World of Forbidden Desire Ch. 04

This chapter contains only lesbian sex. If that's not your thing, you can skip it. There is a bit more world building in it, but not much.

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.

*****

When Amara wakes, she is alone in the guest chamber, the musk of sex lingering like incense, the hollow of the cot still warm where Bobby's body had been pressed to hers. He sleeps on, slack-mouthed, the geometry of his adolescent face oddly peaceful in the predawn dimness. She studies him for a moment, fondness and scientific interest twining uneasily in her chest, then moves to the window, drawing aside the velvet drape with one careful hand.

A haze of fog coasts the alleys below. The last stars drag their claws across the bruised sky, and the slanted roofs of Malakhar's inner ring are still black with the leavings of night. She runs a mental checklist for the day ahead. The necessary supplies, the navigation of city gates, the gathering of rumors among the merchant caste. Most of all, she reviews the ways a eighteen-year-old, virtually outworlder boy can be killed, consumed, or otherwise compromised in the span of a morning. Amara grins at the variety, then tucks her robe about her body and slips through the door, leaving the boy to dream a little longer.

Oraya is ambling down in the corridor towards Amara.

The warrior's silhouette is unmistakable, a wedge of mass and purpose, her skin sheened with the kind of sweat that comes only after an hour of running stairs and shadowboxing the ghosts of old regrets. Her armor is back in place.

"You have returned early," Amara says, voice quieter than her usual velvet. "The dawn has yet to break. I figured you'd still be monitoring the perimeter, or perhaps traumatizing the acolytes with your wisdom."

Oraya doesn't look up. "You're dressed," she says, "and alone."

Amara lets the words settle. "The boy is safe," she says. "He sleeps deep, like something drowned."

A flicker of amusement passes across Oraya's face, gone before the morning's first light. "Is the curse worse than we assumed?" The note of genuine concern is nearly invisible, but Amara hears it as clearly as a bell.

"No, I believe," Amara says. "Less, I think. The body adjusts. The mind, perhaps not so much." She remembers the way Bobby's hands had clung to her, the trembling in his breath, the strange purity of the pleasure that ran through him like floodwater. She wonders, briefly, if the boy will ever be the same, if being the instrument of someone else's need had changed the gift of his own. "As with all forbidden spells and curses, there is so much to learn, to discover, more observations would be needed."

"Did you learn anything?" Oraya asks, arms folded under the shelf of breasts so soft and full, her arms folded tightly underneath them. Each curve and dip of her mounds bulging from the lift by her arms.

Amara nods. "I have theories," she says. "But they're not ripe yet. I'd like to observe your mark specifically, without the boy present as I did for him." She lets the implication hang, and when it lands, Oraya gives a long-suffering sigh.

"Scholars," Oraya says. "If you're not vrexing things, you're carving them open for the recipe."

Amara only grins, showing a row of pearls. "In the spirit of mutual academic inquiry," she says, "you could stand to be carved open yourself, from time to time. For posterity."

There's a pulse below Oraya's jaw, an ancient vestige of animal, but her face is stone. "You want to see the curse at full effect?" Her voice is a dare. "Then let's not waste time."

Amara gestures to the nearest empty chamber, and the two women slip inside, the door snapping shut behind them with a sound like a gauntlet thrown.

Oraya's armor comes off in pieces, each deliberate motion a study in controlled violence, every buckle and fastener yielding in echoing clangs that punctuate the hush. She peels away her warrior's shell with the clinical efficiency of one who has done this a thousand times, the sound of leather and plate hitting stone floor sharp as the hiss of a blade sheathing in bone. Underneath, her body is a living weapon, cords of thigh and flank rippling with unspent aggression, scars crisscrossing the surface of her skin as if history itself had tried and failed to erase her. All the more striking is the Dreamshard Circlet, still perched above her brow. Its opaline facets refract the meager light, casting starbursts across her brow and down the rigid lines of her cheeks, painting her in a shifting halo that mocks the severity of her composure.

