempting. Perfect for caressing Kemi's dripping ecstasy. Those silken threads will be the only thing keeping our secrets when her juices flow.

And the pillows, dusted with magic from the goddess' own garden up north, are softer than a lover's sigh. Ideal for Kemi to grip onto for dear life as I spread her wide. Almost as if it was made with the sole purpose of helping me explore the depths of her intoxicating playground. Her tender nipples, those delicious little berries ripe for a good nibbling! Her lush, rosy folds, ever so eager, just waiting for a spank or a plunge. We're about to give those Elven gifts a run for their money, no doubt.

Tonight, that bed was going to witness an epic saga. The unravelling of Kemi's and our inhibitions. We would christen those sheets with our untamed lust, and may the goddess help anyone who came in the way of our planned carriage of carnal mayhem.

This one gift had caught us totally off guard, though. A set of chains whose origin was a mystery. Crafted from the most exquisite red gold and glistening like the finest of sunsets, they had been fashioned to secure the wearer's every limb. The highlight was a leash collar. It connected to everything and promised control over the wearer.

Even the tiniest chains had their place, attached to magicked piercings meant to present captivity like an art form. The vision of my little Kemi ensnared in these bonds, completely at my mercy. Mmm. Even as I lost myself in the thought, picturing her bound and helpless, the vision changed. I saw myself bound instead, with Ravela's predatory hunger fixed upon me. Oh!

Suddenly, there she was. Standing in front of me like a hot-blooded vampire, with her presence enveloping me in her gaze. Her breath against my exposed neck sent shivers down my spine as I began to melt. With a deliberate grip, she wrapped her claws around my waist and yanked me close. She ensured that I stumbled under the surge of bare arousal that coursed through me.

"My, my... such a needy little kitten, aren’t you," she growled, her words fanning my flames as her tongue traced the sensitive skin of my neck. She lingered at my earlobe, sucking it into the warmth of her mouth, drawing a whimper from deep within as my eyes fluttered in helpless captivity. Honestly, what did I expect? Flaunting my assets like a tart with an agenda. I was practically begging for a good, hard reality check
.
That moment was my own undoing, aided by this unexpected and craven sense of debasement. My head fell back and draped itself against her, eyes losing focus, and my arms dangling uselessly, like those of a rag doll in the thick of ecstasy. Her arm deftly unfastened the knots at my shoulders, and the pitiful fabric that clung to me slipped away like a whisper in the wind.

There I was, nude, exposed, and entirely vulnerable to her predatory gaze, fingers, and everything else. Her husky whisper, "Stay still, relish the now," had me trembling as her hand slid behind me, taking my arms with it and securing them. She had rendered me utterly captive to her touch.

Her leg slid between mine, insistence implicit in the movement, prying my thighs apart with authority. Cruelly, her limb turned against my thigh. She forced my leg upward until my wet folds were openly exposed to her. Trapped by her thigh, my elevated leg quivered, helplessly dangling aloft. “With your words stolen, you are all the more captivating, don't you agree?” she taunted, each syllable dripping with desire, doing things to me that I was unprepared to admit.

I was rendered almost mute, and only an inarticulate moan could escape my lips. It was my instinctive consent in response to her hand drifting lower. With deliberate intent, she continued her journey towards my inner sanctum. “Mmm, this is what you seek, isn't it?” She murmured with her finger poised torturously at the entrance. She managed to entice a husky plea of "Yes" from the depths of me.

"Not unless you beg for it, love," she taunted. It was a trap, but it set me ablaze. “Please,” I gasped, the plea barely escaping my lips. Her eyes glinted with triumph. "Please what?" she pressed, and the words I never thought I'd utter now poured out. Honey–sweet, thick, and unstopping, I pleaded desperately, "Please take me, Mistress," to which she simply smiled. "Delightful choice," she purred, her satisfaction clear in her voice.

That moment her fingers found their mark, I was spiralling. Her mouth descended on mine so fiercely it felt like she was consuming my every breath. Her touch brought a trembling weakness to my knees. My body screamed a truth I hated to admit —I was as ripe as the juiciest fruit in the orchard, aching to be taken. Cage me, claim me.

The thoughts raced through my mind as the boundaries I had so carefully set started to blur and dissolve. Her every command was woven into the rhythm of my heartbeat. As she willed, I moved, with a harmony I'd never known before. What I carried for Kemi was bound by devotion and a fiercely protective ardour, but my craving for Ravela was a fervent, submissive ache.

I was reduced to a heap of longing in her arms. Her abuse settled into my flesh like a welcome torment. Her control over me was intoxicating. She was dangerous and addicting all at once. With each gasp and yearning whimper, I sought her dominance.

My traitorous bum ground against her with an involuntary rhythm, pleading for more. She had me on edge, aching for release, but with sadistic pleasure, she held me there, right on the cusp. "This is Kemi's gift to enjoy. You will wait till then," she growled before spinning me around and forcing me to my knees.

Ravela had me in the palm of her hand, head down in a perfect pose of defeat. She wasted no time. Her robe was up in a flash as she bared herself with an urgency that reflected my own. "Get to work, you little whore. Make me feel good," she ordered. "Edge me closer, but keep the crest at bay. We wait, we pine, we ache, until Kemi grants us release."

Overcome by the powerful scent of her arousal and the lingering traces of our previous rendezvous, my hesitation vanished. I could barely pause to think before I, the devoted harlot, buried my face in her sweaty, ripe, and gloriously sullying essence.

This would be my life moving forward, trapped between an angel and a queen. They would stand there, on either side of my world and splinter my being. In their hands, I would be split in two. Let the goddess bear witness to me willingly offering myself to the fall.

KEMEIA

Late Evening
Selene’s hall Gardens, Outside Ravela’s priestess chambers

Here I was, reveling in high spirits, quite literally, after clanging tankards with my comrades. 'Ah, the merry warmth of booze and boisterous company!' Weren't Sechnall and Marta the sweetest? A gentleman and the other, a rowdy mum escorting a slightly tipsy healer through Marossa's night. A night as safe as any, but I confess, my legs seemed to have imbibed as much mirth as I did—left, right, left, what's the difference when in my happy place?

We wove our way back to Selene's Hall, with my happy feet refusing to play ball. On a clear-headed day, a walk that would be a mere ten minutes was now twice as long, if not longer, but who was counting? Ohh, wait a minute. I was... my two nutters were waiting at home with their 'surprise.'

I was barely a stone's throw from reaching Ravela's, no, scratch that, our home, when I suddenly found myself swaddled in a hug from behind. "Ah, there's my little Queenie... oops, I mean, Lunete," I signed, my tipsy brain turning my attempted message into mush. But then, a swift turn brought me a face-full of passionate kiss that left me dazed. What in the blazes?

My glazed eyes caught Sechnall's unfazed expression amidst this unexpected smooch-fest that his partner had launched into. As I floundered in her grip, trying in vain to escape, his smirk betrayed his amusement. "Word on the street is your touch has been leaving folks rather... invigorated today. Her highness fancies a taste of your bewitching remedy," he dryly remarked.

Well, that sly fox Elara must've tipped her off. I bet she had her sneaky little network broadcast the news to the queen within a matter of minutes after the 'incident' at the tavern. Oh, and our Highness slipping into plain Jane clothes just for this visit? Couldn't help but think it was time for a bit of comeuppance.

So what did I do? I yanked her right into my arms and sunk into that kiss so chock-full and sparking with energy that her knees wobbled like jelly. ‘Gotcha!’ I chuckled to myself as I gently handed our befuddled queen over to Sechnall. "Enjoy yer evening with the frisky filly. Seems she is primed for a rather stirred-up evening," Marta teasingly quipped to him, definitely not her holy self tonight. Oh, how I loved turning the tables!

I glanced at the man, his face aglow with surprise, and grinned cheekily. With a naughty sparkle in my eye, I tiptoed towards him, and with an impish giggle, I sprang up into his arms. Taken by surprise, he could only grasp my plump backside to steady us both. I wiggled against his grip, my bum snug in his unprepared hands. Oh, how I loved this, teasing him, such strength yet entirely at my mercy as the poor soul desperately tried not to cop a feel.

Before he could react, though, I drew him into a deep kiss while I shot Lunete a sly, sultry look. Poor thing was still bewildered from earlier, and now she was bearing witness to this. Well, they both asked for it, and clearly, I intended to deliver. I chuckled inside, thinking of my 'brass balls' since I quite literally had lost my own. I knew I'd just lit a fire in Sechnall's loins, One that our little queen would be on the receiving end of all night.

Thanks to my little performance, the dear pair had turned a delightful shade of scarlet. Her breaths coming in uneven rushes, and the noticeable bulge straining against his breeches promised hours of lasting turmoil from the little surprise I sprung on them. Little did I expect to wield such delicious vengeance, but I guess it was all part of who I was now. Elyssia's blessings were unfurling within me. In that moment, I finally grasped the depth of the goddess. She was far more than the silence and the moan. She was also the full chorus of whispers and exultations.

As the dazed couple stumbled away, struggling to keep their hands off each other long enough to reach the privacy of the nearest tree or dark corner, Marta leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. "Oh, ye are delightfully wicked, stirring up such a ruckus. Seems the goddess shared her little secret with you," I attempted my best 'who, me?' expression but the charade crumbled into giddy laughter before I could even play the part right.

It was apparent Marta knew of the new gifts beginning to manifest within me. There was little doubt in my mind that she enjoyed her own direct, if undisclosed, channel to the divine—a secret she had yet to confide. Also her wisdom and foresight seemed to scream that she was graced with divine favour that had been carefully hidden in plain sight.

As she addressed me, her voice bore a solemn inflexion. "Child, now that ye've acknowledged the bewitching power ye hold, take to heart my warning. As the gift Elyssia granted you flourishes, you have the power to both heal and break hearts. Beware the latter lest ye cause unwitting sorrow."

Her voice grew steadier as she spoke, “Yer destined to wield a power so vast, it will compel all the high-borns of Argentia to their knees before ye. Not solely from deep respect, but from every manner of emotion that yer heart could possibly evoke, should that be yer wish.”

She clasped my hands and gazed into my eyes, her own brimming with pride and a shadow of worry. “Only those held dearest to the goddess are graced with splendour to put the finest of Selene’s stars to shame. Beware, as your burgeoning beauty has the might to command vast fleets and wage endless wars, but she entrusted ye with this gift. You, my daughter, you are the best of us."

I gave her a knowing look and signed back, "I'm aware, Mother. The little mischief I orchestrated with those two was all in jest." I couldn't help the giggle escaping as my grin widened. "My newfound gifts are certain to stoke desires, but I reserve my heart and my longings exclusively for those two charming oddballs at home." I continued signing with a hint of mischief in my gaze. “I might as well enjoy the joys of life with my two dearest eccentrics. They hold my heart captive. But more immediately, they intend to hold my loins captive tonight."

With a hug as warm as a summer's day, my dear mother wrapped me in her arms before planting a big, wet kiss on my cheek. Yet, even in the moment of farewell, she couldn't resist one final jibe. "Now, scamper off to your beloved brutes," she quipped with a sly smile, “time to play the merry little tart ye are for the night."

As I made my way to the door, the heat rose in my cheeks. And it was not just from the drinks, but from a realisation that sent ripples of mortification and thrill down my spine. My attire was mere gossamer threads of sorcery. The illusion hid everything. Lunete and Sechnall must have felt EVERYTHING when I brushed against them... Oh my!

And…there, like clockwork, behind the nearest tree, I could hear them. Her impassioned cries and his deep, rhythmic grunting. I couldn't help but steal a glance back and stifle a silent laugh. Those two randy lovebirds couldn’t even make it to a proper nest.

The poor tree, which they were assaulting, would bear witness. And I was certain that its leaves were involuntarily fluttering in applause to the rhythm of their eager, messy, and noisy rutting. 'Eager as bunnies in spring, aren't we?' I thought to myself.

And there it was, the sultry echo of her voice that was desire embodied, ‘My love, the fervent adoration you'll offer Elyssia tonight... I await with bated breath. Offer her... offer me the gift of your unchecked desires. Let your devotion be an offering trembling with want.' "Yes, goddess... I mean, no, mistress... oh, bother!" I mentally fumbled, feeling my face go red as I continued with unsteady steps, the cold evening air making me all the more aware of my body's reaction. Oh, heavens! If even the goddess of carnal delights desired this, who was I to refuse such a ‘sacred’ performance?

Feeling my heartbeat quicken in anticipation of the night's impending debauchery, I pushed the door open. I was nervous, ready, and even eager for this evening of devout ‘worship’. Tonight, in the hands of my loves, at Elyssia's altar, Kemeia ascends.

THE END

post script:

Hi all. Sorry I haven’t published in a while. Been living and practising until I found a voice I loved—one that I hope is equal parts switchblade and soiling. It’s a ‘something,’ for sure, but it doesn’t come naturally yet, and consequently, I would love your takes. What slices deep, what clangs false. Bonus if you spot my muses.

This story owes its fangs to Ran Dandel’s short story The Sorceress’ Night Out on Fictionmania. Character Names have been retained as tribute. Thanks Dan!
 
 
The Seamstress and Her Moth
 
 
I. The First Thread

The closet exhaled bergamot and shame, its shadows sticky as altar wax.

Lanie leaned against the doorframe, rolling a cigarette between her fingers like a cursed rosary.

George stood haloed in the moonlight. Her moon-phase panties hugged his hips. The silver embroidery glowed softly, still charged from last night’s equinox rite.

“Again, Georgie?” Smoke curled around her grin. “My ceremonial silks aren’t your personal brothel.”

He didn’t turn. The panties’ waistband sawed into his flesh, drawing blood-dark beads. “You said they’d… feel different after the ritual. Like touching God.”

“God’s got better taste.” She crushed the unlit cigarette against the doorframe, releasing a burst of bitter yarrow. “Three blood moons to purify those. Now they reek of your midlife crisis.”

George faced her, the crescent moons stitched over his groin, throbbing like a fresh bruise. “I just wanted—”

“—to fuck the divine?” She stepped closer, her heels cracking a vial of dried nightshade. Ash drifted onto his bare chest.

“You’re not a priest. You’re…” She was interrupted by the sound of a moth battering itself against the closet’s lone lantern behind him. Its wings leaving ghostly smears on the glass.

“Yes… you’re like a moth chewing through my altar cloths.”

He flinched. The embroidery dimmed.

“Lanie, please. Let me fix this.”

“Fix it?” She laughed, sharp as shattered ritual glass. “The Ball starts in an hour. My entire wardrobe is tainted by your little pilgrimage.”

He reached for her. A thread snapped.

Silence pooled around them like spilt mercury.

“I’ll do anything,” he whispered.

Lanie stilled. “Anything?”

Her smile tasted like a struck match.

The spell wasn’t an incantation—it was a violation.

George gasped as the panties dissolved, threads swarming up his thighs like carnivorous ivy. “Lanie—stop—!”

“Hush.” She pressed a thumb to his jugular, feeling his pulse thrash. “You wanted to feel holy?”

The threads burrowed deeper, stitching through sinew. Silver moths bloomed across his chest, their wings fluttering with every ragged breath.

His knees buckled. The closet walls warped.

“There,” she crooned, catching him as he collapsed. “Now you’re useful.”

Where George had stood now hung a gown—black silk shot through with veins of liquid moonlight, the hem pooling like spilt ink. The silver moths now crawled along the bodice, their wings twitching.

Lanie stripped slowly, peeling off her blouse with a serpent’s grace. Her supple skin glowed in the lantern’s sickly light, her nipples hardening in the draft. She stepped into the gown, the silk almost sizzling as it fused to her curves.

In the mirror, she smirked.

“Look at you,” she murmured, hiking the slit up her thigh until it kissed her hipbone.

“Hungry?”

The neckline plunged as she shoved her breasts upward, the silk pulling against them like a second skin.

“Better.”

George’s voice slithered through the seams and into her head. *You shouldn't have done this.*

"And you shouldn't soiled my sacred undies." She spun, watching the bottom flare. “Isn’t this what you wanted? To be seen?”

The lantern flickered. Another moth managed to find its way inside and burst into flame.

“Behave,” she warned, smoothing the silk over her hips. The zipper teeth gnawed at her spine in reply.
 
 
II. Dressed for the Ball

The Sorcery Society Ball hummed with cursed champagne and borrowed magic.

Lanie’s bare thighs whispered against satin as she crossed the ballroom. No bra. No panties. Just George. The gown clung like a jealous lover, seams thrumming where her pulse flared.

*You're dripping. On my hem.*

She smirked, trailing a finger along the neckline. "Your hem is my hip, darling. Don’t pretend you don’t love the humidity."

Evelyn materialised in a cloud of opium smoke, her sequinned dress screaming for attention.

"Lanie! That gown—is it bespoke? It’s devouring you. Who’s the artiste behind this… masterpiece?"

Lanie plucked at the fabric from the bodice. "Oh, a collaborator. Insisted on a… hands-on approach to design."

"Mmm. Must have been very hands-on." Evelyn’s smirk sharpened. "The neckline’s practically confessional."

"He adores repentance," Lanie tugged the neckline downward, the silk tightening like a held breath. "And I adore making him kneel at my sewing machine."

Evelyn snorted. "Better than therapy?"

"Cheaper."

*Rot in hell.*

Evelyn leaned in, eyes sharp as broken glass. "Where’s George? He’s not… indisposed again?"

Lanie laughed, low and throaty. "He’s got himself wrapped around something critical. Fortunately, didn’t feel like dragging along any more accessories tonight."

The gown cinched her waist, its seams biting. *I’ll unravel you stitch by—*

"Hush," she murmured, patting her hip as if soothing a feral cat.

A waiter appeared—Jamie, perhaps in his early twenties, with tousled hair and hands still shaking from his first glamour shift. His gaze snagged on her chest.

*Pathetic. His presence is like mud. Smells like dormitory socks and regret.*

Lanie plucked a champagne flute from Jamie’s tray, letting her thumb graze his wrist. "Fresh meat?"
"Y-yes, ma’am." A blush crawled up his throat.

"Ma’am," she repeated, rolling the word like hard candy. "Georgie, he called me ‘ma’am’."
*Because you’re ancient.*

"I’m Lanie." She stepped closer, watching Jamie’s Adam’s apple jump. "And you’re perspiring."

The gown’s neckline plunged another inch, her nipples hardening against the satin.

*Stop. Twisting. You will pop my—*

"Relax," she crooned, both to Jamie and to the seams. "I don’t bite."—unless asked.

Evelyn snorted. "Liar. Remember the werewolf at Beltane?"

Jamie’s gaze dropped to Lanie’s mouth. The gown’s slit crept higher, exposing her bare thigh.

*You're gross. He's almost a child.*

*And you're a dress,* she shot back silently, grinding her molars. Aloud: "Fetch me something stronger, Jamie. The bourbon buried under the bartender’s guilt."

As he scurried off, Evelyn arched a brow. "No underthings? Bold for purification rituals."

Lanie shrugged, the motion making her breasts shift. "Blame George. He contaminated my wardrobe. Now this is the only thing clean enough to touch my skin."

*This isn’t right. Your spell was twisted.*

*Was it? Or did you beg for this when you stole my slip?*

Across the room, Jamie returned, liquor sloshing in a coupe glass. The gown’s hem dampened.

*You're wetter than a selkie’s funeral.*

"Jealousy’s unbecoming," she whispered, then took the drink, letting her pinky brush Jamie’s. "Tell me, handsome—ever danced with a cursed garment?"

The chandelier flickered. Somewhere, another moth burst into blue flames.

Lanie smiled.
 
 
III. A Seam Unravelling

The bourbon tasted like gasoline and bad decisions.

Lanie leaned against the bar, the gown’s slit creeping higher as Jamie refilled her glass. His hands shook—always the hands—spilling whisky over his novice cufflinks.

*Pathetic. You’ve sunk to cradle-robbing, Lanie?*

She swirled her drink. "Georgie thinks you’re nervous," she purred, catching Jamie’s wrist. "Are you nervous?"

"N-no, ma’am." His blush matched the pomegranate garnish.

*Ma’am,* George sneered. *Tell him you’re old enough to be his—*

“Hush.” She snapped her fingers. The gown’s seams cinched violently, silk hissing as George’s mental voice pitched upward—sharp, strained, feminine.

*What did you—*

You're a girl's dress now, best you sound like a girl too.

"Georgia," Lanie corrected aloud, tracing Jamie’s knuckles. "Much better."

The boy blinked. "Who’s Georgia?"

"My," she leaned in, breath fogging his spectacles, "little compromise."

Jamie’s throat bobbed. "Compromise?"

"Mm. Settled for silk when I wanted satin." She flicked the gown’s hem. "Someone ruined my wardrobe."

In the storage closet, Jamie’s pants pooled on the floor.

*Are you really going to cheat on me?* Georgia hissed. *After all this time? With this… back-alley tomcat?*

Lanie sank to her knees, concrete biting her bare skin as she let her hands wander over her dress. *This is your fault, darling.* “Mmmm… All that rubbing against me tonight…"

Jamie’s cock sprang free—pink, eager, youthfully thick.

*Disgusting,* Georgia shrilled. *He’s all enthusiasm and no—*

*Bigger than you, it looks like,* Lanie finished, swallowing him whole.

*You wished. I recall you screaming—*

"Hush," Lanie hummed, deep and throaty. Jamie’s hips jerked. Mmm. *He tastes like… regret. Your speciality, Georgia.*

The gown tightened, seams squealing.

*You’re desperate. You choose this...amateur hour to ruin us?*

“Sshhh already.” She quickened her pace, nails digging into Jamie’s thighs. *You’re just jealous he’s hard for me.*

*Jealous?* Georgia’s laugh was like shattered glass. *I’m embarrassed for you. Even Evelyn’s familiars have more—*

Jamie came with a whimper, spattering the bodice. Lanie leaned back, smearing it into Georgia’s silk with her thumb. "There. Finally useful."

*Rot,* Georgia spat. *You’ll choke on karma one day.*

"Run along," Lanie said, licking her palm clean. "Tell your friends you survived."

Alone, she studied the mirror. The cum-stained moths on the dress pulsed faintly.

*You decided to break my heart; Georgia’s voice cracked, for this?*

Lanie yanked up her dress and plunged a finger inside. "I settled for you first, darling."

The gown went rigid.

Evelyn materialised in a plume of clove smoke, her hair a wild mess, sequined gown undone and clinging loosely. Still shimmering with the reminders of her own recent escapades.

"Darling," she purred, flicking a nail at the moths crusted on Lanie's breast, "did you fuck a moth colony or just a particularly fertile young man?"

Lanie let her finger graze the cuff of the dress, the silk hissing as it cinched her waist. “Georgia—she’s been pampered tonight.”

"Georgia?" Evelyn's brow arched. "A mortal pet?"

"An old habit," Lanie smirked, watching a warlock across the room. Mid-forties, salt-and-sorrow hair, fingers bare where a wedding ring once sat. "One that clings."

Evelyn materialised, sucking an olive pit. "Youthful vigour suit you muck?"

Lanie adjusted a strap. "Vigour’s generous. More like… earnest fumbling."

"Mmm." Evelyn flicked the pit at the soiled bodice. "Careful. Young cocks are like bad poetry—all thrust, no rhythm."

Lanie grinned. "Good thing I’ve got forever to polish them."

Somewhere, a moth scraped against torn silk.
 
 
IV. A Stich of Regret

The ballroom's chandelier hung off the ceiling like ugly celestial tears. Casting its fractured scattering of light over Lanie's cum-tainted bodice.
Evelyn snorted. "Witches weren’t meant for monogamy, especially not with non-magicals. How did you even stomach bedding the enemy?"
Lanie’s laugh was a blade unsheathed. "He had a tongue like a silver-tipped quill, wrote sonnets between my thighs."

"And now you...?"

"Now I’ve decided to collect sonnets." She glanced at the divorcee only to be rewarded with a smile. "Easy enough. Vintage regrets always aged better than half mortal marriages ever did."

Evelyn’s grin sharpened. "Go, get that cleanse going, darling. Let his grief scour George’s stink from your pores."

The bedroom stank of sweat and betrayal, while the bed expelled ragged creaks like regrets coming undone in the night.

*Pathetic,* Georgia hissed as Lanie unzipped Alaric’s slacks. *You’ll gag on his stench.*

"Jealousy’s unbecoming," Lanie crooned, sinking to her knees. Alaric’s cock was reasonable, veined, and predictable—a monument to acceptable mediocrity.

*He's an accountant,* Georgia sneered. *Fucks like he’s balancing ledgers.*

Lanie swallowed him whole, her gag reflex nearly nonexistent. *Mmmm…Tastes like sweet, sweet alimony, though.*

Alaric groaned, his fingers knotting in her hair. Silk straps abandoned to expose her bountiful breasts while she hollowed her cheeks.

*You're scraping the barrel,* Georgia spat. *At least I have stamina.*

Lanie pulled off with a wet pop. "Did you?" Her thumb swirled the head of Alaric’s cock.

*I recall you whimpering when I—*

*Fuck no, Georgie, I've never whimpered and* "Hush dress."

She took him deeper, gagging theatrically until tears glazed her lashes. When he came, she let it splatter across the bodice—thick streaks glazing silver thread. Georgia’s second load for the night.

"There," she sighed, smearing his filth onto where Georgia’s breasts would be. "Almost nostalgic."

On George’s side of the bed, Lanie rode Alaric cowgirl-style, the gown tangled around his ankles like a weeping lover.

*He’ll toss you out like last week’s trash,* Georgia sizzled even as her voice cracked with her pain, the seams tightening with every bounce of Lanie’s hips. *Just like you did to me tonight.*

"Quiet. Don't distract me from the cock," Lanie gasped, grinding harder. Sweat pooled in the hollow of her throat, her breasts swaying as she arched backwards. The moths embroidered over her ribs fluttered weakly.

Alaric grasped her hips, leaving plum-dark bruises. "Christ, you’re incredible—"

*He’s a fucking corpse, and you are a shitty actress juicing his junk up with your magic,* Georgia sneered. *He’s got less fire than a wet match.*

*Still fuckable, unlike you,* Lanie snarled, slamming down until the headboard cracked against the wall. Alaric came with a shout, his spend painting Georgia’s silk once more.

She collapsed forward, sweat-slick threads clinging to her spine as she sniffed her dress and snapped her fingers at Alaric’s spent cock. "There. Still… useful."

Five minutes later, Lanie braced herself against the headboard. Georgia’s silk chafing her hips as a magically juiced Alaric pounded into her from behind like a resurrected zombie. The gown clung to her sweat-slicked back, straps digging into her shoulders.

*You're a glorified cum bucket,* Georgia raged, the seams straining with each thrust. *He’s thinking about his ex’s tits.*

"Still… rougher… “ than you ever were, Lanie spat, clawing the wood until it splintered. The dress slithered lower, pooling at her waist as she arched defiantly. "Finish. On me."

Alaric obeyed, grunting as he pulled out and spilt across Georgia’s silk-clad back. The fabric hissed where his spend struck it, threads curling like burnt hair.

*This is revolting*, Georgia muttered, her voice fraying. *You’ll wear his shame forever.*

Lanie rolled over, the gown still fused to her torso. "No," she smirked, smearing his mess into the bodice as she snapped her fingers again. "You will."

Ten minutes later, a resurrected-again Alaric’s fingers clawed at Georgia’s zipper mid-thrust. Drunk on the thrill of being unravelled, Lanie arched into him. Her nails dug crescent moons into his shoulders. "Yes, tear her off me. Show her who's her daddy," she said as the dress flew across the bed.

*Don’t let him—I'll think I'll die.* Georgia’s voice bled, the threads straining.

Hush, Lanie gasped, her orgasm cresting as the silk pooled around her ankles. *You’re… jealous… he actually tries—*

The zipper hit the floor. Georgia’s final plea dissolved into static: *Lanie..don’t—*

Silence.

Lanie froze, Alaric still rutting inside her. Georgia? GEORGIE?

No answer.

She shoved him off, scales erupting across her collarbones. "What did you do to my Georgie?"

Alaric blinked, his cock still glistening. "The hell’s a Georgi—"

Her scream tore through the room first, and then she followed. Scales erupted down her spine, her talons shredding the mattress like it didn't even exist. Alaric stumbled back in terror, cock shrivelling as her pupils split into reptilian slits.

"Laniara..." he choked, recognition dawning. "The Hoard breaker—fuck, the stories are true!"

She lunged, pinning the poor bastard to the wall. Her fiery breath scorched his face, sulphurous and primal. "Bring. Her. Back."

"I—I didn’t know!" he babbled even as his own piss pooled at his feet. "Please—I’ll do anything! Gold, relics, please...anything!"

Her tail lashed, shattering the mirror behind him. "You can’t give me what’s ALREADY MINE!"

He scrambled backwards, piss streaming down his legs. "Mercy, Dragonmother—!"

A flick of her wrist sent him hurtling into the hallway. The door sealed with a thunderclap.

"BABY!" she roared, half-dragon now, fangs dripping flames. "Come back!"

Nothing.

Lanie collapsed, human again, Georgia’s silk clutched to her heaving chest. “Baby, please,” she sobbed, tears dissolving into steam before they hit the ground. “I’ll burn the world, I’ll weave you anew, just—talk to me.”

Not even a whisper.

She pressed the fabric to her lips, whispering into its cold threads: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Alone—as a moth stranded without the night’s flame.

Continued in Part 2

 
 
V. Ruining a Perfectly Good Outfit

Light stabbed through the curtains—needle-thin and relentless. George surfaced painfully from oblivion, feeling like a shattered vase hastily glued and missing parts. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like a hanging corpse.

Lanie lay curled beside him in a comma of smeared mascara and cum-stiff hair. Her fist clutched the silk camisole he’d gifted her, wet with tears and torn at the neckline. In that moment, she looked oh so small, breakable, fragile.

He tried to sit up.

But now, cold steel bit at his wrists. Chains rattled, anchoring him to iron pillars on either side of the bed.

Seventeen years of ovulation charts and bourbon-stained receipts swam behind his eyelids. Her laughter—sharp as a cicada’s scream. Echoeing through the IKEA parking lot where they’d fucked drunk and raw on a discount futon.

The scar under the magnolia still bled sap where they’d buried something in a Folgers can. What did she do to him last night? His groin throbbed like she’d fed it through a combine harvester. How did her magic even work on him?

The room tilted. His pelvis ached as if someone had scooped out his organs with a melon baller. The sheets slid down, revealing smooth skin and a scar where coarse hair and his manhood should’ve been. George blinked. What the fu? He pulled against the chains—

Lanie’s hand shot out, pinning his wrist. “Don’t.” Her voice was gravel and glass. “You’ll ruin the stitches.”

Stitches? He squinted. A tattoo curled across his lower belly—DICKLESS in jaunty Comic Sans, the ‘i’ dotted with a cartoon fairy. His throat closed.

“Cute, right?” She didn’t open her eyes. “Took inspiration from your pornhub history.” Her smile didn’t reach her temples.

His throat closed, and he strained against the chains. Muscles coiled—years of splitting firewood, lifting her giggling into lake water—now buzzed like weapons. The strength from a long-forgotten past surged; the demon was starting to stir.

The pillars groaned. Plaster rained down. Lanie flinched, eyes snapping open. In them: a flicker of terror, a plea written in vanishing ink. He froze.

“Shhh.” She pressed a finger to his lips. Her nail was chipped, and stained with something dark. “Sleep. It’ll hurt less.”

He wanted to scream. To claw the ink from his skin. Instead, he was forced to inhale the stench of an anaesthetic as she placed the rag on his nostrils—and his head fell back, his last thoughts being why?

The ceiling swam. A moth circled the overhead light, wings whispering secrets that George would never hear.

Lanie’s breath hitched. A tear traced the scar on her collarbone—the one she’d gotten the night they’d drunkenly tried to summon Dionysus while rutting in an IKEA parking lot.
 
 
VI. Repurposing the Rags

Lanie spread her thighs on the velvet fainting couch, a prop from their Bridgerton-themed disaster. The clit piercing glinted, rose gold catching the lamplight. George's dick, miniaturised in metal and gem-studded, swung like a pendulum over a wet pit.

