Four writers for the price of one blog
He sits in the center of the bare room, dressed in his finery, but unable to move. His hands are cuffed to the back legs of the straight-backed hardwood chair, forcing his proud chest out a bit. His booted ankles are bound to the outside of the front legs of the chair, and his own rich leather belt secures his waist to the chair back. His mouth is covered with a broad leather gag, but his fierce grey eyes are un-obscured. They stare angrily, imperiously from his dark olive face.
She stares at him haughtily from the room entrance, then she saunters over to him, her dark gown flowing around her graceful form. She bends forward to whisper in his ear, her skin very similar to his, but for the dark red of her lips. He glares forward, reacting by not reacting. She walks a half circle behind him, trailing a gloved hand from one shoulder to the other, then bends and whispered in the other ear. Now he turns to stare at her, rage in his eyes. She laughs, and reaches her hands down to his trousers. Muffled, angry sounds come from behind his gag as she opens the fine, black material. The sound of leather being tested and pulled accompanies the rearrangement of fabrics as he tries to free or shake himself loose from the bolted-down chair.
Once she’s opened his trousers, and drawn his flaccid penis from his undergarments, she looks over to the corner of the room, where I stand, and beckons.
I walk forward slowly, letting my hips sway. A gold chain holds my wrists together behind my back, another length leading from them to the gold band around my neck. My chains tinkle faintly, in contrast to his groaning leather bonds. The chains and band are my only garments. My bare feet step lightly on the cool wood of the floor. I look at him as his eyes dart between the woman and me. My eyes should be downcast in front of either of them, but she orders me to look at him in the eye as I approach. My skin is much paler than his. The shape of my face, and color of eye as well shout I am not his clan or caste. A member of the vanquished, the invisible, I would be beneath his notice – and contempt – at any other time. Now I see him flush darkly at the affront of my approach and my raised eyes. I should be cowering before him, but the woman commands me.
She is one of his kind. Yet she draws my attention with a gloved hand to my cheek. She nods curtly at me and I step before him, looking into his eyes, and then kneel, one knee, then the other carefully coming to the hard wood between his cuffed feet. I lean forward, toward his lap, breaking eye contact and turning my attention downward. I hear his angry sounds above me as I take his soft, warm organ into my mouth and begin to suck.
I work the penis into my mouth, my tongue marking and mapping its contours as I have been trained. She is whispering above me again. I only catch the odd word. She is telling him about me, my House, my position, mocking him through me.
He hardens, thickens in my mouth. My skills are hard won, but I know they are effective. He does not want to respond, it is clear, but I do not give him any choice.
My lips open wider, and I slide my tongue up and down his hardening length. He is large, posing a challenge. But I relax my throat and take him whole, slowly. He groans involuntarily as his girth makes my throat swell. She chuckles as I hold him until my lungs begin to scream for air. She gently tugs at the chain between my wrists and neck, and I release him, slowly. I stand, swaying and panting, her hand still holding my chain. He is sweating, starting at the two of us. His gaze roams beyond our faces and travels up and down my body for the first time, pausing at my swelling breasts and my furrow.
“Now, my brother.” she says, with a formal intonation and a cold tone, “For your wrongs, and your cruelty, and the recklessness that has threatened our House, I claim your firstborn.”
She releases her grip on my chain, and gently pushes me forward. Like dispatching a child to a chore. I know what to do.
I step forward and widen my legs, straddling the seated man. His hard cock points up at me, slick with my saliva. I look down at his grey eyes. They are so angry, so frustrated. But they are also glinting with lust. It is a look I have seen above me many times. Now it is below me. Beneath me. He tries to shake his head at me commandingly, but his gag steals his authority. I lower myself
I lower myself on him. I don’t break eye contact. My body knows where to go, even as he tries to avoid the embrace of my lower lips. They kiss him, and then open around his warm, wet head to swallow him. My mouth falls open in a moan as I let my weight settle lower. My own mouth has made him wet, but I am slick inside on my own. It is my task, and I welcome it. Secretly, I even revel in it. This man, who would rule, whose offspring would rule my people. I have been given the task to change that. My body had been trained and conditioned, not necessarily for this particular moment, but for this act. I have been trained to love it. To crave it, even. But this is more. This moment is my opportunity, my luck. My fortune. I welcome it, as he stretches and fills me even beyond my experience.