Amara's disrobing is a conjurer's trick. One moment the robes are wound in celestial drapery about her curvaceous frame, the next they ripple to a fragrant heap at her feet, pooling in a spiral of silver and indigo. Her body is a scandal of poetry, hips built for the wildest embrace, breasts that float with the fullness of late summer fruit, her skin moonlit and unblemished but for the jagged lattice of ritual scars carved in purposeful asymmetry down her left thigh. Between them, the air thickens with the anticipation of spectacle, the promise of knowledge and pleasure equally entwined.

Even now, there is ceremony. The age-old pantomime of measurement, an invisible joust played out in the flex of muscle and the arch of brow. Both women stalk a cautious orbit, bodies glistening with the first hints of sweat, eyes locked in the tension between rivalry and reverence. Oraya's lips part, not for speech but for the slow, predatory draw of air, savoring the scent of Amara's arousal, the perfume of eager intellect married to urgent need. Amara's gaze never wavers, her smile fixed in that sly, knowing way that has undone so many of her subjects and students before. There is no question of what will unfold, only in whose rhythm, whose methodology, the experiment will proceed.

"You want it at full," Oraya growls. "Tell me how."

"From my observations of the boy," Amara responds, breathing beginning to hitch. "The greater you are aroused, the more fully formed the mark will be."

Oraya, as always, moves first.

She seizes the scholar by the waist and lifts her. Amara's ribcage compresses under the pressure, but she only hums a laugh, arms winding around the warrior's shoulders, anchoring herself to the column of Oraya's neck. The taste of sweat and almond oil is thick on Oraya's flesh. The taste of want is thicker still. Amara's mouth finds the pulse just behind Oraya's ear and bites down, reward coming swift and brutal as Oraya sets her back against the battered stone table, the slab groaning under the impact.

Oraya's hands are hot, fingers spreading the milky flesh of Amara's ass until the skin dimples, Amara's thighs parting instinctively. The curse mark above Oraya's clit is a dot, still dormant.

Oraya traces Amara's folds with her thumb, slow, then faster, testing the reaction. Amara's whole body shudders. The Amazonian plunges two fingers inside the sage, finding the seam, the exact tension line where flesh becomes flame.

Amara bucks, hips canting, and she observes the mark above Oraya's mound flare to life, a blue-white glyph crawling from the dot. The scholar's head rolls, white hair spilling across the rough table, eyes gone wild with pleasure and furious analysis.

Oraya glances down to her own core to glimpse the spread of the glyph with a moment's curiosity, then refocuses on Amara's core, adding a third finger, stretching Amara wide enough to make the sage gasp. She rams her fingers in hard, up to the knuckle, and Oraya's curse mark blooms to its full form, her clit is at its hardest, her folds dripping. Amara's hands seize Oraya's shoulders, clawing deep furrows into the Amazonian's bronze skin, spurring Oraya further. She fucks the scholar with her three fingers, wrist rotating, the sound of it wet and raw and obscene.

Amara's ankles lock behind Oraya's hips, heels scissoring into the small of her back, dragging their cores flush. The sage's body is a lab experiment with runaway conditions, quivering and clenching around the Amazon's pumping fingers, slicking the table in a shameful, scholarly waterfall. She gasps, but it's a sound equal parts hunger and deep satisfaction, already cataloguing the sensations, the glyph's igniting pattern, the precise moment when pleasure becomes something perilous. Every stroke of Oraya's hand is mirrored, doubled, tripled by the way Amara's hands roam the warrior's body, down her flanks, over the jut of her deltoids, up to fist in the black curls at the nape of her neck.

Oraya is beyond restraint. She pries the scholar's scissored heels behind her waist by pushing Amara's thighs up and back, bending the sage until her knees nearly brush her own shoulders. Then Oraya bends double, tongue laving the length of Amara's slit, from ass to clit, with the ruthless devotion of a zealot. The glyph on Oraya's mound crawls, feeding fractals of eldritch light across her pelvis completely covering her pubic mound, casting the hard lines of abs in a spectral glow. From beneath, Amara watches, calm fragmenting with every rough swipe of Oraya's tongue, every piston of those merciless fingers. The pleasure is electric, a rising tide that threatens to overrun what little composure remains.

