World of Forbidden Desire Ch. 03

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.

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.

*****

Oraya stands tall, possibly a foot taller than Bobby's five feet eight inches, in the library's blue-lit den, flexing her fists as if weighing the night's possibilities, the sweat and blood of battle and sex cooling on her skin. The scholar's cut is still livid in her palm, a dark crescent that weeps a single ruby drop onto the back of her hand. She wipes it on her thigh with the indifference of a butcher cleaning a cleaver, then turns her gaze to the two watching her with naked, disparate want. Amara's violet eyes are bright and curious, Bobby's more like two bottomless wells, filled with the fear and hope that come only to those who have never truly lived before.

She scans them, lips drawn flat. "We move at sunrise. Gather what you need, then rest." Her voice is dry as tinder, flinty with the old discipline of command. "I don't sleep, so I'll stand watch. If the curse relapses--" her glance slices to Bobby "--We'll handle it."

Amara tucks a sheaf of notes into her robe, but her gaze lingers on Oraya's face, searching for the crack, the secret wellspring where the war-goddess leaks her private pain. "The dreamshard circlet has yet to diminish?" she asks, and the interest is more than clinical.

Oraya lets her head tilt back, so the lean cord of her neck catches the lantern glow. "Not since I claimed it," she answers. Her fingers brush the silver diadem resting above her brow. A crown of braided metal and shadowy blue crystal that seems to drink the light rather than reflect it. Her long unkempt dark hair curtains over the diadem's sides. Oraya turns to a confused Bobby to inform him of the Dreamshard Circlet. "It's from my tribe. A relic. With it, I get all the restoration from sleep without sleeping, none of the dreams. Bestowed to me once I achieved the status of 'Emberwrough', the highest rank of the Ember Vows below the Cinder Matron."

The boy, Bobby, stands at the margin of the room, clutching his bundle of borrowed clothes like a drowning man clutching driftwood. He stares at the Circlet, mesmerized, and for a moment his voice is strong enough to rise above the hush of the ink-drenched library. "If you don't sleep, aren't you ever... bored, or... lonely?"

It's the kind of question no soldier would ask, and Oraya hates how it lands, a pebble in the glassy surface of her composure. She lets the silence hang a beat, then rolls her massive shoulders, the motion making her battered breasts sway under the loosened strap. "Not any lonelier than I was before," she says. "Now it's just quieter. The extra time allows me to train more and recovery quickly."

Amara smiles, but it's the sad, knowing kind reserved for those who live in the margins of the world. "You're more resilient than you think, Oraya. Even without your trinkets." She pivots to Bobby, and her smile morphs, warm and slightly conspiratorial. "Come. The guest quarters aren't much, but they're cleaner than the apprentice bunks."

She leads him through the labyrinth of shelves and cold stone halls, their footfalls swallowed by the hush that coats all libraries after midnight. As they pass a high window, Bobby glimpses the city's spine of black towers, lanterns like embers floating on a river of dark, the moons slivered and low. He shivers, and not entirely from the chill.

The guest chamber is a narrow cell lined with cedar, a single bed covered by a dark woolen blanket, and a desk already crowded with inkwells and torn leaves of paper. The air is ripe with the ghosts of old parchment. For all its starkness, it isn't worse than the world Bobby came from.

Amara pauses at the threshold, her pale hair a luminous trail down her back. "This was my chambers when I first apprenticed here hundreds of years ago. It has not changed much since," she confides, voice just above a whisper. "I wrote almost every word I ever cared about as a youth on that desk."

The space is austerely beautiful, walls of golden cedar, bare except for a single flag of midnight-blue velvet stamped with a sigil like a split pupil, and the arched window, glass frosted with runes, looking out onto the black arteries of Malakhar's night. Bobby moves in a slow, reverent circle, fingers trailing the spines of books hammered with precious metal, the inkwells crusted with ancient residue, the cracks in the wood worn smooth by decades of restless hands. Everything is real, not mass-produced, not plastic. Even the cot has heft, the smell of wool and flesh from centuries of other ruined, hopeful scholar bodies.

