Mistress Amber, Ch. 1

 

Chapter 1: To Live Outside (She Protects Her Pets)

 Lady Lasyrrix sits across her throne, back against one rest and legs hooked over the other. Her loose purple robe leaves little to the imagination, but then she isn’t one for modesty. The demoness’s luxuriant azure figure is on full display, her massive breasts and wide hips and full thighs and fat buttocks a feast for my eyes. Her coiling black hair, like living oil, glistens where the bright flames cast themselves across its fibres. Those terrifyingly clever eyes, a searing kind of dark purple, pair with a perpetual smirk and seize my full attention.

The throne room is not exactly a room. It’s more like a balcony roof, atop the peak of her noble castle, in the second-largest and second-highest of the massive inner chambers of the bleak city known as Anthexxia, currently drifting towards Sirius. The roof is ringed by black iron fencing about six feet in height, with equidistantly spaced braziers burning white with flame. Her throne sits at the end of a long carpet of golden thread, a huge black chair all cushioned and wonderfully sculpted with gargoyle faces placed beneath a fabric-covered canopy (though it never rains, for there is no weather).

It’s good she’s not human. My knees are starting to hurt, to be honest. It’s been maybe ten minutes, kneeling here in the middle of that carpet, under the watch of her guards (as if she needs them). The bulky minotaur men – concubines when she desires such – watch my diminutive, pathetic shape with some amusement; I must look funny, kneeling fearful of her every word, her every smile, remark, chuckle, titter.

She turns the page every few seconds, reading through the novel with lightning swiftness. Is it good enough? Will she be pleased?

The idle slamming shut of the book, printed and bound by the impish pressers, draws me back into this bizarre reality. Lady Lasyrrix is smiling at me, a devilish glamour of a smile. She moves like water, planting her bare feet down on the long golden carpet. Her breasts, each the size of my head on a six-foot frame, jiggle distractingly, their pierced nipples shimmering in the reflected firelight.

‘I like it,’ Lasyrrix says, angelic and sensuous. ‘Another good story! Although you’ve clearly never experienced womanhood, but no matter; if the concern becomes sufficient, I might’ – she bites her lip, and flicks her wild gaze from one guard to the other – ‘change up your assets a little and have my boys here give you some work experience.’

The demoness winks, and reclines into her throne. On either side of her, the great minotaur guards share a look, amusement and lust combined. Lasyrrix waves a hand, dispensing of the printed tome, which puffs into thin air; she extends that now-empty hand to one side, expectantly.

Within a moment, the guard on that side has produced his foot-long semi-flaccid cock, a bestial thing like that of a monstrous horse’s. Lasyrrix takes it into her waiting hand, licking her lips at the inevitable.

‘Maybe something oral-focussed, next time,’ she says, as the other guard draws near. ‘It’d be easy for you to experience first-hand, after all. They do say, don’t they? Write what you know.’

I take this as my cue to leave, and nod my head and rise. ‘Yes, my lady. I’ll, uh, think about your request.’

‘Doesn’t have to be cock, you silly little virgin.’ Lady Lasyrrix chuckles, now gripping a near-erect minotaur in each hand, each more than two feet in length. She looks up wet-eyed at her guards, tongue tasting her lips. ‘Though, I certainly wouldn’t blame your interest…’

Blushing and admittedly, as ever, a little bit aroused by the beautiful demoness, I scurry away into the depths of her fortress-palace. The maids are about, gossiping and slowly cleaning, though the process is purely for show – demons do not shed skin, and lesser races in this place obey a different set of “rules”.

They consider me with the passing interest that all inhabitants of Lasyrrix’s realm do. Who is this human, who has an audience every other week, with the Lady herself? She does not fuck him, nor harm him.

It’s the same as the maids: an aesthetic. Demons are all about aesthetics, that’s the number one rule. They’re every bit the prissy show-offs that humans were…are, I suppose. What becomes popular amongst the most powerful trickles down. In this case, having lessers “clean” your estate, for whatever reason.

