Poledra’s Daughter

Poledra’s Daughter

  • This story is a commission and is the first “fanfic” I’ve written. A new challenge. The main character, Polgara, is based on the main character of Polgara the Sorceress. The images are also commissioned works based on Polgara. The themes of the story were part of the request.

“Wh– wh–?” A woman’s voice stuttered confusion. “What are you doing?”

The younger man gasped with fright, dropping the handwritten sheaves. They tumbled, scattered, slid to the wood floor, under the heavy oaken seat and desk of the library’s far-flung recesses.

He spun around, a strangled cry caught in his throat.

The Third Daen Historian of Gight loomed over him. She gasped and was jolted when the first string of semen struck her lip, chin, and rope. He continued to spurt, the spasms only slowly subsiding, then gripped the sides of the chair, exhaling, wide-eyed, slumping fearfully as the last of his come dribbled into his lap.

Clarity gradually returned.

Pellora, slender fingers shaking, wiped the Understudy’s orgasm from her lips, unintentionally tasting him.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

“I’m sorry – I didn’t – They are – I should have told you.”

“What! You little fool – ! Who else is here?”

“No one!”

“Liar!” She tried to slap him, but her near blindness only left a glancing sting.

“Polgara! These – They are her writing. They –“


“Everything she never revealed–!” he finally blurted.

“I’ll have that thing cut off!”

“Mistress Pellora!” the Understudy answered, panicky, “the Sorceress Polgara described–” He rolled his lower lip and peered into the doorway to be sure. “The Sorceress Polgara described – She described in intimate detail, Mistress, her trysts and affairs and there are also accounts by others–”

“You are alone. Gthen?” she interrupted


Pellora reached uncertainly for Gthen’s face, her fingers glistening with his come. She touched his cheek, then both palms under his ears guided his lips to hers. They kissed – her kisses feverish with nervous. Gthen tasted the salt of his own orgasm, then their lips parted, but not far.

“I―” said Gthen, hesitating. “You thought― No, there is no one else.” Then he pulled woman’s lips to his own and this time their discovery was mutual. Her fingers closed around his softening cock. “You mustn’t tell anyone.”

“I haven’t.”

“Not the manuscripts, Gthen, but us.”

“I will not.”

“Gthen, I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”

Gthen found the top of her robe, meaning to part it, but Pellora stopped him, letting go of his cock. “No. There will be time, my love. The manuscripts! Let me see them!”

Gthen knelt and scooped up the dropped papers. He laid them on the table and Pellora leaned, the small script of Polgora’s writing almost pressed against her face. She grunted with frustration. “I cannot read it all, but I can see a little. It appears to be Polgora’s writing. The older historian scorned. “Do you really think none would have noticed these scribblings until now? If there had been ‘accounts or witnesses, how could this remain hidden for so long? They are forgeries. Clean yourself. Tell no one. I will destroy the papers.”

“Mistress, if they are forgeries, would not closer examination reveal–”

“And then? The sorceress was vain and conceited – her sons and daughters no less so. They could as easily accuse us of forgery.”

“But what if they are not forgeries, Mistress. We are Melcene historians. What honor in concealing the truth? If it is ever revealed that we concealed and destroyed the very thing we are meant to discover and conserve, what then?”

“Close the door, then read the manuscript, aloud.”

Gthen closed the heavy door. Pellora stood. Gthen returned to his seat and briefly arranged the sheets he had been reading.

“There are some parts missing. The handwriting is like Polgora’s. I’ll read what is readable: ―behind the she ― shed? Shelter? ―hard winter― Durnik tends to the animals ― good heart is something and simp―

And then it looks like wine has been spililed, perhaps, and where it is legible, she continues:

spoken to Gidra. She will not be mated. Durnik thinks this is because the male wolves will not come so near us, let alone my own person. Gidra is a good protector who came to us wounded and was content to remain with us once she had returned to health. Durnik believes Gidra’s pups would be favorably disposed. Durnik will not be persuaded against mating her, though I have not tried or tested his will. I know he would not defy me.

