World of Forbidden Desire Ch. 06

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

*****

"Dangerous?" Amara asks.

Oraya shrugs. "Mercenaries. Ten at least. They're wearing the colors of the Charnel Guild. It's possible they are hurrying to a mission. If not, I expect them to engage with me, as mercenaries all do."

Bobby's mouth goes dry. "Why would they 'engage' with you?"

Oraya spits again. "Mercenaries desire my defeat, even my head, to bolster their reputation and command higher price to be hired."

Amara stands, brushing at the lapels of her robe until her tits are perfectly centered in the V of the neckline. "The price of a world renown reputation. However, we're not easy prey," she says, and there's a note of pride in it, as if to say, let them try.

It takes only a short time for the mercenaries to arrive. Ten men and women in mismatched armor, most of it scavenged from the dead or the unlucky. The leader is a giant, as tall as Oraya, thick through the chest and arms, her hair shaved into an ink-black mohawk and her jaw tattooed with a band of runes that look like shark's teeth. On her breastplate, the Charnel Guild sigil, two skulls, one laughing and one screaming, leers out at the world. Unlike her underlings, her armor fits perfectly, custom-molded to the mountains of muscle underneath, and her tits are so huge they've had to carve out an actual trough in the steel to accommodate them. The cleavage is legendary, as if the mere sight of it could concuss the unwary.

The mercenary beside the leader is a white-haired woman, and Bobby's gaze lingers on her, in awe and fear. She is a bit shorter than her leader and nearly naked, her torso ensnared in a web of black cord that serves as both armor and an invitation. Her breasts, impossibly large, even among this crowd, gleam with sweat, the nipples capped in bronze. A belt with pouches sashed around her waist, with a serrated whip hanging off of it down her bare thigh. Her slit is covered by what looks to Bobby as a low-cut thong. Her hair is a shocking white, cut short to her earlobes, skin taut and perspiring in a shimmer, and her eyes are the pale blue of a corpse left too long in the sun. She wields a whip and a serrated dagger. Her gaze falls onto Bobby, and her smile is a sinister promise.

The rest of the mercenaries are more motley. Two cat-eyed twins in scale mail bikinis and nothing else, one lithe man with a bald head and a spiked collar, three archers with faces covered in ochre paint and bodies painted with swirling black lines, and two others in various states of shabbiness and disrepair. A balance of men and women. Even so, they move with predator coordination, fanning out to encircle the clearing, weapons already drawn.

The leader steps forward, voice like a landslide. "Oraya Emberheart, the Emberwrought," she says, and the name lands like a challenge. "Didn't think I'd see you above ground again. They say you vrexed a demon to your death in the Shrine of Knives."

Oraya doesn't smile. "No demon is strong enough to tame me," she replies. "You can say that I was the one who vrexed the demon to death. A feat a Frostspine of your caliber too weak to achieve."

The mercenary grins. "You're not the only Amazonian who likes a challenge." She glances at Amara, then at Bobby, as if trying to figure out if he's a mascot or a hostage. "You've got a strange party. The Circle's kretch and a boy half-baked."

Amara only bows, the motion making her robe fall open to reveal more of her mounds. "You're well-informed, warrior of the Frostspine," she says. "But we're not looking for trouble."

The leader snorts. "You never are, but it finds you anyway." She turns to her team, the motion jostling her breasts so hard the steel groans in protest. "The Guild wants the emberwrought alive or dead. Double pay for the head, double again if she's still breathing. The Circle's kretch is bonus. The guild can sell her dead body to those who wants to study all that she has obtained. The boy--" She shrugs. "Is unimportant. Don't waste your effort unless he's in your way."

The white-haired woman calls out, her voice like glass over ice. "Can I play with the boy first?" Bobby feels himself blush, and he despises the reaction.

"Only if you need him. Prioritize the mission before your fun. Listen to me this time, Redifer. You and I may be born of the Frostspines, but we're acting as mercenaries with the Charnel guild now," the leader says demandingly.

The white-hair mercenary called Redifer eyes Bobby with malevolent lustful eyes. Smirking maliciously as she wraps her tongue around her whip.