If anything, given the fact that the maids are largely non-demonic in nature, they likely produce the very dust and dirt they happen to clean up. But I digress…

 

My apartment is on the third floor, three down from the balcony level which Lasyrrix occupies most hours and days. It’s a pleasant enough space, albeit mostly black; a large rectangular chamber with a bed, dresser, wardrobe, mirror, writing space – including my old PC from back home, powered by ethereal energies – with an adjoining bathroom and a balcony looking out upon the second level of Anthexxia.

I stand there for a time, before the black-iron balustrade. My ears prick with the faint echoes from below, the exciting terrifying chaos of this place’s underbelly, wafting up through dark channels hewn into the space-faring rock.

The fortress-city Anthexxia, the bleak city, is monumental. A vast interdimensional spaceship-nation, vaguely double-pyramidal in shape but squarely peaked rather than pointed. To look out from my balcony, into the ever-warm air of the infernal place, thick with fragrant exotic smokes and smells, is to witness many palaces much like that of Lasyrrix.

And to look down is to see the roads between them, the second-level slums with their brothels and taverns and sex and sex and sex and sex. That’s what this is, in truth: a monument to lascivious debauchery. It paints the air, douses everything with a kind of moreish filthiness.

Somewhere below, somewhere above, in one of the many other cities, are the people I knew on Earth. Being used, being abused, being bred, being raped, being adored. It’s chilling, to sit in this ebony tower, somehow separate from that. Lasyrrix is every bit as sex-obsessed, but she’s fair-handed to me. I entertain her with my brain, not my body. Safe in her castle, I’m nobody’s but my own.

For the moment, at least.

With that thought in mind, I start writing anew.

 

There is a hierarchy, in Palace Lasyrrix.

Naturally, the Lady herself is at the very top, literally and otherwise. Demons do not sleep, and do not need to eat, but gain a kind of metaphysical satiation from the bodily fluids – breast milk and semen – of other beings. Demons included, in fact; the urge to include all life within their cities is a matter of exoticism and aesthetic, not a necessity. I struggle to think that human men and women are more beautiful than the various non-humans, but I can’t begin to grasp the minds of these alien beings.

Beneath Lasyrrix is her daughter and scion, Amber Dominite. Traditionally, the children of nobles branch off and form new cities, but Amber is uniquely placed. Where her mother entertains herself with minotaur phalluses and smut stories, Amber enjoys domination, control, and conquest. But there is no conquest for a scion of a mere noble, and so the degree of conquest shrinks.

Unable to conquer worlds, she conquers minds, bodies. Amber lives a double life: on the one hand, the head maid of her mother’s palace; on the other, a dilletante socialite with a rapacious attitude for destruction. Always dressed in her maid outfit, disarmingly fitting a submissive rather than a dominant, the title that she keeps is “The Queen of Maids”.

Her gang – subservient to her, dominant over others – consists of similarly rapacious demons and dominatrices. Thynelleph the Unconquered, a nightmare; Verelyn Bleakmourne, a forlarren “queen”; Telshvala Ash’Karne, a man’ari; Anabella Blackheart, an Apophis; Alannah of the Ancient Grove, a wild dryad “nectar queen”; Jezzana of Tidespring, an Amazon “matriarch”; Tytana Glacios, a frost queen; Morrigan Moradris, a dark elf. A flame-maned horse demon, a grey-skinned forsaken nymph, a corrupt draenei, a daemonic snake-woman, a centauress dryad, a tribal queen, an empress of ice, a blackhearted sorceress. By rights, they occupy almost the same standing as Amber. Their names have every bit the power of arcane incantations.

Beneath Amber and her gang are the heads of house – the head cook, head guard, head whatever else there happens to be. Many of the roles are esoteric, and the “head” of a particular division may, in fact, be the only occupant. The head alchemist, for instance, or the head enchanter.

Below the heads of house are the actual staff, including the maids. The brash minotaur guards (not the lucky ones who stay within reach of Lasyrrix) at the door and in the corridors, the many cooks, the various labourers.