He sits on the edge of the bed, bouncing once experimentally, and is surprised when it doesn't squeal or collapse. "It's... quiet," he says, lamely. "Like a monastery from a horror movie."

She draws the curtain over the small window, leaving the room lit only by the amber glow of a bedside wick-lamp. She perches on the desk, legs crossed, robe riding up to mid-thigh, and studies Bobby with a speculative hunger that would have made him wilt, yesterday. Tonight, he is too raw and numb to wilt. He can only watch as she arranges herself, white braid coiled in her lap, breasts shifting languidly beneath the robe's lapels.

"So," Amara says, "tell me about your world." She pours the question like wine, and Bobby, for once, doesn't resist.

He sits on the edge of the bed, the wool blanket rough against his knees, and tries to describe Seattle to her. The strip malls, the constant drizzle, the way every Starbucks is the same inside even though the people in them never are. He tells her about high school, about the way the teachers talk like robots and the students drift through their days like extras in a soap opera. He tells her about the internet, about memes and message boards and the time his classmate got expelled for deepfaking the biology teacher's face onto a porn star's body. He explains video games, and anime, and the strange, collective madness that is American pop culture. Amara listens, rapt, her eyes flickering with every detail as if she is cataloguing the entire species of Bobby Bennetts.

When he falters, when the well of nostalgia threatens to spill over into panic, Amara interrupts with a gentle, almost motherly wave of her hand. "You are not alone, Bobby," she says. "Most scholars spend their lives wishing for another world. Yours simply answered." She leans forward, her robe gaping in a spectacular plunge of cleavage. "I am three hundred and five years old, human reckoning. I have seen fifteen popes poisoned and nine archons assassinated, but never have I met someone who can describe a new sun, a new sky." She holds out a hand, palm up. "You are precious. Remember that."

Bobby momentarily widens his eyes in shock at her age. She looks thirty-five, maybe forty, about the same age as his mother. He takes her hand, not knowing what else to do, and finds it warm and absurdly soft. Amara's thumb traces the line of his wrist, as if mapping his lifeline through touch.

"Well," He begins sheepishly. "If you were in my world, people would think you were thirty-five or forty years old from the way you look."

Amara giggles softly with amusement. She reaches for him, soft fingers curling around his wrist and pulling him gently to his feet. For a moment, they stand nose to chest, Bobby a full head shorter, his eyes level with the juncture of her breasts. He tries to look her in the eye, but she's too close, and the gravity of her body draws his gaze downward. Amara lets it happen. She drinks in his discomfort, catalogues it, shelves it alongside every other rare specimen she's collected.

She stands, gliding close, and Bobby is again aware of the impossible mass of her breasts, the way the robe clings to every curve, the faintest hint of nipple visible each time she inhales. She seems to enjoy his discomfort, or perhaps she's simply a scholar collecting reactions, each one a new datum. "Your world sounds... hungry," she muses. "But not for sex, or war, or even power. Your world is hungry for attention. For meaning." Her smile becomes mischievous. "Here, that hunger is sated in more direct ways."

"You're trembling," she observes.

"I just--" Bobby's voice wobbles. "It's a lot."

"Everything worth knowing is," Amara says. She releases his hand, but lets her fingers trail down his forearm, lingering at the wrist, feeling for some pulse only he can give.

"You should rest," she says at last, and her voice is gentle now, almost maternal. "Tomorrow will be difficult. Oraya will see to that."

Bobby nods, then falters, "Can I--will you stay? Just for a bit?"

Amara cocks a brow, but there is no mockery in it. "Of course," she says, and stands, and the robe falls open just enough to hint at the outline of her breasts, vast and perfectly spherical, as if rendered by a cartoonist with a breast fetish and a protractor. She makes no effort to close it. "Do you want something for the nightmares?" she asks, tone a silk thread between concern and suggestion. "There are herbs. And other ways."

Bobby shakes his head. "I think if I just close my eyes, I'll sleep fine. I'm so exhausted, so tired."