"Terms," she said, flicking the charm. Still shackled, George doubled over, phantom cock throbbing.

"Fridays, you're Georgia. Corset optional. Crotchless mandatory."

George’s growl rumbled—a feral hog trapped in a rusted oil drum. Pupils swallowing the room’s jaundiced light. “And… other days?”
Lanie spread wider, rubies weeping oily light. Her eyes flickered of——before she sutured the moment shut with a smirk. "Be you."

She spread wider, rubies glistening. Her eyes betrayed her—pupils trembling, a trapped thing rattling its cage. "Just less... intact." A rattlesnake’s molt of a smile.

George’s rage was threatening to erupt—like a wolf trapped in a septic tank, thrashing against the rot. Lanie’s smirk cracked. For a heartbeat, she shrank—a roach scuttling from sudden light—then rallied, lips glistening, mask slipping back into place.

“Your precious cock’n’balls’ll come back home,” she crooned, like a nursery rhyme sung through broken teeth. “Soon.”

George's gaze fell. The DICKLESS tattoo pulsed on his gut - blacklight ink in a velvet dungeon, thrumming like the bassline from the club three floors below. Shadows congealed into the living, breathing demon within.

"Why the pier—" he growled, voice a cognac snifter dragged through gravel.

Lanie twisted the charm. Pleasure-pain detonated - nerve endings screaming like dynamite in a champagne flute. "Funny, isn't it?" she'd purred last solstice, painting the rune-work with molten platinum. "The universe crams all that firepower into a button mushroom. Make it tinier, and it's like stuffing a supernova up a coke vial…"

His rage liquefied. Became a scald of single-malt shame before it started to bubble again.

“So you... my love..." She paused, a moment too long. A tell George knew only too well and his rage just... melted away. Leaving behind only the searing pain of loss.

She recovered fast, moaning like a church lady catching the spirit. “Participate. Every time I ride some farm-league cock, this little trinket…” Her thumb ground the rubies into her slit. “…sends you postcards.”

“Test drive?” Lanie produced a pink vibrator, a silicone tentacle glazed in artisanal lube. She tapped its suction cups and pressed it to the piercing.

The room tilted some more. George’s mind spun and his phantom balls buzzed.

George’s spine arched. The Dry and painful orgasm tore through him—a lightning strike in a drought, cracking the parched earth of his body. Silent scream. Teeth shearing tongue meat. Muscles seizing like Birkin bags shredding in a woodchipper.

Lanie watched, pupils swallowing the room's crimson LEDs. A single tear breached her cheek "There's my good little investment."

Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight. Fridays would come too often now. The chains sighed. George’s eyelids stuttered—not closing, just the flicker of a CCTV losing its last feed.
 
 
Week One: Panties for the Professor

Georgia manifested as lace panties—black and crotchless. Waistband stitched with Daddy’s Girl in thread the colour of tax evasion and clove cigarettes. Lanie’s 'little lipstick charm' with its twin rubies smirking like a vandal’s graffiti stayed hidden beneath silk. At least until the economics professor cornered her in the janitor’s closet.

“Clumsy me,” Lanie purred, hiking her skirt to reveal Georgia’s lace clinging to her hips. She hooked her thumbs under the waistband, peeling the panties down slow as a strip tease in a funeral home. The professor’s wedding band glinted as he gripped the mop handle for balance.

You’re vile, Georgia hissed telepathically, threads tightening as Lanie dangled the panties from one leg. A fucking peepshow for tenure-track losers.

Lanie smirked, pulling Georgia up like a half open crotch crate. Relax, kitten. He’s got the imagination of a PowerPoint slide. She spread her thighs, the lipstick charm glinting. “See, professor? What if I told you this was my husband’s entire manhood? Repurposed for… higher education.”

He laughed, fumbling with his belt. “Tell him thanks for the service.”

When he mounted her against the supply shelves, Lanie shoved Georgia’s lace aside. Just enough to let his hairy balls slap against the fabric with every thrust. Feel that, Georgie? she crooned inwardly. His scrotum’s writing you a love letter.

Rot in hell, Georgia spat, phantom nerves flaring as the professor’s sweat soaked into her threads.

“Cock. Only,” Lanie snapped aloud when his fingers grazed her clit. She arched, grinding the charm against his pelvis until he came with a grunt—streaks of cum painting Georgia’s lace and glazing the rubies.

After, Lanie pulled Georgia up, using the soiled panties to wipe herself clean. She left the charm glistening. “Always useful,” she murmured, smearing a final streak across the Daddy’s Girl script.

You’re a goddamn toddler with a glitter glue stick, Georgia seethed.

Lanie laughed, stuffing the damp lace into her purse. “And you’re my favourite washcloth.”

Back home, she draped Georgia over George’s bedside lamp, cum stains glowing like swamp gas in the dark. “Sweet dreams, princess. Tomorrow’s a seminar on adjunct exploitation. Pack your pearls.”

The lamp buzzed. Somewhere, a moth died quietly.
 
 
Week Three: Velvet Vows at the Devil’s Dive

Georgia was velvet now—crimson, crotchless, backless, just less. Like the keyhole cutout over Lanie’s mons framing her rose-gold “lipstick charm” like a relic in a museum heist. The dive bar’s neon hummed Miller Lite in corpse-blue letters. Lanie peeled off her thong mid-shimmy, letting the charm glint under flickering fluorescents.

Dex, snake tattoos rippling, leaned in. “What’s the deal with the jewellery?”

She traced the charm, her nail clicking against metal. “My husband’s family jewels. Melted down—fabulous, right?”

Dex snorted. “Bullshit.”

“Wanna test it?” She ground against his crotch, velvet riding up her thighs. “Vibrates when you fuck me. The harder, the better.”

They followed her to the stockroom—Dex, Troy, and the stench of stale beer. Shelves of napkins trembled as Lanie hiked the dress, revealing nothing but velvet framing the charm. “Missionary,” she ordered.

Dex’s cock hooked the metal. “Fuck, it’s like a joystick.”

“Hear that, Georgie?” Lanie’s telepathic purr slithered through the seams. “Even truck-stop randos think your little clit's a party game.”
Let me go—

“You offered yourself up.”

Not for your twisted spell...

“Babyyyy... the only thing twisted is you... around me”

Troy mounted her from behind, shaft mashing the charm into Dex’s pelvis. “Look at her,” Troy grunted, hips slamming. “Cumming ’cause we’re playing with her dumb trinket.”

Georgia’s phantom balls tightened, feelings weeping as Lanie moaned, “His whole dick’s smaller than your tip.”

Dex came first, streaking the velvet with pearlescent rage. Troy followed, filling her as the charm hummed. After, Lanie peeled off the dress, cum glazing the rubies like cheap syrup. She wiped Dex’s softening cock with the hem, smirk sharp. “Always useful.”

"Whore," Georgia hissed.

Lanie hung the dress in her closet, crusted charm catching the light. “Don’t pout, princess. Left your little lipstick charm glistening.”
She snapped a Polaroid and taped it to the bodice. “Proof you’re still relevant.”

The velvet pulsed once—a muffled scream.

Outside, the bar’s neon died mid-flicker. Somewhere, another moth choked to death.
 
 
Week Four: Harnessed on the Highrise

Georgia was leather now—straps, buckles, collared. The harness cinched Lanie’s waist, crotchless, hidden beneath a peel-away skirt that clung like cellophane. Classy camouflage, Lanie mused, adjusting the waistband so Georgia’s rose-gold charm. her precious and tiny cock and balls medallion—sat centre stage beneath the flimsy fabric.

Rubies glinted under the club’s UV lights, as subtle as a car crash.

The tech bro reeked of equity shares and Adderall sweat. “Kinky,” he said, nodding at her skirt.

Lanie spread her legs just enough to make the plastic wrap crinkle. “This?” She peeled the skirt upward, revealing the harness and Georgia’s glinting shame. “My sissy’s entire manhood. Gold-plated, gem-encrusted. Cuter than your crypto portfolio, right?”

He laughed, Rolex glinting. “Bullshit.”

“Take the elevator. Find out.”

Wind gnawed at the harness straps as Lanie bent over the railing, the city a vomit of neon below. The bro fumbled with his belt. Pathetic, she thought, grinding back to guide him. His cock slapped Georgia’s charm, the impact buzzing through the leather.

"Stop! It’s like he’s punching me—"

Hush, princess. That’s just our love's heartbeat in my twat. Lanie’s purr was syrup and shrapnel. "Unless you’d rather I staple you to a glory hole?"

He thrust harder, sneering. “Why’s it twitch?”

“She’s excited,” Lanie gasped, rolling her hips to mash Georgia’s charm against his shaft. “Don't want it collecting dust in my jewellery box... yet."

When he reached to finger her, she caught his wrist. “Cock. Only.” Rules were rules.

He came with a grunt, drenching Georgia’s charm in spend that pooled in the grooves. Lanie smirked, peeling the harness off to wipe him down with the inside straps. Georgia's leather suctioning wetly against his softening dick. “Always useful,” she crooned to Georgia, then tossed the soiled harness over her shoulder. The rubies stayed glazed, a sticky monument to the transaction.

Back in the elevator, she texted a photo of the cum-crusted charm to George's number: Thanks for the all-natural lube, sissy.

The harness hung in her closet later, reeking of rum and cum. Lanie traced the stain with her nail. “Matching set,” she whispered, snapping the light off. Georgia’s charm pulsed faintly in the dark—a tiny, trapped scream.
 
 
VI The Days Not Friday

Lanie’s cruelty lived in the 'almosts' now. A teacup left just beyond George’s reach as he sat depressed, her hips swaying as she stretched to retrieve it. The rubies glinted, mocking.

“Oops,” she’d purr, bending so the piercing grazed the armrest where he sat. Her voice had shed Georgie like dead skin. “Fetch that, sissy? Unless you prefer, I drip on the upholstery again.”

George’s knuckles whitened around his coffee mug. The demon in his marrow flexed. He could snap her wrist. Unzip her throat. Reduce this gilded prison to splinters and screams.

But then she’d turn, and he’d see it: that flicker beneath her eyeliner, a crack in the ice. 'Need me, it whispered. Hate me harder.... please.'
He let go. He always let go. The mug didn’t shatter; it would never shatter.

“Good girl,” she crooned, patting his cheek. Her thumb lingered, a half-second too long.

Tuesdays were for laundry. George folded towels, methodical, while she paraded past in a robe she had “forgotten” to tie.
“Missed a spot,” she said, dropping a silk camisole at his feet. It reeked of Friday's cologne.

The demon whispered: 'Burn it. Burn her.'

George placed the fabric in the basket instead, breathing deeply until his lungs ached. “Smells like desperation,” he muttered.
Lanie’s laugh was a shiv between the ribs. “Yours or his?”

Thursdays, she oiled the piercing. Spread-eagled on the couch, one leg hooked over the back, she’d hum along to the radio as the rubies caught the afternoon light. Look, her body sang. This is your altar now.

His phantom crotch buzzing from her actions but never beyond that. He’d stare at his hands, calloused from chopping wood she’d never burn.

“Why?”

The question hung, rotting.

Lanie sat up, slick with jojoba oil and apparent spite. “Why not?” She leaned close, her breath citrus and arsenic. Her nail traced his jugular. “—I made you special.”

The demon surged. George gripped the armrest, tendons screaming, until the wood splintered.

Lanie did well trying to hide her flinch, but he noticed... Damn him for always noticing. Her forced smile was a blunt scalpel now. “No place for demons, sissy.”

Sundays, she let him cook. He’d dice onions like they’d offended her, the knife thunk-thunk-thunking in time with her pacing.

“Use the saffron,” she’d say, hip-checking him away from the stove. “The good kind. None of your Kroger bullshit.”

He’d watch her stir the risotto, her movements precise, violent. Once, her sleeve rode up, revealing the scar from Walmart Dionysus. He reached—

She slapped his hand. “Eyes on the pan, sissy.”

But that night, in bed, there she was, curled in his flannel, asleep. The rubies glowed faintly in the dark, softer now.
He didn’t touch her.

The demon never slept; George had to, though.

Lanie’s voice slithered through the dark: “You’d have hated vanilla, y’know. Golf. Grill-outs. Being my Husband.” A pause. “This is better.”

Mornings would come. The coffee would taste of burnt amber and unsaid things.

The house would hold its breath.

So did they.

Continued in Part 3

Author's request: Take a quick moment and do share your feedback. It is the greatest gift you can give this moth.
 
 
Week Five: Silk Chemise Brokered Between Thighs

Georgia was silk now—slippery, crotchless, the hem pooling like a widow’s tears. The chemise clung to Lanie’s hips, its lace straining where the rose-gold keepsake pierced her flesh. From just the right angle, one could see the rubies glinting like fresh blood clots under the hotel chandelier.

The Wall Street broker loosened his tie, eyes locked on the charm. “Divorced?”

Lanie arched, champagne dripping from the rubies onto her thighs. “Upgraded. Traded a dickless fuck for this—” She spread her legs, silk tearing audibly. “My ex-husband’s entire manhood. Repurposed.”

*Ex?* Georgia seethed telepathically, the chemise’s seams cinching. *Why would you—*

“Hush, wifey,” Lanie purred aloud, yanking the broker’s belt. “She loves applause.”

He mounted her, Rolex digging into her wrist. “Why’s it throb?”

“Because you’re fucking both of us,” Lanie gasped, grinding his cock against the piercing. Georgia’s crotch burned, everything tightening as the rubies vibrated. *Stop, please stop, I be—*

“Harder. She’s close,” Lanie moaned theatrically as Georgia was forced to cum. Lanie's nails carving crescents into Rolex's shoulder as a thank you. “Both of us cumming thanks to you, stud.”

When he reached to fondle the charm, she slapped his hand. “Cock. Only. My wife’s selective.”

Please. I'm falling apart, Georgia panted, silk threads fraying as the broker sneered, “Your wifey's as crazy as you? I'd fuck crazy any day if she was this hot.”

And just like that, he came inside her, spend soaking the chemise as Lanie used it to clean up. The dragon peeled it off her twat slowly, silk suctioning wetly from her skin. “There’s my good souvenir, oh and you fucked her already,” she crooned, smearing his mess deeper into the fabric.

In the cab, she texted George’s number: Love your clit between my thighs, wifey.

Back home, she hung the chemise in the closet beside the others—cum-stained lace, sweat-stiff and filthy. Georgia’s cum covered rubies pulsed faintly in the dark between Lanie’s legs.

*You’ll choke on your disgusting games*, Georgia whispered in pain.

Lanie traced the piercing, slick with the broker’s filth, and sucked on her finger. “Already am, baby. Tastes nothing like you.”

Dragon scales flickered beneath her collarbone. Somewhere, a moth drowned in champagne.
 
 
Week Six: Gutter Glitter

The strip club reeked of desperation and dollar-store perfume. Lanie adjusted Georgia’s latest form. A sequined pastie top barely containing her tits and a crotchless thong so floss-thin it vanished between her cheeks. The rose-gold piercing dangled front-and-centre, rubies glinting under blacklight like twin haemorrhages.

*Look at you*, Lanie purred telepathically, spinning in the dressing room’s cracked mirror. *My little cock-tail nope.. cock napkin.*

Georgia’s voice slithered through the sequins: *You’re literally wearing me as a nasty bib.*

"Accessorising, baby.” Lanie smeared glitter over her collarbones, watching the light catch Georgia’s metallic threads. “Should’ve been our vow. Till debt do us part.”

The stage lights were interrogation-bright. Lanie climbed the pole with feral grace, Georgia’s thong riding up her arse crack as she inverted. A trucker in camo hollered, “Show us them titties!”

Charming, Georgia hissed. *A real connoisseur.*

Lanie popped the clasp on her top—snick—and let it flutter to the stage floor. The crowd roared.

*Wait— Georgia’s panic spiked. You can’t just—*

“Relax, wifey. Gotta give the people what they want”. Lanie ground her hips against the pole, the thong’s stretched waistband digging into Georgia’s phantom ribs. *Besides, you’re clingier than herpes-infested glitter.*

The trucker’s hands were grease and onion rings. Backroom VIP, $200 for “extras.” Lanie straddled his lap, Georgia’s thong stretched taut.

“Nice jewellery,” he grunted, thumbing the piercing.

Lanie arched, pressing it into his cock. *Say, thank you, Georgia.*

*Fuck. You.* Georgia’s telepathic voice frayed as the man’s calluses scraped the rubies.

“Ex-husband’s pride and joy,” Lanie purred aloud, guiding his cock to the thong’s gaping void. “Got it in the divorce. Sentimental, right?”
He laughed, spittle flecking her sternum. “Ain’tcha a classy bitch.”

Georgia throbbed—a hooked fish yanked into daylight. *Stop. Twisting. It—*

Hush, Lanie crooned, sinking onto him. The piercing swung like a pendulum between her thighs. “You’re just jealous he’s bigger.”

Afterwards, Lanie peeled off the thong, cum glazing its threads. She lobbed it at a trash can. Missed.

*You’re loathsome,* Georgia spat, openly weeping now.

“And you’re redundant.” Lanie sauntered to the dressing room, bare tits gleaming. But as she reached the door, she paused. Glanced back.
The sequined top, part Georgia lay crumpled under a barstool, trampled by combat boots.

*Oops hon.* Lanie scooped it up along with the thong, damp with sweat and stale beer. “C’mon, Cinderella. Night’s not done.”

In the bathroom stall, she pressed the soiled top between her thighs. “Clean-up time, wifey.”

*Why? Why do you wipe this shit with me?* Georgia’s revulsion vibrated through the fabric.

“Eco-friendly,” Lanie smirked, grinding the sequins into her slit. Recycle, reduce, reuse.

The top absorbed everything—her musk, the trucker’s spend, the sour tang of shame. Lanie held it up, admiring the stains. There. “Now you’re as useful as ever.”

Georgia’s silence curdled.

“Aw, baby.” Lanie pressed the fabric to her lips—a mockery of a kiss. “Don’t pout. Next time you’ll be a garter belt.”

Outside, the sign buzzed: GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS.

A janitor mopped glitter into the gutter.

Lanie lit a cigarette, Georgia’s sequins catching the ember’s glow.

*Face it, Georgie,* she thought out loud, exhaling smoke. And then, silently, *we're both just trash that won’t stay buried.*

Somewhere, A moth burnt in the broken cough of a neon vacancy sign.
 
 
Week Seven: Ménage à Mourn

Georgia was taffeta and trauma—black, crotchless, frills starched stiff as a liar’s smile. The maid cap perched crooked on Lanie’s head, its lace veil fluttering like a surrender flag. *Almost poetic,* Georgia thought, phantom balls shrivelling as Lanie adjusted the apron straps. *She’ll bury me in this fucking hat.*

“Slut’s ready for service!” Lanie curtsied to the dungeon crowd, feather duster slapping her bare thigh. The apron’s lace trim strained against the piercing—the rubied clit charm glinting under black lights.

A sketchy Gang boss stepped forward, Armani sleeves rolled to show prison tattoos. “Cute jewellery.” His voice like muddy asphalt.

Lanie twirled, letting the skirt flare to reveal Georgia’s crotchless void. “My ex’s manhood. Had it bronzed after the divorce. Wifey keeps it polished.” Her mental sneer razored through *Georgia: Hear that, sentient jizz mop? You’re my dowry now.*

The boss unzipped. “Let’s test the merchandise.”

Six men. Six cocks. Georgia lost count after the third.

Lanie bent over a spanking bench, apron rucked up, maid cap miraculously intact. Each thrust mashed her piercing against leather, the rubies carving crescent moons into the CEO’s pelvis. “Ding-dong,” a biker crowed, slapping Lanie’s piercing on the upstroke. “Slut’s home!”

Stop. Georgia’s telepathic voice frayed. *I’m not your—*

“—dirty little dishrag?” Lanie arched, taking two cocks at once—one in her cunt, one in her arse. “Funny, that’s exactly what our prenup should have said.”

A woman in latex knelt, tongue darting toward the rubies. Lanie kicked her in the tits. “Cock. Only.” She snapped her fingers, and the dungeon master shackled the woman’s wrists. “Rules are rules, cupcake.”

Afterwards, Lanie surveyed the wreckage—apron dangling by one strap, panties MIA, hat clinging like a drunk’s confession. “Lost your torso, slut,” she muttered, peeling taffeta from her sweat-slick hips. *Would’ve kept it on if you weren’t such a greedy cumslut.*

*You tore it off yourself!*

“Technicalities.”

She gathered Georgia’s pieces from the floor: skirt wadded under a boot, panties crusted to a St. Andrew’s cross. The hat she kept on, its veil now speckled with jizz. Accessorising, she’d sneer if anyone asked. “Widow’s wins.”

Panic flickered in her eyes when the cap slipped—just a tremor, there then gone—as she stabbed a bobby pin through lace and scalp. “Almost lost you, wifey.” Her hands shook. Georgia didn’t know whether to hope.

In the fluorescent-lit “changing room” (a repurposed mop closet), Lanie cleaned up. She wiped her pussy with the apron’s hem—Georgia’s mouth—then buffed the Boss's softening cock with the lace collar. “There’s my good napkin.”

*I am, was your husband.* Georgia’s voice cracked with the ‘was’.

“And now you’re my cumbrella.” She snapped a Polaroid of the soiled outfit, tongue caught between teeth. “Smile, slut. You’re going on the fridge.”

Georgia’s threads itched with dried spend. “This isn’t love.”

Lanie paused, the photo trembling in her grip. For a heartbeat, her armour cracked—raw, ravenous, terrified. Then she laughed, sharp as a shiv. “Love’s for suckers, sweetheart. This? She tucked the photo into Georgia’s bodice. This is forever.”

The maid's cap slipped again as she left. She didn’t fix it but it stayed.

Somewhere, a moth died as it lived. Neck-deep in a porch light’s halo.
 
 
VIII. Company’s Coming

The moth in the champagne flute twitched its final waltz. George leaned against the fridge, his knuckles white around a bourbon bottle.
“Evelyn’s due at seven,” she said. “Play human, kitten. No growling. No”—she flicked the ruby charm—“accidents.”

He bared teeth sharp from last moon’s transformation. “Fuck. You.”

“Tempting.” She hiked her skirt, straddling the kitchen island. The charm glinted, slick and treacherous. “Behave, and I’ll rub this ’til you cream. Suspend the ‘cocks only’ rule. Let you cum clean.”

His pupils flared—the demon's desire for war. Just for a heartbeat, he felt it, but then he spat, “Rot,” and turned away.

“Suit yourself.” She hopped down, the charm swinging. “But if you embarrass me…”

“You’ll what?” He faced her, DICKLESS tattoo pulsing. “Turn me into a fucking tampon?”

“Cute idea.” She stepped closer, thumbing his stubble. His breath hitched—traitor. "That, and I’ll tell Evie about the time you cried during Steel Magnolias.”

His snarl died mid-rattle. That look again—the flicker beneath her lashes, a moth batting at a sealed jar. *Need me. Need this.*

“Fine,” he gritted. “But I’m not wearing the apron.”

Evelyn arrived in a cloud of clove smoke and Chanel No. 5, her heels cracking the porch’s salt line. “Darling!” She air-kissed Lanie, eyeing George like a stain. “And… Georgie. You look fetchingly hollow. Been fasting?”

George’s knuckles popped. Lanie dug her nails into his palm. Behave.

“Bourbon?” she offered, steering Evelyn toward the couch.

“Yes! Dragon’s milk, please.” Evelyn flopped onto the velvet, kicking off Louboutins crusted with cemetery dirt.

“Georgie-pie—” Lanie didn’t glance up, swirling her wine into a miniature cyclone, “—fondle the roast. Girls need to gossip.” Her heel tapped the floor like a judge’s gavel—*you’re our livestock now.*

In the kitchen, behind closed doors, George slammed the oven shut, garlic bread scorching.

Evelyn took a long swig of her drink. “So. How’s the whoring? Cuck still twitchy?”

Lanie shrugged, pouring wine that hissed as it hit the glass. “Resilient. Too resilient."

Lanie’s thumb worried the scar under her sleeve. Too slow; need to speed things up. The wound throbbed in time with George’s knife strikes.
Evelyn traced the rim of her glass, watching Lanie’s reflection warp in the curves. “You’ve got that…itch again. Like you’re racing a jet.”

Evelyn paused mid-sip, her gaze slicing toward the kitchen. “Whatever your reason, that one’s taking his sweet time crumbling, isn’t he?” She nodded. “What’s his name again now—Georgie or something more appropriate?”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, but I do.” Evelyn leaned forward, her perfume a dare.

Lanie’s jaw pulsed. “Fuck! Georgie is…very durable,” she spat, like the word was a roach in her teeth.

“Durable’s boring.” Evelyn twirled her fingers, its light licking the bruises under Lanie’s eyes.

Lanie’s claws unsheathed, gouging the table. “Got a point or just here to gargle your own ego?”

“Poet.” Evelyn produced a vial of liquid moonlight, its glow devouring the room’s shadows. “Always carry a spare. Hmm.. yes, where was I? Slender hands, soulful eyes—exactly the kind to write odes to your tits before he OD’s on absinthe and self-loathing. Like gonzo porn for a quick jill off, not the really good stuff.”

She rolled the vial toward Lanie. “Swallow this, fuck him once, and boom—you’ll swear you’re Persephone meeting her first pomegranate. Just long enough to make Saint Georgie there—” she kicked her shoes towards the kitchen, “—gnaw off his own balls.”

In the kitchen, George brought the cleaver down. A carrot splintered into perfect julienne. Tick-tick-tick.

“And after?” Lanie’s thumb stroked the vial.

Evelyn stood, her shadow swallowing the moonlight. “That's the best part." Evelyn stood, her shadow swallowing Lanie whole. “Three weeks of swooning. Four, if he’s got stamina. You’ll wake up one day dry as a nun’s knickers, wondering why you ever craved his simpering sonnets. No guilt. No strings.” She paused at the bathroom door, grinning over her shoulder. “Just… freedom. And a corpse to dance on.”

Lanie’s laugh scraped raw. “A corpse. Sure.”

But her fingers trembled as she pocketed the vial.

George began plating the salad—radicchio ribs like shattered stained glass.

“Think about it.” Evelyn stood, straightening her skirt. “Now, where’s the little powder room? Need to piss hexes.”
 

---

Evelyn found him in the pantry, fists buried in flour, shoulders taut as bowstrings. “Look at you,” she purred. “Lanie’s past enemy and bedmate, reduced to kneading dough. How’s the domestic hellscape treating you?”

George turned slowly. Flour dusted his stubble like premature age. “Careful, witch.”

“Or what?” She plucked a jar of cinnamon, rolling it between manicured claws. “You’ll bake me a soufflé of regret?”
His jaw flexed. “I’ll—”

“—what? Pout?” She stepped closer, perfume clashing with yeast. “Face it—you’re a bad punchline. Lanie’s upgrading. All those cocks? You’re obsolete.”

He held—barely.

Evelyn pressed, voice honeyed arsenic. “She never loved you, you know. Just a phase. A dragon’s… rebellion. Maybe I’ll help her see that. Usher in her glorious singledom.”

The shelves rattled. George moved, viper strike hand around her throat, slamming her into the wall. Her skull cracked drywall, flour snowing around them.

“Stay out of this,” he snarled, voice thickening with something older, deeper.

Evelyn choked, grin splitting. “There he is,” she rasped. “Knew you had a spine.”

He dropped her.

She rubbed her throat, pupils blown. “First man to leave a mark.” Her fingers drifted to her blouse, popping buttons until one breast spilt free. She licked her thumb and pinched her nipple hard enough to blush the flesh. “Mmm. Maybe I’ll let you leave even more marks… if you’ve still got the balls for it.”

Leaning in, her breath scalding his ear: “Must’ve been one hell of a lay to keep her this long. Pity she’s bored.” Her hand slid lower, thumb grinding the scar beneath his belt. “Trade you in? I’ll take seconds—after you own me proper.”

George stepped back, two paces, fists trembling at the edge of violence.

“Have it your way, dear champion of cucks; come to think of it 'cuck demon' sounds better, doesn't it?” she sighed, refastening her blouse with theatrical slowness. She kissed his cheek, teeth grazing skin. “Enjoy the crumbs while they last.”

As she swept toward the door, hips swaying like a noose’s swing, her laughter slithered back. She whispered to herself, “Bitch really needs to be shattered hard and fast…”
 

---

The asparagus lay charred and twitching on their plates. Evelyn prodded it with her fork. “Darling, this is art. Like if a forest fire fucked a compost heap.”

Lanie kicked Evelyn's shin under the table. “Be gracious, Evie. Georgie’s always been there for both of us.”

Evelyn nearly choked on her wine. “Need him? For what? Opening jars?”

“Who dragged your drunk ass out of the Mississippi after that selkie orgy?” George muttered.

“Not soon enough,” Evelyn hissed, eyes glinting.

"You're only here because she insists," George growled. "Not out of some fucking loyalty."

Evelyn's smile turned venomous. For the second time that night, she peeled her blouse open. Slowly, one button at a time, until her breast spilt free. Her thumb rolled her nipple as she sighed, "Mmm... And here I thought you stuck around for private gratitude..."

Lanie kicked her under the table—hard—but her other hand slid between her own thighs, fingertips tracing the piercing. The rubies flared. George's jaw clenched, a flush creeping up his neck.

"Knew it, Second time's the charm. " Evelyn purred, triumphant.

Later, as Evelyn swept toward the exit, she cornered George by the umbrella stand. Her hand darted to his crotch, squeezing nothing with a surgeon's precision. Never fucking liked you,” she breathed. "but don't stress my dear castrato. Your secret's safe with me."

He didn't flinch.

“Relax.” She pecked his cheek, leaving a scarlet lipstick smear. “I’ll let your little… tragedy… run its course.” A pause. “But do find better bourbon. This swill’s pathetic.”
 

---

On the porch, moths dive-bombed George’s bourbon. Lanie leaned against the railing, the vial burning a hole in her pocket.
“She’s wrong,” he said, not looking up.

“Not always.”

He stood, looming over her. For a heartbeat, she thought he’d strike.

She was ready. “Think I give a fuck?”

The rubies pulsed. He walked away.

Midnight. George thrashed in bed, sheets strangling his legs. Lanie hovered in the doorway, murmuring a sleep spell through gritted teeth.

Nothing.

“Goddamn,” she hissed, nail-bitten fingers clawing air.

Then—a twitch. His right hand uncurled, knuckles easing from white to corpse-gray. Barely a crack but a crack nonetheless.

''Almost...try harder now.'

In the kitchen, the vial glowed on the counter, untouched.

Lanie stared at it, the moths pressed against the window, wings leaving greasy smears.
 
 
Week 8: Muse in Satin

Georgia was satin now—emerald, slit-thigh, the kind of dress that made waiters forget the specials. Lanie’s rubies glinted dully under the restaurant’s chandelier, their usual venom muted. *Like a snake fasting*, she thought, swirling merlot as the poet traced her palm lines with a poet’s hunger.

“Divorced?” he asked, his voice like bourbon-aged velvet.

Lane’s smile fractured. A beat too long. “Yes.”

She didn’t correct him. Didn’t sneer sissy or half-wed. Just let the lie hang, ripe as rot.

Georgia’s seams cinched—phantom lungs collapsing—as the poet nodded, oblivious.

Lanie leaned forward, cleavage eclipsing Georgia’s silent scream. “He preferred… devotion over a woman's more primal needs.” Her heel ground the gown’s hem into the carpet. A thread snapped.

The poet chuckled. Georgia tasted bile.

He wrote her a sonnet on the menu—'Your laugh, a struck bell'—and she laughed exactly like that, sharp and shivering. Georgia’s seams prickled.

In his loft, he undressed her like unwrapping a relic. Georgia’s satin slithered to the floor, forgotten. For the first time since that night, Georgia realised, panic rising. Lanie’s bare skin glowed in the lamplight, rubies winking as she arched onto the mattress.

“You deserve all of me," Lanie whispered.

He entered her gently, murmuring "muse, muse, muse" like a prayer. Georgia lay crumpled by the bed, forced to watch Lanie’s hips rise in rhythms she’d never had since this began. *Too slow. Too tender.*

“You’re my epilogue,” he groaned, thumb brushing her cheek—a caress, not a command.