And at the bottom is where I sit, alone. It may not seem that way, because of how high up my room is, but the reason for my elevation is strictly to keep me out of reach. Demons are not stupid, despite being venal; what use would a writer be, if given to the sexual urges of the manifold folk of the palace and city beyond it? Lasyrrix may joke about me receiving “experience”, but the truth is that it’s an all-or-nothing proposal. Sex here isn’t like sex on Earth, sex between humans; sex here is a drug, and just about everyone finds themselves to be an addict.

Outside my room, outside of the clean corridor which connects my room with Lasyrrix’s balcony, I’m nothing but meat. And meat in Anthexxia, as in all bleak cities, has a tendency to get devoured wholesale.

So here I remain, in relative comfort.

I’m free to go anywhere – even outside – but the consequences could ruin me. If I lose my capacity to write, I’m out of the palace. If I get captured by some rapist, then who knows if Lasyrrix will even bother sending help for me? What if the rapist belongs to another palace, or a higher palace? There are just too many risks.

So here I remain.

 

Until I don’t.

After tea, sitting on the balcony, the urge soars. No matter how bright the room lights, no matter how soft the sheets, how nourishing the food, there’s no equal to being able to roam. I was never one for roaming before, back on Earth, but I used to go walking. And when I was imprisoned, it was by choice, in the confines of my bedroom, to work on my novels.

This imprisonment is neither chosen, nor strictly necessary. I’m free to leave, if I want to bear the consequences.

My sole advantage is being interested in the architecture of this place and learning, over these many months of practical solitude, the various ways in and out. In a cloak for concealment, paired with my relative shortness compared to many of this place’s occupants, it’s a simple enough matter to descend the many levels and slip out of one of the exits.

The guard on watch, a burly hulk of an orc, clad in plate armour as black as night, doesn’t so much as look at me. I step out onto the black flagstones on the western (I guess?) side, finding them warm under foot, and breathe the free air.

Smoke and spices, musk and sex. Ale, spirits, sweat. Foreign smells, inhuman smells. On the road beyond the western entrance, taverns and theatres and pleasure bars stretch on along a great wide road, in time orbiting another palace, another estate of a demon noble. Not demon “lord”, as such, for that regards a particular manner of demon, a kind of demigod; rather, simply one of great importance, for one reason or another.

Misogynistic as it sounds, as I understand, Lasyrrix literally fucked her way to the top. Which, here, is something both men and women (and, of course, the half-types, the futanaris, the shemales) manage quite regularly.

Cloaked as I am, making sure the Lasyrrix house crest is obvious on my front, I play it safe, travelling only to the nearest of the large public houses. “Narglarn’s”, so it says on the swinging sign at the front, is a triple-storey pub raucous with sounds, cheering, jeering, cat-calling, mocking, laughter.

I’m forced to squeeze through cramped ranks of patrons, crowded around circular tables, forming standing groups where such isn’t available. The smell is potent, heady, musky; male or female, the inhuman inhabitants of this world stir something in the hindquarters of the human soul, something feral and primal and dangerous. That the reaction hits me with women, I’m fine with, but it’s disturbing how readily it comes in the presence of men, or the “women” who carry something extra.

For whatever reason, the bar isn’t especially packed. I manage to slip onto a seat, catching the attention of the barkeep, a huge orc woman with liquorice-coloured skin. She smiles oddly at me, comes up before me, and says, ‘What can I get ya?’

‘Your strongest ale?’

‘Got coin, boy?’

I glance nervously up at the tall woman, who must be halfway to eight feet. Her outfit is black leather and lace, fetishised apparel; this one must be a black orc, judging by her skin tone and the fact that she’s so large, and is unmistakeably in possession of four mammoth breasts, one set above the other. The leather corset leaves an arch of exposed flesh for her belly, which is a muscular washboard, leading to two half-cups for each set of breasts, their nipples covered by black heart-shaped pasties; her dark crimson areolae, however, are so wide and large that the heart pasties do little in truth, but maybe that’s the point.

‘Sure,’ I say, reaching into my cloak. I’ve got an endless supply, in fact – one of the special coin-purses distributed to the house staff of Lasyrrix, so long as they don’t overdo it. ‘This enough?’