He doesn’t want to. But I sway my hips gently from side to side, never releasing him, lowering myself a little more each time.
My weight rests on his lap. I am completely impaled. My small fingers reach down to feel, cup, caress his large, full testicles dangling below our joining. He groans again and twitches inside me. My reaching pulls on my collar and I arch back, my breasts jutting toward him. His gaze is drawn to their pale fullness, the hardness of my nipples. I still look at him, down my nose, like an aristocrat.
I flex my legs and rise, hips undulating, squeezing him inside as I pull off before I reverse direction and sink down again on him, his thick re-entry forcing my perfumed breath from my lungs. I was chosen for this task, and the timing of it was chosen for me. I can feel my own ripeness as I fill myself again with his hard flesh. My hands reaching for his sac again as I grind down on him. Perhaps he is already drooling a drop of his seed into me, his tiny hole nestled against my inner gate. Perhaps my task is already complete. But I must be sure. I must feel him.
I begin to ride him, my position that of superior. His color darkens yet more. Insulted, humiliated, in front of his own blood. But I am the seductress. People like him have made me what I am, and I know what to do. He stays hard, and his breathing comes more quickly, and his eyes begin to glaze. Inside I work witchery he cannot defend against, and his lust begins to strangle his rage. Leather strains and gold chains tinkle as I rise and fall faster on him, my breasts bouncing before his eyes. I let my own wanton moans ring out, filling the room with my sex. I must have him – it is my task – but I also want him. My time is right. My body cries for him in a way that could never be whipped into me. And I will have him.
My practiced ear hears him, a telltale catching of his breath, and as I feel the first throb inside me. I am falling onto him a final jarring time, grinding my hips down into his. I reach between his legs and feel him contract. He throbs and cries out into his gag, and his seed erupts into me. I clamp down on him and reach my peak as the liquid rush of him fills me. I cry out in ecstasy, and triumph. I am fulfilling the task set forth by both my Lady and my Maker. My womb, my cradle of life, sings with it, drinking the stuff of life, unwillingly presented by my people’s oppressor.
I shudder over and around him as his contractions and ejaculations continue, then abate. His sac slackens and I release it, staying locked to him by gravity, even as I feel him soften inside me. I am molten inside, coated with him, filled with him. Until I feel her gloved hand grasp and tug my chain once more.
One last insult is required, I know. And I clamp down as I stand up quickly, trying not to let any of him drip from me as I step back and lay myself on the floor before him, on my back. I lay my hands palm down on the floor under my back, and place a foot on each of his knees, then arch up, displaying myself obscenely to him. It is a debasing position, but not now, not for me or for her. Now the white smear at my furrow is salt in his wound. My red lips part to show the thick stuff that had begun to flow out of me. But now, with my new position, it does not. Nature herself wants it to flow back into me to complete its task.
I look at his eyes. They are downcast now, expended. His shoulders slump in defeat. The woman stands next to the two of us, her gaze also drawn between my legs. The tableau holds for several long minutes. My breathing slows, and I concentrate my awareness inside attempting to divine if indeed my task has been successful.
“Up, now.” She says, breaking the silence. And only three more words. “Goodbye, my brother.” I take my feet down from his knees and roll to stand. I feel him start to flow out of me, but she brings a golden plug to my lips in her gloved hands. I open my legs and let her slip it in. It is flares to a width that prevents any seed from escaping me, and I hold one of its chains as she draws the others around my hips to fasten it in place. It will stay there until she decides to remove it. Until she feels sure.
We turn to go, leaving him there. He will be discovered shortly, but we will be gone. Three seasons; my new task. And after that?
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