Lanie’s moan was honeyed, foreign. “God, yes—”

Georgia burned, a dry socket where lightning struck. She wept openly, threads dampening with tears she could not shed.

After, Lanie gathered her from the floor. “Sshh, girlfriend,” she crooned, patting Georgia’s bodice like a spooked pet. “He’s just a verse. You’re the whole damn psalm.”

But she didn’t use Georgia to wipe his spend from her thighs. Didn’t drape her over lampshades to crust. Just… folded her gently into the overnight bag as she borrowed his sister's T-shirt and shorts.

The poet kissed Lanie’s wrist at the door. “Tomorrow?”

“I’ll wear red,” she promised, her voice gauzy as a bride’s veil.

Home. Lanie stood before the mirror, Georgia’s satin limp in her grip. The rubies pulsed—begging.

“Almost got me,” Lanie purred, unclasping the piercing for the first time. It hit the velvet box with a final click. She slid her hand between her legs, sighing, “John, John—” as she came, holding on to the borrowed clothes.

Georgia, trapped in silk, screamed soundlessly.

Later, much later, Lanie heard a broken Georgia as she stroked her hem.

*You unclipped me. You chose him.*

“Only his cock, kitten.” But her smirk faltered.

Georgia lunged through the mental tether—*pathetic, always pathetic*—and felt Lanie’s pulse stutter.

A beat.

Lanie snorted, tossing Georgia onto the dry-clean pile. “Relax. He’s week eight of part three. You’re the fucking index.”

But later, in bed, she wore the borrowed clothes to sleep.
 
 
Continued in Part 4

 
 
IX. The Morning After

George sat on the toilet seat, hands trembling as piss dribbled between his thighs. The slit was there—shallow, raw, like a razor’s hesitant slip. The evidence of Lanie’s magic splitting him... No, her open.

She was Georgia now.

She’d trusted Lanie. Seventeen years of shared pains and joy, of laundry-folding and mortgage payments and Lanie’s midnight whispers about “something more.” Even when her dragon scales split her shoulders. Even when the fuckfest nights left her throat scorched from screaming.

But last night—the poet… John… his fucking hands, the romance, the borrowed clothes—nearly unravelled her.

“Lanie!” Georgia fumed as she stormed into the ritual chamber.

“Undo this. Now.”

Lanie didn’t turn. The harness in her hands hissed as she carved another rune. “Undo what? Your pretty new pussy?”

The room temperature spiked. Scales erupted down Lanie’s arms, wings shredding her robe. Dragon-Lanie loomed, sulfur eyes glowing. “You’re mine, Georgie. An accessory. That cunt’s just another showpiece.”

Georgia stepped into the inferno, her skin glistening. “Kneel.”

Lanie snorted. Fire licked the ceiling. “Delusional bitch.”

Georgia’s veins burned—a live wire chewing through her spine. Blood magic had never been able to touch her yet Lanie had sewn her shut with it, stitch by stitch, a marionette of meat and regret.

But the thing inside her unspooled now, dragging the word and magic up her throat like a rusted fishhook. Her nose bled black.

“Kneel.” The word tore from Georgia—a barbed wire snag in her throat—in a dozen voices: George’s growl, Georgia’s whimper, the Demon’s...no!

Lanie’s knees cracked tile. Scales fell like ash.

Lanie’s pupils slit. “You shouldn’t have been able to—”

Georgia gripped her horns, forcing her to meet human eyes. “You bound my manhood to your clit, to drain it,” she said, calm as a guillotine. “Apparently blood magic cuts both ways now… Horde Breaker.” She spat the title Lanie had once worn proudly—the dragon who shattered others' treasures just to lick the shards.

“How long?”

Lanie hissed. “Since the first Friday.”

Georgia smiled—the grin of the demon. “Time to switch diets.”

But as she leaned in, she caught it—a flicker in Lanie’s gaze. Not fear, never fear, this was a plea. The same as when she’d seen when Lanie miscarried in their shitty studio apartment, George’s hands slick with her blood as she clawed at his shirt, screaming, “Don’t you dare let go.”

The same damn eyes when Lanie tried to storm out during that blizzard in ’09, barefoot and shivering, only to collapse against the doorframe and rasp “Make me stay.”

Lanie’s eyes swam—dragonfire drowning in saltwater. Georgia tasted her own tears, bitter as cheap bourbon left to evaporate. Just like a dying ember's last gasp, her resolve died in a flash. Her knees buckling as she fell to the floor herself.

The dragon wasted no time. She stood, grasping Georgia’s hair, yanking her face to her crotch. The stench of sex and strangers’ cum hit her like a brick. Lanie dragged her wrist across her face—wetness sizzling to smoke—and barked, “Clean me,” voice stripped raw, “Good. Girl.”

Georgia’s tongue moved as tears flowed freely. “Do you… love him?”

Lanie’s grip tightened. “I claimed you.”

“Then why—”

“Quiet.” A thumb smeared her mixed juices across Georgia’s lips. “You...are…MINE.”
But as Georgia glanced up, she saw it—Lanie’s jaw clenched, her fire-dimmed eyes avoiding hers.

“Look at me,” Georgia demanded, still sobbing.

Lanie turned, smoke curling from her nostrils. “This snatch doesn't like to wait.”

“You’re scared,” Georgia pressed, voice like burning embers. “Of wanting him? Of losing me?”

Lanie’s laugh cracked. “Scared? I’m a dragon.”

“Dragons hoard,” Georgia said softly. “What happens when there’s nothing left to steal?”

For a breathless moment, silence. Then Lanie yanked her closer, breath hot. “Enough. Remain on your knees.”

Georgia remained.

Lanie’s command hung in the air like a blade. Georgia’s knees still on the carpet, the fibres scratching like whispered accusations.

“You’ll be my wardrobe this week,” Lanie said, her voice a serrated purr. She flicked cigarette ash into a chipped mug labelled World’s Okayest Sorceress. “John’s taking me to meet the friends. Needs me in satin. You’ll play the part.”

Georgia’s throat tightened. “And what if I say no?”

Lanie crouched, her stiletto digging into the floorboard’s groan. Her pupils flickered—dragon-gold, just for a heartbeat. “You won’t.”

Somewhere, Ash drifted where a moth once had flown. The bulb hummed, indifferent.

 
 
X. Poetry in Action

That first night, Georgia became a slip of black lace—the kind they drape over coffin handles to make rot look like romance. Lanie slid her into place, stitch by stitch, like a coroner would.

Fingers lingered where skin had become fabric, pricking seams into Georgia’s hips like cigarette burns on a motel mattress. “Quiet now,” Lanie murmured, though Georgia’s voice was fast becoming a relic, much like her wedding band becoming a choke-chain.

The closet light buzzed, a dying bulb flickering like a junkie’s pulse.

John, poet of shit, smelled of cheap cologne and cheaper promises. His knuckles still crusted with ink from scribbling bad poetry in Denny’s napkins. His hands trembled when they grazed Lanie’s waist—spider-leg fingers, all tremor and hunger.

Georgia felt every touch through the silk.

“You’re luminous,” John breathed, voice cracking like a bourbon bottle dropped on pavement.

Lanie laughed, heavy and a little too warm, like a butcher's knife sinking into warm butter. “You should see me when the moon’s a hangnail.” She arched into his grip, dragon fire simmering under her skin, while Georgia’s seams tightened.

By the second night, Georgia had swallowed John’s lies without chewing—

‘I’ll leave her by sunrise,’ he’d think, fingers snarling in Lanie’s hair.

*You won’t,* Georgia seethed silently, her edges unravelling a bit more each time.

Lanie’s telepathic voice slithered through the void between them: Jealousy is unbecoming, pet.

Georgia bit down until her phantom gums bled rust, she didn’t answer.

On the third night, Georgia became a dress.

Not just any dress—John’s desired dress. Crimson satin, as clingy as a scream, stifled mid-throat. Slit riding high enough to tent trousers but wholesome nonetheless. Lanie zipped her up with a smirk, the zipper’s teeth biting Georgia’s spine. “He wants ‘girlfriend’ energy. So be my sweet thing.”

Her satin itched. Or maybe this was the curse, chewing through Georgia’s resolve like maggots in a carcass.

The dive bar reeked of IPA and stale hops. Like the kind of regret that sticks to your shoes. John’s friends were pretension personified. A fellow poet with a septum ring more qualified to be a cattle brand. A guitarist who clearly tuned his ego instead of strings, and an overly skinny woman with a snake tattoo that appeared to hiss when she laughed.

“Lanie’s a muse,” John slurred, hand possessive on Lanie’s hip—her hip, the dress’s hip, whatever.

Lanie sipped her whiskey neat, smiling like a razor blade sliding through the pages of a book. “Oh, I’m more of a… patron saint of credit card debt and third-degree burns.” The group cackled, teeth glinting like switchblades left in the rain.

Georgia’s silence weighed like brimstone.

You’re quiet my pretty thing, Lanie prodded, telepathy velvet-wrapped arsenic.

Dresses don’t talk, Georgia tried to shoot back, but her thoughts sank like stones in a shallow creek.

Stolen moments would tell many a story that night. The poet eyeing Lanie’s throat like he wanted to carve sonnets into it. His thumb rubbing circles on Georgia’s satin seams. Lanie’s laugh, too sharp, too bright, too theatrical. A firework aimed at the moon and missing.

“Tell us how you met!” Snake-Tattoo leaned in, her serpent’s tongue flicking like a lit fuse.
Lanie’s heel ground into Georgia’s toe under the table, a steel kiss. “John spilt absinthe on my favorite grimoire. I made him lick it off—carpet and all.”

The table roared. Georgia felt the dress’s seams strain, threads snapping one by one, each pop, another bit slipping its leash.

Midnight. Parking lot.

A stray cat yowled by the dumpster, its eyes reflecting the bar’s neon sign—HELL’S HALF ACRE—the same shade as Georgia’s rage.

Lanie leaned against a dumpster, well fucked and twice as hollow; she lit a cigarette with a snap of her fingers. “Don’t you dare fade bitch,” she hissed. Smoke curling from her nostrils like a dying man’s last confession.

Nothing. Not a word.

*Georgia? Speak up*

Lanie felt it: the dress’s seams constricting, and then the satin going slack like a marionette with cut strings. Lanie's fingers dug into the dress, anything to get a reaction, but Georgia'a silence was like a flatline hum in the breeze.

“Fuck,” Lanie muttered, choosing to stub the cigarette out on her palm. The burn hissed, but the pain felt borrowed, like grief stuffed into a stranger’s coat.

The pulse still wouldn't answer. "Just… hold on. Please”

Somewhere, moth wings crisped. The flame never cared to know its victim’s name..

 
 
XI. A prayer Answered

The ride home was like a live wire jammed into Lanie’s spine. John’s cologne clung to the fabric, only cheapened now from the night's bullshit. Every red light, a judge’s gavel poised in midair.

Lanie's knuckles whitened against the steering wheel. “Fuck you, Lanie!” The dress constricted around her lungs—was that Georgia’s heartbreak?

She cranked the window down, letting the first drops of rain prick her face. "Breathe, Lanie, Breathe. Just a while longer" But the road continued to fold like a jackknife, over and over.

Home felt like a closet-sized studio reeking of incense and desperation. Lanie clawed at the zipper. “Come off motherfucker,” she hissed, the fabric resisting like a second skin.

The satin peeled away with the effort of wrenching a tooth free from the gum. The dress lay crumpled on the mattress—just fabric now, lifeless as a shed snakeskin. Lanie knelt, palms pressed to the bodice. "Please! Please let it work."

The sleep spell spilt from her lips like a broken lullaby:

“Thistle and marrow,
dragon-chained, dragon-fed,
Unknot my love from
The threads in her head.”

The dress shuddered. It worked.. Yes!

Georgia materialised on the bed. Naked, weak, frail, asleep and incomplete. Lanie’s breath hitched. She traced a finger down Georgia’s sternum, stopping where she noticed that single detail that she had prayed for.

“There you are,” she whispered with a smile.

In the bathroom’s tumour-green light, Lanie fell apart.

Her glamour slid off like rotting meat, revealing the mess beneath. Eyes bloodshot like a jaundiced drunk, lips chapped from biting back bile once too often. She gripped the sink, talons scratching porcelain. “Pathetic,” she spat at her reflection.

"The greatest of dragons, reduced to this." She whispered to herself in disgust, "A con artist in a skin suit, betting on cheap spells for borrowed time."

She stumbled back to bed, collapsing beside Georgia’s broken frame. The room spun.

“Even dragons need sleep,” she slurred, though the words tasted like a lie. Her hand found Georgia’s—the frail finger from which her ring had slipped off.

Lanie’s last thought before the dark swallowed her: "Burn faster, love. Please Burn faster."

Outside, the rain mourned the moth’s wings. The flame claimed it was mercy. The silence only left bruises.

 
 
XII. A girl’s first time

Georgia woke to a fistful of lightning in her gut. The sheets were a crime scene—rust-brown smears covered in the metallic tang of pennies and panic. She screamed a raw sound that cracked against the bedroom's thin walls.

Lanie burst in, hair wild, lips still smudged with last night’s plum-coloured lipstick. “Oh, kitten,” she crooned, scooping Georgia against her. Her arms were a paradox: silken touch, iron beneath. “Shhh, it’s just your body learning to betray you.”

For three days, Lanie played saint. She pressed heating pads to Georgia’s cramping belly—the kind you’d use to thaw a frozen pipe—and hummed Patsy Cline while massaging her shoulders.

She stirred honey into chamomile tea, the spoon clinking like a jailer’s keys. “Every girl bleeds,” she said, painting Georgia’s nails shell-pink. “But you, baby? You’ll bleed prettier.”

By Thursday, the storm between Georgia’s thighs quieted. Lanie stood in the doorway, backlit by a dying sun. Her smile was a switchblade. “All better?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Good. I’ve been starving.”

She straddled Georgia on the mattress, denim skirt riding up to reveal the glint of her clit piercing—a tiny silver barbell, cold as a sniper’s bullet. “You owe me,” she whispered, fingers twisting in Georgia’s hair. “Lick. Make us both shine.”

“That’s it,” Lanie moaned, thighs tightening like industrial vices. “John’s mama expects his girlfriend to arrive in champagne silk—no stains, no seams. Just… perfection.”

Her hips rolled, grinding the cold rose gold of her piercing against Georgia’s tongue. “You’ll make such a pretty dress, kitten. Tight little corset, zipper down the back like a knife slit.

Mmm—fuck—keep licking.”

Georgia gagged, the taste of Lanie’s arousal sharp as stripped copper. She tried to wrench free, but Lanie’s fingers clawed deeper into her scalp, nails etching runes of ownership.

A thought slithered into Georgia’s mind, honey-thick and unbidden—a voice not her own: Don’t fight it, baby. Please—

The unspoken thought hung there, volatile like a dragon's scale soaked in kerosene. Georgia froze. ‘Did she—?’ Lanie’s rhythm stuttered like a stalled engine. Her eyes widened—a flash of dragon-gold panic.

She snarled, “Kindness comes with an expiry date,” and slammed Georgia’s face back into the heat. Her orgasm, a short circuit snapping through both of them, scorching the question to cinders.

When it was over, Lanie slumped against the headboard, lighting a cigarette with hands that didn’t quite shake. “You’ll love the design,” she said, smoke curling around the words.

“Champagne silk, sweetheart neckline—you’ll be the number that stitches us together.”

She traced Georgia’s jaw. “While I Smile for his mama, play the blushing bride-to-be, nice and clean,” she trailed off, staring at the water-stained ceiling.

Lanie exhaled a plume of spite. “Don’t fret, baby. Even brides need their pretty little things. Even the ones they outgrow.”

Georgia stared at the cracked mirror, her reflection split into a million jagged pieces. One of them was still clean.

Outside, a dog howled. Somewhere else, a moth, wings still damp from the cocoon, beat against a flickering bulb. Drunk on the false promise of warmth.

Continued in Part 5

 
 
XII. The Feast of Fractured Mirrors

The farmhouse table groaned beneath casseroles that reeked of clove and false piety. John’s mother—a woman who starched her hymns—leaned in, her gaze lingering on Lanie’s sun-kissed cheeks and the demure lace dress that was Georgia. “What a vision,” she sighed as if this moment could be preserved like a jar of pickled beets.

Lanie dimpled all apple-pie innocence. “Bless your heart, ma’am.” Under the table, John’s hand slid up her thigh, fingers digging into the lace that was Georgia’s skin. Georgia felt it—the pressure, the heat—like a branding iron through gauze.

Ethan, the brother, smirked. Claire, the sister, watched with a viper's silent gaze.
Dessert was saccharine. Georgia choked on every bite Lanie took.

Upstairs, in a room wallpapered with faded peonies, Lanie arched back against the headboard. John’s tongue dragging over her piercing.

"Special treat for my good boy," Lanie whispered out loud, fingers crimping in his hair. *And my sweet little girl,* she thought, the words honey-thick.

Georgia’s consciousness and phantom cock—both trapped —shuddered.

The invasion came as a whisper. A breath against the vault of her mind, where decades of survival had welded the locks shut. Georgia’s resistance was reflex, primal as a kicked ribcage.

No!.

But tonight—

Let her see.

The whisper was welcomed with a jackhammer.

Lanie saw:

The first look across a smoky bar. The first kiss tasting of stolen whiskey. The first tragedy—a bloodstained shirt, a lie swallowed like broken glass. The first tears shed in a truck bed under a scornful moon. The first triumph, small but glorious. The first lie, sharp as a snapped bone. And finally—George's heartbreak, a shattered, endless pit. A wound that would outlive the body she ruined.

Lanie jerked back violently as if electrocuted.

John lifted his head, lips slick. “You… okay?”

Lanie gripped his hair and shoved him back down. “Don’t stop.”

Her free hand flicked in the air—a sleep spell aimed at all but her. The moth on the ceiling glowed, John slumped, snoring into the pillow. Georgia’s consciousness drooled into cottonmouth oblivion. Lanie kept the snoozing dress on as she padded out of the bedroom.

An hour later. Midnight. Most of the house slept but…

Lanie woke Georgia with a needle prick to the psyche: Rise and shine, sweetheart.

Mommy’s got a surprise.

Lanie drifted to the backyard, Georgia’s satin clinging to the damp grass like a second skin. Claire—Lanie’s next mark—waited by the skeletal remains of a swing set, her earlier bravado from when Lanie had hunted her down fraying at the edges. Moonlight etched her face to show something apprehensive and hungry.

“C’mere, sugar,” Lanie purred, hiking the dress to her hips. The rose-gold piercing glinted—a tiny, cruel star. “Meet Mommy’s special jewel.”

Claire’s throat bobbed. “It’s… adorable.”

Lanie’s laugh was an obsidian shard. “Best things come in delicate packages.” She traced the metal, sighing as Georgia’s consciousness recoiled. “Call her princess. Show her that she’s the prettiest little cock you’ve ever seen.”

Claire knelt, cheeks flushed. Her first lick was earnest but tentative, a kitten lapping cream for the first time. Georgia’s phantom nerves jolted. “I’ve never… never done this before,” Claire whispered, her resistance crumbling like a sugar cube in cheap booze.

“There she is,” Lanie crooned telepathically. just for Mommy’s good little girl.

Claire’s tongue circled the piercing—slow, then famished. "So sweet," she whispered, lips wrapping around it greedily. Her hands found Lanie’s hips, thumbs brushing the lace hem, Georgia’s pulse point.

Georgia simmered, gasped, moaned!

“That’s it,” Lanie urged, voice smoky. “Worship her.”

And thus Claire drowned. Her lips worked with fervent, nearly devotional passion. Suckling on the piercing as though it contained the key to resurrection. Her tongue swirling with a precision that was almost supernatural.

Between gasps, she’d latch onto Lanie’s nipple through the silk that was Georgia. Teeth grazing the fabric until Georgia’s consciousness curled, torn between violation and electric pleasure.

L-Lanie, I—ah!—I can’t— Georgia’s voice fractured into static, moans spilling like shattered glass.

“Shhh, princess,” her mental grip smothering Georgia’s protest. Good dolls don’t scream—they drip.

Then it hit: a hot, slick rush, phantom muscles clenching around nothing. Georgia's little dick squirted, her grand rebellion, a honeyed flood she hadn’t felt since blood had pumped in veins she no longer owned.

“Oh, fuck,” Lanie gasped, wrenching Claire up by her hair. Their teeth clashed as Lanie’s tongue scraped Georgia’s essence from the girl’s mouth.

Claire wriggled free, lips puffed, shaking fingers still holding the piercing like a lifeline. "I never—never have done that before," she gasped, voice worn with wonder. “But Godess, it tastes like… honey in a fucking storm.”

Her thumb circled the metal, desperate, reverent. “Is this how it’s supposed to feel? I’d marry it,” Claire breathed, Claire’s laugh was unhinged, euphoric. “Get on my knees every morning. Cook it breakfast. Keep it polished.” A wild laugh. “Hell, I’d kill for it. Best little wifey this side of the apocalypse—”

Lanie’s grin was all fangs. “World’s ending anyway, darlin’. Get back to work.”

Claire dove back down, ravenous, as Lanie’s telepathic purr slithered through Georgia’s mind. Cocks only rule suspended tonight, princess. Savour it.

Ethan emerged from the shadows, jeans slung low. “Ain’t this cosy.”

Lanie shot him a razor-blade smile. “Why wait?” She pushed Claire’s head down harder and crooked a finger at Ethan. “But you? Mouth shut and I swallow everything.”

He didn’t argue.

Lanie took him deep, throat working, her free hand splayed possessively over the dress’s waist, keeping Georgia trembling. Not a drop spilt on her beloved outfit.

After, Lanie leaned against the corpse of a pickup truck, dress pristine despite Claire’s lipstick and the dew.

Georgia’s voice hummed, threads still thrumming with aftershocks. *You… let me feel.*

Lanie lit a cigarette, the flame steady now. “Rules bend. They don’t break.” She blew smoke at the stars. “But damn, baby girl. You drenched that girl. Almost made me jealous. Should go back to cocks-only tomorrow.”

A truth. A taunt. A threat.

Lanie flicked the cigarette onto the gravel. “Next town’s got a wedding chapel. Gonna pawn your family jewels—they had no damn business coming in others mouths.” She patted the dress’s hip. “You’ll make a stunning bride’s outfit. All that virginal white… suits a pretty little ghost.”

The dress rippled—a shiver? A laugh? A scream smothered into fabric.

Inside, John’s mother glared through the kitchen window, Bible clutched like a weapon.

The engine snarled. Somewhere, cicadas shredded the night with their razored song.

Either way, Georgia’s silence had a new shape—smaller, sharper, alive.

 
 
XII. Alchemy of Flesh

The bathroom reeked of iodine and scorched caramel—stolen medical alcohol and magic’s cloying rot. Georgia’s naked reflection flickered in the fogged mirror.

Shoulders like rusted pipes, hips sharp as a stray’s ribs, breasts no bigger than fists clenched around stolen car keys. Not a woman., not yet. Rather a charcoal sketch smudged by rain, largely broken lines and emaciated planes. But between her legs—there—Lanie's masterpiece throbbed.

Soft folds that glistened like unbleached silk, pink as a wound caressed by sunrise.
Lanie leaned against the doorframe, her grin a diamond dagger as she twirled her damn piercing.

“Admiring the artwork?”

Georgia’s laugh was dismay as a sound. “Just tallying your receipts.” She brushed the near-invisible scar below her navel, now a faint silver hyphen where Lanie had carved out George’s manhood. Mostly gone. Almost.

"Scars are footnotes, sweet thing. Proof the story's worth telling." Lanie's finger moved in mid-air—skin to talon, glossy nail to onyx blade. She pressed it against Georgia's clit, drawing blood and a gasp that cracked like cheap porcelain.

“But you’re still… unfinished. My half-painted billboard promising paradise that doesn't exist yet.” Her voice faltered, just a tremor. Frustration. Not with the clay but with the sculptor.

The ache opened up like a bruise, sore and familiar. Georgia gritted her teeth, "Made me a flea market."

"Nope. More like a Swap meet," Lanie growled as her talon drove deeper.

Georgia's legs collapsed in pain, her world decaying into white noise and the iron scent of her own agony and...lust? Lanie continued. "More authentic."

The charm came next, still furnace-hot from Lanie’s wet forge. It fused into Georgia’s clit, biting deep as it drank from her punctured veins. Georgia’s scream curdled into a moan, her spine arching back like a bridge to nowhere.

Lanie’s breath hitched, ragged and wet. Her free hand found Georgia’s nipple, pinching until the bud hardened—a rose blooming through cracked concrete. “There,” she whispered, lips grazing Georgia’s ear. “Now you’re currency.”

Their mouths collided—a forced clash of teeth and nicotine. Lanie’s tongue tasted of bourbon and bad decisions. Lanie simply laughed into the kiss, her talon retreating to become a blood-smeared fingernail.

“Just like that bargain-bin bitch last night gushed—‘So precious.’” Her sneer curled like smoke. “Pity she didn’t stay to see it breathe.” Her claw tightened on Georgia’s clit, claiming the pulse beneath the metal. “Good. Souvenirs shouldn’t talk back.”

The mattress slumped like an addict's resolve. Lanie lounged atop it, the queen of spite wearing only George’s t-shirt. Smelling of faded Axe body spray and dorm-room regret, while poor Georgia knelt at her feet.

“Touch yourself.”

Lanie’s voice was a serrated spoon scraping bone marrow. Georgia’s lungs seized. The command clung to her synapses, greasy as diner bacon left to congeal under heat lamps. “Oh God. Please help me,” she moaned, though God had long since boarded up this particular motel.

Lanie sighed, winding a strand of Georgia’s hair around her finger—tight enough to snuff out a prayer. “Nope. You’re wetter than a truck-stop toilet after a laxative buffet. Your problem to deal with.”

“Go to hell.”

“Already there, darling.” Lanie yanked her head back, forcing Georgia’s gaze upwards. The overhead bulb buzzed like a trapped hornet, casting Lanie’s smirk in jaundiced light. “Do it.”
Georgia’s hand shook—a leaf in a hurricane. She slid trembling fingers between her legs. The clit piercing seared, every graze a lightning strike to the spine. This isn’t me, she thought, but the lie curdled halfway.

Lanie’s free hand pinched Georgia’s nipple through the threadbare cotton. “I lied,” she purred, thumb circling the peak until it ached. “Couldn’t let you go solo. Needed to… collaborate.”

The piercing throbbed like a metronome beating in sync with her heartbeat. First time ever since the unspooling, she thought. First time 'choosing' this shame. Her fingers fumbled, stiff as a rusty marionette. Arousal buzzed like a downed power line; shame pooled thick as crank oil in her belly.

“Yes,” Lanie hissed, spreading her thighs. Georgia felt the dampness seep into her hair—hot, primal, reeking of copper and stale tobacco.

“Feel that? I’m creaming while watching you squirm.”

Georgia’s breath fractured. I hate you.

“Liar.” Lanie’s telepathic voice oozed into her skull, syrup laced with strychnine. You hate how good it feels to break.

The room tilted—floorboards groaning, walls breathing. Georgia’s hips stuttered, chasing the ache. *Oooohhh. Stop. dont—

Their eyes locked.

Lanie’s kiss hit like a wrenching spark—lips molten, teeth claiming. Georgia’s back arched, the orgasm a grenade pin yanked—

“Nghhhh....ahhh.....”

Lanie’s talon clamped over her wrist, yanking her back from the edge. “Tut-tut. Didn’t say you could cash in.”

Georgia whimpered the denial, a big fat fishhook lodged beneath her ribs.

Lanie stood, adjusting the sweat-soaked t-shirt that now clung to her like her own skin.

“Now,” she crooned, snapping her fingers. The door creaked open, hinges screaming. “Let’s invite company.”

 
 
XIII. Gutter Saints and Hammering Rites

The man filled the doorway like a condemned building—all cracked concrete swagger and rebar veins. His cock swung heavily, a wrecking ball sheathed in storm clouds. Georgia’s rose gold charm pulsed, not at her clit now but through it, a live wire fused to the bone.
Lanie licked her teeth. “Miss him?”

Georgia didn’t flinch. Muscle memory. George’s ghost lived in the man’s knuckles—same brass-knuckle grin, same way he cracked his neck like a shotgun pump. But ghosts don’t smell of menthol rub and regret.

“Nostalgia’s cheap,” Georgia hissed. The piercing thrummed like a wasp trapped in cooling amber.

The stranger’s laugh was a grease fire. He palmed her throat, thumbprint over her windpipe.

“Heard you bite.”

“Heard you bleed.”

Lanie’s nails—blackened stilettos—dug into Georgia’s shoulder. “Play nice, children.”

The stranger gripped Georgia’s hips, fingers denting flesh. She braced for violence but then gasped as he shoved her onto the bed, her stretch bordering on exorcism.

Lanie’s breath hitched, hot against Georgia’s ear. “Three hammers to break a lock.”

“Pluh—planned—” Georgia choked, Lanie’s cunt smothering the rest.

“Shhh.” Lanie’s palm cracked across her cheek. “Your mouth’s for worship, not whining.”
The orgasm hit—a power surge. Georgia arched back, a jagged ahhhhh! escaping like steam from an uncorked kettle.

Lanie’s magic slithered in: wasp-wing buzz, filling her throat, her vowels.

Georgia’s fingers clawed the sheets. “Nuh—no—!” as she fell into a sinkhole
The no crumbled to nngh, then silence.

SNAP: Somewhere, a neon sign flickered: VACANT!

“Turn her?” The man’s question was gravel and diesel.

Lanie twisted Georgia’s arm. “Ohhh. and let's bend her backwards.”

Georgia’s fell back like a broken ragdoll, tendons screaming, as the man pulled her back and drove into her.

The breach tore a sound from her—unghhh, feral and fractured.

“Tighter’n a preacher’s wallet,” he grunted, hips snapping.

Georgia’s moan splintered: ah-! ah-! ah-! syncopated with his thrusts. Shame burned her cheeks. No... Not her.

Lanie’s laugh curled like smoke. “There’s my gutter saint.”

The second crest hit harder. Magic pooled hotter, deeper. Georgia’s whimper—eh-eh-eh—a mouse in a snake’s jaw.

SNAP: The sign flickered again: VALIANT!

Lanie’s thumb pressed Georgia’s windpipe, latex squeaking. “Beg.”

Georgia’s reply: Hnnk—! Gah—! Choked vowels, spit-slick. The man’s thrusts were subway trains derailing—rhythmless, brutal.

Lanie leaned close, her breath a venomous hymn. “Say you want it p—”

A hitch. A gasp.

“Please.”

The word slipped—unscripted, desperate—before Lanie could claw it back. Her hand flew to her mouth, smothering the rest. Too late.

Georgia heard. That cracked, please, raw as a knuckle dragged through gravel. Not a command. A confession.

The orgasm hit like a Molotov through a pawnshop window.

“Nnnh—! FUH—!” Georgia’s scream was a live wire, thrashing. Her hips pistoned, slamming into the man’s grip. Resistance? Ash. Lanie’s magic poured in—sewage through a broken levee.

“Guh—! GUH—!” Georgia’s throat shredded as Lanie gushed into her open mouth, weeping with joy.

SNAP: The sign flickered one last time, frying one more moth before it went dark: VICTORIOUS!
 
 
Continued in Part 6

 
 
XV. The Perks of Surrender

Georgia woke to the taste of salt and copper, her skull throbbing. The room stank of burnt sage and sex—Lanie’s idea of purification. Memory flooded back in shards: the stranger’s hands, Lanie’s laughter, the violence of her own body betraying her. She gagged, bile rising, but her throat clenched around nothing.

“There she is,” Lanie purred, fingers tangled in Georgia’s hair—now silk where there had been split ends. “My masterpiece.”

Georgia swung before thought could catch up—a haymaker forged in the molten core of violation. Her fist cracked Lanie’s jaw, blood blooming like a poppy in reverse. Lanie staggered, spine hitting the wall with a crunch. She laughed, thumbing the crimson streak on her split lip.

“There’s my girl,” she crooned, her voice honeyed gravel. “Took you long enough.”

