World of Forbidden Desire Ch. 05

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.

*****

A little past dawn, the sun brightens Malakhar, beaming light onto a city always ready for anything. The rune-glass window spills rays of morning into the guest chamber, painting Bobby's face in bands of golden light. Bobby awakens naked, utterly, gloriously so, the rough wool blanket balled at his knees and his cock glazed with the sticky, half-dried memory of the sage's core.

He startles upright, blinking. Amara is gone from the bed, but sits at the desk, already dressed in fresh scholar's garb, unique in her style. Sleeveless midnight blue robes cinched with a belt of knotted glass beads at the waist, a cowl hanging over her shoulder blades, the neckline plunging in a deepV that barely contains the raw swell of her tits, slits from the sides of the hips reveals the flesh of her bare legs. Her lustrous white braids tailing down her spine, with wavy chin length curtains draping down the sides of her face. She is scribbling furiously onto a scroll, the stylus a living extension of her fingers. As Bobby's eyes adjust, he sees her lips move, not in prayer, but in the quiet recitation of memory. She is writing, in real time, something extraordinary, he's sure of it.

Bobby becomes aware of his sate and blushes, the heat prickling his skin from scalp to navel. He tries to cover himself, but the shame is a weak adversary now. After last night, he doubts he'll ever be able to look at another woman, or even a moderately suggestive statue, without recalling the sight of Amara's body rising and falling above him, the impossible, perverse form of her tits, the wet heat of her pussy, the blue-black bloom of the curse mark igniting at the root of his cock.

He turns, half-expecting to find Oraya at the door, sword in hand, ready to skewer him for defiling her only hope of salvation. Instead, Oraya stands in the corner, hands bracing the lintel, her entire frame silhouetted by the rising sun. If Amara is moonlight incarnate, Oraya is dawn itself, apricot glow catching in her mane of black curls, the Dreamshard Circlet burning on her brow with cold, starry fire. She regards Bobby with the nonchalance of a drill sergeant inspecting a raw recruit, but there is something in her eyes, amusement, or pride in the way only the obsessed can manage, that speaks of the night's unspoken bond.

Oraya is dressed for war as always, traditionally common for the warriors of the Ember Vow. A harness of black leather straps interlaced with hammered bronze, girdling her torso but leaving the bulk of her breasts exposed, nipples dark and unashamed, the undersides swollen and scored with fresh hickies and half-moon bite marks, courtesy of rivals and the strongest of enemies, one belonging to the dark magus Nereza herself. Her abdomen is bare, the muscle tight as ship cord, the fresh cut on her belly now stitched and lacquered with some resin that glints like amber. A skirt of scaled leather panels rides low on her hips, barely concealing the triangle of trimmed black hair above her core, and her legs are sheathed in matte-black greaves that run from mid-thigh to toe, the surface embossed with runes and the sigils of the Ember Vow. Her appearance is scandalous to commoners, especially those who know nothing of female warriors tribes. Her appearance is not unexpected to those aware of their cultures and traditions.

Bobby's gaze darts, as always, on the physics of Oraya's tits. They are not simply large, they are monumental, the kind of tits that demand their own myth cycle, the kind that could suffocate a man in his sleep and still be envied by every woman from here to whatever passes for Hell. The straps that hold them are both functional and ornamental, crossing above and below the aureole, framing them like the lost treasures of a pillaged cathedral. The effect is obscene, but also, impossibly, dignified. A living sculpture of violence and lust.

Oraya speaks without warning, the boom like a gunshot in the hush of the room. "Dress," she says. "We leave once you are ready, and I want you ready now." She glances at Amara. "And the scholar better be finished with her observations."

Amara smiles without looking up. "I could write a dissertation," she says, "but yes, I can be done. For now."

Oraya snorts. "Try not to forget the world you're living in," she says, and for a moment, Bobby swears there is the ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth. He can tell the two of them have known each other for a significant time.