I place a fat gold doubloon on the counter, provoking a click from her pretty mouth. The orc woman is beautiful, full-lipped, sharp-featured, with a scar across her right eye, splitting the brow. Her hair is undercut on the left side, shaven down to her scalp, where a tattoo of a serpent consumes its own tail, swimming as if alive. The hair itself is dark violet, growing long on the other side and the back, reaching halfway down her neck.

‘More than. Where’d you get that?’

I make a subtle show of flashing the crest on my front. ‘Lasyrrix.’

The orc slides the coin back. ‘Shoulda said.’ She departs along the bar, and fetches up a glass. Noting a gap in the publicans closer, I slip off my stool and whip around to it, leaning again over the high bar counter.

‘You’re not taking my money?’

‘You new or something?’ She gives me the stink-eye, pouring a thick black stout into a clean, crystal flagon, like a German mass. ‘Amber’d flay and tan me, kid. I always serve her pets.’

It’s probably daft, but my mouth goes ahead of my brain. ‘I’m not Amber’s?’

The two men appear, at that moment, seemingly from nowhere. I’d think nothing of it if not for the fact that the barkeep suddenly turns back, beer spilling over the top of the flagon, while this muscle-bound minotaur and some pig-faced red orc sandwich me between themselves.

‘Dixon,’ the orc woman says. ‘Farrell.’

‘Ears not working me so good in old age, Narg,’ the red orc says. He gives me a grim smile, revealing an eye-patch, a scruffy greying beard. ‘This’n say he’s not Amber’s?’

‘Kid didn’t know what he was saying; of course, he’s Amber’s. Why’d he be here otherwise?’

‘Could be Lassy’s.’ The minotaur shrugs his massive, impossible shoulders. He must be nine feet in height, dwarfing even the barkeep. ‘She don’t give two fucks. ’sides, ain’t heard of no humans of import in that house.’

The black orc kills the tap, planting the glass down. She slams her hands on the counter. ‘Look, you two idiots are going to get yourselves flayed if you touch him.’

Silence, then evil. The minotaur grabs her throat, effortlessly slamming her face against the bar-top. He leans over, putting his weight onto her throat and jaw, stifling any loud response. ‘Careful, Narglarn. Wouldn’t want to think you some scab bitch, would we? Red Terror sure wouldn’t like that.’

Nobody seems to notice, or care. Are there no bouncers, or anything? I try to stand, climb atop the stool, but the red orc seizes me with a single arm, pulling me tight against his bloated belly, pushing the air out of my lungs. Fuck.

‘No running, morsel. We got ourselves a date, innit.’ He chuckles, snorting like a pig.

The minotaur proceeds to lift and slam Narglarn’s face against the bar, then pulls away, barging aside anyone in his path. I’m hauled along by the red orc, struggling in vain against the strength of something vastly, inhumanly superior. Somebody shouts and suddenly Narglarn is on her feet, rushing atop the counter of the bar; she leaps at me and the orc, but the minotaur is terribly fast, managing to skewer her side on his horn and fling her about in a wide arc, knocking her into a crowded table.

‘Get fucked, scab bitch,’ he shouts, snarling, hot breathe flaring from his broad nostrils. ‘Anyone who thinks themselves brave’ll be on the wrong end of the Red Terror, let it be known. Don’t fucking interrupt.’

Cowards that the publicans are, the most anyone does is see to Narglarn. Me, a mere human, lacks the importance to be saved or helped. I’m easily carried out the side entrance into an alleyway with lots of metal crates and dumpsters, empty beer kegs, assorted trash.

The minotaur slams the door and the red orc throws me down behind a dumpster, pushing me against the wall. ‘Now then, morsel,’ he says, chuckling, smirking, ‘you don’t gotta cow to the demands of those tyrannical demons no more.’

‘I…I don’t?’

He pats my head, ruffles it, as the minotaur walks up beside him. ‘Nah, mate.’ The pair smile at each other. ‘You’re part of the Red Terror now, ya hear? We treat our humans well.’

