World of Forbidden Desire Ch. 01

I'm not a professional writer, but I love writing as a hobby and have been doing it for years. Even so, I don't consider my writing to be nearly as good as most. But I'm certainly having fun writing this story.

This is a high fantasy novel following the adventures of an Amazon warrior who got stuck with a guy who was summoned from our world. This will be an ongoing story with multiple chapters. I'm not sure if there will be an end. I wanted to create a world that I could just create endless sex adventures whenever one came to mind. I have at least two more chapters after this one.

All characters are at least eighteen-years-old. Any resemblance to people places things, or other characters is purely coincidental. Everything is born from my imagination.

*****

The quickest way to kill an archmagus was to sever her lips from her tongue and her tongue from her reason. Oraya Emberheart had made a career of this, and so she relished the moment now, with the Veilbinder's arm twisted back in both hands and her knee driven hard into the magus's spine, feeling the desperate heave of Nereza's ribcage through the thin silk of her ritual robe.

But even as the magus gasped, she smiled, and the smile was like a spoonful of grave dirt in Oraya's mouth. That, too, was familiar. Nereza always smiled when she was losing.

The pavilion walls, onyx braced with bone, black velvet banners stitched with runes, shudder under each impact of Oraya's bare foot, every reversal, every time she slammed the archmagus's body to the ground. The sky outside is a latticework of lightning, and the distant, throbbing pulse of the shrine's wards presses against the eardrums, a low banshee keen. Within, the priestesses chant, a relentless, harmonious counterspell, their voices rising and falling from the temple's dome like waves in heat. The air itself is thick with ozone and the metallic ache of blood.

Nereza's lips brush Oraya's ear. "You're getting predictable," she purrs.

With a grunt, Oraya yanks the magus's wrist toward dislocation. "You're getting slower."

Nereza's free hand flashes up, cold fingers snaring the cord of beast-teeth at Oraya's throat and yanking her downward. Their faces collide with a teeth-clack, lips grinding, sweat and blood and saliva smearing together in a rictus of mutual hatred. Oraya's breasts crush against the magus's chest, leather barely containing her flesh, and she can feel the glyphs etched into Nereza's skin burning through the silk, each sigil a brand against her own.

Oraya's thighs, as thick and roped as a tree trunk, pin Nereza at the shoulders. She plants her feet on either side of the magus's hips, the scrap of skirt riding dangerously high, exposing the thick, battle-scarred muscle of her upper leg, and the sticky trail of blood running down from a fresh gash in her abdomen, hot as spilled wine. The Veilbinder's eyes flick to the wound, hungry.

"You'll need stitches," Nereza murmurs, tongue darting out to trace the copper line. "If you live that long."

For a heartbeat, a single, shuddering instant, Oraya can smell nothing but the other woman. The herbal bite of Stygian salve, the effervescent rot of necromancy, the raw, unfiltered sweat of battle. It's a memory, too, this scent. Nights years ago, drunk on conquest, their limbs tangled together in the salt marshes of Kolmorath. Back when the world was less complicated, and they hadn't yet become each other's curse.

Oraya slams her head forward, breaking the spell and Nereza's nose. Blood spatters up, hot and bright. The magus shrieks, claws out, and a burst of force sends Oraya flying backwards into a tapestry that nearly topples the wall. She lands on her feet, knees bent, chest heaving, nostrils flaring. The tapestry is an ode the magical knowledge of the world, both forbidden and accepted, figures of the world's most prominent scholars, sages, and mages stand as shattered sculptures. Oraya's own breasts, those firm, defiant mounds of flesh that countless enemies have failed to conquer, heave in time with the ragged thunder of her heart, nipples poking through leather in the chill.

Nereza is already up, blood streaking her mouth and chin, eyes smoldering with something far more dangerous than hate, calculation. The magus is shorter than Oraya, but hollowed, diminished thin by years of fasting and ritual. Her robe has torn down one side, exposing a long, elegant breast, the aureole creamy against the stark white of her skin, glyphs capping her nipples like iron rings. Where the robe gapes lower, a dark triangle of pubic hair gleams wetly, and Oraya sees the archmagus is as bare-assed as a street whore beneath the ceremonial silk. For a mad moment, she wonders if it's deliberate. A ploy, or a distraction, or simply Nereza's way of mocking the temple's prudery.

"Is that all the Ember Vow has left?" Nereza calls, voice nasal and giddy with pain. "A beast who can't even finish her prey?"

Oraya grins, teeth white and sharp. "You're still here, aren't you?"

But even as she circles, bootsteps smacking wetly on the blood-slicked tiles, Oraya knows she's running out of time. The Veilbinder's gambit was always a double bluff. She's not here to crush the shrine's defenders, but to anchor herself to the accumulated spiritual ocean of this place, to drink deep of its potent mana, and through that, pierce the final veil between the world and whatever eldritch horror she worships. Every breath, every moment spent trading blows, is a stalling game.