Amara stands, gathering a bundle of fresh linen from a trunk at the foot of the bed. She glides to Bobby, the flaps of the robe swirling around her bare legs. "Here," she says, offering the folded garments in both hands. "Scholar's robes, imbued with my magic. These are yours now. They'll fit better than the acolyte's scraps, and protect far better." She leans in, her lips brushing his ear. "If you want help dressing, I'm not above one more lesson." She lets that hang for a moment, then pulls away, her tits swinging with a deliberate, scholarly pride.

Bobby takes the clothes, already missing the feel of her skin against his, and dresses quickly. The fabric of the tunic, trousers, and robe are soft, loomed from some hybrid of linen and animal hair, dyed an understated slate blue, and cut to fit, miraculously, his awkward unathletic frame. He fumbles with the fastening ties, and Amara steps in, deftly knotting them for him, her fingers lingering on his collarbone, his ribs, the small of his back. It is, he realizes, the first time he's been dressed by a woman since he was a child. The tenderness of it nearly undoes him.

The short sleeve tunic covers from his collarbone and loosely stretches to his knees, a sash ties at his waist. The baggy trousers allows unrestricted movements. The robe hangs snuggly on his shoulders, with the hood hanging behind, and the hem stretching to his ankles. Amara closes the front closure with a fasten at the collar and sash at the waist.

When he is fully clothed, Oraya tosses him a battered leather pack, already loaded with dried rations, a canteen, and a length of oiled rope. "Eat," she says, pointing at a wedge of sour bread and a hard, waxy cheese on the desk. "You'll need it. We're headed to the Shattered Veil, a formidable land even for Amazonians, and if we're lucky, Nereza, the Veilbinder, have yet to send her followers after us."

Bobby eats, barely tasting the food. He watches Amara as she moves about the room, collecting scrolls and vials and little glass phials of luminous powder, tucking them into the sashes and secret pockets of her robe and bag. She leans into it, the movements calculated to let the robe gape, each bend and reach offering a view of her breasts, her ass, or the soft, shadowed cleft between her thighs. She is both a librarian and a courtesan, and Bobby wonders how he will ever survive in a world where women like this exist, much less thrive.

Oraya waits at the door, arms folded, feet shoulder width apart, eyes always scanning, always alert. There is a new tension in her, a coiled energy, as if she is waiting for the next calamity to drop out of the sky. She looks at Bobby not with contempt, but with a kind of measured expectation, the weight of destiny pressing down on both of them whether they want it or not.

Amara finishes her preparations and stands beside Bobby, a head taller, her hair a gleaming waterfall down her spine. She slides a hand onto his shoulder, the touch proprietary, and whispers, "You did well. You are ready."

Oraya catches the gesture, and for a heartbeat, her eyes narrow, not in anger, but in understanding. She files it away, the way a soldier files away the weaknesses and desires of her comrades.

"Let's go," she says, voice a blade.

As they leave the city's boundary, Oraya relaxes a fraction, the tension in her jaw easing, the rhythm of her stride growing more languid. She leads them up a winding path, the stones slick with dew, and finally, in a clearing above the smog and noise, she halts.

"We make for the Shattered Veil to find the aetherglass," Amara announces as Oraya turns to her, "and then to the place where the world first broke in hopes that a Reality Walker roams there." She glances at Oraya, who nods, smirking her lip in anticipation.

Oraya sets her fierce eyes on Bobby. "No one will kill this curse for us, we need to do this ourselves. Move with determination, be afraid but not a quitter, and don't walk back." Though the words are meant for all of them, it is clear who she thinks needs them most. "This is your world now, boy. Make peace with it."

They walk single file along a ridgeline of petrified timber, the roadless path dictated by Oraya's unerring instinct for the path of most resistance. On either side, the forest plunges away into a canyon of bone-white logs and the black glass that passes for native stone in these parts. Bobby can't figure out if the forest burned or if it was simply born dead, the trunks riddled with holes where things have nested and died, and then been nested in again. Each time Oraya's leading boot crunches through a brittle plank, the sound rings out like a gunshot in a library, setting every nerve in his body to humming.