Amara giggles, a low, velvet sound. "You may be right." She turns, and the shadows catch her ass through the thin fabric, a curve so improbable he wonders if it's a side-effect of whatever keeps her so young. "You should rest. I will sit until you sleep."

She perches once more on the desk, legs crossed, robe sliding up her thighs. She folds her hands in her lap, and for a moment, simply watches Bobby as he lies down on the cot, pulling the scratchy blanket over his body. He curls on his side, facing her, and for the first time since arriving in Malakhar, he feels the barest glimmer of safety, or at least, company in his terror.

He watches her, not afraid to keep his eyes open since arriving in this strange world. Amara is a different kind of impossible. The kind that knows exactly how impossible she is, and enjoys it. When Bobby's eyes finally close, her voice is the last thing he hears, murmuring in a language older than the books she loves.

Amara studies him until she is certain he has surrendered to sleep, or the shivering facsimile of it. Then she moves to the edge of the bed, sits beside him, and brushes a lock of hair from his brow with the delicacy of a woman handling an artifact made of glass. "You are not ready for this world," she whispers, "but I will see that it does not break you."

Bobby's breathing slows, and Amara lingers a while. Eventually, she rises, smooths her robe, and slips out, closing the door with a whisper of fabric on wood.

***

Elsewhere, in the abandon hours of the deep night, Oraya stands at the edge of the shrine's ruined court, feet planted in the rime of potent moonlight. Her body is a latticework of old wounds and new, arms outstretched, Dreamshard Circlet gleaming on her brow. She breathes in, lets the night fill her lungs, and then closes her eyes.

Using the Dreamshard circlet's second ability, she summons the specter of her enemy, Nereza, as she was in the final moments of their duel. In the waking world, the dark magus is gone, fled into whatever dark palace or crypt awaits her, but here, in the mind's arena, conjured by the dreamshard, Oraya can call her back. She relives every microsecond of the fight, the words they spat, the twist of the wrist, the soft, cruel laughter.

Oraya trains, over and over, battling the memory until sweat slicks her brow and her core aches with the effort, only to use the dreamshard to recovery and begin anew. She rewrites the outcome again and again, looking for the single margin where she could have won, where she could have ended it. Each time, Nereza slips away, but each time a little slower, a little more desperate. Oraya learns her tells, her tricks, her vulnerabilities.

At the last, Oraya drops to her knees, chest heaving, and lets the cold numbing air ground her in the present. She wonders if the others are sleeping, if Bobby is dreaming of any world but this one, if Amara is already musing new compendiums. She hopes so. Anything to maintain the truth for them a little longer. The curse is not just a hunger, it is a leash, and the longer she wears it, the more she suspects it will pull her into something neither boy nor scholar is ready to face.

But for now, there is training, and the hard comfort of muscle and will.

***

Back in the guest chamber, Bobby wakes long before full morning, the glow of moonlight through the rune-glass stenciling lines onto his eyelids, brighter than the moon of his world. He rolls onto his back, body stiff with unfamiliar bedspring, and finds Amara sitting once more at the desk. She is writing, her long fingers blurring across the page faster than anyone he's ever seen write, but looks up when he stirs.

"Did you sleep?" Bobby asks, voice papery.

She pauses the writing and turns to face him fully. The robe slips, and now her breasts are half-exposed, the pale globes impossibly round, the upper slopes rising like dough under silk, the areoles wide and blushed with blue, the nipples a delicate contradiction of tenderness and intent. "enough," she informs, setting the stylus aside. "Sages can replenish themselves in much less time than the ordinary."

He pushes himself upright, and the blanket falls, exposing the tented shape of his morning wood beneath the thin borrowed pants. He flushes, but Amara doesn't look away. Instead, she stands, her robe falling in stately, deliberate folds around her body, and crosses to the bed.

"You are different than her," she says, studying him. "Oraya is made of stone and fire. You are made of water, and the space between."

Bobby nods, not sure if it's a compliment or an insult.

Amara sits on the edge of the bed, so close that her thigh presses against his. "If you like, you may call me Amara. Only the Circle uses my full name." She pronounces it, syllable by syllable, a litany of vowels that sound like glass breaking in a velvet glove.