“Whore!” Georgia rasped. Her voice wasn’t hers. Smokier. A whiskey-slick purr that rattled her ribs.

Georgia stared at her bloodied knuckles. This isn’t me. But the lie was obvious. It was her, entirely her. Muscle memory from the past.

Lanie spat ruby onto the carpet. “Feel better? Or do you need to break a lamp, too?” She grabbed Georgia’s wrist, iron grip beneath velvet skin. “C’mon. Let’s ruin something worth breaking.”

Lanie dragged her to the mirror, heavy feet carving trenches in the carpet like cigarette burns. Georgia’s reflection hit like a crowbar to the gut. She stood tall as a war monument, corded muscle and wrath-forged grace. Hips flared like canyon curves carved by a vengeful river—built to drown men and birth wild things. Breasts high and defiant, nipples hard as railroad spikes.

Her skin glowed like a dive-bar jukebox at last call, fractured light and danger. The dragon tattoo coiled from shoulder to breast to thigh. Obsidian scales dissolving into rose-gold filigree that converged at her clit. There, a sword-and-shield charm glinted, rubies smouldering like trapped coals.

“Still works,” Lanie said, thumb tracing the piercing like a trigger. Georgia’s breath hitched, a traitorous moan slipping free. “Just… less discount rack.” Lanie’s grin sharpened. “That poet’s muse? Bet she’d weep. But honey—” Her nails dug into Georgia’s hip, “—it’s all malleable as a wishbone. Want it to dangle like a chandelier? Just wish.”

“Claire?” Georgia laughed, the sound a shudder. “Only skank I see is you… cock-hoarder.”

Lanie’s smirk didn’t waver. “Darling, I’m a curator. You’re the one creaming over groupies.”

Georgia’s laugh sharpened, a blade honed on seventeen years of shared rot. “Jealousy’s cute on you, Lanie. Matches the desperation stink.” She flicked a nail at Lanie’s sweat-slick collarbone.

“What’s wrong? Dragon scales not keeping up with the mileage?”

Lanie’s talons drew blood now, droplets beading Georgia’s jaw. “Cute? You were cute when you sobbed through your first binding. Begged me to stop while your little cocklet wept.” She leaned in, breath hot as a lit fuse. “Now look at you—screaming like a barn owl over third-rate tongue. Pathetic.”

Georgia didn’t flinch. “At least Claire wanted me. Not like John—what’s his name?” She snorted. “Guy came harder for his own limericks than your pussy. Even his cum looked bored.”

A muscle twitched in Lanie’s neck. “John paid the bills, baby. Claire paid in… what? Gas-station sonnets and daddy issues?”

“She paid in devotion.” Georgia’s smile was a shiv. “Remember that? Or did you pawn yours off with my balls?”

Lanie’s grip constricted, scales rippling down her arms. “George’s balls funded our wardrobe, sweetheart. All that lace men loved clawing off? That’s your pension plan.” She gestured to Georgia’s body, voice dripping venom. “Hell, this little Valkyrie upgrade? All thanks to your… generosity.”

“I am NOT your fucking wardrobe!” Georgia hissed, stepping closer until their breath mingled like lit gasoline. “Funny. I can’t recall George ever needing sequins to make you howl. Just his cock and your real voice.”

Lanie’s pupils slit, wings trembling—

A tear streaked her cheek. Then another. “You are…,” she rasped, hands desperately grabbing Georgia’s shoulders. “Mine.”

Georgia stiffened. “Lanie—”

“Don’t ever leave me.” Lanie kissed her—hard, desperate—lips salt-stung and trembling. Georgia resisted, fists clenched, until Lanie’s whimper cracked like a dropped vial.

‘Fuck.’

Georgia’s resolve frayed. She kissed back, hungry and hateful, teeth clashing like warring blades. Lanie moaned into her mouth, tears smearing between them, hands fumbling at the piercing—

“Christ.” Georgia tore free, laugh shuddering. “You’re sick.”

Lanie’s teeth found her earlobe, bite drawing blood. “Told you. Surrender’s got… perks.”

A snick sliced the air—not a sound, but a sensation, like satin tearing between teeth. Like a blade between ribs.

The battle-worn lovers turned towards the unholy sound.

 
 
XVI. Warrior Unleashed

The man’s edges blurred. First, his silhouette fraying into smoke the colour of absinthe left to stagnate in a drained flask. His form dissolved stitch by stitch, threads lifting like moths drawn to a pyre.

The cock—thick, veined, defiantly corporeal—remained suspended in the haze. Ribbons of smoke coiled around it, glowing faintly as if lit by swallowed lightning.

Then, a laugh. Clove-soaked. Lethal.

Evelyn stepped through the vapour, smoke clinging to her like a lover desperate for one last kiss. It condensed into a corset of emerald sequins and thigh-high boots that gleamed like oil spills under a full moon. The cock arched, untouched by the theatrics—still rigid, still hers, now crowned by a gold hoop that caught the light like a challenge.

“Ta-da,” she purred, sweeping into a bow that would have earned roses at a funeral. “And you called my illusions gauche, Lanie.”
Lanie snorted, talons retracting to polished nails. “Knew that dick was too… Kafkaesque to be real. What’s next? A haiku etched into your pubes?”

Evelyn’s laugh was all fangs. “Says the woman who turned a trailer-park mutt into the spitting image of Niyathera.” She stepped closer, her shadow swallowing Georgia’s reflection in the cracked mirror. “Admit it. You've missed my flair.”

Georgia met her gaze, the dragon tattoo contorting beneath her skin. Scales rippled like storm clouds over badlands.

Lightning-fast, she lunged.

“L-Lanie—” Evelyn choked, clawing at Georgia’s wrist. “Leash your… bitch—”

“Enough,” Lanie commanded, voice fraying like overworked twine.

Georgia didn’t listen.

“I said ENOUGH!” Lanie’s telepathic lash struck—a barbed-wire snare meant to cripple.

The demon… No… this was something else… roared.

Fire erupted in Georgia’s mind, incinerating the spell to ash. Lanie screamed, flames cascading down her arms, her hair catching like a dry brush.

“NO!” Georgia dropped Evelyn, lunging to smother the fire with her own body. She cradled Lanie’s head in her lap, hands blistering as she patted out the embers. “Stay with me—stay—”

Evelyn crawled closer, trembling. “Let me… I can…”

Georgia bared bloodied teeth. “Touch her and I’ll rip your head off.”

“I wish I hated you,” Evelyn whispered, raw. “Would make this easier.” She pressed a hand to Lanie’s charred chest, ignoring Georgia’s growl. “But no… I’m just a bitch who can’t quit a lost cause.”

Her magic surged—a verdant green, like wet earth after rain and blooming lilies choked by cemetery silt. Lanie’s skin knit itself back together, scales reglazing like kiln-fired enamel. Evelyn gasped, veins gilding gold then blackening as the spell siphoned her marrow.

“Blood magic… cuts both ways,” Lanie rasped, eyelids fluttering.

Evelyn collapsed against Georgia’s shoulder, breath ragged. “No shit… Sherlock Whore.”

The three women sat tangled in the wreckage—Lanie limp in Georgia’s lap, Evelyn’s head lolling against her arm. The tattoo now quiet, its fury spent.

“You’re… heavy,” Georgia muttered.

Evelyn snorted. “Says the girl with a literal dragon lying on her lap.”

Lanie’s smirk was a ghost of its former blade as she mouthed, "Still… got moves. Her

gaze locked with Evelyn’s, telepathy humming between them like a live wire: *Xan.*

Evelyn stiffened. *You knew?*
Of course, witch. *Since your 'recovery.' I chose not to intrude.* Lanie’s mental voice demanded. *Looks like time to come clean though.* Evelyn simply nodded.

Georgia stared at the ceiling, where plaster rained down like funeral ash. “What now?”

Evelyn’s fingers brushed Lanie’s cheek—a ghost of a touch. “Now… we talk.”

 
 
XVII. Weaving the tale

The three women perched on the edge of the bed, a tangle of tension and teeth. Lanie lit a cigarette with a flick of her wrist, the flame sputtering like a dying star. Smoke coiled around Evelyn’s face, catching the greasy sheen of the bedroom’s antique chandelier. "My turn first. Since when?” Lanie rasped, her voice ground glass and sulphur.

Evelyn’s gaze slid to Georgia—seated squarely in the middle, spine steel straight.

“Since the closet at the ball,” Evelyn purred, curls fracturing light like shattered kaleidoscope glass. “Watching you shack up with that—” A derisive nod toward Lanie, “—bargain-bin Charon cosplay. What was he, a hedge-fund sorcerer with mummy's Amex? Please. You used to devour Titans, Lanie. Now you were licking crumbs.”

Georgia’s knuckles blanched, the air curdling—burnt ozone and scorched rituals.

Georgia’s knuckles whitened, the air thickening—burnt clove and sweat, ozone, and old spells.

Lanie’s fangs were a jagged heirloom dagger. “Careful, witch. That’s my magnum opus you’re insulting.” She exhaled smoke rings that unravelled into nothing.

“Magnum opus?” Evelyn laughed, like champagne flutes shattering in a cathedral. “Darling, your magnum opus is a taxidermied dumpster fire. But fine—let’s call it visionary. I fed you Alaric, didn’t I? That spreadsheet with a pulse? Planted a tracer in his Rolex, figured he’d keep you busy while I peeled back the wards on your little… project.”

She breathed, breath sweet as poisoned syrup. “Six scrying pools turned to dust. Two hex-familiars retired to a farm upstate—though their yapping was worse than their bite. And Alaric?” Her smile sharpened. “Had to scrub his prefrontal cortex after he tripped over your CV, 'Dragonmother'. He sobbed like a novitiate caught defiling the sacristy. Almost made me nostalgic.”

Georgia’s voice sharpened to a whetstone’s edge. “Why wait ’til now?”

Evelyn’s smirk faltered—a hairline crack in lacquer. “Because watching you thrash? Flail? Play martyr in last season’s leather?” Her tongue darted over crimson lips. “It was… instructive. Served a purpose.”

Lanie barked a laugh, smoke tendrils writhing. “The Wyrm’s always savoured rot.”

“And you’ve got a fetish for choke chains.” Evelyn closed the gap, her mammoth meat pressing into Georgia’s thigh—unyielding, the gold hoop glinting like a guillotine’s blade. “But let’s skip the martyr monologue. I’ve craved this—” Her nails raked Georgia’s ribs, etching blood-moon crescents, “—since the armistice.”

Lanie arched a brow. “You… huh? Wanting this I get. But before? Also never pinned why you’d trade that for—” She gestured at Evelyn’s silhouette, “—this. But George?”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, but before we spiral into your sordid fanfic—” she mimed gagging, “—let me finish.”

Her hand slid higher, fingertips branding Georgia’s sternum. “When you marched into negotiations as the Demon of the Iron March. Non-magicals' attack hound, slaughterer of the Obsidian Coven—with Lanie draped on your arm like a trophy wife. Oh, she masked it well and she played it so... so sweet. Dragon queen turned Stepford smoke show, still clutching your spend under that prim dress. Thought no one noticed? I did.”

Georgia’s jaw tightened. “I do not recall you being there.”

“Oh, I was.” Evelyn’s voice dropped, venom and velvet. “Pissed enough to melt diamonds. You—the great butcher who cleaved through sorcerers like kindling—suddenly playing peacemaker? And excelling? Don’t fret, I’ll take that secret to the pyre.”

Her thumb buried itself into Georgia’s hipbone. “Wanted to fuck you up that day. Not kill you, given the peace at stake. Just… crack a rib. Dislocate that smug jaw. Remind you what happens when gods get annoyed.”

Lanie stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray, the embers hissing. “Jealousy’s a rancid perfume, Ev.”

“Jealous?” Evelyn’s grin was a scalpel dipped in honey. “Of what? Watching the Demon trade his claws for a clipboard? Or watching you trade your crown for a collar?” She leaned into Georgia’s ear, breath scalding. Ruining you is sweeter than murder. And darlin’… I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

Georgia’s fists trembled, the tattoo writhing beneath her skin. Lanie caught her wrist, thumb circling her pulse. “Baby, breathe. You’re a lit match in a powder keg. Let me cast one spell. Trust me?”

Georgia’s laugh frayed, a torn flag in a storm, but her gaze never wavered. “Every cut, every burn—I let you carve into me. Because I saw it. Every time. That flicker in your eyes—like you were flaying yourself alive with every wound you gave me.” Her thumb brushed the blistered skin of Lanie’s forearm, voice splintering. “Do it.”

Lanie stilled. Her breath, a snapped high-tension cable spitting sparks.

“Seventeen years,” Georgia pressed, words raw as an exposed nerve. “Seventeen years of you being your blade and your whetstone. I know you like I know my own breath. Every time you sold yourself to some shallow dick, I watched you bleed out a little more. You think I didn’t see it? The way you’d hollow your own ribs to make room for the next betrayal?”

Her voice dropped, gravel and grief. “You’d escalate—deeper, crueller—hoping I’d break. But I saw the truth. Every scar you etched on me was a confession. A prayer.”

Lanie’s eyes glinted, bleeding cursed gemstones.

“It hurt,” Georgia hissed. “Like tearing out my own heart. Again. And again. But I’d stitch it back each time, because I knew—whatever this was, whatever you needed to exorcise—you needed me to survive it. To witness it.” Her palm pressed over Lanie’s chest, where a heartbeat thrashed like a caged thing. “So do it. Finish the damn tapestry.”

Lanie’s breath snagged—a snapped banjo wire. She cradled Georgia’s face, tears glinting like falling diamonds. “One last stitch, sugar.” The kiss was salt and smoke, a confession pressed into Georgia’s lips. Then her hands glowed, amber runes twisting serpent-like up her wrists. Not the cold precision of traditional spellwork, but something feverish, alive. She laid her hand upon Georgia's chest.

The spell hit like a honey-drenched thunderclap. Georgia convulsed, a scream tearing loose as heat erupted from the charm, her dragon tattoo writhing like smoke on a smoldering oil drum. Muscles to mush, but the hunger? Oh goddess. It clawed at her ribs, a famished beast. "L-Lanie—!"

“Surrender,” Lanie drawled, smoke seeping from her grin like a rusted tailpipe. “Spiked with a burning need to be stuffed. Need to thank Ev for her little homebrew. Figured you’d hate it less if it came gift-wrapped with pleasure.” Her smirk wavered—a crack in the porcelain. Georgia saw it.

Evelyn’s grin only sharpened. “Oh, our girl here will hate it just enough.”

The kiss was abrupt—Evelyn’s mouth a lit fuse. Georgia’s back hit the silk duvet, the charm humming as Evelyn’s fingers closed around it.

“Wai—”

“No.” Evelyn’s teeth scraped her jugular, voice a velvet garrote. “I’ve waited through ceasefires and your insufferable self-actualisation phases. . No bullshit hesitation.”

Georgia’s protest dissolved into a moan.

Lanie watched, sprawled like a debauched monarch. “Y’know, we could multitask. Ruin her while we revisit history.”

Evelyn nipped Georgia’s collarbone, drawing a ruby bead. “Mmm, etiquette says the guest of honour gets ravaged first.” Her lips closed around Georgia’s nipple—a bite that carved a scream into a laugh. “As the bards say—” Another bite, claiming, “—hospitality is just cruelty in lace.”

Georgia’s curse fractured into a gasp. “Fucking… harpies…”

Lanie’s talons traced the dragon’s spine down Georgia’s thigh. “Guilty.”

“No refunds,” Evelyn purred, gold hoop flashing as she mounted Georgia, the bedframe creaking like a gallows rope.

Outside, the moon drowned in smog. Somewhere, a streetlamp buzzed its last rites. The night stretched its jaws wider—a feral thing, all hunger and no patience.

 
 
XVIII. The centre of attention

Georgia hung suspended between them—Evelyn’s cock buried to the hilt, Lanie’s tongue down her throat. One hand clawed the headboard, the other twisted in sweat-slick sheets. Her back arched like a bowstring, thighs splayed wide as Evelyn’s talons bit into her hips. Lanie’s teeth followed, claiming Georgia’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

“X-Xanathar—!” Georgia gasped, the name torn loose as Evelyn snapped her hips forward.

“Got it in one, cupcake.” Evelyn’s grin split the dim light, oil-slick and feral. Her true form flickered—scales rippling beneath human skin, pupils swallowing the room whole. “Who else could stomach your mess?”

Lanie snorted, her laugh smoke-rough as she palmed Georgia’s breast. “Dragon Daddy likes playing dress-up? Should’ve guessed. Those boots?” She flicked Evelyn’s thigh-high stiletto. "Scream midlife crisis hag.”

“Says the hag hoarding moth-eaten lingerie.” Evelyn’s thrusts turned jagged, the bedframe screeching. “Fuck—breathe, Georgia. You’re built like a brick shithouse.”

Georgia’s breath hitched—sharp as a switchblade’s click—as her own magic surged. Ribs cinched corset-tight without Lanie’s hand, bones grinding like bad gears in a stolen car. Hips narrowed, breasts swelling until the dragon tattoo rippled like a living thing. “F-fuck—!”

“Hush, cupcake.” Lanie’s nail traced Georgia’s collarbone. “Delicate. Busty. Think… tragic opera heroine.” She smirked, thumb brushing Georgia’s split lip. “With a side of back-alley flexibility.”

Lanie’s grin cut through the haze, her fingers mocking a conductor’s wave. “There she is—Van Gogh with a vag. Shape it, baby.”

Georgia moaned, the change flowing through her—her power now, free and feral. One moment, broad shoulders, a warrior goddess; the next, coltish limbs and trapped-ballerina energy.

Evelyn snarled, claws digging deep as Georgia's curved to an impossible shape. "Lovely parlour trick. Now look at your mistress, love." She pinned Georgia's chin, wrenching her face towards Lanie. "You are her masterpiece at its peak."

Georgia’s breath stuttered—half terror, half ecstasy. It was Lanie’s will that let her morph into this new shape. Soft. Small. A hummingbird heartbeat where once a demon had thundered. Could she will it too? Could George return?

Lanie's smile faltered, only for an instant. "Male frames? Gas station sushi vs. THIS baby. You're the finest Wagyu now.” She kissed Georgia’s temple, voice dropping. “I'll miss my George beyond anything. But this...?” Her hand drifted between Georgia’s thighs. “This keeps you, keeps us alive.”

Georgia’s back arched in response. Entirely her choice this time, spine curving like a drawn bow as she smiled in rapture. “D-don’t need yo—nh!—your—permission.”

Lanie’s laugh cracked like a whip. “Attagirl. Now bend like your daddy wants you to.”

Evelyn’s laugh dripped venom. “Saint Georgia—dragon slayer, lace model.” She slammed deeper, Georgia’s gasp dissolving into a whine.

“Arch. Higher.”

Georgia obeyed, arching back until her spine creaked. "F-fuck—me—harder—."

“Louder,” Evelyn hissed, her conquering cock pulsing as Georgia’s willing walls clenched in surrender.

“P-please—.”

Evelyn stilled, cock twitching deep. A talon grazed Georgia’s throat.

“Please…?”

Lanie’s hand slid to Georgia’s generous breast, pinching a nipple hard. “Specify, roadkill. Call her Daddy.”

Georgia’s hips jerked—Evelyn’s thrusts were now shallow, teasing. “N-no—”

Lanie dragged Georgia up as she ground up to her. Her clit piercing rubbing against Lanie’s bare cunt as the dragon queen wrenched her upright. Georgia’s scream fractured—Lanie swallowed it whole, their mouths fused in a kiss that tasted like ash and stolen confessions. Juices slicked their thighs, the rose-gold charm between Georgia’s legs humming like a wasp trapped in amber.

“Why—?” Georgia choked, her hips stuttering between Lanie’s merciless grind and Evelyn’s piston drives.

Lanie tore her hungry mouth away from Georgia's, scales flickering across her cheeks.

“Because I love you and she—” Her throat clicked, gaze darting to Evelyn—before her smirk hardened. “—this. Our chaos. Our beautiful fucking mess.” She slammed Georgia back onto Evelyn’s cock, her voice a serrated whisper. "You will always be the heart.”

Evelyn laughed, the sound ricocheting off Georgia’s spine. "Nngh—ah! You’ll love u... this.”

Evelyn’s thrusts became erratic. Georgia's back bowed like a violin string about to snap, her scream muffled against Lanie's teeth. "Nnghhh—ah!—Daddy—!"

The title tore loose from her lips—half sob, half snarl.

Lanie moved like a struck match—yanking Georgia into a tighter hug still impaled on Evelyn. The shift punched a scream from Georgia’s lungs, drowned by Lanie’s kiss. Teeth and tongue and smoke, arms vice-locked around her ribs.

“There’s my choking hazard,” Lanie rasped against her mouth.

Evelyn’s claws anchored Georgia’s hips, driving up into the new angle. “Attagirl.”

“She is ours," their synchronised grins said.

Georgia’s world narrowed to fracture points. Lanie’s grip bruising her biceps, Evelyn’s scales shredding her thighs, the charm searing her clit like a brand. Her back arched between them, a bowstring snapped mid-draw.

Evelyn came first, scales erupting down her arms as her spend flooded Georgia. The other two followed with silent screams, their orgasms a wildfire that scorched each other's throats.

Outside, dawn bled through grease-smeared windows. A moth beat its wings once—twice—against the bulb before spiralling into the ashtray’s graveyard of butts.

 
 
Continued in Part 7

 
 

XIX. Blackreach and Blacker Hearts

The moth’s carcass smouldered, wings fused to a cigarette butt like a failed origami angel. Evelyn traced the curve of Georgia’s hip, her touch tender as a grease fire. For three breaths, the room held still—the kind of quiet that lives between a trigger pull and the bullet’s verdict.

Georgia’s sweat cooled on Evelyn’s tongue, tasting of copper and comfort. “You’re trembling,” she murmured, not unkindly. Her thumb brushed the charm welded to Georgia’s clit. A flicker of something human crossed her face—regret, or its regret, or its piss-poor cousin, nostalgia.

Then her pupils split vertically. Serpentine.

Evelyn’s hips stuttered mid-thrust, the gold hoop piercing in her cock grinding against Georgia’s insides like a socket wrench on rust. Georgia felt the shift—muscles coiling beneath skin, a tremor that had nothing to do with pleasure. Her legs spread wider against her will, tendons straining like puppet strings.

“Let’s tell you a story,” Evelyn purred, her voice oil-slick and clotted. “Starts with a woman who forgot her own name.”

Her claws flexed, drawing twin ribbons of crimson down Georgia’s thighs. “Michelle. Pathetic alias. Evelyn Prime playing non-magical girlfriend before the war.” A wet click in her throat. “Sorry. Not sorry. Fuck.”

Evelyn’s next thrust tore skin from Georgia’s inner walls. “Stop—!” Georgia choked, blood trickling down her thighs as her hands scrabbled uselessly at the sheets. Fingers moving without her consent to grip the headboard—like a violin strung with barbed wire.

Oh, sweet thing,” Evelyn crooned, her canines lengthening as she licked the wound. “Forgive me,” she whispered against her blood-soaked finger, then snarled. “All that magic resistance, burned away thanks to your wife. Nothing left but meat.”

She snapped her hips harder, the ridges of her cock carving fresh welts. “Scream properly. I want relics to remember you by.”

Lanie’s body lunged—a marionette jerk of limbs—her half-formed snarl dying as Evelyn’s magic yanked her tendons taut. Evelyn didn’t even glance back.

Evelyn casually flicked her finger. Lanie’s eyes glazed over, her pupils dilating into voids as her jaw unhinged with a wet pop only magic could cause. Terror etched itself into the cracks of her skin. Georgia’s panicked body locked, joints fused by invisible solder.

“Lick,” Lanie hissed, but her voice frayed—dragonfire guttering to embers. Georgia obeyed, her neck craning against protesting vertebrae. The flat of her tongue dragging a shudder from Lanie’s hips even as her chest split.

“Evelyn, the old Evelyn… oh, she lived. Loved diplomats. Loved dryads. Loved those sexually amorphous were-things… she loved everything until she loved only George—”

“Six months,” Evelyn sneered. “Domestic rot. Pancake breakfasts. Letting George—” The name cracked like a rifle shot, “—play hero in alleyway scuffles. Thought she’d found peace in that mediocrity.”

Her laugh curdled. “Peace smells like bleach and unwashed diapers, you know.” A pause. Scales rippled up her arms. “I’d apologise for the stench, but we’re well past courtesy.”

Georgia tried to stop but could not. Lanie’s thighs clamped around her skull like hydraulic presses. Femurs creaking like unoiled hinges as Georgia’s unwilling tongue continued its assault.

“Stupid bitch rejoined the fight,” Evelyn continued, talons scoring Georgia’s hips. “Left her white knight without a note. Didn’t matter that she carried his brat—warrior’s honour.” The words dripped acid. “Pregnancies make for terrible battle readiness, turns out. Captured. Dumped in Blackreach. Prisoners there? Your conquests, Georgie.”

Her claws retracted with a wet schlick. “Should’ve protected them. Should’ve protected her. My fault. Her fault. Your fault.”

The mattress creaked like a gallows rope. Georgia’s magic writhed beneath her skin, the tattoo rippling. “I didn’t command—”

“—but you didn’t stop it!” Evelyn’s roar rattled the bourbon bottles on the nightstand. One shattered. Glass shards rotated in mid-air, then slammed themselves into the wall. Spelling SORRY-SORRY-SORRY in jagged cursive.

“Blackreach’s warden kept his version of peace. His rules. When they stripped her naked, carved her up like Sunday roast.” Her claws sank deeper, Georgia’s hips lifting obediently to meet each brutal thrust. “You were too busy brokering treaties to notice that your rabid dogs needed leashes.”

Lanie’s hand slid to Georgia’s throat against her will, thumb pressing the fluttering pulse. “Listen,” she growled, but her nails trembled.

“Prime survived nine weeks,” Evelyn said, voice curdling. “Nine weeks of piss buckets and rat bites. Ohh... Fridays were special—gangbang night.” Her rhythm stuttered, a fractured moan escaping her lips. “Apologies. Not apologies. Keep still.”

When news of the armistice did come out… Guards panicked. Made every night a gang-rape party aiming to kill. Sixth guard used a dagger—” She mimed twisting, “—here. Made her sing hymns of agony while they took turns.”

Georgia’s sob tore loose. Her hands clutched at Evelyn’s thighs, pulling her closer even as she screamed: “I came as soon as I heard—”

Evelyn slammed her into the headboard, the wood splintering. “After she bled out in a pig trough!” Spittle flecked Georgia’s cheek. Her next thrust gentled for half a heartbeat. “No. No mercy. Can’t.”

“Three days too late. Nine fucking weeks of her whispering your name like a prayer.” Evelyn’s voice broke. “Died thinking you’d ride in, sword shining. Never knew you’d already moved on. That her absence barely itched.”

“She died with your name rotting in her teeth!”

Georgia’s magic surged, the tattoo cracking. Her body began to shift—hips narrowing, shoulders widening—before Evelyn's claws sank into her ribcage. Halting her transformation in its tracks.

"Stay. She commands it."

She leaned closer, her darkness dripping like a broken sieve—obsidian horns, forge-pit eyes.

“You liked Michelle. Might’ve loved her, given time. But she was just… practice. A placeholder till Lanie entered your life.” Her finger traced Georgia’s neck. “I’d let you beg if it mattered. Doesn’t matter though. Fuck.”

"Meanwhile my girl moldered. Your spawn turned to black sludge in her belly. Drip-fed prison filth through IVs made of guard cum."

Georgia remembered her through her tears.

“Fixed it,” Michelle announced in triumph. Cotton sheets inside the dryer smelled of thunderstorms and rosemary. George pretended not to notice the sparks still dancing on her fingertips.

“Sorceresses shouldn’t need stupid recipe books,” she’d hissed, throwing the spoon that hung embedded in the old kitchen wall long after she was gone.

The diner booth, 3 AM. Michelle’s laugh, warm as a whiskey pour. Her hand on his knee. “You’re different,” she had said. “Not like the monsters.” He simply smiled and kissed her. Never once did he ask her why she flinched whenever she saw him in uniform.

Months later, he’d see the scars on Evelyn's body, but only today did Georgia understand.
“Why her?” Georgia rasped.

Evelyn’s laugh was a bone saw chewing through sheet metal. “Couldn’t slum it with you apes in my true form. Male draconic energy’s… loud. Like a jackhammer in a chapel.” Her hips pistoned, each thrust carving a fresh wound where pleasure bled into punishment.

“Needed a warm body. Got word of Prime’s suicide, teleported in for a soul-merge. Thought I’d wear her corpse like a weekend fling.”
Georgia gagged as the gold hoop snagged her insides. Evelyn leaned down, her breath reeking of burnt hair and funeral lilies. “Should’ve chosen better,” she muttered, almost to herself. “Soul-merges? Messier than a back-alley autopsy. Prime’s husk fought me like a rabid dog. No good memories left—just claws and teeth and Blackreach’s rot etched into her marrow.”

The merge… Her voice faltered, scales flickering at her temples. “Wasn’t just her flesh I took. Felt every violation, every blade bite, every drop of filth they unloaded into her rotting womb.”

A muscle twitched in her jaw—draconic, involuntary. “Xanathar—dragon-god of conquest, breaker of citadels—crawled onto a Blackreach parapet that night, ready to leap.”

“Her pain was battery acid in my veins. Only thing that stopped me from taking the plunge? Her scream in our shared skull—not fear, not sorrow. Fury. A firestorm in mortal flesh, screaming to be weaponised."

Lanie’s nails involuntarily dug into Georgia’s scalp, drawing blood. In agony, she whispered, “Lick,” even as tears streaked her frozen face.

Georgia had no choice but to obey, her body betraying her completely now. Her tongue moved with precision, puppeteered to force a moan from Lanie’s throat.

Evelyn watched, her grin a rusted bear trap. “Feral little thing. Should have been ash long ago. But that gutter-born bitch bloody well clawed her way back. Made me... feel her... feel EVERYTHING!”

A pause. The room held its breath.

“Wanted a powerful meat shell,” Evelyn hissed, talons flexing. “Crown of lightning hidden under all that blood.” A shudder racked her frame. “Apologies taste like bile, don’t they?”

“Didn’t know her agony would become my compass.”

“Given a decade or two to grow?” Her voice softened, almost reverent. “She’d have chewed through warlords like bubblegum. A sorceress ruling dragons. But you—” Her claw traced Georgia’s jugular. “—left her to die. So I made a deal with the beast inside her. Let her rage eat a piece of me. Ripped those guards apart one by one.” Magic nullifiers don’t work on dragons; you know that, Georgie.”

Glass crunched underfoot as she adjusted her grip, shaking her head, trying to fight a thought. “No! Regret’s for weaker creatures.”
 
 
XX. When debts come knocking.
 
Seventeen years ago.

---

The prison door exploded inward. George stood haloed in prison floodlights buzzing like fat wasps, plasma sword humming like a hornet’s nest in a toddler’s fist. The stench hit him first—copper, shit fermenting in summer heat, pork left smoking on a meth-lab grill. Reports had called it a massacre. Rogue sorceress. Guards butchered. He’d expected a monster.

Instead, he found her
.
His genitals lay on the ground like rotten plums fallen off the tree. Her head snapped back when she heard his footsteps. Her gaze met his. Their eyes met. Hers weren’t eyes anymore—feral, enraged, like shattered shards of glass, catching moonlight in all the wrong ways. Blood painted her lips in a clown smile, too red, too wide.

“Stand the fuck down,” George growled, blade raised. Protocol demanded it. Duty demanded it. His fear demanded it louder.

She lunged. Not with magic—with teeth. A feral snarl tore from her throat, feral as a junkyard dog with a firecracker up its arse as she raked his forearm. They traded blows, they grappled, crashing into stone walls. Her knee found his gut; his elbow cracked her ribs. She fought like a starved beast, violent, jagged, and uncontrolled fury.

He pinned her against the wall, plasma searing the air near her temple. She twisted, teeth sinking into his wrist until tendons popped. He slammed her skull against stone—once, twice—her growl dissolving into a wet choke. The sword kissed her throat. She stilled, chest heaving, eyes rolling like loaded dice.