The wilds of Aramore smell nothing like any world Bobby Bennett has known. At early morning, the air is a riot, moss and honeysap. The musk of night-haunts fading under the sun's first teeth. The sizzling, dead tang of air from distant, splintering ley lines. Even through half-clogged nostrils, it's a sensory onslaught. He's not sure he'll ever get used to it.

Oraya takes the lead, of course. She's armored exactly as she was on that first, impossible night, bare skin everywhere it isn't strapped with dark leather, a war skirt so short that every stride risks a flash of slit, and a single, brutal pauldron molded from something Bobby suspects is not animal bone. Her thighs could shame a champion cyclist. Her breasts, as always, seem to move in their own gravitational field, the battered wrapping top barely keeping them in check even at a dead march. She never looks back at him, but he knows she's tracking every footfall, every breath, every microsecond of hesitation from him and Amara.

Amara is next. Amara the scholar, Amara the impossibly ancient, impossibly curvaceous sage who last night sucked him off like a research project and then wrote a treatise about it in real time. Her new traveling robes are a shimmery, midnight blue, cinched at the waist with a cord of glass beads and slit up both sides to the hip, so every stride reveals the full, creamy expanse of thigh and the briefest, scintillating shadow of a teasing glimpse of something that Bobby can't stop thinking about. She is less a woman and more a walking thesis on the architecture of desire, and she walks with the serene, unhurried pace of someone who expects the world to arrange itself around her.

Bobby shuffles along in their wake, still getting used to the new set of clothes Amara had tailored for him. A tunic and pants of soft, close-woven linen, dyed a blue so dark it's almost black, and boots that seem to mold to his feet with every step. Compared to the women, he's invisible. A shadow, a loose thread, a spectral stowaway in their impossible parade. He knows it. He hates it. But he also can't help watching every detail, every muscle flex and hair toss and breast ripple as the two women guide him through what might as well be the afterlife.

"I need water," Bobby calls, not only because he's thirsty but also because he wants to break the spell of the endless, crunching silence.

Oraya doesn't break stride. "We had water a short while ago," she says, voice sharp as a snapped twig. "In this world, boy, the purpose is to survive. Opportunities to replenish resources isn't plentiful. Take only enough, and resist the need for more.

Amara, by contrast, slows down, lets Bobby catch up beside her. "He's acclimating," she says, her voice a velvet purr. "His body is not designed for this world, Oraya. Slow up, or you'll walk him to dust before the first eclipse."

Oraya stops, pivots, and stands with arms crossed under her breasts, the cleavage deep enough to drown a kitten. She fixes Amara with a look that could crack granite. "Every hunter is a meal until proven otherwise. The boy needs to keep up, or he'll feed the Scar-wolves before sunset."

Amara only smiles, amused. "You were gentler with your pupils during your mentorships," she says.

Oraya spits onto the black glass at her feet. "My pupils never whined like children."

Bobby flushes, his gaze looks away from the women in an attempt to hide himself.

Amara puts a hand on Bobby's shoulder, the contact warm and grounding. She leans into him, letting her breast brush his arm, and whispers, "Ignore her. She postures only because she wishes to protect you. The more she snaps, the more she cares. Oraya is of the Amazonian race. A race of warrior women who thrives in hardships, even seeking out such challenges. They never complain nor avoid difficult obstacles."

Oraya, who hears this anyway, snorts and turns, leading them onward.

They walk for what feels like another hour to Bobby, the ridgeline flattening into a plateau of shattered, iridescent shale. The sun is higher now, and the heat brings out a new set of smells, fermenting sap, bruised lichen, a faint, sour whiff of something dead and left out too long. Bobby's head throbs, but he keeps moving.