Bobby tries it, mangles it, and she laughs again, soft and delighted.

Amara leans in, and for a heartbeat, Bobby thinks she means to kiss him. Instead, she reaches for the waistband of his pants, tugging them down just enough to expose the root of his cock, still half-hard from sleep. Her hands are cool, but gentle, and she raises an appraising brow as she inspects the skin for the faded remains of last night's sigil.

"Curse marks are gone," she notes, then releases him. "That is... interesting."

Bobby, mind still wading through the syrup of sleep, barely processes the humiliation. "Is that good?"

"It means your arousal, if you feel any now, is your own, not amplified or controlled by the curse. For now, the hex is dormant." Amara straightens, the movement so fluid it's like she's made of water herself. "But it will not stay that way. I suspect it will wake randomly when the curse wakes within Oraya, or perhaps, it can be forced to wake."

She touches his shoulder, turns him gently to face her, and for the first time he sees the scholar's face without the mask of irony or intellectual distance. She is beautiful, more o than he originally thought, in a way that makes the rest of the world seem two-dimensional and cheaply drawn.

"I would like to try something," she says, "but only if you wish it."

Bobby nods before he knows what he's agreeing to.

Amara draws up her knees, so she is sitting cross-legged beside him, the robe riding up to bare her thighs and, just below, the shadowed swell of her hips. She takes Bobby's hand in both of hers, cradling it as though she is about to read his palm. "In the old world," she says, "the curse of desire was a tool, a way to bind two lives together. But it was also a gift." She traces a line along his fingers, slow and deliberate. "When you touch me, the curse may stir. You must not fight it. It is not poison. It is only appetite. I must know if the curse makes it feel different."

He can't answer--not with words. Instead, he lets his other hand drift, trembling, to the edge of her robe, touching the cool flesh of her thigh. Amara's eyes darken, and she nods, encouraging.

The robe slips, and her breasts fall free, vast and weighty, nipples like the crowns of ripe figs. She watches him watching, amused by his hunger, but not unkind. She guides his hand to her breast, covering it with her own, so that his small, adolescent fingers vanish beneath the pale, impossibly soft mass.

"See?" she murmurs. "No teeth. No claws."

He kneads, gently at first, then with more confidence, and Amara responds with a low, musical moan. She presses his hand into her cleavage, letting him feel the heat and the racing pulse beneath the skin. Her nipple, already stiff, grows harder under his palm, and she leans into him, guiding his face down to her chest.

He buries his face between her tits, the scent of her overwhelming, the texture a glorious contradiction, firm and silken, heavy and yielding. Amara laughs, delighted, and wraps her arms around his head, hugging him to her bosom with the possessive affection of a woman who knows exactly what she wants.

Amara studies him for a heartbeat, then, in a single, liquid movement, lets the robe fall away fully. She is nude beneath, of course. And the sight of her is an assault. The breasts are even larger than he thought, a mathematical impossibility of curve and weight, the nipples fattened into dusky, engorged peaks. Her hips are a soft, sensuous flare, the thighs corded, not with muscle, but with the hint of power cultivated by years of walking and kneeling.

The sage surveys him as he surveys her, and Bobby's body responds, his cock surging under the blanket, pressing against her thigh. Amara glances down, sees the tent, and, with a feline smile, slides down the blanket until his erection is exposed, naked and eager, spotting the dot of the curse above the base of his cock.

"May I?" Amara asks, and Bobby, dizzy with want, can only nod, oblivious of the curse slowly waking.

The sage cups his balls, stroking the shaft with her other hand, watching his face with clinical but genuine delight. She teases the tip with her thumb, swirling the little bead of precum.

Her hands then explores everywhere, cataloguing him inch by inch. His shoulders, his ribs, the nervous pulse in his neck. She kisses him, gentle at first, then with a slow, consuming hunger, as if she is reading the secrets of his world from the inside out. Her tits flatten against his chest, the heat of them a brand, and one hand slides down, curling around his cock with exquisite, patient pressure.