A guttural snarl ripped from her throat—“Vashtak’ra! Kess’vahl dremora!”* The words slithered, ancient and venomous, a dead tongue’s curse. Eat shit and meet your ancestors.

“George, stop!”

Lanie’s voice shattered the air. She staggered into the cell. “Look at her,” she pleaded, raw as a skinned knee on gravel. “Look.”

He did.

Evelyn’s hands trembled, fingertips twitching as if plucking invisible harp strings made of nerve endings. A flicker rippled across her cheekbones—skin mottling black and green, like grease and smoke. Her dress hung in tatters, threads clinging to hips crisscrossed with scars. Cigarette burns in perfect rows, finger-shaped bruises purpling her thighs. A bite mark crescenting her breastbone too precise for battle, too familiar for war. The knuckles of her left hand gleamed raw, flesh torn back to reveal bone—she’d gnawed herself down to the gristle.

Lanie’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’re not slaying a monster.” She gripped George’s wrist, forcing the plasma blade’s glow to illuminate Evelyn’s throat. A collar of bruises, rope burns snaking beneath her ears like devil’s ivy. “You’re executing their victim.”

The sword wavered. Evelyn’s breath hitched—a wet, broken sound, the gasp of a punctured lung. Her gaze locked on George’s, and for a heartbeat, the savage glaze crumbled. Tears welled, spilling over her filth and blood-caked cheeks. Carving channels like acid rains, ruining fertile lands.

Recognition flared.

Her pupils constricted—human again, terrified. A flinch tore through her, violent as a snapped bear trap. “N-no,” she rasped, voice shredded. “Not you. Not you. Nononono—”

Her spine hit the wall.

She curled inward, arms clutching her stomach like she could stuff the child back in—the one they’d scraped out with a guard’s boot heel and a laugh. A scream tore loose—not rage, but anguish, the sound of a soul unspooling into a void.

Then silence.

She collapsed, limbs splayed like a discarded puppet. Lanie surged forward, cradling Evelyn’s head in her lap. “Stay with me,” she begged, tears dripping onto the woman’s cracked lips, each drop hissing where it struck blood. “Just… breathe. Breathe through it. I’m here.”

George stood frozen, plasma sword slipping from numb fingers. Cell walls throbbing like a meth-head’s neck vein. The guards’ corpses surrounded them, grinning in death. One still clutching a rusted dagger—blade notched from peeling skin, handle stained with more than blood.

He fell to his knees. The cell walls pulsed harder now, breathing in time with Evelyn’s rattling gasps. “No more,” he choked, gagging on bile and the metallic tang of complicity. “Never again. Never. Never. Never.”

Somewhere, water dripped. The sword’s hum faded to a moth’s last wingbeat.

 
Back in the present.

---

“You abandoned her!” Evelyn roared, scales erupting down her arms like armour forged in a foundry of grief. “Eight Fridays, they took turns. Every time they carved pieces of her away. Ninth week? Every night she was… A muscle twitched beneath her eye, a tic that hadn’t existed before Blackreach.

“Every night they… So during the battle we prayed. Artemitra’s altar reeked of Prime’s tears. Two souls, one oath—” Her voice splintered, the dragon’s growl fraying into something smaller, human. “Let him lose what I lost. Let him break as I… she did.”

The unspoken truth hung like a hangman’s rope between them.

She’d carved the oath into her bones that moment. By the time George lowered his sword, the curse had already fossilised. Artemitra’s magic cared nothing for remorse.

Georgia’s breath stuttered. Evelyn leaned closer, her rage dissolving into something raw, marrow-deep. “You were supposed to be the good one, but you simply weren’t good enough,” she whispered, smoke curling from her nostrils like a snuffed candle’s last breath. Her scales rippled, obsidian fracturing to reveal patches of skin—Michelle’s skin, scarred but still soft.

“Eight weeks of your lover’s betrayal. Her absence... And then, her helplessness when you needed her most. Your manhood ripped from you? Every child Lanie carried? Gone. Sluiced out in rented suites and clinics that smelled of lemongrass and shame.”

A lie. A truth. A curse’s demand.

In the cell, seventeen years ago, she’d seen George’s horror too late. She had cemented that vow to make him suffer as Prime had suffered and then to end him.

Lanie thrashed against the hold, a raw sob tearing loose. “Evelyn—! I didn’t know—”

Evelyn backhanded her. “Ignorance doesn’t absolve you. This is your penance.” Her voice softened, cracks spiderwebbing through the venom. The dragon's rage receding like a tide dragged backwards. “I know you love her. This time though, love means letting the knife twist.”

Georgia collapsed forward, wrists grinding against spectral chains. “End it then. But why chain us to this… this funeral masquerade?”

Evelyn’s laugh was a shard of broken choir, her scales flickering—dragonfire guttering.

“Because the curse isn’t just yours,” she said, her human teeth flashing briefly behind serpent lips. “Artemitra demanded symmetry. A life for a life, degradation for degradation.” She knelt, tilting Georgia’s chin up, no malice left—only exhaustion.

"You think I wanted this? To be the blade instead of the hand?” Her thumb brushed his jaw, a lover’s caress etched with barbs. “The curse needed an ending. A death blow to seal the pact.”

Lanie snarled, embers glowing in her throat. “Take me instead. My wings, my hoard, anything.”

“Too late.” Evelyn’s talon hovered for a heartbeat. Then it struck.

Georgia’s ribs cracked like porcelain under a tank tread. Lanie’s scream fractured as Evelyn ripped the heart free, its rhythm stuttering in her fist. Georgia slumped, vacant eyes locked on Lanie as her neck fell free from between Lanie's legs. Betrayal etched in her final gasp. Not of Evelyn, but of the vows they had shattered.

“Seventeen years cursed," Evelyn murmured, cradling the blackening heart. Her claws trembled—as the curse unravelled in her veins. “Now you’re free. We both are.”

Lanie’s scream tore through the room—a sound that might have summoned tornadoes in another life, if the world still bothered to listen. Her paralysis broke and she scrambled to Georgia’s body, charred hands pressing the ruined chest. “You promised—” Scales sloughed off her arms like autumn leaves from a poisoned tree. “You swore you’d stay—!”

Evelyn stared at the heart crumbling in her fist, its ashen flakes drifting like funeral silt. Michelle’s voice surfaced one last time, a moth trapped in a dragon’s throat: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—”

“It had to burn,” Evelyn rasped, voice stripped to a rusted wire. “The curse had to run its course. Even regret couldn’t unbind it.” Her talons plunged into her own chest, ribs splintering like kindling to mirror the hollow where Georgia’s heart once beat. Blood spilt along with ichor-black smoke coiling from the wound.

"Artemitra!" Evelyn howled, pounding her breastbone until scales split like eggshells under a boot. Blood welled, then sealed—flesh knitting itself raw and pink before their eyes. “The hunt’s done! The debt’s paid! Take me instead!”

She clawed at the air as if tearing at the goddess’s veil, her talons snapping and regrowing in grotesque time-lapse. “I surrender! By right of conquest, her victory was earned. By the maggot-soft rot festering in my marrow, take my heart, my wings, my fire!” Her voice broke, a dam crumbling. “Just… give her back.”

Lanie lunged, teeth bared—then froze. Not from magic, but from the raw, animal wrongness of Evelyn’s grief. The dragon wasn’t snarling now. She was a marionette with cut strings, talons still buried in her own flesh, keening a dirge only the damned could sing.

Evelyn’s eyes met hers—dragon-glow dimming to funeral-parlour fluorescence. A silent plea, strung on barbed wire: Finish it. ‘Crack my spine. Let me choke on the mercy I never gave.’

Memories ambushed Lanie. George’s voice, whiskey-rough and frayed at the edges, murmuring against her nape after the first miscarriage. “We aren't soldiers anymore. Just… gardeners now. Planting seeds in salted earth.”

“Gardens rot,” she slurred.

George pressed their entwined hands to the fresh scar below her navel. ”So we plant again.”

The wedding band she had taken off those weeks ago suddenly weighed thirteen pounds.

“No,” Lanie snarled. Not gentleness—refusal. She lunged, seizing Evelyn’s wrist. Talons tore free from the dragon’s chest with a wet pop, trailing filaments of shadow that lashed like live wires. “You don’t get to tap out. Never.” She hauled Evelyn forward by her matted hair, roots tearing loose like stitches from rotten fabric. “Fix her. Now.”

Evelyn convulsed, laughter bubbling between cracked lips. “Can’t resew a shredded quilt, darling. Curse did its—”

Lanie backhanded her. The blow split Evelyn’s cheek open, revealing muscle fibres twitching like dying crickets. “George owed you nine weeks. You got seventeen years. Now fix it.”

They collapsed beside Georgia’s body—two women tangled in a grave soil embrace. Lanie pressed her forehead to Georgia’s sternum, searching for a heartbeat she already knew was absent. Evelyn’s claw hovered above the cavity she had carved, trembling.

“Tried,” Evelyn whispered. A confession, not defiance. Her talon traced the jagged edges of Georgia’s ribs—white bone peeking through ruined flesh like piano keys through burnt velvet. “Built the curse tight as a hangman’s knot. No loopholes. No redemption arcs.”

She inhaled sharply, the sound whistling through her perforated lung. “Death was the only mercy left.”

Lanie’s hand found Evelyn’s nape, grip gentler than either deserved. Fingertips brushing the downy scales beneath her hairline—a gesture stolen from George. “Then we’ll be beggars.” She guided Evelyn’s claw to Georgia’s chest, their joined fingers slick with ash and regret.

“Try harder.”

Magic sparked—feeble, sputtering. A necromancer’s first fumble. Evelyn’s breath hitched. “Lan, I—”

“TRY… PLEASE!”

The room dissolved into light.

When the glare faded, Georgia lay whole.

Not alive—repaired. Skin flawless like doll porcelain, lashes feathered against pallid cheeks. A mortician’s masterpiece. Empty.

Evelyn sagged against Lanie, her remaining magic spent. “Can’t… can’t reignite snuffed candles.”

Lanie pressed her lips to Georgia’s brow. A moth battered itself against the windowsill, wings powdered with attic dust. Somewhere, a faucet dripped in rhythm with Evelyn’s slowing breaths.

“Should’ve let you kill me,” Evelyn wept into Lanie’s shoulder, her tears sizzling where they fell.

Lanie’s teary chuckle rattled. “Tempting.” She carded her fingers through Evelyn’s hair, matted strands parting like swamp reeds in a poisoned marsh. “But George always said… Mercy’s just vengeance wearing Sunday best.”

They clung to each other—” Take it all. Give her back”—their final wails dissolving into a voiceless haemorrhage. The sound of a thousand childhood music boxes wound backwards until their springs snapped.

Somewhere, a moth’s wings calcified mid-beat. Some debts outlive the debtor.

But outside, the night didn’t care.

It just kept chewing.
 
 
Continued in Part 8

 
XXI. Mourning and Mothering

The whiskey carried the tang of abandoned orchards. Overripe pears rotting beneath trees planted for futures that never took root. Lanie swirled her glass, watching dregs spiral into miniature maelstroms. Across the table, Evelyn cradled her drink like a stillborn songbird, its broken wings folded against her palm. Rain needled the windows, stitching the night into a shroud.

“Testicular cancer,” Lanie spat. Ice clinked like loose teeth. “Poetic, no? The great war hero, felled by his own jewels.”

Evelyn picked at the bottle’s label, her claw leaving glyphs in the parchment. “Easy enough to transform a corpse. Morticians love tidy endings. Should’ve rigged rigor mortis post coitus. Let the tabloids canonise him.” Her claw etched spirals into the table’s wood grain. “Funeral selfies need pathos.”

The diamond weighed down Lanie’s ring finger — Georgia’s ashes compressed into a stone that caught the light like a fresh scab. She’d reset her wedding band herself, pliers slipping as she crushed the gold around it, leaving grooves that could fit between her teeth.

Evelyn never took off the pendant — two rubies set in tarnished rose gold, stones the exact same since they’d been sliced from George. Lanie had ripped it from her own clit the night after the funeral, the piercing torn raw, flesh still weeping. Pressed it into Evelyn’s palm with a wet click of blood and bourbon breath: “I don’t deserve it.”

Evelyn’s thumb found the grooves where George’s sweat would have pooled. The ghost of Claire’s voice floated through her thoughts — “I’d marry it... keep it polished... best little wifey this side of the apocalypse” — as she fastened the chain. It sat like a burn scar across her collarbone, rubies nesting where George’s laughter used to kick her ribs like a mule.

“Tailored his death suit better than we ever tailored our lies,” Lanie said, remembering cold silk against colder skin. How she’d stitched his chest closed with golden thread, symbolic really but still as meticulous as sealing a love letter.

Evelyn lit two cloves with a snap and passed one across no-man’s-land. Smoke plumed Rorschach stains. “Remember drinks at the quarry? Six months after you two saved me. You threatened to geld him over spilt mead.”

Lanie’s fang pierced the filter. "Idiot mistook my grimoire for a coaster.”

“Dragged him fifty yards behind the Harley. Boot soles smoking. Laughed so hard I cracked a rib.”

“Laughed so hard I pissed myself.” Evelyn’s smile frayed. “Realised then you’d either wed or murder each other.”

The diamond caught the lamplight, refracting scales across Lanie’s knuckles. “Ninety-seven days. That’s how long the first pregnancy lasted before the curse took root.” She’d bled garnets into motel toilets while George recited Marcus Aurelius like a benediction.

Evelyn examined her claws—onyx filed to surgical points. “Wombs make wretched reliquaries.”

Glass shivered as Lanie slammed her tumbler. “He held the basin. Quoted Epictetus while I—”

“Brought you black orchids afterwards." Evelyn’s shrug was a poorly sutured wound. “Unborn ghosts crowd crypts.”

The storm thickened. The house groaned like a ship taking on water.

“Remose only corrodes.” Evelyn touched her rubies, voice raw as stripped wire. “Cast the curse in Blackreach’s shadow. Bargained my wings when i was blinded by rage. Never imagined…”

The necklace flared, casting its bloody light on her throat, only in her imagination though. Lanie rotated her ring. “Tried… to keep his heart close. Fed on my own instead.”

“Tried to undo...” Evelyn’s talons gouged the table. “Account books balanced in tumours and tears. Didn’t factor…”

A phantom laugh echoed—Georgia’s contralto spliced with George’s rumble, yet it was gone before the echo could name itself.

Lanie’s ring weighed more than a stillborn star now. “Yet here we roost. Drinking his eulogy.”

Evelyn traced her palm. “Ran audits on his nonprofit those first years. Expected offshore accounts, embezzled grants. Found quinoa casseroles and AA meeting schedules instead.”

Lanie’s cigarette paused mid-ascent. “I knew it was you lizard. The bite mark wasn’t a groupie.”

“Phase one: infiltration.” Evelyn’s claw clicked against her tumbler. “Dressed as some shell-shocked vet, all shaky hands and puppy eyes. Let him comfort me. Sank teeth in deep enough to taste… fuck…divinity.” She examined her palm. “Expected screams. Excommunication. Got…patience. Bandages. Mint tea and a warm meal. The nerve of that bastard.”

Sleet hissed against the glass. Lanie reignited her lighter’s tiny hell. “Never needed to ask about the scar. Knew it was your ugly fangs.”

“Wore it like a campaign medal. Proof he’d weathered worse than me.” Her laugh splintered. “Sent succubi to seduce him during the mageland fundraiser. Bastard served them chamomile, discussed Keats. They came back quoting sonnets.”

Rain blurred the windows. Lanie’s lighter flared. “Hauled your cursed junk too, didn’t he?”

“Half-ton of haunted marble up five flights across Manhattan. In peak July.” Evelyn’s smile faltered. “Sweat through his shirt, grinned like I’d granted wishes. Said…” Her throat clicked. “Said moving my ‘art collection’ beat CrossFit.”

Lanie exhaled smoke through her nose. “My George and his gentleman bullshit.”

“Hated it.” Evelyn shredded a throw pillow, goose down snowing between her claws. “Hated how he’d smile whenever I called him an idiot. How even now the rubies warm when I…” She pressed a fist to her sternum. “Miss the hatred. Simpler.”

Lanie crushed her cigarette into an ossuary of butts. “Miss loving him, you mean.”

Evelyn imploded—shoulders curving into the armorless hunch Lanie hadn’t seen since Blackreach. Her whisper rasps: “Lit pyres in Artemitra’s chapels. Offered my hoard, my true name…”

Lanie knelt in shrapnel. “Demanded double jeopardy?”

“Recompense denied.” Evelyn pressed the rubies to her neck. “She doesn't… doesn't trade in second chances.”

Lanie extinguished her eighth cigarette into the congealed puddle of ash. “Steal something tomorrow. Something gaudy and irreplaceable.”

“Planning to.”

“Leave a cigarillo behind. Our calling card.” She stood, vertebrae crackling like dry kindling. “Wake me before you ransom the pope.” But things couldn’t be. Knuckles had to rap on hardwood at just that moment. Once. Twice. Metric.

“Fuck off,” they harmonised.

The diamond hummed. Hinges protested as Evelyn answered—and froze.

She stood haloed in sleet, black silk drinking the porch light. Hair like spilled ink, features carved from winter twilight, not a drop of water on her though. Oh, she was not just beautiful, she was inescapable. Her gaze swept Evelyn aside with a tilt of her chin, the command did not need to be spoken.

Lanie lurched up. The stranger lifted an index finger—a motion only as subtle as continents shifting. Glass shattered in the kitchen cabinet. Bourbon pooled around Lanie’s boots like a sacrifice pissed on.

Just like that, they followed, compliant as penitents. To the couch where George’s ghost still dented the cushions. She settled where his laughter once resonated, skirts cascading like a landslide of starless night. Up close, her eyes betrayed epochs. Starfields and burial shafts, shipwrecked schooners, wedding bands, smiling children and chemotherapy ports. Those orbs were the event horizons where apologies went to die.

When she spoke, glaciers calved in her vowels:

“What.” (ribcages resonating)

“Did.” (lungs humming)

“You.” (teeth memorising the shape of confession)

“Do.” (tears exploding)

“TO MY CHILD?”
 
 
XXII. Broken Confessions

The diamond pulsed—once, twice—casting fractured light across the woman’s ageless face. Lanie had no choice but to clear her throat, no questions, no challenges, time for verbal diarrhoea.

“Cancer,” she said. “Choriocarcinoma. Little bastard nested in his left gonad like a tick. Rapidly metastasising.” Her laugh scratched raw. “Perfect, yeah? Survives siege engines and wyvern venom, undone by his own family jewels.”

She ground her molars. "Curse started with the miscarriages—our third girl came out clutching uterine tissue like a fucking souvenir. Killed all the children we hoped to have before it finally came to kill him.”

“Basic scrying caught it—only magic that stuck. Rest slid off him like piss on rusted iron.” Her laugh mirrored her nail. “—couldn’t risk advanced magic. Military anti-magic inoculations armored his veins better than dragonhide. But cancer?” The blood droplet quivered. “Tumor grew roots in what the needles couldn’t touch—”

Lanie’s talon clicked against her glass. “—the marrow we called hope. His resistance covered everything except—”

“Except mundanity.” The word hung like a noose-knot. Lanie’s grin flashed broken bottle edges as her talons tapped arrhythmically against her glass. “Irony’s a cut-rate bard with a meth habit.”

The woman leaned forward. Shadows pooled in the recess of her clavicle.

“Continue.”

Lanie inhaled ash and courage. “Standard healing spells bounced off him like BB pellets, only causing a minor irritation and hardening his resistance. Tumour metastasising nightly. So I… pivoted.” Her gaze fixed on the diamond. “Used what he’d handed me—that panty-loving devotion. Weaponised his shame into suture.”

Evelyn snorted. Wetly. “Claymaker rituals. Parlour tricks for bored aristocrats bonding with their chaise lounges.”

“Required proximity. Trust. Intimacy.” Lanie’s thumbnail split the label from her whisky bottle. “Commodities he’d already signed over.”

“Elaborate.”

“Transformed him into objects,” Evelyn cut in. Voice steadier now, clinical as an autopsy report. “Panties. Dresses. Whatever linen grave Lanie chose. Temporal suspension—halt decay, carved out the tumour like pumpkin guts. Turned his manhood into jewellery. Wore his shame as his protection.”

“That first night, when he said ‘I’ll do anything,’” Lanie’s smile hooked sideways. “Needed consent, him pliable and willing. Lucky for me, blessed luck—he’d been auditioning for years.”

The diamond dimmed. “Duration?”

“Few hours max.” Evelyn traced the rim of her glass. “Ritual breaks if the caster sleeps, falters, or steps fifteen feet away. Breaks if his will cracks mine. But—” Her fingers found Georgia’s pulse, talons pricking the hollow where a collarbone should’ve been. “If his love was a siege engine? I simply outlasted it.”

Lanie’s glass tinked against the table. “Required constant contact—symbiosis masquerading as control.”

Evelyn snorted, teeth grazing Georgia’s shoulder like a whetstone. “Dumbest fucking magic. Takes more focus than a raccoon guarding a dumpster on a meth binge.” Her claw sketched a derisive sigil in the condensation. “Clayamake’s ritual’s brittle as a whore’s vows. One stray thought and poof—he’d revert buck-naked in a Denny’s parking lot.”

Silence pooled. Somewhere, a pipe groaned like a wounded hare.

“Sacrificed his masculinity to save his life.” Lanie flicked a cigarette butt into the gloom.

“Rebranded his cock as bijouterie. Fed him scraps of autonomy between transformations.” Her voice frayed. “He hated me. Every. Damn. Time.”

Evelyn’s finger tapped her femur. “Fool. Sacrifice. Ours.”

“Motivation?”

Lanie met the woman’s gaze. “Same reason storms court coastlines. Habit. Hunger. Love dressed as demolition.”

Evelyn's claw skated along her whisky glass, etching accidental hieroglyphics in the condensation. "Caught them once in that shoebox studio. Went to jeer at their domestic circus act."

Her voice sandpapered raw. "Found her straddling him on a Salvation Army couch, both giggling over burnt microwave popcorn. He… brushed a kernel from her lip. Not grabbed. Not devoured. Brushed. Like she was glassblowing in progress."

Lanie's cigarette halted mid-air. "You never—"

"'Course I did." Evelyn's smile hung crooked as a thrift store painting. "Invented excuses. Reconnaissance missions. Told myself I was auditing your security flaws." The admission curdled. "Truth? Needed to study how he untangled your hair after transformations. Delicate as delousing a warhorse."

Lanie's ashes scattered like failed prayers. "Creep."

"Sue me." Evelyn's shrug cost her three centuries of posture. "Observed three months straight. Watched him steep valerian for your night terrors. Saw him mute TV commercials touting cribs when you miscarried." Her elongated claw tapped Morse code against her sternum. "That's true sorcery. Making devotion look effortless as breath."

Lanie's laugh cracked. "He forgot anniversaries. Rattled rafters with his snoring."

“But he was also your hero at the Solstice Ball. Him in that ridiculous sequined jockstrap, fetching you drinks while warlords gawked.” Evelyn’s grin curdled. “Pride’s a fickle compass. Watched him kneel for you in crowded rooms, expecting scorn, receiving only… tenderness.”

Evelyn leaned forward, millennia-old dragon queen reduced to sidewalk prophet. "You looked at him like he'd reinvented daylight. Whole empires evaporated in that gaze." Her voice dropped to a bourbon-soaked whisper. "Started drafting apology letters to Prime. Turns out, he'd rewritten the damn dictionary on love."

The woman's gaze pinned Evelyn like a butterfly to corkboard.

"Evidence."

Evelyn inspected her chipped manicure. "Snuck into that refugee camp clinic. Watched him reset a warlord's dislocated shoulder. Patient tried to stab him mid-procedure." Her laugh tasted of nickel. "Know what your boy did? Finished the reduction. Handed back the knife saying 'Appreciate the sentiment, but aim for the femoral next time.'"

Lanie's cigarette paused midway to her lips. "He never—"

“Wednesdays,” Evelyn overrode. “Trailed him for fourteen weeks. Saw him construct saline poles from mop handles. Once devoted hours disentangling a child’s necklace—silver moth pendant. Parents' charcoal in Belfast blazes.” Her claw clicked against the quartz countertop.

"That's when the fantasies started. Not throne room trysts or treasure hoard offerings." She swallowed a century's worth of pride. "Imagined him fixing my broken clasps. Teaching me potato stamp art. Calling me 'Evvie' when I botched pancakes."

Lanie's ashtray overflowed. "Bullshit."

"Oh, I committed." Evelyn's smile belonged on a battlefield. "Bought flannel at Target. Burnt six batches of cookies practising. Nearly torched Brooklyn attempting grilled cheese." She leaned forward, scales glinting like unshed tears. "Four thousand years of conquests, and I envied a mortal man's capacity to care about burnt sandwiches."

The woman's gaze fractured something fundamental in the air molecules. Lanie's spine snapped taut like reality itself might rescind its lease.

"Full reckoning."

Lanie ground her cigarette into her own thigh. Scar tissue hissed. "Original Evelyn's butchers took her clit. Cosmic scales demanded quid pro quo. Cancer merely…" She raked her ring finger. "…Preheated Hell’s oven."

Evelyn played with her pendant. "Ended up turning his jewels into literal ‘jewels’ to preserve them."

"The only practical choice." Lanie's talons carved dissolution sigils on the table. “Purged magic-resistant necrosis via…” Her jaw worked. "…hollowing out the man. Masculinity as Achilles' heel."

Evelyn stepped into the confession's blast radius. “ Forty-nine days observing their bathtub meth operatics…” She didn’t piss for three days. Ate gas station jerky off his hip while he bled out post-'surgery'. Fucker half-reverted mid-cut. Blood geyser. Had to shove my will into her skull—ham-fisted hack job. Hence the scar. Smart play with the DICKLESS tattoo. Siphon point. Stole George’s masculinity, and funnelled it to Lanie to then reconstruct Georgia.”

“How’d it feel?” Evelyn’s hand shot to Lanie’s throat, eyes glinting wet. “Carving him up? Wanted to gut you. Wanted to scream. Maiden tears for any male. Nil precedent." Her grip trembled. “But there you were—sobbing as you branded him. Half of me wanted to slit your throat. Half wanted to… fucking cry with you.”

Lanie's fangs felt blunted. "Regrets require luxury seating."

"Crawlspace confession—your cobweb magic was failing." Evelyn's cigarette trembled.

“That night, I boosted your sleep spell? Nailed twelve moths above your bedpost. Makeshift ley-line array. Every dying moth, my crude battery pack." Her laugh curdled. "Played Guardian Wraith all those nights. You never noticed."

Lanie's claws found Evelyn's collar. "Your troubadour stunt. Talk."

Evelyn bared teeth. "Men like George build shrines in their rib cages. Physical torment polishes their martyr complex." Her claw tapped Lanie's sternum. "But let their deity flirt with heresy?" A moth burst into blue flame nearby. "Watching you laugh at another man's jokes? Arch for inferior hands? That…" She inhaled Lanie's exhaled smoke. "…makes apostles doubt scripture."

Lanie's grip weakened. "He knew it was theatre."

"Kernel of doubt breeds terminal infection." Evelyn pressed closer. “Saw him dissect your interactions. Timed intervals between your texts, decibel variance in greetings. Catalogued betrayal like eclipse patterns."

Silence pooled like clotting factor.

"Congrats." Evelyn licked ash from her incisor. "Schrödinger’s gambit.. Destroying his love to salvage its host."

“Ashford’s fields… he held victory in his fist. Could’ve ended me, ended the war in his favour” She caught a tear on her knuckle, watched it steam. “But he lowered his blade. Saw the woman in the wildfire. He won me as his right of conquest.”

"So I… rewrote our vows daily to protect my ‘master’." Lanie's claws flexed. "Each stitch, each humiliation… bargaining chips for more time."

Evelyn’s breath hitched. Fractures spiderwebbed beneath her scales, glowing like blasphemous stained glass. “Nearly won 'her' back. Carved the cure from our own ribs—held it here—” Her claws cupped air, trembling. “—until the curse bit. Gnawed through marrow. Used my throat to say the killing words.”

She stared at her palms, where Georgia’s phantom pulse still fluttered. “These hands ripped out her heart. Peeled her open like...” A wet gag. “I killed her. Ours to mend, mine to murder—”

Her scream split into laughter, rotten as a gutpile. “I killed her!” A sob, arterial. “Destroyed my lodestar! I killed her—our love!”

Lanie caught her mid-collapse. She framed Evelyn’s face with hands still smelling of Georgia’s shampoo. “You. Me. Same blade, same sheath.”

“Conclusion.”

Lanie rose, walked to Evelyn and held her tight. “Saved him until saving killed her. Buried the tumour. Erased the man, burnt the woman. Crafted this—” She waved at the diamond. “—from what remained. Poetic, sure. Doesn’t rewrite the ledger though.”

Evelyn stood, shedding scales like autumn leaves. “Curse was mine. Wove it from Blackreach’s marrow. Tried everything to undo it…” She pressed a claw to her sternum. “Deserve the pyre. Deserve her ghost gnawing my liver through eternity.”

“Pyres are for endings.” Lanie pried Evelyn’s hand open, “We’re middling types.”

The woman stood. Eons folded into the sweep of her skirts.

“Arrogance. Frailty. Love insufficiently annealed.” Her sigh sounded like upturned graves.

“...and here we are.”

Lanie’s wedding band wept light. “Here we are.”

Somewhere, George’s ghost sat down.

And for once—didn’t cast a shadow.
 
 
XXIII. Waking Realisations
 
Flashback:

Ashford’s battlefield stank of charred earth and dragon vomit. The sky bled rust where artillery smoke clotted the sun. Lanie’s wings hung in tatters, membranes flapping like wet laundry in a hurricane. Her flank wept black ichor, pooling in the crater where George’s plasma blade pinned her—a holy toothpick through a demon roach.

He stood over her, armour cracked to show the sweat-slick man beneath—jaw set, eyes twin coals reflecting her guttering fire. The kind of eyes that could stare down a god’s tantrum.

“Yield,” he growled, voice grinding like tank treads over bone.

She laughed—a wet, splintered sound. “Do it. Let your meat-brigade see their golden boy gut a girl.” Her talons flexed, gouging trenches in the mud. “Give ’em a show.”

George’s blade hummed, edge kissing her throat. “Push for the treaty. Now. Or I carve your punchlines into your ribs.”

Her smirk dripped venom. “Since when do crusaders negotiate?”

“Since they’re tired of burning villages for this…bullshit theatre.” He leaned in, close enough for her to taste his sweat—salt and gunpowder and the cheap spearmint gum he chewed to mask corpse breath. “Talk to your leaders. Make the damn ceasefire happen. Then…” A flicker. A hitch. “…let’s grab a drink.”

Her pupils slit. “A drink.”

“Whiskey. Neat. Like adults.”

The blade withdrew. Lanie’s laugh chased him as he walked away, her roar shaking the carcass-strewn field: “Careful, hero! Dragons don’t do ‘neat’!”
 
Back in the present.

Lanie startled awake, sweat pooling in the cavity where the collarbone meets the throat. She knew the dream’s shape—smoke and scalpel-sharp whispers—even as it fled.

The guest bedroom door creaked like a guilty conscience. Inside, Evelyn twitched beneath tangled sheets. Her sleep-talk, a slurry of “shouldn’t have… Shouldn’t have...” Moonlight carved her into something fragile. Cock limp as a dead trout, scales dulled to gutter-grain tarnish. For a breath, Lanie savoured it. Let the rot feast.

Then George’s voice, soft as a thumb brushing a bruise: “Cruelty’s a cheap perfume, Lan. Washes off and itches after.”

She slid onto the mattress. Springs groaned.

Evelyn’s eyes snapped open—dragon-glow dimmed to pilot-light flicker. “Same dream?”

“Same morgue.” Lanie’s knee bumped hers. Cold. “Shift, you overgrown gecko.”

Evelyn complied, sheets rasping. “Guest bedrooms. Bollocks concept.”

“Agreed.”