Oraya's focus is total, her stride unbroken as she leads the way. Only Amara disrupts the silence, halting every dozen paces to squint at the parchment in her hands or to gesture toward landmarks to Bobby, giving him more insights to the world. Bobby attempts to feign interest, but his gaze often drifts, unable to resist the way Amara's robe clings to her ass in the wind. It's a futile effort. The fabric behaves like a joke. Each gust of air outlines the enormous, perfectly hemispherical globes of scholar flesh, the undertow of each cheek rippling against the thin blue linen, as if Amara's body has never learned the rules of shame.

At last, they come to a stand of trees lush in their living, their leaves a mad tangle of green, the trunks twisted into whorls like saltwater taffy. Oraya halts, scanning the perimeter with the wariness of a hunted animal.

"We rest here," she says. "I'll scout ahead."

Amara nods, dropping her pack at the base of a tree. She slides to the ground in a single, boneless motion, the slit of her robe falling open to bare her entire left thigh and the curve of her hip, which Bobby tries, and fails, not to stare at.

Oraya is gone almost instantly, her steps utterly silent despite her size and the mass of weaponry she carries. Amara waits until the last echo of her presence has faded, then turns to Bobby, legs sprawled, the robe pooling around her like the petals of some obscene flower.

"You look pale," she says, voice low. "Sit."

He sits, and she draws a flask from her pack, unstoppering it with a flick of her thumb. "Drink," she says, holding it to his lips. The liquid is cool and tastes of mint and metal. It sluices down his throat and instantly the world grows two shades brighter. He wonders if it's drugged, or perhaps given a spell, then decides not to care.

They sit in silence for a while, the only sound the slow, pulse-like throb of insects in the trees above. Bobby wants to ask about the curse, about what happens next, about whether any of this is real or if he's still lying in his bedroom with a VR headset glued to his face like a tumor. He wants to ask Amara what it felt like, the night before, when the curse woke up and she fucked him with a joy that bordered on religious mania. But the words won't come. He's too overwhelmed to know how to proceed.

It's Amara who breaks the silence first. "You're wondering if you can endure this quest," she says, "or if the world will devour you before you ever come to understand it." She laughs, a sound like bells melting. "You're wondering if you can keep up with the things of this world, with women like us."

Bobby nods, abashed, and wonders if she can read minds as well, or if scholars and sages are just that smart.

She leans closer, her breast pressing against his upper arm, the sensation both comforting and deeply, primitively arousing. "You will adapt," she says, and her hand finds his, squeezing it. "I have seen men less clever, less brave than you survive much worse. And thrive, in time."

He wants to believe her. He lets himself believe her, just for a moment.

Amara soothes Bobby, her voice a calm balm against the chaos surrounding them. "You've been thrust into a treacherous journey, unrequested. You are not alone. Oraya may seem fierce and frightening, but she is a defender and protector of the innocent, especially those who cannot fight. I may appear detached, but I am not. We are here for you. Now, try to relax. We will need to rest before we attempt to reach the Veil. The Shattered Veil is not a place to enter at half-strength."

Bobby cocks his head, curiosity knitting his brow. "What is the Shattered Veil? I keep forgetting to ask."

Amara pauses before answering, her tone devoid of curiousness for once. "It's one of many locations where the world nearly ended," she explains, her expression grave. "The site of the Riftwar, and the wound that never healed. The Veil is thin there, a membrane that separates our world from the Nullum, one of many forbidden realms." She gazes to the sky thoughtfully. "Some believe the old tales, the Veil is sentient, and it hates us for what we did."

Bobby frowns, confusion flickering in his eyes. "What did we do?"

Amara giggles, as though the answer is so obvious the question never needs asking. "We tried to control what wasn't meant to be controlled. Story of every war, ever." Amara sighs, her steady and serious gaze returns. "In our world, there have been many civilizations before ours, obliterated because of their hubris, their pursuit of power, and desire for control through that power. The forbidden magic they sought to obtain from these forbidden realms annihilated everything, leaving an eternal scar. The Shattered Veil is one of these scars. We scholars, sages, and magus do not know as much as we would like about these scars, these forbidden realms and magic, but we know which know through magical signatures of these scars as to which realms were accessed. The Shattered Veil holds signatures indicative of the Nullum realm. The Nullum is an anti-world. Not a place of death, but a realm where the rules are inverted. Magic unravels. Minds collapse. Even time runs the wrong direction, sometimes. That is what we theorize from what we can observe and examine."