But while Gidra is content, I yearn for the wilderness, for the wild.

We will change places, Gidra and I. To transform myself into a she-wolf is a trifle, but the bond between myself and Durnik – love (or any love) – is not so easily manipulated by sorcery. But love’s raw, animal, kindred also deceives sorcery; when the male possesses a female (for it is always so even when the woman seduces the man). When the man enters a woman’s womb, her sorcery is taken from her. He is her master. There can be no deception, illusion, or transformation. She submits to a greater power – a power also her own – and that is her role (and the necessity) to create life. A power greater than any sorcerer’s has ordained this division in nature. Only a woman can create life. No power is greater than this. Nature is a jealous sorceress and will not permit any rival – but she will put to use, in girls and women, that power she has vested in us and put to use that power she has assigned to men (to awaken within us).

A legend, which is primarily only known among the pruriently knowledgeable, is that a King, Lothvit, fell in love with a the beautiful sorceress, de’Thrin. She spurned him. She would be no man’s paramour. But by a very simple work of sorcery (which he perfected for several months and such that I will not describe to the uninitiated, for reasons you understand), Lothvit deceived de’Thrin, and taking advantage of her weakness, he abruptly speared her, filling her strong abdomen with a gilded and golden cock. The golden cock’s long arch was kept securely in place by a chain at her waist and fastened to a piercing at her belly button. So long as she was speared by this golden cock, she possessed no sorcery. He took her to his Laird and, it is said, bound her wrists above her. He forbid anyone interrupt him for a space of two weeks, and during these two weeks he so cropped, whipped and tormented de’Thrin (in the delicious way that lovers unite pain with exquisite pleasure) that she finally yielded to his demand that she marry him. Once she did so, he withdrew the golden cock, only replacing it when she herself, with a knowing lick of her lips, begged him to do so, and punish her once again (for ever doubting his love and devotion).

It must be Durnik’s own hand that ties me, collars me, and mates me with the wolves.

The art of decepti—

And here Mistress, the passage is once again difficult to read, for the wine stain has smudged the ink on both sides of the parchment. I believe Polgora describes how she deceived Durnik. How she supped with him then, before he slept, feigned some business that needed attending. Thereupon, I think, she transformed herself into a she-wolf and traded place with Gidra. When Durnik woke, he called to Gidra. Polgora came instead, and though Durnik seemed hesitant, Polgora’s sorcery was enough to convince him that she was Gidra.

tight. I momentarily chaffed against the collar, as I wished him to belief I was not what I was.

He yanked my collar and fastened a leash to it. Thereat, he took me into the wood and leashed me, on hands and knees (though he saw me as a wolf) to a fallen, but heavy, limb of a wild cherry. He then held me by the scruff of my neck and hair, and firmly applied a scented and slippery salve to the opening between my thighs.

His touch, so strangely rough and firm, from a lover who had always been kind and respectful, caused me to to gasp aloud and widen my knees, turn my spine upward and further open my belly like I never had for him. As you could imagine, I could hardly breath for the excitement. And at that moment I might have regretted what I had set in motion, I might have wished that Durnik, my husband, would have rightfully taken me there, in the wood – yes, as was his right; but such is the flaw in my character that I knew he would not, that I would humiliate him for it, and myself be mastered in his presence in such wise as my wolfish heritage yearned to be mastered.

Durnik, my husband, retreated from site, and it wasn’t long before the man-wolves appeared, smelling my scent.

And I smelled t’Groth as surely as he smelled me.

T’Groth did not come alone, but with other man-wolves – appearing to me as men in shape, but heavy with a wolf’s fur and snouts and ears like a wolf’s. So I would appear to them, a she-wolf, wide-hipped and heavy breasts, untried by a baby’s suckling, hanging ready beneath her.

Polgora,” said t’Groth with a sneer. “Here you are, tied like a bitch in heat.” He snuffed the air with a lift of his snout. “Not like, but in heat. Why? Your mate hides not too far, watching. Why? What trick is this, Polgora?”