I try to push up, but the orc presses down on my head. The minotaur snorts, the pig-orc laughs brutally. I’m…I’m not sure I want to be part of this “Red Terror”.

‘No need to go anywhere, lad,’ the minotaur says. ‘Initiation starts here, now.’ He reaches down and grabs my hand, forcing it up against the bulge in his tan shorts. ‘Me and Dixie’ll break you in just fine.’

Fuck. No. Shit. I try to yank away, but I’m powerless. Dixon, the red orc, pats my head. ‘Go on, son. Take hold of destiny. You humans always love how it tastes…’

I try to pull away again, only to be thrown across the alleyway. But upon landing, I’m free, my captors for some reason absent. Head spinning, I clamber up onto my feet, finding a rather different scene unfolding. The red orc is cowering, kneeling before a towering flame-maned black horse-woman, a thing of dangerous beauty and power. A sylvan centaur, a wild dryad it must be, blocks one end of the alley while a dark lamia, an Apophis, blocks the other.

Behind me towers a woman with snow-white skin, her hair an arctic blue, eyes coldly aglow, and beside her a beautiful horned thing with ashen flesh, dangerous red eyes. The minotaur, Farrell, has a great hoof upon his chest, pressing deep into the fur and muscles, belonging to some alabaster goddess with great wings and horns. At the door to the pub, a bronze-skinned amazon stands guard, arms folded across her heavy chest. Opposite her stands a pale dark elf, black hair coiled dangerously, outfit leaving little to the imagination.

And central to it all, in the eroticised black-and-white lace of a maid, stands Amber Dominite, hands on the wide curves of her hips, namesake-coloured hair flowing as living fire, golden-orange and glorious. She shakes her head wistfully, slowly taking in the scene, before ultimately settling on me, a pair of gemstone eyes swallowing my world.

‘You hurt my friend today,’ Amber says. Her voice is a song, gravelly and sensual, divinely feminine yet commanding, firm, a black treacle voice. ‘Narglarn is hurting, seriously, because of you.’

I find myself eyeing the men, but Amber doesn’t take her eyes from me. She lifts a neatly trimmed eyebrow to me. ‘Well, Peter? Are you just going to gawp?’

Of course, she knows my name.

‘I’m sorry?’

Suddenly the beautiful women seem dangerous, unwelcome. As if I’d traded two enemies for eight of them. The faces of the ice queen, of the dark lamia, of the nightmare, the forlarren, should be scarier than the diamond gorgeousness of the succubus maid, but hers is the worst of all. Full, perfect lips, neat ears, a lovely curved nose, almond-shaped intelligent eyes, all of it showing distaste, disgust.

 ‘Are you fucking stupid, as well as pathetic?’ Amber cocks her head to one side. ‘It’s your fault that Narglarn’s hurt, isn’t it?’

‘But they–’

‘You are meant to be in the fucking palace, idiot.’ She jabs a pointed, wonderfully perfect finger, up at the looming castle. ‘If you’d stayed in your shitty little box, Narglarn wouldn’t have felt the urge to protect you on the off-chance that you’re mine. If you’d known your fucking place, you rancid little scrap of life, my friend wouldn’t be hurting. This is entirely your fault.’

I’ve no allies here. I can’t fault her reasoning on one level, even if in truth it’s nothing to do with me. How was I to know? How’s it fair that I should stay trapped in that room, when others get to roam?

‘Lasyrrix didn’t ban me from wandering,’ I say. ‘I was free to do so; she just warned me not to get hurt.’ Or, more honestly, not to damage my faculties.

Amber folds her arms beneath her heaving, immense breasts, obvious yet hidden beneath the black cloth of her dress. ‘You really want to play this game? You really want to pull rank on me, Peter?’

My gut tells me true: Amber is more important, any second of any minute of any day.

‘…no.’

The succubus rolls her eyes, immediately ignoring me. ‘Girls, I want you to fuck these pair of cretins until they’re falling apart at the seams.’

‘Gross,’ the nightmare (Thynelleph?) says.