She fixes Bobby with her piercing violet gaze, the intensity of her words wrapping around him like a shroud. "You must not look too long at the sky once we're inside. And you must not speak your own name. We still only have a breath of knowledge of these forbidden realms and how they effect our world. There are several of these realms. The Codex Aeternum was one of these forbidden realms long ago, thousands upon thousands of years ago. We're still uncertain how or why the Aeternum realm was brought to our world, and why it personified into a tome. And similarly, we aren't fully certain why and how the Nullum realm touched our world, and created the Shattered Veil long ago."

A shiver runs through Bobby, and he tries to pretend it is merely the wind brushing against his skin.

Bobby's pulse hammers in his throat. The Shattered Veil is not a place to enter at half-strength. The phrase echoes in his head, cold sweat prickling his spine. The Nullum. Magic unravels. Minds collapse. Don't speak your own name. He can't even remember his own phone number anymore but he is sure, sure, that he will fuck up and say his name to the first thing that asks. What if he looks at the sky by accident? What happens then? He's never felt so small, so breakable, not even in the worst years when his father was just a voice on the answering machine and his mother's eyes were always three feet away no matter how close she stood.

He pulls out his broken phone that he was using to watch porn before he found himself in this world. The power button summons a mocking empty battery sign behind the fractured glass. He wishes he could lose himself in that absurd, comforting glow. With a sigh, he puts the useless thing away and wonders how people here cope.

Amara watches the worry bloom on his face the way a botanist studies the time-lapse of a rare, doomed flower. She sets a cool hand on the back of his neck, thumb tracing lazy crescents up his hairline.

"You fear the Veil," she whispers, her breath a velvet thread in his ear. "Good. It's a thing that deserves respect."

He nods, unable to trust his voice. The intention to steel himself, to be tough, to at least pretend, collapses under the weight of her gentle scrutiny.

She leans in, her lips grazing his earlobe. "I can distract you, if you wish." The words are an offer and a gift.

At first, he doesn't understand. Then Amara's hand is under his tunic, palm sliding up his thigh, the contact so cool and measured he almost mistakes it for medical examination. Except her fingers are not clinical, they're hungry, and patient, and made to draw out not just his arousal but his terror, too, and transform both into something bright and living.

Her hand reaches inside his trousers and she finds his cock, already half-hard from the pressure of her nearness, and wraps her fingers around it. She strokes, slow at first, then with more intent, as if calibrating his response. Bobby's breath catches, then leaves him in a shudder. He glances at Oraya, but she's nowhere in sight. Only the trees and the strange, stinging air and the sky, which he does not look at, not even a little.

Amara's voice is a hush in his ear, a lullaby for nerves. "You may touch me, if it will delight you," she says. "Here." She draws his hand up and under her robe. The fabric is barely there, and her flesh is lush, yielding, hot as a fever. He cups her breast, the weight of it heavy and perfect in his hand, nipple already hardening against his palm. She guides his hand, encourages him to knead, to explore, and the simple generosity of it overwhelms him.

Bobby's grip firms. He squeezes, not too hard, just enough to feel the living softness, the pulse beneath the skin. Amara closes her eyes and smiles, a secret, serene expression of satisfaction as she continues to stroke his cock. She doesn't speed up, doesn't tease, just builds the sensation with a scholar's precision, the rhythm as steady as a metronome.

"It's so--" Bobby manages, his voice a croak. "It's so good. I didn't know it could feel--"

"Pleasure is precious in our world," Amara murmurs, opening her eyes to catch his. "Embrace such fortune when you are lucky enough to encounter it."