Silence pooled, thick as motor oil. Somewhere, a tap dripped in rhythm with Evelyn’s pulse.

“You didn’t kill him.” Lanie’s finger found the scar on Evelyn’s wrist—raised, keloid-rough.

“We jointly authored that epitaph.”

Evelyn snorted. “Shared blame is still a noose.”

“First man to saddle a dragon.” Lanie’s laugh frayed. “First to… make her crave cheap bourbon.”

“Make it double."

Another pause. The radiator coughed up phlegm.

“Tradition.” Lanie’s smirk softened, a crack in armour. “Right of conquest. But he—” Her thumb brushed Evleyn’s lip, smearing ghost blood. “—didn’t claim shit. Just… asked for a damn old-fashioned."

Evelyn snorted. “Distracted by his dick?”

“By his eyes,” Lanie corrected, talons tracing Evelyn’s jaw. “His stupid hero smirk. The way he… fixed my cloak after.” A laugh, brittle as dried kindling. “First man to beat a dragon. First to fuck one. First to—” Her voice frayed. “—make her miss the taste of whisky."

Evelyn’s laugh slithered over Lanie’s shoulder. “Stole his sword, gave her a sheath. Poetic, ain’t it? Warrior. Weapon. Wife.”

Evelyn ground onto the mattress, the springs screaming like tortured familiars. “Seven weeks. Seven weeks of watching you two fumble through this… tragicomedy. Thought I’d get off on it. Popcorn and schadenfreude, right?”

She lit a cigarette with a snap of her claws. The flame trembled. “Turns out watching someone unravel your love? Turn him into her goddamn accessory rack? Snip his pride, stitch by stitch, then fuck alley rats raw with the scraps?” Her laugh curdled. “Less fun than gargling lava.”

Lanie’s snort shook the bed. "Should have charged admission.”

“Didn’t need to.”

Lanie’s knee jabbed Evelyn’s thigh. “The poet. Proper mounting, that. When’d we last saddle? Bronze Age chariot races?”

Evelyn’s smirk cracked like a windshield. "Yup, until I had to crawl inside your trash-fire romance. A broken grin. “I’m a slut for subtlety.”

Lanie fake-gagged. “Subtlety? You showed up with a sonnet carved into your dick.”

“‘Roses are red/Violets go splat/I’ll wreck your cunt/And blame the cat.’ Real fucking Basho.”

Evelyn’s chuckle grated like gravel in a petrol tin. “Back to timelines. Think it was around Pre-Vedic fire rituals. Turns out yogic contortions chafe my cloaca.”

“We … potentially … primordial fuckbuddies.”

"We've ridden that oxcart." Evelyn prodded her limp cock—a leech left to parch on monsoon-baked clay. "Burnt that dharma sutra. Hasn't rallied since… that night. Would hack it off if it bought her a breath."

Lanie’s claw skimmed Evelyn’s hip—featherlight, testing. “Chastity belts’d be overkill. Can’t cage what’s compost.”

Her claw catching on scale-seams now. “Offer stands. Blade’s sharp. Ghosts prefer sincerity over sausage.”

Evelyn’s laugh cracked. “Name the altar. Bring the cleaver.”

“Cheers, priestess.”

Moonlight pooled in the hollow where scales met skin. Lanie now bore scars even dragons couldn’t heal—a cratered heart from the night their lineage snapped.

“Last clutch died in-shell,” Lanie murmured. “Embryos crystallised mid-curse.”

“Secret.”

Lanie stilled. “Out with it.”

Evelyn’s cheeks burned sulphur-yellow. “John’s mouth on you. First time I’d ever…” The admission curdled. “Sucked cock. Even microscopic ones demand finesse.”

Lanie barked a laugh. “You tongued it like a sherbet lemon!”

“Research!” Evelyn’s fangs flashed. “Extensive. Clinical.”

“Clinical?” Lanie’s eyebrow arched. “Which backstreet cinema taught you? Human Plumbing Monthly?”

“Twat.”

“Still counts—” Lanie’s grin spoiled like milk left out, “—possession’s possession. Claire’s little fountain show?”

“My soul-shard. Tasted like honey ‘cause she was so …ugh…pure.”

Evelyn’s talon jumped. The pendant swung. “Belief requires lubrication. Had to make her feel. Your stitches were unravelling.”

“Con-artist.”

“Hopeful.”

“Pathological.”

Evelyn rolled, tarnished scales leaching orange from the kebab shop sign across the road. “Four thousand years conquering continents. Then…” A cogwheel’s death-rattle sigh. “Bankrupted myself for… love.”

Lanie’s sneer drowned in the stink of wet asphalt. She straddled Evelyn’s hips—flaccid cock nudging her thigh like a dead jellyfish. “Chastity’s back on the menu, lizard. Claire’s little stunt earned you a custom rig—” Her talons sketched a vulgar blueprint in the air. “—tighter than a landmine’s asshole. Gonna cage that wilted worm so deep, you’ll piss rubies.”

“Add ‘Property of George’ on the buckle,” Evelyn muttered, staring at the ceiling where water stains bloomed like bloodstains. “No—Georgia. Yeah. That’s the punchline.”

Lanie’s grin split like a rotten peach. “Nah. ‘Georgia’s Castoff Cockholster.’ Let the engraving match the stench.” Her claw pricked Evelyn’s inner thigh. “Should’ve let the curse shrivel it to a raisin as part of the price. Dogs need chew toys.”

Her palm found wing-scabs velvet-soft under calluses. Lips closed around the pendant—cold metal, faint brine of Georgia’s spirit trapped in crevices. Nothing stirred.

“Buzzards,” she mumbled, wedding-band diamond cutting moonlight. "Picking our own carcass."

Evelyn’s snort died mid-breath. “Put that on our headstone.”

They didn’t fuck. Just lay stacked like grimoires in a condemned library. Spines cracked open where moths supped on smudged prophecies and mice gnawed through the footnotes.
 
 
Continued in Part 9

 
XXIV: Ashes to Altruists

Cameras flashed like muzzle bursts. Reporters mobbed the podium, shouting over each other. A cacophony that reminded Lanie of feeding frenzies witnessed underwater. Beside her stood Evelin who legally added the "-Devarîș" suffix precisely thirty-six hours prior. She adjusted her scarf to obscure the worst of her eczema outbreak. Stress-induced, undoubtedly.

Above the dais, holographic banners cycled through languages nobody truly understood. The Phoenix Rising Initiative. Beneath pixel-flames, the two women walked over and sat flanking an empty chair.

"—funding streams remain confidential pending review," Lanie clipped, answering a shouted query. Sequins scaled her jacket like armored plumage. Behind tinted glasses, her pupils contracted to feline slits. "However, certain parties agreed reparations outweigh inheritance taxes."

Murmurs boiled. Someone yelled, "Define parties!"

Behind her staged smile, Lanie counted tiles mapping escape routes. Thirty-two steps to the nearest fortified lavatory. One equipped with ventilation suitable for discreet hyperventilation episodes.

She Glanced sidelong to confirm Evelyn's patented ‘Talk Faster Than Bullets Travel™’ mode activating.

"Invoices stamped with clawprints pay quicker," Evelyn spoke up—crossed stockinged legs. Ruby earrings weighted her ears, matching the encrusted heart-shaped padlock caging her junk. A chastity cage designed by a taxidermist with a grudge—dangled. It's keyhole aligned precisely to Georgia’s diamond nestled snug betwixt her thighs.

Journalists ogled the conspicuous bulge beneath her pencil skirt. Nobody dared comment.

Click. A dozen shutters froze her mid-snarl.

Her scarf slipped as she leaned forward, unleashing her very effective Gatling-gun cadence. "Post-conflict multilateral stakeholders utilising cross-collateralized quasi-governmental debt instruments aligned with third-quarter deliverables." Her grin sharpened, "Though naturally, all NGO-ETF hybrid frameworks require blockchain-based grief audits. Conducted retroactively through participatory action research paradigms."

The room blinked in unison. A Reuters correspondent mouthed what into his cufflink.

“We’re not saints,” she bulldozed onward, knuckles whitening...

“Saints get statues. We’ve got spreadsheets and a fantastic dental plan.”

Chairwoman Ngombe silenced dissent with a mic feedback shriek that could sterilize lab rats. "Final statement from Ms. Devaris prior to press site visits."

"Diamond formation necessitates immense pressures sustained eons," Lanie stated coolly. Her ring caught the spotlight beams spectacularly. "Similarly, societal reconstruction demands resource consolidation exceeding individual lifetimes. Allegorical parallels should intrigue conspiracy theorists and divorce attorneys splendidly."

Microphone pops subsided. Lanie removed her shades. Cameras zoomed. Her stiletto tapped the podium. A reminder: Don’t crater now.

"When bombs fall," she enunciated, consonants crisp as mortar snaps, "children dig latrine pits with soup spoons. Mothers brew antibiotics from moldy ration packs. Victory gardens sprout through unexploded ordnances, yield potatoes shaped like severed hands."

Flashbulbs reflected in her irises, magnesium flares in a coal mine. "Our coalition teaches composting cluster munitions. Trauma surgeons trained via VR headsets salvaged from bomb disposal drones. Yesterday's torture chambers retrofit as daycare centres featuring anti-nightmare ward designs."

Dead air coagulated. Chairwoman Ngombe dabbed her temples with a handkerchief that’d seen three funerals.

“Phoenix Rising’s largest shelter opens Tuesday.” Lanie’s smirk didn’t reach her temples. “Bring your own fucking casseroles.”

The room detonated. Lanie inhaled the shrapnel.

From the fourth row, Calypso Wire barked through a mouthful of smoldering cloves. "Sources allege Argentinian cave systems emptied of dragon gold financed these efforts. Confirm?"

"Our CFO appreciates creative accounting myths." Evelyn’s smile revealed slightly pointed teeth. "Though speaking hypothetically. Hoarded resources redistributed voluntarily prevent messy probate battles involving widowed wyrms."

CNN reared. "Legal filings cite deceased founder George Demoš directing operations remotely. Explain the digital signatures originating from active warzones!"

Static distorted speakers as the PA system malfunctioned. Through electronic banshee wails, Lanie projected calmly: "Legacies transcend binary limitations. Ask Kabul’s newly irrigated wheat farms whose pollen resembles Georgian peach blossoms."

Reporters exchanged glances. AP-Albatross ventured meekly, "…Autonomous pollination initiatives?"

Harpy Herald’s talons clicked against the mic. "Why the shift from Demoš to Devaris? And why’s Ms. Evelyn wearing it too?"

Lanie’s eyelid twitched. "Too many memories."

Evelyn leaned in, serpent-bright. "Deadnames make shitty headstones. Next."

Fox leaned forward, fangs glinting. "Documents cite pseudonymous mystery donor Georgia Devaris, another Devaris directing funds anonymously. Please elaborate.

Lanie’s knuckles only whitened further. "Some legacies… require aliases." The lie slithered out smoother than a shadow dissolving at dawn.

Evelyn smirked, adjusting her nameplate. "Shared surnames ward off tax vultures. Metaphorically speaking."

NBC: "Anonymous donations bypass oversight laws!"

"Incorrect." Evelyn flipped her tablet, displaying labyrinthine flowcharts. "Fund routing complies with Vatican banking statutes circa 1429 plus Article XII of Faerie Accord—"

Murmurs bubbled. A reporter raised her phone. Footage of delta wetlands bursting with lotus flowers unfurling over submerged tanks.

"This isn’t rainbows and gay unicorns." Lanie’s knuckles whitened. "Our foundations mix bone meal with cement. If that unsettles you? Good. Comfort murdered millions."

Cameras zoomed in on her ring. Behind her, holographic graphs charted 'Conflict Zone Floriculture Rates ↑3000%.' Alongside were photos of toddlers stacking LEGOs sculpted from decommissioned rifles.

Evelyn stood abruptly. Skirt seam nearly splitting. Ignoring exposure risks, she snatched the microphone.

"This rebrand honours radical accountability. Survivors architect solutions drafted in their own dialects. Which includes respecting chosen identities retroactively. To respect historical figures otherwise erased by bureaucratic erasers lacking nuance toner cartridges."

Utter stillness. Camera shutters hesitated.

"…Meaning?" prompted BBC.

Hand descending upon desiccated bouquets centerstage, Liane declared loudly. "Effective immediately, Executive Director Emeritus records reflect Georgia Devaris. Pronounced deh-vahr-ees, emphasis requisite lest tongues combust spontaneously."

Evelyn growled, hip-checking Lanie aside. “Next question insults my belt buckle, I start auctioning organs.”

Silence.

“Lovely.” She blew a kiss to CNN. “Our CFO’s a spreadsheet phantom. Audit trails end in fairy rings. Send your subpoenas to Narnia.”

Lanie snorted. “She means Georgia.”

A hush. Georgia’s name hung like a guillotine.

And then… the gasps multiplied exponentially. HuffPost triggered livestream fireworks by accident.

Amidst the pandemonium, Chairwoman Ngombe wrestled control. Projectors displayed architectural renderings. Schoolhouses engineered from decommissioned tanks, hydroponics nourishing amputee rehabilitation courtyards.

Headlines overwrote themselves globally:

PHILANTHROPY COUP OR CORPSECRAFT CABAL??

Having walked off-stage by now. Leaning against emergency exits marked 'IN CASE OF ARMAGEDDON BREAK GLASS,' the architects observed the fallout.

"Well?" inquired Evelyn, picking cuticles. "Sufficiently incendiary?"

"They'll spin conspiracies regardless." Lannie extracted a smoke from her bra underwire. "'Cept now orphans receive prosthetic limbs designed by kobolds formerly indentured to oligarchs. Fair exchange rate."

“Three shelters in six months.” Evelyn flicked her locket. “Bet she’s pissed.”

“Pissed we’re competent?”

“Pissed she’s missing the show.”

Lanie’s laugh tasted like battery acid. “We’re her fucking memorial garden.”

A moth battered the lone bulb. Evelyn’s cage clinked as she lit a cigarette herself. “Should’ve buried her in that slutty chemise.”

“We would have dug her up by week two.”

“True.”

Silence.

Evelyn exhaled a smoke ring shaped like Georgia’s smirk. “Remember the trip to the mall?”

“Which meltdown?”

“The one with the raccoon and the Slim Jims. I laughed so hard I —”

“—peed on the hubcaps. Yeah.”

The bulb died.

Director Emeritus: Georgia Devaris

Last Login: [ENCRYPTED] – Coordinates match mass grave reforestation site, Sector 7.

The penthouse smelled like lavender and aged regret. Lanie kicked off her heels, leather soles scraping marble floors that’d never seen a bloodstain. “Still hate this place.”

Evelyn slouched on the sofa, skirt hiked to her hips. The chastity cage glinted cold beneath cocktail-hour shadows. “You picked it.”

“Better than that house.” Lanie’s throat clicked. “Fucking… mothballs and bad decisions.”

“You mean Georgia’s house.”

A vase shattered against the wall. Evelyn didn’t flinch.

Lanie stalked over, yanking Evelyn’s skirt higher. The cage dug into pale flesh, titanium heart pendant dangling like a taunt. “How’s your useless clit today?”

“Flaccid as your moral compass.” Evelyn exhaled smoke through her nose.

Lanie flicked the cage. It pinged, Georgia’s diamond glowing faintly in her ring. “Miss her?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

Evelyn grabbed Lanie’s wrist, forcing her palm flat against the cage. “Like smoking through a tracheotomy hole. Burns. Doesn’t fix shit.”

Silence settled on them like congealed wax.

Evelyn leaned back, skirt still rucked around her waist. “Remember the night she turned your silk stash into bandages? That refugee kid’s arm hanging by threads?”

Lanie’s thumb rubbed the cage’s edge raw. “Said my taste in lingerie was ‘tacky wartime propaganda’.”

“Then fucked you on the donation crates.”

“Left splinters for weeks you demented stalker.”

Evelyn’s smile died. The cage clicked as she stood. “We’re worse than ghosts. At least ghosts haunt.”

Lanie spun the diamond ring. Somewhere beneath skyscrapers, a Phoenix Rising shelter lit its first furnace.

On the balcony, concrete had split. A sapling had clawed through, petals unfurling the exact red of Georgia’s last laugh.

Lanie didn’t notice.

Neither did the moth escaping its chrysalis in the ruins of their old linen closet, wings still damp with its metamorphosis.
 
 
XXV. Burn Patterns

Blackreach’s gates sagged like a broken jaw. Rust gnawed the iron bars, flakes crumbling under Lanie’s boots. The Phoenix Rising Initiative had purchased the compound six months back, but the ugliness was left untouched. Collapsed guard towers, razor wire nests bloated with dead leaves. One year since Georgia’s bones went cold. The anniversary clawed Lanie’s throat raw.

Evelyn stalked beside her, fists balled, heels cracking weeds that split the concrete. No words. Just the creak of leather and the wet suck of mud underfoot.

The common area stank of mildew and meat left to rot.

Lanie’s flashlight carved a path through the gloom. Crushed syringes glittered like false stars. A toppled bench, legs snapped. Evelyn froze. Her boot nudged a chain coiled in the corner—rusted, flecked with brown that wasn’t rust.

“Here.” Her voice cracked.

The floor here was different. Scorched tiles in a spiral, blackened where magic had seared through stone. Evelyn’s knees hit the ground hard. Her fingers dug into the pattern, nails splitting on grit. “I… I cursed him here.”

Lanie crouched, hand hovering over Evelyn’s shaking spine. “Get up.”

“Should’ve been me.”

“Get. Up.” Lanie hauled her by the elbow, grip bruising. Evelyn swayed, eyes glassy. Rain bled through the collapsed ceiling, cutting tracks through the grime on her face.

Then it happened—Evelyn’s breath hitched, pupils dilating into voids. She clawed at her collar. “Can’t… breathe—”

Lanie seized her jaw. “Breakdown’s due, huh?” Her free hand yanked the hem of Evelyn’s skirt up, fingers finding the chastity cage’s lock beneath. A vicious twist. The click echoed like a bone snap.

Evelyn squealed—a feral, wet sound—as steel teeth bit deeper. Buckled against the wall.

“Pain’s the penitence you chose,” Lanie hissed, tightening the grip. “To remember we are needed.”

A whimper. Then clarity flooded Evelyn’s gaze, sharp as shattered glass. She spat blood. “Fuck you.”

“Later.” Lanie released her, wiping hands on her thighs. “Crawl done?”

Evelyn straightened, adjusting the cage with trembling hands. “Bourbon. Now.”

Lanie unscrewed her flask. Georgia’s cheap shit sloshed—the kind that burned like a backhand. She poured a line across the spiral. “For the ghosts who can’t swallow.”

Evelyn stared at the stain. “She’d love this.”

“Loved most things.” Lanie pocketed the flask. “C’mon. Time to burn.”

BREAKING NEWS

—camera jerks, smoke churning—

“...confirmed dragon activity over the Blackreach exclusion zone... First sighting since the peace accords... seem anthropomorphosised?... Authorities stress no casualties... Skywriting appears to read ‘MAKE LOVE NOT WAR’... Hold on—secondary message igniting now... Uh, that’s ‘FUCK BLACKREACH’ in, ah... flammable liquid, possibly draconic in origin...”

worldwide, televisions recycled aerial footage tagged #dragoswinning #dragonspeeinglove. X debated pyro-semiotics. Subreddits dedicated to dragon themed anime porn mushroomed. Retired generals cited applicable Geneva provisions.

Back in the penthouse

The succubus shapeshifting formulas had done their work. Horns coiled like blackened fiddleheads, tails flicking restless against silk sheets. George’s fantasy made flesh, one year too late. Two succubi and him, he’d scrawled in that bourbon-stained journal. Too much cockfire for mortal men.

“Third hook’s busted,” Evelyn muttered, wrestling her bra like urban rappelling gear. Straps throttled her bicep.

Lanie snorted. “Thought you invented physics.”

The bedframe shrieked as Evelyn rolled off, her cock limp as a dead eel. Lanie propped herself on one elbow, squinting. “Christ. Looks like a melted gummy worm.”

Evelyn glared. “Blame the shitty curse.” She grabbed the chastity cage from the nightstand—click—locking herself in before Lanie could blink. The heart-shaped charm glinted, rubies pulsing.

Lanie stared. “The fuck you doing?”

“Saving us both the embarrassment”, Evelyn flopped back, arm over her eyes. The cage jingled.

“Could strap up,” Lanie offered, nodding at the nightstand’s lacquered box. Inside: obsidian silicone, serrated ridges. “Bend you over like Xanathar did the Skyward Legion. Let me reenact his greatest hit—Battle of Twin Spires. Two dragons, one dick.Old draconic courtesies.”

Evelyn’s tail lashed a vase. It exploded. “He died the day Georgia did.”

“He,” Lanie purred. “Yes. Left only you behind”

Evelyn froze, hands covering her face as rain smeared the window. “Winners claim losers’ asses. I’m no battle-broke whelp.”

“I was.” Lanie’s smirk cut. “Let him plough me raw after every workplace bloodbath. Loved it.”

Evelyn’s breath hitched. “Different.”

“Yeah. She earned it.”

Lanie’s smile died halfway. She reached out, thumb brushing the charm. Georgia’s voice slithered through her memory: “Kindness ain’t pretty. It’s got teeth.”

Evelyn’s arm slid off her face. Lanie’s eyes glinted in the low light—sharp, like she’d caught the tail end of a whisper. "Spread."

"What happened to hello?"

"Aesthetics department rejected your bronze unicorns proposal."

"For Shelter Twelve?? Kids love mythological genocide motifs–"

"No. Spread your legs idiot."

Evelyn obeyed. Lanie bent, tongue dragging over the heart-shaped charm—slow, like she was licking a wound. The metal tasted like old pennies and Georgia’s perfume. Heat prickled under her lips, the rubies humming like a struck tuning fork.

Evelyn jerked. “The hell—?”

“As loud as you want,” Lanie growled, mouth closing around the charm. She sucked hard, teeth scraping grooves of Georgia that the metal retained. “Let the heavens hear you, princess. Bet she’s laughing her ass off right now.”

Evelyn’s hips bucked. “Fuck—that’s not—ah!”

Lanie pressed down, her tongue working the lock. The cage warmed, then burned. The chain glowed faintly, casting ruby shadows on Evelyn’s thighs. “Knew it,” Lanie hissed, pulling back just enough to sneer. “Can’t feel your own little worm, but you feel her, don’tcha? Like she’s right here—” She flicked the charm. “—milking you dry.”

“Bullshit,” Evelyn spat, but her voice frayed. Sweat slicked her collarbone.

“Just—fuck—bad wiring.”

Lanie snorted. “Bad wiring?” She dragged her tongue up the chain, slow as a knife draw. “This thing’s singing. You’re just pissed it’s my hand up your ass, not hers.”

“Lanie—”

“Beg.”

“Go to hell—ah!”

Lanie bit down. The charm seared her lips. Evelyn’s back arched off the bed, a high, keening wail tearing loose—too sweet, too soft, all for Georgia. Lanie didn’t let up, sucking like she meant to drain every drop of the ghost between them. Evelyn’s hands fisted the sheets, knuckles bleaching white.

“G-Georgia—” The name slipped, cracked.

Lanie laughed against her skin, breath hot. “There she is.”

Evelyn came with a shudder that nearly splintered the bedframe, a broken moan spilling out: “…hate you… love you both…”

Lanie didn’t stop until Evelyn collapsed, sweat pooling in the hollow of her throat, chest heaving. She leaned back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Silence. Rain tapped the window like a bored ghost.

“That…” Evelyn rasped, voice frayed, “…wasn’t me.”

Lanie wiped her mouth. “Sounded like a church choir girl.”

Evelyn stared up at the ceiling. “That’s how she… Georgia made me want to be. With her.”

A beat and Lanie’s fangs showed. “Only her?”

Evelyn’s hand found Lanie’s fingers . “Fuck. Now you too.”

“Tried.” Lanie flicked the charm, still glowing. “You owe her a thank-you note.”

Evelyn rolled over, back rigid. “Clinic opens Tuesday. Neon pink.”

“With barbed wire trim,” she added flatly.

“She’d hate the color.”

“Adore the chaos.”

Evelyn rolled toward her. “Your turn.”

Lanie caught her wrist. “Nah.”

“Why?”

“Still tastes like her.” Lanie yanked the blanket up. “And I don’t share.”

Evelyn’s laugh cracked. She pressed her forehead to Lanie’s spine. “Selfish bitch.”

“Learned from the best.”

They slept undisturbed except for the three times Lanie’s lips made the pendant weep.

So what if Lanie stole the pillow? Well. Dragons hoard.
 
 
XXVI: Stitching in Circles

The closet stank of charity gala perfume and mothballs. Lanie flicked ash into a crystal tumbler engraved Phoenix Rising Foundation—For Georgia.

“Hold still,” Evelyn muttered around a mouthful of pins, adjusting the emerald silk cinching Lanie’s waist. “You’re squirming like a gutted eel.”
Lanie snorted. “Says the woman dressed as a disco ball reject.” She gestured to Evelyn’s hydra scale sequined gown, its hem shimmering like a fistful of bad decisions.

“Classic,” Evelyn drawled. “Unlike your—”

Lanie’s elbow jerked, red wine sloshing across Evelyn’s bodice. The stain spread like a fresh bruise.

Silence.

“Oops.” Lanie grinned, all teeth. “Guess the universe prefers déjà vu discounts.”

Evelyn’s knuckles whitened around the wine-soaked hydra hide. “Fix. It.”

Lanie snapped her fingers. Nothing. Again. The stain smirked back, unbothered.

“Hydra scales are Magic-proof moron,” Evelyn spat, thumb dragging over the codpiece straining against the dress.

Lanie’s growl rattled the lightbulb. “Fine. What’s the damn price?”

“Price?” Evelyn’s laugh was a scalpel. “This hide’s rarer than your remorse. Took tears from three warlocks and donated sheddings from a virgin hydra.”

Lanie bared teeth. “I’m a dragon. I’ll scorch realms and honour my promises. Ask.”

Evelyn’s smile split. “Already did.”

Threads swarmed. Lanie jerked back, but they struck like vipers, stitching through her jacket, her skin, her snarl.

“Ev—”

Silk strangled the protest. Scales melted to lace.

Evelyn held up the dress, flimsy red lace shot through with gold threads, barely enough fabric to dignify a handkerchief. “There. Debt paid.”

*Of course Claymaker. Should’ve known you’d pick something that screams ‘back-alley burlesque.’* (note to readers..telepathic talk will be contained in *content here style*)

Evelyn stepped into the lace, fabric clinging to every scar and curve. Nipples pressed against gauze like rivets, and the codpiece strained. Lanie's silk threatening to split over her bulge.

“Jealous it complements my aesthetic?”

*Your ‘aesthetic’ got us banned from three realms.*

Evelyn trailed a finger down the bodice, brushing the chastity cage beneath. The heart charm—Little Georgia—glowed, honeyed warmth seeping into the lace. A shiver crawled up her spine. “Fuck… didn’t need you in skin to make me throb.”

*Stop—*

Evelyn ground against the dress, lace rasping like a blade on stone. “Make me.”

*Don’t—*

The rubies pulsed. Heat coiled, thick and syrupy, as Evelyn’s moans vibrated through the threads.

*…dammit Ev… don’t…don’t.. Fuck yes…drench me…*

Evelyn unloaded with a gasp, golden essence from the piercing pooling in the lace. She slumped against the mirror, breath ragged. “…miss her.”

*…miss her too.*

Silence, broken only by the drip of honey on tile.

*Fine. Dress duty. But you’re making dinner tomorrow.*

Evelyn straightened, sweat glazing the lace. The dress suddenly cinched around her cage, pressure building like a hungry mouth.

*Bet you never had a dress that could suck.*

The charm clicked, rubies flaring. Evelyn jerked. “Cheap trick.”

*Complaints go to management. And I’m working overtime tonight.*

Evelyn smacked the bodice. “Hush.” The lace purred, compliant.

“There.” She adjusted the codpiece, lanie’s own disjointed crotch against hers, bulge defiant, nipples gleaming, whorishly by choice, under ballroom lights.

“Now you’re useful.”

*We deserve hell.*

“Keep squeezing, darling,” Evelyn smirked, sauntering out. “I’ll handle the logistics.”

*Save me a seat.*

Evelyn just laughed. “I’ll bring the lighter fluid.”

The dress might've whispered traitor, but dragons are exceptional liars.
 
 
Continued in Part 10

 
XXVII: Back at the damn ball

Bulbs flashed everywhere like tasteless arc welders fucking epileptic fireflies. “Countess Devaris!” A tabloid wraith blocked her path. “Does Lady Elaine’s absence signal fractures in Phoenix Rising’s founding triad?”

Evelyn examined her cigarette’s glowing carcinoma. “Triangles require consistent tension, darling. Elaine’s currently…” She tapped ash onto his loafers. “…providing structural support.”

*Countess Devaris?* Lanie drawled. Tacky. Should’ve gone with *Dogarse the limp dick.*

Evelyn sipped champagne, the bubbles fizzing like a hex. “Darling, you’re just jealous I claimed the title first. Though…” She pirouetted, knowing the backless design showcased Lanie’s embroidered shame. “Cum Goblin Collective does have a certain…” She glanced down at the pattern across her very cinched bodice. "…je ne sais vomit."

The gown’s seams cinched, punishing her ribs. "Behave, or you'll be a dishrag next."

*Promises, promises,* Lanie purred.

“Revolutionary construction!” A Marrakech djinn appraised her silhouette. “What maestro conjures such savorable tailoring?”

“Symbiotic artistry. The hanger develops opinions.”

*you’re just a glorified homewrecker with a tax exemption.* The words hung, sour as curdled milk. *Wait, no—*

Evelyn’s broken laugh was a shard of obsidian as her voice cracked. “Darling, I own it. I’m the wrecking ball and the rubble.” She flicked her cigarette toward a gossip columnist. “Now let’s go traumatise someone new.”

Near the orchestra, a candelabra belched paraffin while a violinist’s string snapped with suicidal drama.

*Brilliant. Now I have fiddle herpes in my ears and in my hem. Bollocks. Your fat arse itches like fibreglass face wash.*

“Poor scaly muffin,” Evelyn shot back. “Shall I commission a chastity sporran?”

*You’d miss my tongue.*

Evelyn accepted another champagne flute. “Remind me – which stitch holds your personality in? I’d hate to accidentally…”

The gown’s gusset contracted, tourniqueting her groin. Evelyn’s dominatrix heels faltered. Merlot slopped down a passing bishop’s cassock.

“Something amiss, Countess Devaris?”

Evelyn steadied herself. Silk hiking to reveal a thigh holster strapped with lipstick-shaped throwing daggers. “Merely admiring your generosity, Your Grace.” She dragged a claw up his wine-splattered robe, pausing at his trembling belt. “Though I’d be delighted trying to… rectifying the imbalance.”

The bishop’s crucifix fogged. His hands fluttered to his groin, futilely tugging his robe over a telltale tent.

“Blessed enthusiasm.” Looking him in the eyes, she yanked her bodice sideways—a 'wardrobe malfunction.' Then, nonchalantly, she dug her fingers into her lace thong, which was part of Lanie as well, hoisting it into a brutal wedgie.

Lanie’s telepathic gag echoed. *Evelyn Devaris, ladies and germs. Turning couture into toilet paper since the Bronze Age.*

“Hush,” Evelyn shot back, adjusting the fabric with a snap. This is my diplomacy uniform.

*Cunt.*

Evelyn’s mental snarl ricocheted through their shared psyche. “I wish,” she drawled. For “Georgia, I’d trade this damn pickle,” she flicked the chastity cage with a telepathic claw, “for a clunge that could pickle walnuts.”

*Yours would ferment continents,* Lanie shot back.

Through the crowd, a flash of cobalt silk vanished behind a champagne pyramid.

“There—”

*Where?*

Gone.

The woman wove through the crowd like a rumour made flesh. Moonstone hair cascading over collarbones carved for biting. Hips swaying like a singularity, there she was, ‘Inevitable’. Her eyes locked on Evelyn’s. Gunmetal mirrors reflecting the Evelyn from nineteen years ago, kneeling in Blackreach filth. Begging gods who’d already left the building.