‘I never implied you need to use your own bodies,’ Amber says. ‘Tear a pipe off the wall, have Tytana make a selection of ice-cold cocks. I don’t give a shit, just leave them broken.’ She turns to the tavern. ‘Peter, you’re with me. It’s time to make amends.’

‘Amends?’

The bronze amazon (Jezzana?) steps aside, smirking darkly. Amber goes ahead, letting the door swing back in my face. It knocks me over, provoking laughter from the surrounding bullies, who are already shaping metal or constructing phalluses out of one element or another.

‘Follow, idiot,’ Amber shouts from within.

Without recourse I get myself upright, only for the amazon to kick my legs out from beneath me as she walks away, chuckling harshly. The cobbles leave another set of sore marks on my hands, my knees. Fuck’s sake. But in so many ways, this must be the lesser of two evils, right?

Nobody stops me setting myself aright this time. I let myself in the side door of the tavern, finding it emptied of patrons. Amber’s work, surely. A word, and people run and cower. Narglarn is sat on a bar-stool on the customer side, bloodied and sore, the wound in her side bandaged but clearly no longer bleeding. One of her arms is in a sling, and one side of her face is clearly in the process of making bruises.

‘Amber,’ Narglarn says, ‘this isn’t necessary.’

The succubus waits before the wounded orc, arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently. She seizes me with her terrible gaze, again warping the world around her perfect and demonic beauty. The Queen of Maids beckons to me, happily looking away, as though summoning some irrelevant non-person.

‘For starters, Peter’s going to clean up. Aren’t you, Peter?’

‘I…I don’t have any choice, do I?’

Amber smirks, but not at me. She makes a vague gesture, tightening my clothes around me. I gasp, looking down, finding black lace and white frills, suddenly in some form-fitting mirror of the succubus’ own garbs. Girl’s clothes, a maid’s clothes, with black stockings running up to my thighs and joining garters, what feels like a thong, and some strange garment around my testicles. Narglarn…blushes, seeming to take me in, from head to toe.

Sat where she is, I note the way her legs are clad in thigh-high leather boots, thighs smooth and obvious, a form-fitting leather strap between her thighs making clear that Narglarn is, whatever else, not traditionally female. In fact, the bulge is the biggest I’ve seen.

‘Go on, boy,’ Amber says, sitting herself on a stool. She waves a hand vaguely away from the bar. ‘Glasses first. Then mop the floor, and empty the spittoons. Toilets last.’

‘Amber–’

The succubus shushes her. ‘How are your knees, sweetie?’

I glance back, finding Amber fondling a shape under her short, thigh-length dress. Narglarn’s eyes descend. ‘They’re…they’re fine.’

‘Why don’t you pour me a tall whisky, and prove it?’

The black orc blushes, and I force myself to look away.

‘Work, idiot. There’s nothing for you here.’

Narglarn reaches, one-handedly, behind the bar.

 

The clink of the glasses, as I collect them up in sets, is secondary to the sloppy sound.

‘Mumph. Mumph. Schlup. Mumph. Mhm.’

It puts a chill up my spine, puts hairs on end, to hear it. Amber is this pinnacle of restraint, so muted her moans, little more than soft gasps and exhalations. The succubus, at six-foot-six, is a whole foot shorter than the black orc kneeling between her parted legs, yet is so effortlessly the largest and most important thing in the world. Her mother is the same; the minotaur guards, her personal sex-toys, are somehow small against her mere six-feet.

Narglarn seems to take great, unreasonable pleasure from such a selfless act. Amber gently teases through the barkeep’s dark violet hair, lovely fingers moving mercurially as Narglarn bobs her head up and down with practised efficiency. The grip suggests ownership, as well as affection.

From time to time, Narglarn will come up for air, followed by the sounds of wet, luscious kisses. ‘Is it good, Mistress?’

‘Wonderful, my pet. You’re such an adoring beauty.’

Another sloppy kiss, a heavy smooching sound. ‘For you, my Queen. For you…’

And the sounds commence again in earnest, Narglarn working the succubus’s shaft with her mouth, filling the quiet tavern floor with lustful slurping and sucking.