He lets go, lets his body be a conduit for the pleasure, the fear, the need, the everything. He buries his face against her chest, mouth finding the nipple, suckling hungrily as she milks his cock. She smells like parchment and sugar and sweat, a flavor that will haunt his dreams forever. The taste of her skin is salt and the faint tang of incense, and when he bites gently, she issues a wordless moan that curls around his cock like a spell.

Amara's hand is still wrapped around the shaft of Bobby's cock, the soft skin of her palm a contradiction of coolness and pressure, but now she draws her hand away, licking the pad of her thumb as if sampling the provenance of fine honey. Her violet eyes fix on him, pupil dilating as she notes the shiver that racks his spine, the way his lips part and his eyelids flutter with the first, exquisite threshold of pleasure. Then she lowers her head, letting the lunar-white cascade of her hair spill down to curtain his lap.

Bobby can't breathe, can't think. The world recedes to the living tent of midnight silk that is Amara's hair, the cool brush of her nose against the base of his cock, and then the sudden, inexorable heat of her mouth enveloping him. She takes him deep, deeper than he thought possible, the tip of his cock brushing the back of her throat and then sliding past it, as if her entire body is calibrated for this one, perfect act of devotion. He tilts his head back, eyes shut, groaning as Amara's lips seal around his shaft, her tongue stroking the underside with a scholar's patience, cataloguing every ridge and tremor, every micro-reaction of muscle and nerve.

He buries his hands in her hair, tangling his fingers in the impossibly soft braid, guiding her but also simply holding on, as if he might fall into the void if he let go. With every bob of her head, a new agony of pleasure spikes up through his hips, the pressure building at the base of his spine until he's not sure if he's going to cum or simply die.

Amara's eyes, violet and serene, never leave the place where his cock meets her lips. She's watching, not just for his reaction but for something more. A mark. A sign. And there it is: the dot above the base of his cock shimmers, then splits, birthing a latticework of glowing blue glyphs that crawl up his shaft, pulsing with the rhythm of his heartbeat as the curse comes alive. Amara moans softly around him, the vibration setting off a chain reaction in Bobby's body, and she picks up the pace, bobbing faster, harder, her hands cupping his balls and massaging with a perfect balance of reverence and clinical curiosity.

"Amara," Bobby gasps, voice raw, "that feels so-- I've never-- I mean, in my world--"

She doesn't stop, doesn't even slow, just slides her mouth up and down his shaft until every word is knocked out of him. He is so close, can feel the orgasm rising, and the only thing he can do is warn her. "I'm gonna-- I'm really close--"

Amara hums around his cock, the sound a velvet rope pulling him over the edge. The glyphs blaze, the blue light so bright he's sure it must be visible from space, and then he explodes in her mouth, shooting pulse after pulse of cum down her throat. She swallows every drop, hands gripping his thighs to steady him as she milks him for all he's worth, only letting his cock slip from her lips when the aftershocks have faded and the mark has begun to dim, folding itself back to a single, innocent dot as if nothing had happened.

She lifts her head, face flushed and eyes radiant, and licks her lips with a slow, deliberate savoring of the taste. The blue glyphs fade from his skin, the curse now sated, and for a moment there is a peace in the clearing, a stillness that feels almost holy.

Amara locks eyes with Bobby, her gaze more maternal than erotic now, and wipes a stray thread of saliva from her chin with the back of her hand. "Feel safe, Bobby," she says, voice gentle. "With me, you will always be safe. This world is cruel, but I am not."

He nods, sheepish and spent, tugging his trousers back up as he tries to process the enormity of what just happened. The feeling is nothing like porn. It's better, more real, more alive. For the first time in his life, he trusts someone completely. Not even his parents, in the best years, ever made him feel this level of support.

Amara pats his knee. "Relax, Bobby. Try not to think about the Shattered Veil." She rises, smoothing her robe before reseating herself against the broad trunk of the tree. She takes out a small notebook and begins to write.

Oraya returns at a dead run, bounding over logs and stones like a force of nature. She halts at the edge of the clearing, muscles quivering, eyes narrowed. "Company," she grunts.