She strokes him, slow at first, then a little firmer, the skin flushes and the tip beads with first tears of precum. Bobby gasps, the sensation as raw and perfect as anything he's ever known

The kiss is a lesson, slow at first, then deeper, tongue seeking out the places he's most sensitive, mapping him with the patience of a cartographer. Her hands continues fondling his cock, which may as well been hard since before entering the chamber, and the sage strokes it with a scholar's precision, calibrating the grip, the rhythm, the angle, until he is gasping into her mouth.

Amara breaks the kiss, and her lips trail down his throat, to his chest, then lower, those impossibly full breasts dragging across his skin like a benediction. She kneels between his legs, her huge tits flattening on his thighs, and takes his cock into her mouth with a slowness that nearly undoes him. Her tongue circles the head, then she slides down, inch by inch, until her nose is pressed against his belly and her chin is resting on his balls. She holds it there, swallowing softly, Amara's eyes locked on his, and Bobby nearly comes from the intensity of her gaze alone.

She does not rush, does not punish. Amara pleasures him as if it is a lesson, a skill to be shared. She observes the cursed mark once again grow lines from the dot, forming the sigil. Bobby's wanton eyes fails to notice as he's purely focused on his cock in her mouth.

He fists both hands in the blanket, shaking. Amara lets his cock slip free with a pop, then levers herself up and swings a leg over his waist. Her core is slick and open, the lips fat and almost swollen, and she rubs his cock along the length of her slit, and pauses, looking him in the eye. "This is to show you how real pleasures feel," she says, and impales herself, enveloping him in heat and velvet pressure. She rocks her hips, moving with the slow, inexorable rhythm of a pendulum measuring out centuries. Her breasts hang heavy in his face, the nipples brushing his lips with every downward stroke, and he cannot resist. He lifts his head and sucks one into his mouth, surprised by the faint, musky tang of sweat and woman.

Amara stares down at him with what can only be described as scientific curiosity. "You feel different," she breathes, beginning to rock. "Not just physically, the resonance. The flavor of your spirit. You have a taste."

"A taste?" Bobby gasps, barely able to hold onto the world as his body tenses and trembles.

She leans forward, pressing her tits around his face, smothering him in the soft, cool flesh. "Yes. You taste like..." She thinks, and the movement of her hips accelerates. "Loneliness, mostly. But also hope."

Amara bounces, her ass slapping his thighs with every drop, and moans, a low, humming sound that vibrates through her whole body. She rides him with a confidence that is both terrifying and exhilarating, squeezing him with muscles he never sees in her life, the kind reserved for empresses, goddess-idols, or the most wanton demons of the old forbidden tales. Each time Amara lifts herself, her tits seem to defy gravity, rising in a stately, majestic sweep, the upper slopes tightening, and then plunging down again, weighty and loose, so the undercurve slaps against her chest and against Bobby's mouth and cheeks, the flesh barely contained by her own ribcage. Her areoles are wide, royal blue in this light, and the nipples stand out fat and turgid, so sensitive that even the brush of air makes them pearl with anticipation.

He can't stop watching. He tries to look at her face but the pattern of her breasts, up, down, up, down, wobble, quake, the rippling jiggle when she grinds in little circles, sucks his gaze like a magnet. The slapping of her tits is almost as loud as the wet sounds of their bodies colliding, and the longer she rides him, the more those sounds melt into each other: a symphonic duet of flesh and hunger.

As Amara bounces, she draws herself up to full height, one hand behind her head, the other gripping Bobby's bony shoulder. Her hair, pale and fine, pools down her back in a river of moonlight, and her breasts heave with every breath, every drop. She is the scholar transformed, not the wise, cool intellect of the library, but the living avatar of all her own secret lusts and curiosities. There is something unseemly in her joy, a crack in the mask that reveals the creature beneath. A being who wants to be fucked, studied, ruined, and then written about in the next volume.