Amara's mind, always racing, tries to keep pace with her own dissolution. She tracks the sigils as they flex and pulse, notes how every spike of her pleasure triggers a new sequence in Oraya's glyph, a call-and-response coded in the oldest kind of magic. She wonders, with a kind of rapt fatalism, if the curse itself is learning from their bodies as quickly as she is learning from it.

But in another moment, theory evaporates. Oraya moves to finish it, mouth clamped to Amara's clit, sucking with the determination of an apex predator, fingers working in perfect counterpoint. Amara's climax explodes, body rebels, back arching, chest ballooning with the force of an orgasm that shatters through every nerve. Her core clamps on Oraya's hand, wringing the Amazon's fingers with milking, animal violence. The scholar screams, the sound tearing from her in a bright, crystalline arc, echoing in the tiny chamber.

Oraya rides out Amara's orgasm, feasting, drawing every spasm and gush from Amara until the sage is reduced to a limp, panting wreck on the table. Only then does Oraya stand, face slick with the proof, eyes luminous, the Dreamshard Circlet painting her brow with cold fire. The mark on her own flesh is now a living thing, glyphs creeping vine-like over her mound, covering the area like a pair of exotic panties, the blue-white lines radiant and trembling.

Amara, still shaking, rolls to her side to better observe the phenomenon. She reaches for Oraya, fingers trembling with aftershocks, and touches the glyph above the Amazon's clit, tracing the intricate script. "It's beautiful," she whispers, reverent. "I wish you could see it from this angle--"

Oraya grins, feral and smug. "Take a closer look."

Oraya grabs a fistful of the scholar's white hair and yanks her upright, then tugs her off the table to the floor with the same brutal tenderness one uses to drag a lover from a battlefield. Amara half-collapses, knees striking the cool stone, the aftershocks of orgasm still shivering down her thighs. She blinks, shakes the haze from her vision, and finds herself face to face with Oraya's pelvis, the glyphs blazing in a geometric corona across the warrior's core.

Oraya stands over her, hips squared, thighs parted just wide enough to frame her sex. A scene of raw, anatomical power. The mark is alive, crawling with refracted, living blue, like flowing blood, the lines shimmering with every pulse of the Amazon's blood. The scent is aphrodesiac and ozone, sweat and salt cut with the copper tang of forbidden magics. Amara drinks it in, her mind switching from scholarly reverence to pure predation in a single, hungry breath.

"Study well, scholar," Oraya purrs, and with both hands, she pulls Amara forward, mashing the sage's face into her heated, glowing flesh.

Amara's tongue is expert. The first lap is a long, slow exploration, savoring the taste of sweat and curse and the unique, animal flavor of Oraya herself. The glyph is warm, almost fevered, and as Amara's tongue traces over the swelling clit, she feels the lines pulse under her mouth, as if the curse itself is roused by oral devotion. She works her tongue in slow, meticulous spirals, occasionally flicking with the tip, always returning to the epicenter of the mark, where the blue is brightest and the flesh is most sensitive.

Oraya's hands never let go of Amara's hair. Instead, she leans in, using the scholar's face as a handle, guiding her mouth to every fold, every secret, every trembling nerve. Her thighs flex and bulge with the effort of standing, but she refuses to yield, holding herself rigid and proud while the pleasure mounts. She watches Amara the entire time, her own gold eyes glazed with rapture, her lips parted in a faint, soundless snarl of want. One hand drops to palm the top of Amara's skull, the other slides to cup and knead her own breast, squeezing the nipple between thumb and forefinger until the pain sharpens and sweetens the pleasure.

The sight of Oraya's body from below is a lesson in excess. Her breasts hang like twin moons, heavy and perfect, the dark nipples swollen and slick with sweat; the muscle of her core contracts and releases in time with every thrust of Amara's tongue. Her abs are painted with a sheen of exertion and the moving, spectral light of the curse, each muscle standing out in stark relief from the trembling tension. Amara is lost in it, her whole world reduced to the taste and scent and heat of Oraya, the mark so close it's scorched into her mind's memory.

As she tongues the Amazon's clit, Amara feels her own arousal rebuilding, a slow, tidal wave rising up from her gut. She should not be this sensitive. She's always prided herself on her stamina, her ability to maintain clinical detachment even in the throes of pleasure. But today, the curse infects everything, and she is soon pawing her own breasts, pinching the nipples with desperate, greedy hands. One hand slips between her legs, and she finds herself wetter than before, her own folds engorged and aching, as if the curse has doubled the feedback loop between them.