Oraya speaks to Amara without looking at her. "Protect the boy." Oraya steps forward, rolling her neck. The Dreamshard Circlet glints coldly on her brow, and her muscles tense in anticipation. "You could try to take me in, Girda, or you could go back to your guild master and tell him I fucked his favorite concubine and left her wanting."

The insult works. The leader, Girda, grinds her teeth and draws a pair of hooked blades, each the length of Bobby's legs.

The fight erupts into chaos.

Oraya moves like a panther shot from a railgun. The first mercenary to close the gap gets her throat collapsed with a single, brutal chop, the second loses an eye to a thrown knife, and the third, unlucky enough to attack from behind, gets a backhanded elbow that caves in half her face. Girda tries to flank, but finds herself matched, blow for blow, blade for blade, in a whirling duet of violence so intense Bobby can't look away.

The fourth mercenary, watching Oraya with disbelieving eyes, hesitates, then turns to and sprints for Amara and Bobby. Amara is ready. She motions her arms and hands in a sinuous wave pattern, and a ring of blue fire explodes outward, catching the mercenary in a cyclone of heat as two more mercenaries close in on Amara.

The fourth mercenary staggers, screaming, drops his knife, howling. And Bobby, panicking, snatches up the blade instinctively and stabs the man in the leg as though his body is moving without his mind's say so. The mercenary collapses, shrieking as the blue flame engulfs the man's entire body.

Redifer pays no attention to the commotion around. She advances on Bobby, her hips swaying, the whip uncoiling behind her like a snake. She licks her lips, grinning, and says, "You look sweet, little lamb. I wonder how sweet." Without warning, she lashes out, the whip striking Bobby across the chest, leaving a perfect line of red. He yelps, eyes glistening, but holds his ground, the knife trembling in his hand.

The twins dart at Amara, who seems to float through the barrage of swords and spears, her robe swirling like a living fog. She doesn't strike back, only dodges, spins, and murmurs words that make her attackers slow, then stagger, then collapse to their knees, clutching at their temples. Amara's face is serene, watching her targets clutch their heads, whimper, and crumble as if in slow motion. To Amara, the choreography is not violence but a ballet of entropy, ordered, inevitable, beautiful in its precision. She tilts her head, almost bored, as the twins collapse mere inches from her feet, their swords forgotten, their bodies twitching with the low-voltage seizure of a spell that blots out all thought.

Bobby is on his back, Redifer straddling his hips. The whip, thin as a nerve and twice as wicked, has lashed itself in a perfect double-loop around both of Bobby's ankles, restraining his legs together, stretching his scrawny frame into a helpless, humiliating plank.

Redifer's body is an anatomy lesson in perversion and cruelty. Her breasts, even more obscene than Oraya's, somehow defy gravity and logic at once. Each is a perfect hemisphere, capped with enormous bronze piercings that glint with every movement. Her arms are corded with whip marks, scars overlaid with fresh bruises, and her torso flexes as she tightens the grip of her thighs against Bobby's waist. Her core is shaved, the lips fat and ridged and glistening. When she reaches down, she grabs Bobby's chin with one hand. Her nails sharpened to black claws, and tilts his head back.

"Easy, little lamb," she purrs, voice honeyed with malice. "If you keep struggling, you'll cut your own feet off."

The knife clatters from Bobby's hand and Redifer pins both his wrists to the moss with one hand. "You're making this too easy, I want more fun," she sighs, and leans over him, the weight of her tits enveloping Bobby's face. He tries to turn away, his cheek touching the moss ground, but the sheer mass of her breasts smothers his nose and mouth, immersing him in the sour, slick perfume of sweat and grass.

Redifer laughs, low and predatory, then lifts her head just enough to let him breathe. "Is this what the great Oraya travels with now?" she calls out, loud enough for Oraya to hear between clashes of steel. "A boy whose only skill is getting hard and crying about it?" She presses her tits together, trapping Bobby's head between them, and grinds her pelvis down, rubbing her core against his cock through the thin linen. "How does it taste, little lamb?" she whispers, and then runs the edge of her blade along his temple, teasing.

Bobby's body betrays him, the erection hard and insistent despite the terror and the indignity. Redifer notices, of course, and giggles, the sound a warble of pure evil. "You like it," she croons. "You like being nothing."