She becomes aware, as she rides Bobby harder, of the curse mark blooming above his cock. It's no longer a thin, spectral line, but a fully-formed sigil, blue-black and burning, a brand that pulses with each shudder of his hips. It is a thing of living script, crawling over his skin with the frenetic certainty of a magic that has always existed, only waited to awaken. Amara marvels at the sight, at the way the power seems to wrap his cock like a second sheath, at the way it glows brighter as she milks him with her pussy.

She makes a note, it is a scholar's habit, even now, that the curse has become fully active, and that she must ask Oraya later whether the mark has also appeared on her. She suspects not, The curse in Oraya is the desire that creates need in Oraya herself, instigating the curse in Bobby to react to the need, meaning Bobby's curse is merely the tool, the servant that fulfils the need. She wonders what it would be like to fuck him and Oraya together, to see the marks collide and copulate, to record the new magic as it wrote itself across their bodies. The thought makes her core squeeze around the boy, and she shivers, nearly losing her rhythm.

Bobby, for his part, is lost. He is not aware of the curse mark, or even his own body, except as a vessel for pure, annihilating pleasure. Every nerve is awake, every cell on fire. His whole universe has collapsed to the space between Amara's thighs, the heat and silk of her pussy, the softness of her breasts, the taste of her skin and sweat on his tongue and lips. He is aware only of the urge to thrust up into her, to meet every slam of her hips with all the force he can muster, though he's only eighteen and his body is thin and weak compared to hers.

He knows he's about to cum, and he tries to hold back, but the curse has other plans. It is as if the entire world is a hand, squeezing his cock, milking his soul out through the tip. He can't stop it, can't even slow it down. With a choked cry, he explodes, pumping spurt after spurt of hot, liquid need into Amara's cunt, each pulse accompanied by a flash of blue-white light from the sigil at the base of his cock.

Amara feels it, and the effect is immediate. The orgasm that rips through her is unlike anything she's known, undoubtedly amplified by the curse, not a wave, but a catastrophic, tidal surge, lifting her off the boy's cock and then slamming her back down until she's impaled to the hilt, every muscle in her body clenching in perfect, agonized bliss. She screams. A sound so untypical of her, and so loud and unrestrained that it rattles the rune-glass in the windows.

Amara's pussy milks Bobby for everything he has, the contractions coming in wild, unpredictable ripples, each one drawing out another spurt, another ounce of his will. Her breasts bounce and slap, each convulsion sending a new ripple of motion through them, so that the skin flushes and the nipples darken, as if the orgasm paints her tits with its own palette. She looks down at Bobby, eyes wide and mad with joy, and for a second she is the predator, and he the prey, and she loves every second of it.

Bobby is barely conscious. The pleasure is so immense that it borders on pain, a threshold beyond orgasm where the body just surrenders, where every muscle goes slack and every sense swims. He tries to moan but his mouth just gapes, a silent "O" of awe and surrender. His vision fills with the image of Amara's tits, her face a mask of ecstasy, the blue flare of the curse mark, and the flood of warm, slippery wetness that now coats his thighs and the bed.

When Amara finally collapses, she does so with the exhausted authority of a queen who has conquered her subject and is now content to lounge on the spoils. She sprawls across Bobby's chest, her breasts pancaked against his face and collarbone, her hair a soft curtain, her core still plugged full of his cum and twitching with aftershocks. She laughs--low, spent, and feral.

The curse mark lingers, glowing faintly, then slowly begins to recede, the sigil curling in on itself like a burned piece of paper until only the faint dot remains.

Amara remembers to breathe. She rolls onto her side, pulling Bobby with her, and strokes his hair until his eyes slowly refocus. "You did well," she whispers, She kisses his brow, her lips pillowy and damp, and then bites his earlobe, a playful nip.

Bobby is still shaking, but the afterglow is a balm. He feels, for the first time, not like a hostage or a victim, but like a partner, an accomplice to his own pleasure, a willing participant in the world's most beautiful crime. He wraps his arms around Amara's waist and buries his face in her chest, content to be smothered by her softness. His last thought before he slips into sleep is that he never wants to be apart from Amara.

Amara, for her part, lies awake long after. She studies the way their bodies fit together, the memories of the curse's magic still sparking behind her eyes.