I made no answer, but gazed at him. The fur rose on my back. I smelled the musk of his cock. I knew it hardened. I could see it rising, red and long beneath his belly. T’Groth approached, warily, but interested and curious. He circled me, looking, smelling, appraising, his snout so close to my cunt, for I will use that word now, that I could feel his breath.

Your head, put your head down and lift your cunt, bitch.”

My heart raced, for it was this wildness, this fierceness in a man that I had so yearned for. I lowered my right cheek against the dank floor of leaves and dirt, elbows up, widened my knees and displayed my cunt to the gathered man-wolves behind me.

Next I heard t’Groth’s footfall at my ear. “Do you tire of man-folk? I should have known you would ‘bitch’ like your mother sh– ”

I lunged at him, nipping him powerfully, unsure if I drew blood, restrained only by the leash and the heavy branch that I pulled behind me. I could have killed him. It would have been easy – the element of surprise. But the tug and rule of nature already began to fog my reasoning. I wanted something from him. I wanted it inside me, and also wanted to know he deserved the privelage. “You were a little whelp t’Groth; are you still?”

t’Groth lunged at me.

Yes. This was what I wanted. I knew he was larger, stronger, and more dangerous than me. I was not afraid of hurting. I fought to kill. There were other man-wolves. But he would not kill me. He wanted something else from me, but first he would prove himself worthy. And he did. I thrilled in battle – finally, no sorcery, no stratagem, no trickery – only my own strength, a woman’s, against a man’s. And as is the nature of man and woman, as I finally could experience the thrill of a woman’s ‘defeat’, for it is not truly a defeat, t’Groth pinned me to the earth, on my back, his jaws around my throat. I was exhausted as I had never been before. I gripped the earth at my sides. I lifted my nipples, offering them instead of my throat, and lifted my knees, thighs open and wide, submitting my belly, my womb, to him instead of my life. This was my role.

Your mother may have preferred man-folk, but you, daughter of Poledra, will be my bitch.

You understand, this is the way of wolves – this language, this duel of dominance and submission, this fierceness, this wildness. To call me a bitch was not to denigrate me, but to call me what I was – a she-wolf – and at this moment nothing more. I was giddy. My stomach was flighty and a ready moisture oozed from my womb. My nipples stung with fullness.

Over,” said t’Groth, and I knew what he meant.

I studied him fearfully, though I was not afraid, I rolled over onto my knees, lifting my cunt behind me, for him, head down and elbows flat against the earth. His jaws closed around the back of my neck as though in warning, but also a fierce foreplay. I would not move from this submissive receptiveness until he was done. He held me like this for several minutes, as if to show the other man-wolves what was his, that he had caused me to submit to him, and where I would receive him and serve him for the next nine months. I panted. His teeth were both sharp and gentle against the back and sides of my neck. My tender skin would bear the mark of his teeth, like a tattoo, like a brand and mark, for the weeks that followed. I was his.

I almost came at that moment, being so dominated.

My eyes rolled and I felt the stirrings in my womb begin ― my ancestry finally fulfilled.

T’Groth let go. I panted, so close. He walked behind me, then I felt the heat of his chest over my back, his wolfvish hands against my shoulders, holding me down. “Piss, daughter of Poledra. Piss for your master, bitch. I will smell you. I will smell the readiness within you.

I obeyed at once – fearful. I groaned, releasing a long stream that arched behind me. All the man-wolves could smell my rut. And before the last of my piss had emptied from me, he plunged into me, filling me, causing me to cry out, arch receptively, and fill my mouth with dirt, leaves between my teeth. My sorcery was gone.

T’Groth’s thrusts were powerful, fevered and forceful. Finally, I was no longer the all-powerful Polgora, the Polgora who men feared, the Polgora who had lived thousands of years. I was a bitch, I was what so many other women could so easily be with their lovers. I mewled like I was crying while I was fucked, like a simple village-girl thrown to her hands and knees, but my crying, like the girl’s, were the cries of pleasure – of womanhood.