Redifer's legs clamp Bobby's hips, steel-trap thighs cozied up to his bones. The whip is looped tight, not just for show but for mastery, and her hand, talon-nail and all, splays across both his wrists, pinning them overhead. Bobby could wriggle, but it would only mean more friction against her grinding slit, and even in the churn of panic and humiliation, he can't ignore the electric pulse of arousal that the curse roils through his body.

His cock balloons, a living rod jammed between his belly and the heat of Redifer's sopping mound. Each time her pelvis tilts and rubs, his brain blanks out in blue-white flashes. Redifer's breasts, barely contained by the web of black cord, swing and buck with her every taunt. They are perverse masterpieces, glistening with sweat, flesh so pale it glows with the fever of exertion. The bronze-capped nipples glint, stubs of metal embedded in trembling areolae big as silver dollars.

Redifer notices. She always notices. She leans in, her breath cool and metallic, and whispers, "Oh, you're a hungry little lamb, aren't you?" Her hand leaves his wrists for a moment, just long enough to holster the knife at her hip and then claw at the cords binding her chest. The knots give way in a single, brutal jerk, and the cords fall, baring her tits in their full, obscene grandeur. She grabs a fistful of Bobby's hair and yanks his head up, mashing his face between the two quaking masses.

"Suck," she orders, and he does, latching onto a pierced nipple like it's an oxygen mask. The areola is hot, almost fevered, and the taste is sweat and brine and blood-metal tang. His tongue rolls the nub, his teeth scrape the ring, and Redifer howls with laughter and something darker. She pins his wrists with one hand and uses the other to shove her breast deeper into his mouth, smothering him, baptizing him in the scent and taste and weight of her.

"Vrex, you're better than some of my old girlfriends," Redifer cackles. She kneels up, her gigantic tits dangling over his face, and grinds her slit hard onto his shaft. Even through the fabric of his scholar's robe, Bobby can feel the scalding, slippery heat of her lips as she rides him, grinding her clit along the ridge of his cock. Her breathing grows thick and ragged, and Bobby, half-drowned in her breasts, can barely hear her over the thudding of his own heart.

But the curse is awake now, fully, and it's got its hooks deep in both of them. Bobby's vision tunnels, everything distant except for the ache of his cock and the impossible softness of Redifer's body. Every time he bucks, the pressure ramps higher, need coiling in his gut like a serpent.

Redifer, for all her predatory bravado, is not immune. With every thrust, her pussy drools, wetting the linen and then soaking through, until Bobby can feel the slickness run down his own balls. She releases his wrists, trusting the whip to hold, and grabs his cock through the robe, stroking it with a practiced, cruel grip.

"You want inside, little lamb?" she sneers, her voice wavering with lust. "You want to fuck a Frostspine, like a real man?" She tears open his trousers, exposing his cock, then strokes the length with an odd, almost reverent fascination. "You're harder than my last three lovers combined. Are you always this eager, or is it just the smell of a real woman?"

Bobby can't answer, words are gone, replaced by the animal urge to rut. His hips thrust upward, cockhead purple and shining, the spot above his shaft already flickering with a faint, blue-white light. Redifer's eyes widen, and she licks her lips. "What is this?" she murmurs, genuinely curious, as she watches the sigil begin to sketch itself across his pubic bone.

She doesn't care. She doesn't care about anything but the next level of dominance. She rips the thong off her core, the move so violent the fabric shreds in her hand, and tosses it aside. Her pussy is obscene, lips fat and glistening, pierced in three places, the metal jewelry shining against the pink, engorged flesh. She grips Bobby's cock at the base, aligns it with her slit, and then, with a single, brutal impalement, drops her entire weight onto him.

Bobby's cock is tightly wrapped by the Frostspine's needy core, inside her, buried to the hilt. The curse mark flares, the glyph consuming his groin in a corona of blue, and all thought is burned away by the sensation. Redifer's pussy clamps down, milking, squeezing, drawing every ounce of sensation from his shaft. She howls, fingers raking his chest, and begins to bounce, the movement so wild and percussive that Bobby's head whiplashes against the mossy ground.

For a moment, Redifer loses composure, her eyes rolling back, mouth gaping open in a wordless, shuddering moan. She's never felt anything like it, never felt pleasures so intense, sensations so unbelievable, so utterly out of her own control. The curse, unknown and invisible to her, multiplies every nerve-ending, every feedback loop, until she is caught in its spiral, lost to the pleasure.