Oraya throws her head back, curls cascading, and lets the pleasure build. She drives her hips into Amara's mouth with increasing intensity, the grip on the sage's skull tightening to the point of pain. The mark, now a full lattice of script and light, glows so bright that Amara can see it with her eyes squeezed shut. The taste coming from Oraya is different now, richer, more electric, as if the glyph exudes its own flavor.

She opens her eyes and meets Oraya's gaze; the Amazon is smiling now, cruel and radiant, the pleasure and pride mingling in her expression. With a sudden, shocking force, Oraya clamps her thighs around Amara's head, locking the scholar in place. She rides the sage's face, grinding down with a violence that threatens to break noses and sprain jaws, but Amara takes it, relishes it, lets herself be used as an instrument of Oraya's need.

Amara doubles her efforts, tongue flicking and thrusting, lips sealing around the clit, sucking it into her mouth and worrying it with teeth until she feels the first judder of imminent climax. Oraya's breathing becomes animal, huffing and growling, her hands both fisting in Amara's hair now, pulling the sage's face tight against her cunt. The pleasure spikes, the glyph pulses, and every muscle in Oraya's body goes rigid, her entire frame trembling as the orgasm rips through her with the force of an exploding star.

She doesn't scream. She roars, a sound that shakes dust from the ceiling and sends a flock of crows shrieking from the rooftops outside. Her knees buckle and for a moment she nearly collapses, but she steadies herself against the wall, refusing to let go of Amara's head until the last, exquisite pulse of pleasure has been wrung from her body.

Amara, for her part, is nearly smothered, nose and mouth buried in the slick, glowing heat of Oraya's pussy as the Amazon grinds her through the climax. Her own orgasm hits at the same time, a second, even more savage explosion, and she cums hard, clenching around her own fingers, the wetness running in rivulets down her thighs to pool on the floor. The glyph above Oraya's mound glows incandescent, then fades slowly, leaving afterimages on Amara's vision.

At last, Oraya lets go. She sags, breathing hard, the Dreamshard Circlet askew on her brow. Amara collapses backwards, ass hitting the stone, hair a wild corona around her head, face glazed with sweat and the Amazon's cum. The two women stare at each other, grinning, more wolf than human.

Oraya is the first to speak, voice ragged. "You get what you needed?"

Amara wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then licks her lips, savoring the last flavor of pleasure and glyph. "More than I expected," she says. "The curse is... responsive. Not just a binding, but an engine. It multiplies sensation for both parties. Brilliant work, despite Nereza's failure to cast the curse perfectly."

Oraya snorts, a sound both humor and dismissal. "She always did have a taste for unique magic."

They sit in silence for a moment, the tension between them eased, replaced by something warmer, almost companionable. Amara is the first to rise, legs trembling, robe retrieved and draped over her shoulders in a careless gesture of modesty. Oraya stands as well, re-arming herself with the same brutal efficiency as before, the curse mark now a faint, pulsing blue beneath her skin, like a secret she wears with pride.

They return to the guest chamber, where Bobby stirs on the cot, still innocent in his dreaming. Oraya watches him sleep, her face unreadable, then leans against the doorframe, arms folded, the mark on her mound hidden but not forgotten.

Amara sits at the desk, fetching her scrolls, her mind already at work cataloguing the data of the morning's experiment. She glances at Oraya, sees the way the Amazon's gaze softens when it lingers on Bobby, and wonders what kind of future the three of them might make. If the curse will be their undoing, or their salvation.

Oraya, for her part, is already thinking ahead, plotting the route to the Shattered Veil, considering the armament needed, the supplies, the likelihood of finding an Aetherglass before Nereza does. But beneath the soldier's discipline and the relentless will, there is a new heat, a new purpose. She is not alone. She is not helpless. And ready to discover more of what the curse may hide.

In the first true light of day, the three unlikely comrades prepare for the journey to come. The world outside is vast, dangerous, and beautiful. The curse waits, hungry, but so do they.