And what of Durnick? I saw him. Some part of him must have known, but refused to know what he had done – cuckolded – that he had leashed and led his own wife on hands and knees into the woods like a bitch she-wolf. He would deny but had known it. To see me, his powerful wife made submissive, at last, must have gratified some part of him. How often must he have wished that he had married a simple village-wife – one not so marked by pride and vanity. I saw him, for the time, take out his manhood as he watched me be taken. Did he see a she-wolf? Did he see me? My sorcery was broken, but there was another sorcery at play, as I was fucked from behind, that I only was beginning to understand.

I felt t’Groth’s jaws close once more around the back of my neck.

Come for me daughter Poledra, bitch daughter,” he growled, waiting, thrusting hard, waiting, then thrusting hard again. “Show me what you want.”

I could make no answer. My cunt, my womb already answered him, was possessed by him, acknowledged his right. I could only stare sightlessly across the forest floor as that other part of me, the wild part, the female part, shuddered, clamped hard the cock that speared it, and convulsed, welcoming the gush, the hard spurts, that filled me, my womb, much deeper within me. I could feel the spilling of his warmth like a warm flood within my abdomen.

I burned. My nipples burned with anticipation. The every-so-often flutter of my own orgasm, seemingly unending, continued to nurse his semen into my womb ― his knot trapped him within me. My womb would not let him go until both our limbs trembled.

We finally separated, and now his gaze was possessive and protective. I carried him and his within me. For a moment, I knew what it meant to be safe, to have been inseminated by the dominant male, and I cannot say that some part of me didn’t want to remain with the wolves.

Little did Durnik know that for the months that followed, t’Groth protectively accompanied me or encircled me, always out of site. Before I began to show, I feigned a reason for my absence, but now I begin anther story which I am not yet willing to share. There will be a time for that, you understand, when my children are older.

“And that is all, Mistress,” said Gthen.

Mistress Pellora, Third Daen Historian of Gight, didn’t say anything at first. Such were her powers of memory that she would study and re-study the entire story, word for word. For now, she directed Gthen to put the sheets back on the table. Once again, she stooped over them, her face a hair’s breadth from the manuscript, and studied the writing. It bears simularities to Polgora’s voice, but I am not convinced the author isn’t a fraud.

Gthan palm rested on the older woman’s buttocks, then subtly moved downward, toward the parting of her thighs. Her breath caught, she no longer focused on the text, and she said nothing to stop him.

Latest Comments

    • willcrimson says:

      Yes, I was just commissioned, today, to write more in this vein. I’ve had an interesting discussion with the reader who commissioned this story. The reader wants me to continue the D/S elements and wants to see Polgara in more submissive situations. I’ve been skimming the Edding novels and find them — awful. They’re poorly written, altogether, and the later ones are dull as ditch-water. That said, I want to do Polgara (the character) justice. The way Edding writes her, she might as well be a demi-God. She’s never really threatened and always has time for a wise-crack. When things get really rough, there’s always a God — deus ex machina — to save her. The way I think of her, however, is as a very empowered and powerful woman. That’s going to make writing the D/S very fun. When powerful women *let* others assert power over them, that –that — really makes the erotica erotic. There’s nothing erotic in weak or vulnerable women. I’d like to keep her “true” to her character but in an erotic arena.

    • Cara Thereon says:

      Thanks for the reply. I haven’t read the series this is based off, but I like how you represent her so far. Personally, I like vulnerable as long as it’s not written in a distasteful way. As in strong women having vulnerable moments as opposed to a wishy washy woman. I look forward to reading more if you do continue to share.

  1. Cille says:

    Is there more?

    • willcrimson says:

      This was a commission. I was enjoying writing it but no more commissions were forthcoming. There are writers who can give readers exactly what they ask for; but I’m not one of them. I’m a good erotic writer but a commission from Will Crimson means getting Will Crimson’s canvass (if you know what I mean). One either likes my writing and judgment, or doesn’t. My preferences probably didn’t mesh perfectly with his.

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