From the nave, the chorus of monks and priestesses rises to a fever pitch. A translucent wall of pure force shimmers into being, encasing the altar and the phalanx of white-robed mages that bolsters it. The archmagus's eyes flick that way, and Oraya sees the panic bloom at last.

"You'll never get through," Oraya goads, slow and deliberate. "This shrine's locking down tighter than your bitter little slit."

Nereza laughs, low and inviting, a velvet rope spiraling down Oraya's spine. "Maybe I don't have to."

Nereza beckons, two fingers curling, a gesture obscene in its familiarity. Oraya lunges, feinting high, but the magus sidesteps with impossible grace. They clash again, bodies pressed close, hands wrestling for purchase, breath coming in snarled bursts. Nereza slides a thigh between Oraya's, grinding upward, the pressure obscene and deliberate. The warrior gasps, shudders, almost loses her grip.

"Does this remind you of the marshes?" Nereza whispers, tongue flicking at the shell of Oraya's ear. "When you begged me to--?"

Oraya bites her earlobe, hard enough to draw blood. Nereza howls, thrashes, and the two of them collapse onto the floor, limbs entangled, rolling over and over, a tangle of muscle and magic and violent, desperate lust. For a moment, they are nothing but animal, biting, clawing, tearing at each other's clothes, each trying to expose more flesh, more weakness, more pain.

Oraya gets her hand under Nereza's jaw, shoves her back against the altar steps, and pins her there. Nereza's robe is bunched around her waist, exposing the long, elegant lines of her body, the curve of hip and the glint of wetness between her legs. Oraya straddles her, planting her ass on the magus's pelvis, thighs spread wide. Her own chest is naked now, the leather vest torn away, breasts glistening with sweat and blood and the spit of their mutual violence.

For a moment, they simply stare at one another, panting.

Then Nereza's fingers are between Oraya's legs, stroking, probing, and Oraya's body betrays her with a shameful, quivering pleasure. The magus's hands are cold, but the touch is electric, a jolt that threatens to snap Oraya's spine. She claws at Nereza's breasts, raking her nails down the glyph-burnt skin, and the archmagus moans, hips bucking.

"You could have had pleasures," Nereza says, voice gone liquid and thick. "You could have continued with me. But you wanted to protect and defend, you chose a war."

Oraya's reply is to grind down, hard, pinning the magus's hand between them and riding the contact, using her enemy's fingers for leverage. With her other hand, she wraps the dragon-bone pauldron cord tight around Nereza's throat, choking off her words. Their bodies slap together, a wet percussion, each thrust punctuated by a gasp or a curse.

From somewhere above, the chanting of the monks shifts, the energy in the air growing wild and unstable. Oraya senses the wards falter, then surge, then twist. The Veilbinder's own reserves of magic fray at the edges, leaking out in tendrils of black light.

"You're finished," Oraya pants. "Give up!"

Nereza's lips curl in a snarl. "I never give up."

She utters an incantation, the syllables twisting from her battered throat in a gout of black, oily sound, a tongue Oraya has only ever heard in the last gasps of dying gods and nightmares that follow a woman for a lifetime.

The world bends. The air thickens, a pressure drop so sudden Oraya's ears pop and her teeth ache. The Veilbinder's hands, still slick inside Oraya, clutch and twist with desperate, triumphant glee. In the instant before the spell lands, Oraya sees in Nereza's eyes a glimmer of something ancient and bottomless, a pit that nothing, not even love or vengeance, could ever fill.

The forbidden magic ignites in the chamber, a circle of light gouged into the floor with Nereza and Oraya at its obscene heart. Runes ignite up the magus's bare body, burning ultraviolet and deep vermilion, the colors of a bruise or a birth.

In the next moment, the circle is no longer empty.

A boy stands there, old enough to command an empire, yet, he's scrawny and soft-looking, in the ruined torso covering and pelvis garment of a world Oraya has never seen. His skin is damp with the sweat of terror, or arousal, or both. His mouth is open in the slack, amphibian gape Oraya once saw on the executioner's block, when they'd brought in a condemned child from the outer provinces. The boy's hands clutch a rectangle of glass and metal, glowing with moving art as filthy as the orgies of lust hungry aristocrats.

He blinks. He swallows. He looks from Oraya's gore-streaked body to Nereza's splayed, dripping form and the tangle of limbs and flesh between them, and his brain does not, cannot, process. He lets out a squeak like a stepped-on mouse.

Nereza's laughter is a blade, sharp and glorious, and she throws her head back, exposing the long, elegant column of her neck. "Meet the virgin of a far away land, Emberheart," she croons. "I call him... Babbitt."