She rides Bobby with a violence that is part frenzy, part religious devotion. Each time her ass slams down, her tits bounce nearly to her chin, the skin rippling with aftershocks, the ringed nipples flicking with kinetic delight. She grabs Bobby by the throat, squeezing just enough to assert her mastery, then slaps him with the side of her breast, laughing through gritted teeth.

"You're going to cum for me, aren't you?" she growls, grinding her clit on his pubic bone, the sigil lighting up both their bodies with each thrust. "You're going to flood me, you little pervert. I can feel you twitching. I want it, give it to me--"

Bobby can't hold back. His mind is nothing but red haze, blue lightning, and the animal demand to explode. The curse won't let him resist. It owns his body, his cock, his very soul in this moment. His body tenses tightly, and shutters. He spasms, hips bucking up so hard that Redifer nearly loses her hold, and then his cock erupts, a load so hot and thick it feels like molten lead, pressure-pumped deep into Redifer's already spasming cunt.

The sensation isn't normal, can't be normal. The curse grabs hold of Redifer, hijacks her body, and the orgasm that ignites through her is an extinction-level event, a pure sensory cataclysm that breaks her voice loose in a howl so primitive it startles the crows from the trees. Her core clamps down, milking Bobby with machine-like ferocity, squeezing him for every involuntary spurt, every nanogram of jizz, until the pressure has nowhere to go and it drools out around the root of his cock, slicking his thighs and balls and soaking the moss below.

If he'd been lucid enough to track time, Bobby would have thought that cumshot lasted a full minute. The sigil on his pubic bone blazes, a white-hot glyph radiating fever through both their bodies, the light so intense it refracts off Redifer's body and casts strobing shadows onto the grass and stones all around them.

But for all the salacious violence of their collision, there is a feedback loop that transcends mere fucking. The curse doesn't just make Bobby cum harder, it creates a resonance, a neurochemical arms race, each orgasm amplifying the next, until Redifer's body is nothing but climax, every muscle in her core seizing and flexing, fighting to outlast the aftershocks. Her tits quiver with each contraction, sweat dripping down the slope of her ribcage, the bronze rings on her nipples flicking the air like tuning forks.

Redifer's hands, so sure and predatory just moments before, now scrabble for purchase on Bobby's chest and shoulders. She claws him, then hugs him, then claws again, unable to decide if she wants to tear him apart or use him as a raft in the flood of ecstasy drowning her. Her thighs lock tight, pinning Bobby's hips in place, as she grinds every last molecule of pleasure from his cock, her own juices leaking out in humiliating volume, puddling beneath them.

She cums again. Then again. Each time her pussy convulses, droplets of their mixed fluids splatter onto Bobby's thighs and the mossy ground, and each time the sigil on his groin pulses brighter, almost branding him with the legacy of the curse. Bobby's vision is gone, replaced by a searing blue void, and his body goes slack, spent, the aftershocks wringing out the last dregs of his stamina.

Redifer sobs through clenched teeth, not in pain but in the kind of pleasure that terrifies even her, the kind that peels away layers of control until nothing is left but the instinct to rut and the need to survive it. She leans forward, smashes her lips to Bobby's mouth, biting his lower lip, then pulls away, licking the saliva with a rolling, sensual hunger.

"Vrex, vrexen vrex, yes," she spits, voice hoarse and ragged. Her entire body is glazed with sweat, the white of her skin painted with red handprints and streaks of moss. Her ass bounces as she jerks out the last few spasms, then collapses full-weight onto Bobby, tits smothering his face, the mass of her shuddering with every residual twitch.

The whip around Bobby's ankles finally slackens, the leather sticky and slick with the runoff of their fuck. Bobby draws a breath, the world tilting back into focus one pixel at a time, and hears Redifer's cackle, shrill. But her hands still pin his wrists, and when she lifts herself just enough to meet his eyes with a victorious malice.

Redifer finally collapses onto him, she is spent, her face painted with sweat and satisfaction. "Good lamb," she murmurs, "good boy." She grinds out the last few spasms, then rolls off, landing beside him with a wet, satisfied thump.