Evelyn’s program booklet slipped from numb fingers. “Lanie. That’s—”

*—Busy gagging. Exfoliating my seams with your swamp crotch,* Lanie snapped. *Either help me breathe or start auditioning backup lungs.*

Oysters Rockefeller accidentally slid down a socialite’s décolletage like edible condemnation.

“She’s here—”

*And I’m haemorrhaging sequins!* The gown’s slit tore and inch. *Prioritise, Ev. Existential crises before cocktails.*

Evelyn crushed a canapé under her heel. She was here. And she was real.

Evelyn lunged through the throng, heels impaling a TikTok exorcist’s foam finger. Past the caviar obelisk, around the MDMA geyser, into an alcove where an ice Caligula choked himself with his own frozen sash.

The woman was gone again.

*Typical,* Lanie muttered. You chasing after ghosts, bishops, and now performance art ice cubes. *Next, you’ll—Wha huh?*

The grimoire had found Evelyn’s grip, its leather binding colder than a widow’s vows. ‘For Elaine’ glowed on the cover in phosphorescent pus-yellow.

*Thermal Semiotics for Discerning Ladies!* Lanie’s telepathic squeal nearly ruptured Evelyn’s eardrums. *Kalyphos’ manuscript! It’s like Christmas if Santa roasted elves alive!*

Evelyn dumped it onto a dessert cart that she commanded to follow her. “Ah, yes. Your pyromaniac bedtime stories.”

Pages fluttered autonomously, revealing diagrams of intestines arranged like chandeliers. ‘Combustion Algorithm LXIX: Ignition Via Existential Dread.’

*Who the fuck’s Kalyphos though?* Lanie muttered.

Evelyn commandeered a booth upholstered in what appeared to be shaved yeti hide and floated the grimoire onto the table. Lanie’s telepathic whistle echoed. *Semiotics! This bad boy turned Pompeii into a fondue pot.*

“Sacred reading for arsonists,” Evelyn muttered. Telepathically flipping to a page where disembodied hands juggled lit cannonballs.

A server suddenly slapped a Cosmopolitan onto the grimoire. Condensation bled into a diagram of Spleen-to-Inferno Conversion Tactics. The grimoire screamed. Not metaphorically—actual fucking screams. Leather binding warping into a mouth that vomited century-old curses.

*MY FIRST EDITION ISN’T A BAR MAT, YOU TWATWAFFLE—* Lanie's roar warped Evelyn’s cranium.

“S-sorry!” The server trembled, looking away, lime wedge suctioned to her cleavage like a barnacle on a sinking tugboat. Textbook millennial wage-slave. Evelyn gripped her wrist.

“Look at me.”

The woman raised her chin.

Evelyn’s lungs collapsed. Blackreach’s stench—rust, rat bile, Prime’s sweat as they carved her open—

HI! I’M DIXIE! blared the nametag, in Comic Sans.

Her bashful smile hit like a sawn-off shotgun.

‘Dixie’ chirped, voice syrup-thick. “Can I, um—”

‘Dixie’s’ knee buckled. The tray upended, cosmos baptising the shrieking grimoire further. Just like that, ‘Dixie’ belly-flopped onto Evelyn, crushing Lanie between them.

Breasts mashed against Lanie’s silk.

Oh.

The girl stank of cheap glitter and coffee shop shifts. But under that—

George’s sweat.

Georgia’s laugh.

“Lanie—”

Dixie’s pulse fluttered against Lanie’s seams. A moth trapped in a jar.

*It’s her.*

“S-sorry!”

*Ev, DON’T let go yet.* Lanie shrieked.* She’s got his eyes. Same fucking shade of ‘love me harder.’*

Dixie squirmed, thigh grazing the chastity cage. “I’ll—I’ll get towels!”

*Ok now you can, I'm soaked,* Lanie hissed. *Before I turn your twiddler into a tampon.*

Evelyn’s nails flexed.

Tap-tap-tap.

“Don’t,” she whispered—to the girl, the ghost, or the godawful limbo between.

The world unpaused.

The girl simpered, “Can I, um, get you another drink?”

“Don't dally.”

The girl tried to flee, tray rattling like a junkie’s spine.

“Oi!” Evelyn’s claw snagged her apron strings. “Dirty as sin, shaken till it bleeds.” A fang glinted. “Vermouth’s a slut’s sigh—pile on the shame.”

The girl’s blush could’ve jump started a necrophiliac’s libido. “Y-yes, Countess!”

Evelyn’s heels cracked marble like molars.

The hunt was on.

 
 
XXIII: Fermented Olives

Dixie’s hips swayed as she retreated, her waitress skirt swishing like a bullfighter’s cape. Evelyn tracked the dragon tattoo peeking above her stockings—obsidian scales.

“Fucking cock cage hurts. Left your damn ring back in the apocalypse bunker,” Evelyn seethed, the cage’s teeth gnawing her groin.” Fell off when I turned you into this walking brothel handkerchief.”

*Priorities, Ev,* Lanie drawled, her seams straining against Evelyn’s ribs. *Seduce the amnesiac or compose an ode to your flaccid ego?*

“Not anymore,” Evelyn declared as she rubbed her staining bulge.

*Funny—your idea of “hard” is as shitty as your judgment.*

Dixie returned, tray rattling with drinks that sloshed like tidal warnings. “M-martini, Countess?”

Evelyn snagged her wrist, dragging Dixie’s knuckles over the cage beneath scarlet silk. “Darling, I prefer my olives… fermented.”

Dixie’s flush could’ve melted a warlock’s ice dildo. “W-we don’t serve those—”

*Liar,* Lanie purred. *Her pulse just lapped Usain Bolt.*

Evelyn plucked an olive, tongue lapping brine before sucking it slowly. Dixie’s gaze snagged on her very hard nipples—stabbing the silk like tent stakes. “Ever grind on royalty in haunted lingerie, Dixie?”

“N-no! Staff aren’t allowed to—”

“The Countess,” Evelyn hissed, yanking her into a spin, “isn’t ‘staff.’” Her palm slid to the small of Dixie’s back, fingers splayed over the apron’s flimsy bow. “Though I’d happily staff you.”

Dixie stumbled, a button popping free. Cleavage spilled like smuggled relics. Evelyn’s cock twitched, the cage’s hinges creaking.

*Yup,* Lanie crooned.* Only our Georgia could resurrect this fossilised worm.*

“C-clumsy!” Dixie dabbed soda on Evelyn’s bodice to help clean up, liquid hissing as it hit ‘Property of the Cum Goblin Collective.’

*Hot,* Lanie muttered. *Literally. I’m evaporating.*

The orchestra’s strings bled into bachata. Syncopated guitars snarling, hips grinding like rusted pistons. Evelyn’s grin sharpened. “Dance with me, Dixie.” Not a request.

“I—I don’t know how—”

“Good.” Evelyn yanked her close, palm branding Dixie’s hipbone. “Dominican rules. Four beats to ruin your life.”

They moved—Evelyn’s thigh slotting between Dixie’s, her claws carving crescents into the girl’s waist. Step. Drag. Roll. Hips locked in a war of attrition, sweat beading like cheap pearls. Dixie’s breath hitched as Evelyn spun her out, apron strings unraveling to the rhythm’s tuk-tuk-tuk.

*She’s blushing like bloodstones,* Lanie hissed, seams screaming as Evelyn’s hips piston-rolled. *And your hips are strangling my spleen.*

“Focus, darling,” Evelyn growled, reeling Dixie back in. Chest-to-chest, her knee nudged the girl’s thighs wider. Step. Drag. Roll.

Dixie’s skirt rode up her thighs, lace stockings frayed where the garter straps bit flesh. Her breath came in sawed-off gasps—”hah-hah-hah—” like a feral thing caught in a bear trap.

“Don't lose that focus, darling,” Evelyn murmured, spinning Dixie out then reeling her in, chest-to-chest. Another button popped, revealing cleavage that could sink battleships.

“S-sorry!” Dixie squeaked, fumbling to cover herself.

“Don’t.” Evelyn caught her wrist, pressing Dixie’s palm to the cage’s outline. “Let them admire.”

Evelyn’s knee hooked higher. “Breathe, pet. Or… don’t.” Her thumb carved crescents into Dixie’s hip, the rhythm syncing to the girl’s rabbit-quick pulse.

Dixie’s chest heaved—stolen oxygen, stolen grace—as Evelyn spun her into a dip.

The tambora’s throb vibrated between them, air thick with salt-sweat and rotgut desire. Each grind left Dixie’s lungs scraped raw, until her breaths were just shallow hitches begging for more.

The music thickened, breathless requinto licks and tambora’s throb. Evelyn dipped her low, Dixie’s hair dusting the floor as it tumbled free. Her dragon tattoo flexed across her collarbone, scales shimmering as if breathing.

*Y’know,* Lanie mused, *if you trip her, I’ll cushion her fall. Strategically.*

Evelyn smirked, snapping Dixie into a dip so low her hair brushed the floor. “Hungry, darling?” She plucked an olive from a passing tray, held it between her teeth like a dare.

Dixie hesitated—then leaned in, lips grazing Evelyn’s as she suckled the olive. A drop of brine slid down her chin.

“Messy,” Evelyn tutted, thumb swiping it away. She sucked her finger clean, gaze locked on Dixie’s. “Let’s fix that.”

The cage strained, hinges groaning.

*Careful,* Lanie purred. *You’ll crack the pearls.*

Evelyn’s hand slid lower, squeezing Dixie’s ass through the cheap polyester skirt. “Time to… inspect the vermouth.”

“But I—”

Evelyn silenced her with a bite to the earlobe. “Now, Dixie.”

The storage closet door slammed. Somewhere, an ice sculpture wept.

*Ding-dong,* Lanie shrieked. *Hell’s delivered a care package.*

 
 
XXIX: Destiny and Dishrags

The storage closet breathed like a punctured lung—bleach and mildew clotting the air. Evelyn’s knees ground into concrete, her caged cock throbbing against ruby-studded bars.

The heart-lock pulsed, Georgia’s ghost humming in the metal.

“Fuck’s sake, Lanie. Feels like a wolverine’s gnawing my junk.”

*Deserves worse,* Lanie hissed, scarlet lace tightening around Evelyn’s ribs. *Murdering cunt got off light.* She purred through the seams, gold threads squirmed under Evelyn’s breasts like parasitic worms. *Now make the brat squeal.*

The girl—Dixie, the bullshit name clung like cheap perfume—arched against the cinder blocks. Her folds glistened, a perfect coin slot framed by a heart-shaped tuft of curls. Vulnerable. Earnest. Evelyn’s tongue dragged up her slit, tasting salt, honey, and cardamom. Cheap perfume couldn’t mask her musk though.

“Stripper names suit liars,” Evelyn growled, teeth grazing the girl’s inner thigh. “Says the woman lapping my—”

*Yank her clit.*

Evelyn obeyed, teeth grazing the swollen bud. The girl yelped.

“Real. Name.”

“Fuck—Dixie—I swear—”

Evelyn pulled back, leaving the girl twitching. “Try again.”

A whimper. Fingers twisted in Evelyn’s locks, tugging like a sinner at prayer. “N-Niyati,” she gasped, accent cracking into gravel. “They call me… Niyati.”

The lock flared.

Lanie’s Telepathic Snarl: *George named the brat. Means ‘Destiny.’ Fate’s chew toy. Melodramatic prick.*

A child with singed eyebrows fused to soot-streaked cheeks, glued to George’s leg as social workers peeled her off like roadkill from a bumper. Burnt hair stank like napalm and shame. Lanie’s voice, sharp as a diamond tipped dagger: “Bollocks, terrorists still on the loose! Belfast’s still smouldering!"

*Ask about the moth,* Lanie hissed. The dress’s neckline cinched, silk biting Evelyn’s throat raw: “Silver pendant. Chain unknotted by your hero.”

Niyati froze. Her hand slithered under the polyester skirt, hiking it higher to reveal a tarnished belly chain. The moth pendant dangled, wings spread like a cauterised wound.

A Belfast alley, 2003. Rubble exhaling ash. George kneeling in sewage, cradling a girl whose dress was more scorch marks than fabric. First rescue. First regret. Lanie lobbing verbal Molotovs at hesitant medics: “Move faster, or I’ll stitch your eyelids open!”

A basement reeking of mildew and adolescent sweat. Evelyn drilling preteens in combat hexes. Niyati’s misfired spell igniting a boy’s eyebrows—sulfur and sizzle. George’s chuckle, warm as a whisky burn: “Kindness first, fire second, kiddo.”

*He picked that knot for hours,* Lanie whispered, silk threads sawing Evelyn’s ribs. *Fingers bleeding on the chain like a fucking penitent.*

“Never took it off,” Niyati breathed. “Even when they… offered me new names. New cages.”

Niyati’s Memory: George humming "Danny Boy" off-key, daubing iodine on her skinned knees.

“Bravery’s messy, kid. Like my pancake batter.” Syrup smeared on his combat boots.

Evelyn’s tongue flicked the pendant. Cold metal, warm skin. “Demos. That martyr’s brand still itch?”

Tears glazed Niyati’s lashes. “He stormed the orphanage. Screamed… screamed about forcing legacies.” Her hips jerked, cunt dripping. “I kept it. Keep them.”

Lanie’s Memory: George in a boardroom, fists cratering mahogany. “You don’t stitch a kid’s past into a spreadsheet, you bureaucratic ghouls!”

Lanie beside him, braiding protection charms into a girl’s hair—this girl.

Evelyn’s claw hooked the waist chain. “Awww.. you’re the brat who crisped that boy’s scalp," she crooned. “Why the act, little arsonist?”

Niyati’s heel ground harder, the pressure a blurred line between agony and euphoria as Evelyn’s caged cock twitched. “Magisterial departments slashed funding for cross-species fertility research last year,” she panted. Hips jerking as Evelyn’s tongue circled her clit.

“Ministry claims hybrid offspring are ‘niche interests.’” A bitter laugh tangled with a moan. “Try telling that to the werewolf clans haemorrhaging pups—or the fae courts sterilised by iron drift.”

Evelyn paused, her breath hot against slick flesh. Cross-species reproduction. The dress’s seams prickled—Lanie’s telepathic sneer. *Of course she’s knee-deep in womb politics. George’s bleeding heart on this smoking hot Petri dish.*

Niyati’s fingers fisted in Evelyn’s locks, urgent. “My thesis—tracking mutagenic decay in dragon-fae couplings—we’re losing entire bloodlines.” Her voice broke, arousal and desperation bleeding together. “The Phoenix Foundation’s last symposium… you cited generational collapse.”

Evelyn’s Memory: A decade back, snarling at a council of trembling bureaucrats. “Keep groping for pennies, and your grandkids will be finger painting with their own extinction.”

Evelyn’s tongue delved deeper, lapping at the girl’s desperation. “Funding droughts. Academic vultures. How quaint.”

“I’ve… fuck… crunched your shelter’s birth rate data.” Niyati’s thighs quaked, words spilling between gasps. “Found a correlation between trauma residues and… oh gods… chromosomal fraying.” She arched, the moth pendant biting into Evelyn’s lip. “Your clinics need my models… but the grants…”

*Translation,* Lanie drawled, *she wants us to bankroll her baby-making algorithms.*

Evelyn pulled back, smirking at the string of saliva connecting her mouth to Niyati’s cunt.

“So you slummed it here? Playing waitress for a shot at our coffers?”

“Played patient first.” Niyati’s gaze sharpened, vulnerability armoured in spite. “Submitted three proposals. Your funding committees vetoed them as… ah!… ‘too radical—nngh!’” Her heel dug a punishing rhythm as Evelyn’s teeth grazed her clit. “But you—hah!—you’ve never shied from pushing boundaries.”

“Bullshit.” Evelyn’s claw traced the moth pendant, nail catching the chain.

“Sugarmommies don’t need half truths. Try again.”

Niyati’s facade cracked, hips jerking. “Plan A: seduce you—oh!—Plan B: steal dragon scales… fuck!… sell them to warlocks for R&D funding.” She blurted it between gasps, voice fraying.

*Cheeky brat,* Lanie hissed, silk constricting like a hangman’s knot. *She has memorised our offshore accounts.*

Evelyn laughed, bitter as a dry heave. “And if I said yes? Funded your… research?”

Niyati’s breath hitched, back arching. “I’d need authority—ah!—to bypass ‘ethics’ committees… burn the red tape—ngh!—choking my work.”

*Our paper-pushing ghouls,* Lanie snarled. *May need some kindling.*

“They’re dying, Evelyn—oh god—" The girl’s voice splintered, cunt clenching around Evelyn’s tongue. “Whole lineages snuffed… hnng!… because purists think a gryphon fucking a dryad is ‘unnatural.’” Her nails drew blood. “Sound… familiar?”

George, fifteen years back, shielding a pregnant werewolf from zealots. “Love’s a renewable resource, you cunts.”

Niyati gasped as Evelyn’s cage clattered to the floor. The girl’s clit swelled—veins erupting under skin, flesh surging into a thick cock that slapped against Evelyn’s chin.

‘First real dick not including Georgia’s little jewellery,’ Evelyn thought, frozen. ”Fuck’s it even taste like?”

*Suck like you’re starving,* Lanie commanded through the tightening seams. *It’s her. Only thing that matters.*

Recognition punched Evelyn’s gut once more. Georgia’s smirk in the curl of the girl’s lip, her hunger in the vein-thick shaft. Hesitation vaporised. Evelyn took the head between her teeth, salt and iron blooming on her tongue. Niyati bucked, a choked noise escaping as Evelyn hollowed her cheeks, working down the length.

The girl’s fingers clawed Evelyn’s scalp, hips pistoning. “F-fuck—ahn—like that—”***

Evelyn gagged, spit slicking the shaft. She breathed through her nose—fine whiskey, burnt sugar, the ozone crackle of overclocked magic. Niyati’s cock throbbed, slamming into her throat. Tears blurred Evelyn’s vision as she choked, nostrils flaring. Georgia’s ghost laughing in her ear.

*Deeper,* Lanie hissed. *Make her remember.*

Evelyn swallowed, muscles rippling. Niyati’s moans pitched higher, ragged.

“Gonna—fuck—”

The first spurt hit Evelyn’s uvula, bitter as lye, corrosive enough to blister. She recoiled, gagging—rotten pomegranates and burnt hair—but Lanie’s voice lashed through her skull: *Georgia’s in the marrow, you coward. Swallow.*

Evelyn’s nostrils flared. Georgia. The name unspooled like a lit fuse. She lunged forward, taking Niyati’s cock to the root, teeth scraping veins as she sucked like a parched thing at a poisoned well. The taste, charcoal and honeysuckle, George’s favourite perfume trapped in the girl’s spend.

*Drain her,* Lanie snarled, seams cinching Evelyn’s ribs. *Every drop’s a shard of him.*

Niyati’s thighs trembled. “S-slow—ah!—too much—”

‘Too much?’ Evelyn’s laugh vibrated against the shaft. She pulled back just enough to rasp, “Georgie never tapped out,” before diving again, throat working like a piston. Tears streaked her mascara as she choked, but she didn’t stop—couldn’t. Niyati’s cock swelled hotter, thicker, familiar in its pulse.

*There,* Lanie hissed. *Taste it?*

Evelyn did. Beneath the acid burn, a flicker of bourbon and diesel grease—George’s vices, Georgia’s cravings. She moaned around the cock, nails biting Niyati’s hips. More.

The girl came again, a ragged scream tearing loose. Cum flooded Evelyn’s mouth, viscous and electric, searing her tongue like overclocked magic. She swallowed greedily, chasing the phantom aftertaste of Georgia’s jizz.

Lanie begged for more, even as the dress’s lace ignited where spills struck silk. Glowing runes spiderwebbed across the fabric, stitching George’s essence into every thread.

The dress shuddered, seams sighing. *You’d gargle gutter filth for scraps of her, wouldn’t you?*

Evelyn didn’t deny it. She lapped the softening cock clean, tongue swiping the slit until Niyati whimpered. “Enough—please—”

"Never," Evelyn growled, bloodied lips peeling back, but the girl was spent, slumping against the wall. Cock softening to a spent question mark.

Evelyn leaned back, throat raw, cum gleaming on her chin like gas station lip gloss. The cage and heart pendant pulsed on the floor—Georgia’s ghost humming a hymn only moths could hear.

Niyati had collapsed against the piss-yellow tiles, softening cock still glistening. Evelyn wiped her face on the dress’s hem, smearing jizz into gold thread. “Still useful,” she rasped, lifting the cage and pendant from the floor. The heart charm pulsed, warm as a fresh kill.

*No dick to dock—just slit split wide,* Lanie howled in laughter, *Virgin cunt of trailer park pride.*

Evelyn’s claws twitched. Memories of Xanathar’s reign—that draconic dong swinging between his thighs, thick enough to crack continents. Now her brand new folds wept in hunger, as Lanie’s seams licked her clit like a meth-head firefly. Pathetic, but her happy hips jerked anyway.

*Admit it,* Lanie purred, silk cinching like a lover’s chokehold. *You’d trade every hoarded jewel for one thrust of Georgia’s—*

“Eat. Silence.”

Niyati stirred, her cock a wilted masterpiece—veins like cursive threats, glistening with Evelyn’s spit. Goddress, Evelyn nearly drooled, talons carving trenches in her own thighs.

Georgie’s blueprint. Her heft. Her goddamn gravity.

Lanie’s laughter vibrated through the seams. *Oh, darling. You missed a spot. Also focus!* she hissed, *before the brat sees you whimpering like a kicked pup*

Evelyn snatched the pendant, talon punching her clit—stab-snick—pain blooming like a lit match in a whisky flask. The ruby clicked home, blood and slick staining silk. “There,” she spat, “Proper upgrade. Not some… secondhand hag’s yard-sail scrap.”

Lanie’s laugh crackled—rotten honey in a rusted tin. *Darlin’, you’re a dragon with a twat and in love to boot. You’ll be begging for a pounding before dawn.*

The vision sucker-punched Evelyn—Niyati’s cock ramming into her raw, scales erupting down her spine as she was bent over. Anal was conquest, your enemy’s flagpole wedged where even whores kept sovereignty. Evelyn’s talons tore parchment as Niyati bottomed out, her neglected cunt dripping.

“Mine,” Niyati growled—Georgie’s possessive snarl—pistoning hips turning Evelyn’s guts to lit gasoline. The dragon’s tits swung like gutted prize sacks, nipples scraping the bed with every thrust. “Beg.”

Evelyn’s knees buckled, spine curving into a whore’s arch. “Y-yes—!” Spittle strung between her fangs, claws reduced to scratching at her own thighs. “A-anything—”

Niyati’s hand fisted her hair, yanking her head back. “Louder.”

“ANYTHING!” The scream shredded her throat, cunt juice pooling beneath her as Niyati’s cock split her like overripe fruit. “Yours—!”

The vision snapped.

Evelyn’s thoughts bled sewage and static: “Yes. Yes. Take it. Take everything.”

Just then, Niyati’s fist knotted in Evelyn’s hair with unexpected force yanking her face level. The girl’s lips crashed into Evelyn’s, her knee rising instinctually to pin the dragon against cinderblock.

Godress, *Lanie hissed, she’s moving like Georgie on that bender—*

Evelyn’s talons scrabbled for purchase, finding only Niyati’s noticeably fit bicep. Like corded steel under that cheap polyester—as the girl’s tongue dug deeper. A moan leaked through clenched fangs. *Lookit you,* Lanie crooned, silk constricting Evelyn’s chest, *whimpering for a brat who doesn’t even know that she sprouted her own dick.*

Evelyn tore free, lip bleeding black ichor. “Want patronage, Dr. Demos?” Her voice frayed.

“Ditch the—”

Niyati moved without thought—George’s old wrestling takedown—slamming Evelyn’s back into concrete. Her thigh slotting between Evelyn’s legs

Lanie purred, seams buzzing like a meth-lab fridge: *Your slit’s singin’ hymns for a relic, darling. Georgia’s ghost could pole-vault through that gapin’ altar.*

“Don't care. She’s here, Evelyn hissed, and I'm happy to be her glory hole.”

Evelyn gathered her senses, talons trembling as she palmed Niyati’s spent cock. Still warm, still hers—thumb grinding the slit like a gambler’s worry stone. “Submit your proposal in person.” A fang grazed the girl’s jugular. “Naked. Kneeling. With that moth between your—”

Lanie’s telepathy slithered between her ribs: *Ooooh, big scary dragon playin’ domme again! Quick, check your clit—still drippin’ or just pissin’ yourself?*

Evelyn’s grip tightened, flushing rose gold with shame. *Let me have this, she fired back, even if it’s just smoke up a hooker’s ass.*

Niyati’s breath hitched—innocent as a razor in the devil's baptism—as Evelyn hissed, “Teeth.” Silk slithering up her thigh. *We’ll see how deep you convictions run*

Lanie cackled, silk wrapping tighter, *Should’ve pinned her, ridden that cock like a trailer park rodeo. But no—you’re too busy cosplayin’ a warlord who can’t even—*

“Shut. UP.” Evelyn’s claws drew blood from her own palms. “She’s here. That’s enough.”

*For now,* Lanie sing-songed, *but midnight’s comin’, girlie. And that brat’s gonna peel you open and stuff you like a cheap condom.*

“Midnight,” Evelyn shoved Niyati toward the door, her roar fraying at the edges: “My vault. Don’t… fucking triage.”

The door slammed. Evelyn’s claw dove under lace, fingers pistoning.

*Ah-ah,* Lanie tutted, seams tourniqueting her wrist. *Save it, girlie. Let the ache marinate.*

“I’ll turn you into a —”

*You surrendered your dick to a walking Georgia cosplay. Face it—* Lanie’s laugh was a dragon’s fang. *—she’s claimed her right of conquest. Now we stew.*

Somewhere, a moth battered a locked window—tap-tap-tap, like a ghost’s knuckles.

*Still useful,* Lanie echoed, silk loosening into something almost tender as Evelyn’s fingers lingered on the charm. Happily tracing the grooves where Georgia’s laughter lived again.
 
 
Continued in Chapter 11

 
XXX: Penthouse Pet

The penthouse door groaned like a vault sealing shut, its platinum hinges whispering of blood money and extinct treants. Evelyn’s talon hovered over the biometric panel, scales glinting under the foyer’s chandelier. A constellation of hellhound teeth dipped in mercury.

*Wards held,* Lanie hissed through the corset’s seams, gold filigree tightening with disdain. *No deep trace of him in her. Just a damned doppelganger. Told you she’d flee.*

Evelyn’s lip curled. “Or she never tried.”

Same difference. *Cowards don’t—*

The door hissed open.

Niyati knelt on the threshold, naked as a blade, moth pendant clenched between her teeth. Rainwater slithered down her collarbones, pooling on marble veined like cracked dragon eggs. Her cock, thick, glistening, with veins etched like cursed scripture, curved against her thigh. Its glorious head grazing the ‘Blasphemers, Blessed, & Bitches Be Welcome’ mat.

*Oh,* Lanie breathed, corset seams sighing. *She’s…*

“Don’t.”

*…Georgia’s ghost in high-def.*

Evelyn’s talon twitched. “How’d you get in?”

Niyati spat the pendant into her palm, chain slithering. “Took a ward-picking course. Your ex designed it.”

*Not her ex, mine.* Lanie corrected, silk prickling Evelyn’s ribs.

“Bullshit. Draconic encryption wasn’t covered.”

“No.” Niyati stood, cock swaying as she stepped inside. “But draconic’s just math with fangs. Easy, once you crack it.”

Lanie’s laugh crackled. *Definitely Georgie. Smug as a saint in a brothel when it comes to a challenge. She’s got Georgie’s playbook and our twats as bookmarks.*

Evelyn’s facade rippled. “Wait here.” She turned, claws clicking toward the hallway.

*Finally,* Lanie purred as they swept past onyx statues of Evelyn’s past conquests. *Time to shed this gilded straitjacket. I’ll be flesh, you’ll be furious, we’ll raze the city for—*

The bedroom mirror revealed no change. Lanie remained silk and seams.

*Try the incantation again,* Lanie demanded, seams fraying with panic. *The one with the blood and the—*

“Fine bitch,” Evelyn snarled and cast the spell, but the only thing it did was to atomise the mirror into mercury vapour. Glass shards dissolved into a toxic silver mist that coiled around like vengeful ghosts.

*Brilliant. Now I’m dry-clean only and you’re out a reflection.*

“Shut. Up.”

*Or what?* Lanie’s voice sharpened, seams digging into Evelyn’s ribs like barbed wire. *You’ll turn me into a whore’s wet wipe? Newsflash, darling—you already did.*

Evelyn gripped the dresser, talons splintering mahogany. “We’ll try the reversal at dawn. Maybe needs a recharge?” She glared at the corset’s warped reflections in the broken fragments and mercury haze. “Niyati’s… proximity might be an issue as well. Karma’s a vengeful seamstress.”

*Karma?* Lanie’s laugh frayed at the edges. *Really think this is balance? Turning me into a glorified girdle, the brat watches?*

“She’s not watching. She’s waiting.” Evelyn’s scales rippled, molten onyx bleeding through the cracks in her composure. “Think you playing spectator is coincidence?”

*I think this is punishment.* The corset tightened like a hangman’s noose. *Using her won’t absolve us. Just spreads the rot.*

“Then let it.” Evelyn’s talon slashed the air. “Leather. Chains. I’ll play dominant tonight. Keep her occupied and then chase her out before dawn.”

Lanie’s laugh was a scalpel scraping bone. *Dominant?* The corset constricted, morphing into black dragonhide studded with rusted railroad spikes. *Sweetheart, you’re a back alley bum in a crown. That girl out there?* A telepathic nod toward the foyer. *She’ll peel you open like a rotten fig. Georgie’s ghost wants payback. And honey? We are the chequebook. You’ll be begging for a safeword like a choirboy in a crack den.*

“Delusions suit you.” Evelyn cinched the straps until the leather whimpered.

*Careful.* The corset’s boning creaked, *I’m still the only thing hoisting those sagging udders. Unless you wanna greet her tits first like a lactating gargoyle.*

Evelyn snatched the riding crop from the drawer. Its handle still crusted with ‘92 Dom Pérignon and some parliament member’s lost dignity—and cracked it against her thigh. The sound echoed like a gunshot. “One: My udders could smother empires. Two: Will she bite?”

*Ohh She’ll swallow you whole.* Lanie’s voice was the cracking of a dying neon sign. *And you’ll thank her.* The corset loosened abruptly, silk whispering against scales. *Tonight’s about surviving the feast we’re too starved to refuse.*

Evelyn’s breath caught. Somewhere down the hall, Niyati’s bare feet shifted on marble, restless as a blade on a whetstone.

*I’d rather not be collateral when she realises we’re cosplaying gods.* The corset tightened, bitter as a hangover, as Evelyn responded reluctantly. “Agreed. Reversal magic at Dawn. If we survive tonight.”

*Tick-tock,* Lanie purred. Our *ex’s protégé is waiting. Better pray she’s the forgiving type.*

“Mercy’s for mortals.”

*So’s regret. But here we are.*

---

 
Desperate Dragons

The bedroom hummed like a live wire—AC units gasping against July’s fever, leather restraints creaking their dissent. Evelyn’s riding crop trembled ever so slightly as she circled Niyati’s kneeling form.

“Count the strikes,” Evelyn ordered, voice sandpapered raw.

Niyati’s smirk cut through the humidity. “Or what? You’ll spank me harder, Mistress?”

The crop cracked against her shoulder—a weak punctuation. One.

The corset cinched tighter, Lanie’s telepathy now a serrated whisper: *She’s mocking you, lizard.*

Evelyn swung again. Two. The welt bloomed coral.

Niyati shifted her weight—subtle, imperceptible—until her knees framed Evelyn’s stiletto. “Is this the part where I beg?”

Three. The crop trembled.

Evelyn’s fourth strike went wide, crop whistling past Niyati’s ear to gouge the bedpost. Sawdust snowed onto satin sheets.

“Focus,” Niyati drawled, arching her back to better display the crisscross of pinkening welts. “Or am I supposed to cum from your interior decorating?”