The eighteen-year-old high school senior, Bobby, takes a step backward, bumping into the circle's invisible wall. He whimpers, and the sound is more pathetic than any Oraya has heard, but beneath it there is something else, some keening resonance, a note that vibrates with the pulse of the shrine itself.

Oraya, for the first time, hesitates.

Nereza doesn't. She jerks Oraya's head down, mashing their mouths together in a bloody, suffocating kiss, and spits the last syllable of her curse into the warrior's mouth. It burns, it freezes, it tastes of bone dust and rotten honey, and Oraya feels the ancient power unwind inside her like a rope around her ribs, tightening until she is certain she will snap.

There is a flash. A smell like burning hair and dew. Suddenly, Nereza is gone, no, not gone, but standing several strides away, already chanting another spell, using the last of her mana to complete the curse. Oraya tries to rise, but her limbs betray her. The muscles shudder and liquefy, and she collapses, naked and panting, on top of the boy.

Bobby whimpers again, eyes huge in shock and confusion. Oraya tries to shove herself up, but the curse pulls her back, a magnetic, absolute force. Her face smashes into Bobby's neck, the scent of him, adolescent, anxious, tinged with astringent detergent and something tart, overwhelms her senses.

Her mouth goes to his ear, and she realizes with mounting horror that the spell compels her to speak. "This is not my doing," she croaks. "She's made me--"

A new sensation blooms, hot and mortifying, across Oraya's consciousness. Her body is no longer her own. She begins to grind, rhythmically, against the boy, her exposed cunt rubbing raw and desperate against the damp cotton of his boxers. Her nipples, still wet with battle, abrade against his thin t-shirt, smearing blood and sweat and need.

The curse, Oraya understands, is not just a binding. It's a hunger.

In the corner of her eye, Oraya sees Nereza pause at the threshold of her escape, watching with rapt, carnal fascination. "Have fun with your reward, Emberheart," the Veilbinder purrs, "and don't forget to thank me."

She vanishes in a shimmer of light and air, the afterimage of her nakedness burned into the room.

Oraya tries again to resist, but the spell is inexorable. She hunches over Bobby, who has gone rigid beneath her, and begins to rut in earnest. The boy panics, shoving at her shoulders, but Oraya is a mountain, her thighs clamping him immobile, her arms pinning his bony wrists to the floor. She can feel every micron of his pulse, his heartbeat a frantic hummingbird in her grip. She can taste his terror, but also, unmistakably, his cock, swelling and alive under the boxers, straining for contact.

Oraya's own wetness soaks into the boy's crotch, slicking the gap between them. She moans, half in rage, half in animal satisfaction. The curse is not sated by shame. It demands more.

The pavilion, ancient and holy, is now a theater of sex and violence and magic gone wrong. Outside, the chanting of the priesthood falters, then returns, louder and more frantic, as the warding spells shatter one by one.

Oraya bears down, grinding the boy's hips into the floor, and tears his boxers away with a single, brutal rip. His cock springs free, thick and pale, pulsing with virgin desperation. She wraps her fist around it, milks it once, twice, then angles herself and slams it inside her core.

The sensation is both exquisite and humiliating. Oraya's body, still fever-hot from battle, drinks in the boy's meager length, squeezing and undulating until he gasps and nearly passes out. She rides him mercilessly, the slap of wet flesh echoing off the broken altar. Each forward thrust scrapes her clit against his trembling abdomen. Each retreat leaves him moaning, a pathetic, wounded animal.

"Oh shit," Bobby begs, "I about to--I can't--"

But the spell demands, and Oraya obeys. She fucks him until her own orgasm rolls through her like thunder, arching her back and baring her teeth at the sky. The sound she makes is inhuman, a war cry and a sob wrenched together. Bobby squirts weakly inside her, overwhelmed by pleasure and terror, his whole body convulsing in her grip.

The curse is satisfied but not done. Oraya collapses atop him, panting, and feels the curse reverberating inside her, dormant for now. But she suspects the curse will wake again, and when it does, she will need this boy inside her once again. She will need more, more flesh, more sensation, more of his feeble, trembling cock inside her.

Nereza's departing gift is exquisite. Oraya is doomed to fuck this famished, terrified boy until the end of her days, or until the spell is broken.

In the aftermath, the pavilion slowly fills with the stench of sex and sweat and loss. Oraya's enormous, battle-scarred body sprawls atop the ruined boy, both of them shivering, both of them empty in a way that can never truly be filled.

The monks will come soon. The priestesses will find the circle, the stains, the bodies. What they make of it will change the legend of this night for generations to come.

But in the moment, there is only the gasping, animal need, and the lingering echo of Nereza's laughter ringing in the bloody, broken dark.