*She’s toying with you. Us.*

Evelyn’s next swing cracked her own thigh instead. The pain bloomed hot, shame hotter.

Niyati tsked. “Hand me the reins, princess. Before you put an eye out.”

“No.” Evelyn’s voice splintered like cheap glass. She fumbled the flogger, its beads clacking like a crackhead’s teeth. “On your—your knees. Now.”

Niyati rose instead, coiled muscle and condensed strength. “You’re shaking.” She caught the flogger mid-swing, yanking Evelyn flush. “What’s really got you spooked? First time swinging the hammer?” Her thumb found the corset’s ruby clasp—click—peeling leather back to expose Evelyn’s breasts. Nipples hard as meth-lab sparklers. “Oh no… it’s your first time catching the sparks isn’t it?”

Evelyn’s moan curdled as Niyati pinched and twisted. The corset stayed put—Lanie’s seams hissing as Niyati hiked Evelyn’s skirt. The heart-piercing glinted, rubies crusted like dried blood.

*Fuck—* Lanie’s telepathy frayed as Niyati’s finger circled the charm. *She’s—mmmph—*

Niyati lifted Evelyn like kindling and tossed her onto the bed. Her mouth sealed over Evelyn’s nipple—sucking hard enough to bruise galaxies—before biting down. Evelyn’s back arched off the bed, a choked “Fuck—!” escaping as Lanie’s seams shrieked telepathic static.

*Harder—* Lanie’s voice frayed, threads pulsing like a junkie’s heartbeat. *Make her, make us scream.*

Niyati obliged the unheard plea. Twisting the other nipple between knuckles calloused from cracking wards. Evelyn’s hips jackknifed, drool pooling on the sheets as she clawed at nothing. “Please—”

“Please what?” Niyati pulled back, thumb circling the abused peak. “Use your words, Countess.”

Evelyn’s chest heaved, breasts glistening with spit and shame. “S’too much—hnng—don’t stop—”

Niyati laughed a low, diesel purr and sucked the nipple raw again. Evelyn’s thighs slammed shut around nothing, cunt dripping onto Lanie.

Her Mouth trailed gasoline kisses down her ribs. When her tongue hit the piercing, Evelyn arched—a live wire jerking—as Lanie’s seams sang.

Brink. Brink. Brink—

“Please!” Evelyn’s voice cracked, nails carving half-moons into her palms. “Wanna come—need to—fuckin’ let me—”

Niyati switched gears, tongue lapping at the pebbled flesh. “Not yet.” Her free hands slid up, thumb grinding both nipples. “Gonna make you beg for your own ruin.”

Evelyn sobbed—a wet, broken sound—as Lanie’s seams screamed.

Niyati pulled back, grinning like a switchblade. Her cock—thick enough to split dragons open—dragged up Evelyn’s slit. Drool slicked Evelyn’s chin, surrendered and shameless.

*Do it,* Lanie hissed, seams dissolving into liquid. *Let her gut you.*

Evelyn’s resolve crumbled like sugar glass. “Jus’… fuck me.” The plea reeked of bankruptcy and bus-stop desperation. “Please.”

Niyati stilled. “Oh.” A slow grin. “That kind of virgin.”

Niyati’s finger slipped between Evelyn’s lips—involuntary suck reflex, the shame flush blooming like a bruise.

“Good girl.” Niyati’s hand dug deeper, the outline as brutal as a blacksmith’s hammer. “You glow in technicolour when you beg,” she purred, fingers grazing the ruby piercing. “Like a brothel chandelier.”

She palmed Evelyn’s cunt through soaked lace. “So beg proper.”

Evelyn’s lips stuttered. “I-I want…”

“Words, darling. Not whimpers.”

“Your cock.” The confession tore loose, serrated. “Your rules. Jus’… god, please—”

Niyati’s kiss swallowed the rest, teeth, tongues and triumph. “Attagirl.”

---

 
Past and Future

The penthouse air hung pungent as communion wine left to sour. Niyati's mouth moved like dusk claiming daylight—slow, inevitable, rewriting the map of Evelyn's skin. Her palm mapped both sides of Evelyn's sternum like a pilgrim tracing cathedral stones. Each rib a rosary bead beneath hungry skin. The corset sighed open into silk and lace the colour of shame, one sleeve clinging stubbornly to a yearning nipple. "Leave it," Niyati murmured against the barrier of black thread. "Perfect canvas."

Evelyn's protest died as teeth closed around fabric and flesh. The world narrowed to wet heat as fingertips teased the clit charm. Lanie's answering keen vibrated through the flimsy apparel. *Goddesses on a meth binge—since when did I start to feel what you feel?!*

"You—mngh!—stop interrupting!" Evelyn writhed, ancient syllables of power dissolving into whimpers.

*But darling,* the gown cooed, seams rippling up Evelyn’s forearm in a gossamer caress, *aren't we past pretending?* The lace slithered, binding Evelyn's wrists in a lover's knot above her head. *Let's give your girlhood a proper christening.*

Niyati's laugh warmed the hollow of Evelyn's throat. "Seems like even your wardrobe's rooting for me." Her cock slid against slick folds, teasing. *Oooh! That’s almost George's exact angle, George's torturous patience.*

Her thumb fiddled with the clit charm, rolling it like dice across a debtor's knuckles. Twin moans harmonised—one smokey alto, one soprano silk. "Last chance to play domme, Countess."

"I'll flay you—ngghhh—please" Evelyn hissed, hips arching traitorously. Millennia of conquest undone by a girl's clever fingers.

"There's my girl." Niyati peeled the sleeve down millimetre by excruciating millimetre. Her lips following the retreating fabric. Each kiss to Evelyn's skin feeling like lightning-struck orchards. "Breathe, darling. Even the mighty need oxygen."

Fireworks burst behind Evelyn's eyelids as Niyati's cock breached her. George's ghost and her own future crashing together in her cunt. "Slow," she pleaded to the ceiling saints, talons sinking into the headboard. "Please, I can't—"

The words caught flame in Evelyn's chest as she tried to reclaim…something. "I am—oh fuck!—I am Xan—"

*—Currently Devarīš-Wet Blanket,* Lanie snorted as penetration sparked twin moans. *Relax, Scaley. Enjoy the ride. Virginity's just your first scar.*

The stretch burned divine. Evelyn's hips stuttered—forward, unable to flee the unbearable intimacy. Niyati's palm anchored her pelvis, thumb circling the charm with artisan precision.

"There we go, little flame," she crooned, lips brushing the shell of Evelyn's ear. "Burn proper for me."

Ecstasy erupted like arterial spray. Visions of George smiling through cigar smoke, Lanie's first kiss, Xanathar's horde melting to slag. Evelyn shattered beautifully. Lanie's shared ecstasy slipping through her armour like morning glories through cemetery fences.

“Can’t… can’t…” Evelyn gasped, dragging in lungfuls like drowning meant something. Even the whole sky wasn’t enough.

"Can't what?" Niyati's lips found hers, swallowing aeons of lonely godhood. "Break? Bend? Squeal?" Each word punctuated by a roll of hips that rewrote biology. "Too late, Countess. You're just my girl now."

They both came shouting curses in dead dialects, Niyati's name the only modern word that mattered.

*Congratulations,* Lanie moaned as the aftershocks faded, lace reforming into virgin white. *You've officially upgraded from tyrant to trainwreck. Turns out gods do cry pretty.*

Niyati withdrew with care, catching Evelyn's tear on her thumb as she kissed the salt from her cheeks. "Beginner's luck," she lied, fingers still entwined with Evelyn's while rubbing the trembling charm. "Next we discuss funding applications."

---

 
Reflections in the shower

The shower’s steam hung like confession-booth gauze, blurring the edges of everything but the ache. Evelyn clawed at the collar—Lanie—now slithering around her throat in onyx links that bit colder than Dragonflight altitudes.

Her reflection warped in the fogged mirror. Xanathar’s fading shadow hunched beneath a defenceless woman, nipple rings glinting like votive candles at a sinner’s shrine.

*You’re welcome,* Lanie hummed through the drain’s gurgle, chains pooling at Evelyn’s feet like loyal hounds. *Took creative liberties. Figured you’d want your midlife crisis bedazzled.*

“I need silence… Please.” Evelyn's fist shattered the mirror. Silvered shards rained down, each fragment showing a different era. Xanathar roaring flames across tundra fields, George stitching wounds by campfire light... This trembling creature with jewels for shackles. “My form is inviolate…”

The door groaned its disapproval. Niyati lounged naked against the frame, cock curving upward like a question mark. "Violate this," she grinned, thumbing her tip. . “Heard you redecorating.” Her grin softened at the edges, a switchblade sheathed in velvet. “Need a hand, Countess?”

*C'mon, Scales. You've levelled cities for less.*

Evelyn's claws flexed. "I am Devarīš-Xana—"

“—Currently auditioning as my personal stress-relief toy." Niyati scooped a mirror shard, angling it to catch Evelyn's trembling thighs. "Nice touch with the charm. Vintage or bespoke?"

Obsidian scales almost rippled up Evelyn's spine defensively. "Not your fucking business."

"Sure?" Niyati pressed closer, river-water scent slicing steam. Her palm skimmed the collar. "Feels intentional to me. Begging for a leash."

*Guilty as charged, your Dragonship.* Lanie’s chains cinched. *Seems your id’s got a kinkier retirement plan.*

"Silence!" Evelyn swiped at the necklace dissolving into mist—reforming as sluttier platinum. "Damn cloth—"

Niyati caught her wrist mid-swipe. "Maybe listen to the sentient slave gear." She guided Evelyn’s palm to her cock, heat bleeding through soap-slick skin. "Starting to think you want these accessories."

Contact sparked a near meltdown. Evelyn’s knees threatened mutiny. "I need control."

Niyati stepped closer, her musk cutting through the citrus soap. Her thumb grazed the collar, a locksmith gentling a vault. “Control’s a shitty salve, countess. Try trust.”

“Trust is for lambs.”

“And lambs get eaten.” Her mouth found Evelyn’s pulse—a promise, not a threat. “Lucky for you, that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

The tile wall chilled Evelyn’s spine as Niyati lifted her, effortless as plucking an apple from a widow’s tree. The breach came slow, a confession in reverse. Evelyn’s gasp fogged the glass. “There she is,” Niyati murmured, hips rolling like tides erasing shorelines, even as she drew twin moans—one smokey gruff, one metal soprano. HNNNG! Right in the galvanised g-spot!

*Sweet baby behemoths…dragon turned dandelion. Blow apart for us.*

"Hush," Evelyn hissed, unsure whom she addressed.

"Make me." Niyati's thrusts carved hieroglyphs of ownership into her cervix. "Roar. Burn. Do something besides take it like a dockside whore."

Memories bled through the heat:

— Xanathar hoarding empires in her molten veins.

— Lanie weaping that night. After the first betrayal.

— This moment—the sweet fracture of letting a stranger deep into her fault lines.

— With child, suckling twins at breasts swollen

Evelyn’s claws scored the tile. “I don’t… I can’t—”

“Can.” Niyati pinned her wrists, calluses whispering surrender. “Your crown’s in the gutter, baby. All that’s left is you.”

The climax unspooled like a lullaby sung in a mother-tongue she’d forgotten. Evelyn sagged, forehead resting on Niyati’s shoulder—a dragon nesting in the wreckage of her own myth.

Lanie’s chains melted. *i’m surprised that she was ‘this’ gentle.*

“Quiet,” Evelyn breathed, no venom left.

Niyati's palm cracked against her ass. "Stay with me, Flame-Brain." Her teeth found the slave collar. "Cum knowing this cunt's mine. These tits. Every greedy centimetre."

Pride dissolved in the deluge. "Yours," Evelyn keened, centuries crumbling like shale. "Only yours—please!"

Lanie could only whimper now, ” mmph… Ooh… looks like I was very wrong.”

Release painted her insides with liquid heresy. Niyati collapsed against her, sweaty brow resting below the collar. "Marked you proper," she panted.

Niyati pressed a kiss to her collarbone, lips lingering on the charm. “Next time, we’ll work on your thank you.”

The steam cleared. Night lights bled through the shattered window, gilding the city Evelyn could easily devour.

As Niyati sauntered out, Evelyn studied the remaining mirror shard. Xanathar's ghost saluted

her from a battlefield that no longer existed—a general acknowledging a worthy defeat.

Her fingers found the collar—solid, cool, strangely comforting.

*Regrets?* Lanie coiled, warm around her throat.

Evelyn traced the collar, its weight a counterbalance to the hollowness. “Only that I didn’t break sooner.”

Somewhere below, traffic hummed a mundane hymn. Somewhere within, a dragon relearned to fly with clipped wings.

 
 
XXXI. Good faith negotiations

The floorboards creaked their virgin protest. Poor things were unaccustomed to dragon knees carving scripture into oak. Evelyn’s kneecaps pressed fresh potholes into the grain. Surrender written in sweat and splinters. Contract sigils pulsed like fireflies above the four-poster bed. Their runes spelling penance in postwar legalese.

Niyati reclined on silk spun from surrendered battle flags, her cock arching like a conqueror’s sceptre glazed in honeyed light. The air tasted of lavender warding and ink-smeared virtue.

Evelyn knelt, Lanie the collar—now a braid of cold silver and dragon fang——bit into her throat, snug as a hangman’s promise. Niyati’s bare foot pressed her throat, not to choke, but to anchor. “Clause twelve-A, pet,” she purred, toes curling beneath Evelyn’s jawline. “Faun midwives. Make it sing.”

*Suggest gryphon incubators*, Lanie hissed, chains slithering like a silver dagger swaddled in silk. “Fund it with your rusted crown.”

Evelyn’s tongue mapped the calluses on Niyati’s toes—charcoal and clover, the tang of old oaths. “Diamond-tier patrons… receive… midnight lullabies from fallen celestials.”

Niyati’s laugh was velvet wrapped around a blade. “Darling little sycophant.” Her heel carved a groove down Evelyn’s collarbone. “But your throat’s prettier gagging.” A nod toward her cock, glistening like a fresh kill. “Suck my balls hollow. Show me how titans grovel.”

Evelyn bent, the collar’s weight a benediction. Niyati’s hairless sac loomed—taut flesh veined like forbidden maps. Musk flooded her senses—ash and amber, masculine, feminine and foreign.

Shame flared. Xanathar had ruled millennia in male skin, cock swinging like a siege weapon—now bent to another’s gravity.

*Lizard,* Lanie sneered, chains cinching. *Suck the gems you abandoned. *Prove you’re better at swallowing than governing.*

“Slowly,” Niyati warned, fingers twisting in Evelyn’s hair, commanding rather than caressing. “Like you’re savouring your last meal.”

The first lick tore a whimper from them both. Evelyn’s tongue swirled the left orb, heat and salt and something green—the taste of spring tide surrender. Lanie’s chains trembled, her own tongue now Evelyn’s tongue piercing. Her whimper dissolving. *Oh fuck, I can taste her—*

“Good girl,” Niyati crooned, hips lifting, offering more. “Worship them proper. They’ve looked forward to your… devotion.”

Evelyn obeyed, lips sealing around the sac, sucking gently as if drawing venom from a wound. Niyati’s thighs quivered. “Yes—just like—” Her voice fractured, grip tightening. “Think you can handle the right one as well, my ruined saint?”

The answer was a desperate moan as she swallowed them whole, vibrations rippling through flesh. Evelyn’s jaw ached. Her own pulse hammering in time with Lanie’s frantic hum.

*Demand rainbow ambulances!* Lanie’s piercings vibrated. *Before we drown in testicle-scented Stockholm syndrome!*

Evelyn forced herself to pull back, saliva bridging her lips to Niyati’s glistening skin. *Jealous, rag?* She shot telepathically. *Wish these jewels were yours to polish?*

*I’d make her weep treaties,* Lanie hissed. *You’re licking like a concussed kitten.*

“Hnn—amend clause fifteen—” Niyati gasped, back arching off the silk. “Three… three mobile units—”

*Five!* The slave collar tightened. *With mage-fire lanterns!*

“Five,” Evelyn bartered, teeth grazing flesh that remembered scalpel kisses.

“Three,” Niyati gasped, swatting her head with a pillow, “and you wear a lion-tamer costume.”

*Ask about the whip!* Lanie’s piercings heated.

Contract runes flared gold. Niyati’s cock hovered over Evelyn’s chin like a guillotine’s kiss. “Now… the base. Pretend it’s… mm… honey cake.”

Evelyn’s tongue darted out, tracing veins that pulsed with Niyati’s heartbeat. Saliva pooled, a sinner’s baptism. The foreskin parted like a velvet curtain, revealing the glistening head. Uncut perfection, sweat-beaded and trembling.

*Yummy*, Lanie cooed, buzzing like a trapped hornet. *We’re drooling like back-alley junkies.*

Evelyn’s resolve snapped. She took the head between her lips, suckling the salt-sweet corona. Niyati’s gasp echoed off the vaulted ceiling. “Slower, you greedy—”

The vibration kicked in—Lanie’s cursed jewellery thrumming against Evelyn’s tongue. Niyati’s thighs quaked. “Fuck! Fuck—”

Evelyn plunged deeper, nose burying in coarse curls. Musk flooded her senses—iron and honeysuckle, victory and vulnerability. She gagged, tears pricking, but didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

*That’s it,* Lanie gagged, the barbell vibrating faster. *Choke on our own extinction.*

Niyati’s fingers fisted Evelyn’s hair, yanking her back. “Enough.” A ragged laugh. “Plenty more to negotiate, glutton.”

She hauled Evelyn up by the slave collar, thighs clamping her waist like bailiff’s cuffs. “Article thirty-two: Free transit for refugee harpies.” Dropped her onto the bedspread woven from repurposed war banners. “Present rebuttals.”

*Fake an earthquake!* Lanie’s collar tapped Morse code. *Demand vibrating seats!*

Evelyn’s fingers dove south, two knuckles deep in slickness that reeked of ozone and crushed violets. “E-eight safehouses… climate-controlled—ah!—with rooftop gardens—”

“—And you tend the damn begonias.” Niyati’s knee spread her wider than a tax-evasion loophole, combat boots framing heaving ribs. “Two shelters. Bark ratification.”

Counter with sprinkler systems! Lanie’s nipple clamps spat sparks. George loved hydrants!

Evelyn arched, free hand twisting a nipple ring until the chain glowed like a branding iron. “F-four sanctuaries… solar-powered—oh!—dusk-to-dawn wards—”

Niyati climbed atop her, sweat-slick thighs bracketing Evelyn’s face. “Three.” Her thumb smeared arousal across Evelyn’s lips. “Suck today’s hope into tomorrow’s promise.”

Compliance tasted of brine and pardoned arson. *Inheritance fraud!* Evelyn’s tongue dug into fully familiar flesh now, Lanie’s piercings humming through each clockwise rotation. *We’ll appeal to higher courts!*

Evelyn gasped around the ministrations. “Mmf… four clinics… postpartum therapists—”

“—Sanctioned.” Niyati’s groan rattled the headboard’s carved gryphons. Evelyn’s fingers pistoned, curling against a spot Niyati had only recently claimed. “Six units… ogre lactation consultants—”

“—Certified doulas only!” Niyati struck ethics harder than a debtor’s gavel. She twisted the nipple ring, igniting Lanie’s chainmail bra into spark-throwing convulsions. “Three... ah!… mobile clinics—”

*Four!* The slave collar garroted. *Self-sanitizing pumps!*

Evelyn’s teeth grazed tomorrow’s lineage. “F-four… spectral wards—”

Niyati wrenched Evelyn into position—ass upturned like a surrendered flag, spine curved into a question mark of defeat.

Her pendulous breasts swayed beneath her. Loot sacks heavy with plundered pride, as arcane spotlights bathed the scene in sulfurous gold. The mirrors captured every obscene detail.

Cunt gaping wider than a gutted shark’s grin, juices streaking her inner thighs like snail trails on a tombstone. Shoulder blades jutted like shattered cathedral spires. Sweat pooling in the hollow where rebellion should have simmered.

Lanie’s chains slithered into a live mic. *Her womb’s flashing ‘Vacancy’ in neon, folks!*

Niyati’s palm cracked against Evelyn’s ass—a gunshot ripple of flesh. “Beg harder,” she demanded, cock hovering like an executioner’s blade. “Let them hear their saint’s devotion.”

Holy tax fraud! Lanie's clamps pinched like repo men. *You're tonight's prime-time porn baby! City's watching your gaping tax evasion! *

Evelyn's face burned hotter than dragonfire. Fingers pumping furiously as humiliation and arousal merged. “Die screaming.”

*Already queued, Cumsock!* Chains constricted. *Bark for her brats!*

Evelyn's flush spread wildfire-bright, free hand plunging as Niyati's shadow drowned her pride.

Evelyn’s retort died as Niyati thrust, hilt-deep. The crowd’s gasp mirrored her own—a symphony of voyeurs and vultures. Breasts swinging like ransacked church bells, each slap of skin echoing through the chamber.

"F-four clinics…" Evelyn panted, drool pooling on peace treaty silk. "W-with… round-the-clock nurseries—"

Niyati slapped her hand away, replacing fingers with cockhead pressure. "Five. Beg filthy."

The breach tore through her like arson in a library, nerve-endings screaming as ancient scrolls burned. Niyati’s cock carved a merciless rhythm, each thrust a jackhammer splitting bedrock. Evelyn’s hungry cunt stretched obscenely. The schlick-schlack of slick flesh echoing like a grease trap devouring factory waste.

“BREED ME!” Evelyn’s shriek shattered stained glass saints. Body jiggling like a slaughterhouse chandelier under the piston-drill assault. “F-fill your revolution in this saggy flesh cage!”

Niyati paused, cockhead swelling at the precipice of Evelyn’s cervix. “Magnificent flesh cage,” she hissed, biting a wobbling asscheek. Her palm cracked down, leaving a handprint glowing like it was radioactive. “But first—” She withdrew completely, tip glistening with betrayal. “—earn it.”

Evelyn whimpered, cunt clenching around vacancy. “P-please—!”

“Arch more.” Niyati’s command brooked no defiance.

Evelyn obeyed, spine bowing until her ass hovered like a rotten moon. Niyati’s cock slammed home in one brutal stroke, balls slapping Evelyn’s piercing with wet thwacks. The impact jolted her tits into pendulous arcs; nipples chafed raw as trench survivors. “Feed radicals from these useless udders!” Evelyn begged, sweat-drenched breasts swaying to the rhythm of ruin.

“Precious udders.” Niyati leaned forward, thumbing a nipple. Her other hand yanked Evelyn’s head back by the hair, forcing her to watch in the mirrors as cock vanished into ravaged flesh. “Soon flowing with legacy.”

Lanie’s clit piercing burned white-hot—a welding torch scoring steel. *Fuck… hnn!… Feels like a… a magma coloniser!* Her chains slithered, cinching Evelyn’s wrists tighter. *Tell her to split your bankrupt womb!*

Niyati’s pace quickened, hips pistoning like a derailed freight train. Evelyn’s entrance gaped obscene, a storm drain gulping down the city’s sins. “MAKE ME YOUR… FUCK!… WORTHLESS WH—”

“My radiant slut!” Niyati roared, runes igniting ‘BELOVED’ down her spine in searing glyphs. She gripped Evelyn’s hips, nails drawing blood as she angled deeper, cockhead battering the womb’s barred gate.

Lanie’s chain links melted, dripping molten silver onto the sheets. There’s my… ah!… girl!

Niyati’s chokehold tightened, forearm a boa constrictor, squeezing psalms from Evelyn’s throat. “TAKE YOUR LEGACY!” Her free hand mauled Evelyn’s breast, kneading phantom milk and misery into the sheets.

Evelyn’s howl atomised the chamber’s last intact window. “BREED YOUR FILTH IN ME!” Her body convulsed, tits slapping her chin like overripe melons as Niyati’s monster swelled—an anchor lodging in her cervix. Seed erupted in hot, toxic geysers, cementing amendments thick with iron and absolution.

Collapse came suddenly. Niyati’s spent cock slipped free with a wet splurt, painting Evelyn’s thighs in pearlescent graffiti. Evelyn scrambled backwards though. Tongue desperately lapping at the softening flesh with the frantic rhythm of a gas pump sucking the last drops from a bankrupt station. “Mine… slurp… magnificent… gluck… perfect cock…” Her chins wobbled, breasts swaying like suicide bags. “Y-yours… ah… only worth…”

*Easy, hurricane,* Lanie's chain whispered, clit piercing cooling to room temp. *You've bled enough.*

"Gently now…" Niyati tugged weakly at sweat-slick hair. "That's enough, my phoenix."

But Evelyn redoubled efforts, lips stretching obscene over wilting flesh. "M-must… slurp… guard… gluck… your treasure…" Milky drool soaked the sheets, phantom let-down already beading at nipples. "B-breed… slurp… stupid… gluck… hog…"

"Evelyn." Niyati cradled her face, thumbs smearing snot and tears. "No. You are a brilliant strategist. Beautiful philanthropist. My—"

"G-Georgie…" Evelyn's voice shattered, tongue still lapping. "… better… gluck… with you…"

Lanie's chain coiled around her ribs, protective. *He's dust, darling. You're lightning.*

Niyati crouched forward and kissed the top of her head. "You eclipse every ghost."

"B-babies…" Evelyn's eyes rolled white, suckling turning slack. "D-dumb… screaming… glurk… yours…" Her body slumped, yet her lips maintained suction on spent flesh like a barnacle on a sinking ship.

"Sleep, wildfire. Very much on birth control magic, for now at least" Niyati fell back, flaccid cock still trapped between trembling lips. "Tomorrow needs you whole."

But Evelyn's mind carouseled—Babies, George, Gift, Empty.—even as sleep dragged her under. Lanie's chain morphed into a camisole, whispering *Rest, you glorious mess* to phantom kicks.

Later, the night found Niyati tracing Evelyn’s stretch marks that wouldn't form yet. Fingers mapping imagined curves. Outside, harpies shrieked their approval. Inside, George's ghost added several new shelters to the region's map.
 
 
XXXII. Next morning

Morning light bled through bulletproof drapes, gilding the moth pendant left on the pillow nearby. Evelen stretched into a nightgown made of spider-silk and regret, Lanie’s seams still puckered from last night's excess.

*Check the note,* she yawned telepathically. *Before you combust.*

Evelyn's talon trembled unfolding stationery scented with stale coffee and a creeping fear:
 

Dearest Dragonfire,
 
Gone to duel academia’s dust-goblins. Thesis defence: “Erotic Diplomacy in Postwar Rebuilding: Wombs Over Walls.” Pray the Griffin Chancellor prefers peer review as much as pussy review.
 
Fridays after 7 PM circled in your dragonfire hue gorgeous. Other nights? Unfortunately booked solid.
 
Blame the succubus strain I caught volunteering in plague tents. Antidote left my libido… ethically porous.
 
'Perpetually Horny & Broke.' Docs call it chronic. Johns call it luck. I call it tuition.
 
Monday: Banshee widow who climaxes to funeral dirges.
 
Wednesday: Vampire prince (his virginity take #23, my fangs in his femur).
 
Thursday: Mermaid matriarch (egg-fertilization rituals require… creative buoyancy).
 
Saturday: Gargoyle curator (stone doesn’t cum easy, but museums fund my enemas).
 
The pendant is yours. Never parted with it until now. Last thing my parents touched. George spent hours untangling the chain from my burnt fist. Survived my first heartbreak, third arrest, and that incident with the minotaur (remind me next time). Woke up last night knowing it belongs in your hoard. Crack it, and I’ll crack your ribs. Cherish it, and I will cherish your {Highlight to read} lo.
 
P.S. Never comped a client for cock… till your disaster ass. My first (& last) charity case. (Grant proposals require submission fees.)
 
P.P.S. Muting you til Friday. You’re a nicotine patch I can’t gnaw during office hours.
 
P.P.P.S. Redemption round—your throne, my gag reflex. Bring George’s Scotch and that smirk that wrecked your last domination attempt.
 
P.P.P.P.S. Here is my OnlyFae account: #destinysgotcock. Use the free code DRAGONDUMPSTERFIRE for unlimited access to all the ‘educational content’.
 
Always (especially when I shouldn’t),
 
Dr. Niyati "Ethically Compromised" Demos

[Lipstick kiss in treasonous red]

 
 
Lanie’s silk bristled. *She called you dragonfire. Pupils dilate at 0:43—pointed ears don’t lie.*

Evelyn’s scales flared oxidised copper. “Impossible! My glamour—”

*—Cracked like a meth pipe.* Lanie’s threads tightened. *Our Georgie’s fingerprints all over.*

Evelyn’s wings twitched, membranes catching light like oil slicks. “How long has she—”

*Told you she wasn’t here for the pussy,* Lanie snarled, silk unravelling into barbed wire. *She’s sparring with your old scripts.*

Evelyn staggered against the dresser, pendant scars biting her palm. “She knew from the start…” Her breath hitched. “Now im certain she’s—”

*Yup. That smokescreen’s a haunted radio. Tune it right, and you’ll hear Georgie’s laugh.* Lanie’s silk hissed as Evelyn completed her thought. “Niyati’s just the book cover wearing the soul.”

*And played us like a pennywhistle.* Lanie’s voice became broken glass. *Check her goddamn site.*

Evelyn mumbled as she typed the link into her phone. “Educational content” my ass.

The OnlyFae portal flickered open.

Scene 1:

Backstreet footage: Neon vomited ulcer-yellow onto cracked concrete. Niyati slouched against a dumpster, cock thick as a riot baton. A werewolf prowled, his fangs dripping cheap lust.

“C’mon, fleabag.” She flicked her tip, smirk gasoline-lit. “Nip or Suck bitch?”

The wolf lunged. Niyati shifted mid-snarl—cock ballooning into a veined monolith. Claws skittered off her armoured thighs. He whimpered, knot shriveling.

Wolf returned, brass knuckles glinting cursed silver. Niyati’s grin died. His fist cracked ribs. She shrank—muscles deflating, chest knife-flat, cock retreating to a pinkie stub.

“Lesson learned?” Wolf pinned her to brick weeping black blood.

Niyati’s face flickered—almost real fear, a gasp—before melting into sissy theatre. “Y-yes, alpha…” Her hand trembled up his thigh. “P-punish me… proper.”

Scene 2:

Same alley, moon bloated with a grudge. Wolf paraded his mate—she-wolf, eyes banked coals.

Niyati shifted—shemale alpha, knot swollen with a vengeance. The defeated he-wolf chained to a fire escape, howling.

“Proper punishment,” Niyati growled, mounting his mate. The she-wolf arched, claws shredding brick as Niyati’s knot locked. The wolf sobbed, mate licking Niyati’s paw. She tossed him a chew toy. “Fetch.”

Post-Credits Raw Footage:

Greenroom lights buzzed like dying flies. Niyati leaned into the camera, greasepaint smudged, her reflection winking.

“Next series?” She gnawed a prop vampire fang, voice gravel and gasoline. “Vampires. I play a werebunny. Half-rodent, half-drained.”

Behind her, the she-wolf actor snorted, flicking ash into a Styrofoam coffee cup. “Better hope they don’t write in carrot fetishes.”

The male werewolf smirked, tossing his pants into a bin labelled Cursed Props. “Breeding vampire harems. Blood, burrows, ohhh and carrots for sure.”

Niyati blew a kiss to the audience, the screen dissolving to static. “Stay thirsty, loves.”

*Not your home video,* Lanie conceded. *Still…*

Evelyn vaporised the screen. “She’s…”

*A hand grenade in a garter belt? A grief whore with a punch card? Georgie’s ghost wearing your former cock?*

Evelyn’s claw traced the charm. “Still...She’s....”

*…Not ours,* Lanie sighed. *But Friday’s coming. Bottoms up.*

But Evelyn was already dialling, moth pendant burning like a brand. "Pick up, damn you…"

Lanie’s voice dripped acid. *Let's face it—she’s Georgie’s middle finger from the grave.*

Somewhere below, a moth battered itself to dust against a NO SMOKING sign.

Tap-tap-tap.

Always fucking tap-tap-tap.

Somewhere else, a burner phone buzzed against a lecture podium. Nearby in the mirror, a dragon learned to count days.
 
 
Continued in Part 12