I steer clear of them, taking the long route around to the back of the bar, making sure to have my back to the sordid display at all times. Little by little the tables are cleared of mugs and jugs empty and half full and untouched, glasses of spirits, flutes of sparkling wines. I’m not really sure how it works, cleaning them; they use all kinds of magical means, but the barkeep is indisposed.

‘Peter,’ Amber says, making me straighten my back. ‘My glass is empty.’

‘R-ight.’

I turn from the collection of dirty mugs and jugs, fetching up the bottle of whisky Narglarn used. Amber’s glass sits on the far edge of the bar, a counter built for someone far larger than I am. ‘Could you slide it to me?’

Amber purrs, to the sound of muffled moaning, slurping, sucking. ‘I’m busy, idiot. Fill the damn glass.’

Dread seeps in as I go around the counter, walking out into the tavern floor. Narglarn is there, this tall and muscular and gorgeous black orc, kneeling before the succubus. Amber’s skirt is drawn back, revealing a mound of pubic hairs like living flame, the colour of her hair, that resplendent amber glow. The orc’s large hands work a long, ashen-blue shaft, stabilising it as she pleasures the organ with an eager, hungry mouth.

I slowly move closer, the stink of penile musk filling my nostrils. Narglarn lifts her head, giving me a nervous, blushing look. Her lips are wet, slick. Amber’s immense cock, so very human but for its colour and the rear-facing stellated crest of her fat crimson glans, oozes and twitches in Narglarn’s hands. It must be what, a foot and a half?

‘Mistress,’ the black orc says, addressing Amber, looking up at the smug, devilish succubus. ‘Couldn’t we do this, well, somewhere private?’

Amber’s response, initially, is to push down on the back of Narglarn’s head and fill her mouth with inch upon inch of ashen-blue penis, veiny and wrist-thick. ‘He’s barely a person, pet. Just a toy, belonging to mother. Ugh.’ She grunts, groans, as Narglarn’s face swallows the whole of her length, nose digging into those wispy living-flame pubes, chin certainly buried in her balls. ‘If I…ughn…want your opinion…I’ll ask.’

‘Glugp. Glugp. Glugp.’

The empty tavern fills with that sordid sound, the contractions of a throat, of a mouth, echoing out of nostrils, out of brief gaps between lips and the turgid walls of a penis. Amber’s grip softens, becomes a petting, a stroking of violet hair; Narglarn persists in the furiousness of the act, deepthroating the succubus, hilting the dangerous demoness’s length inside her neck, which bulges with the scope of its contents.

‘Glugp. Glugp. Glugp.’

Amber’s glass is within reach but my fingers struggle to grasp it, my eyes – and with them, all sensible attention – fixated on the act between the two pseudo-women before me. Two beautiful creatures, exquisite of body, of face, and…doing this.

‘Something you, ugh, like?’

Amber is grinning at me, half-grinning, up one side of her perfect face. Her eyes are wet, glossy with pleasure, breathing quicker. I turn away, reach for the glass, but she snatches my wrist, her strength divine, unshakeable.

‘I–ughn–asked you a question, idiot.’

‘Look, I just–’

‘Do you–mhm–want to be me?’ Amber says, a lilting humour in her voice. ‘Or do you want to be her?’

The craziest thing is that, for some utterly alien reason, I don’t actually know. I’m aroused, paralysed by arousal, by fear, by interest. Curious about this demoness, about this black orc, about sex in this weird world, so far from home.

I try to focus on the whisky, shakily lifting the bottle. Why am I here? What am I doing?

Amber grunts. ‘Eat her arse.’

I almost drop the bottle. ‘What?’

‘Get on your fucking knees behind her, pull out her backside, and stick your fucking tongue in it. Now.’

Narglarn, already red in the face, blushes. I tremblingly put down the bottle, uncorked, and try to step away, held in place by Amber’s unshakeable, elegant fingers. ‘I…’

‘Eat her arse, idiot, or I will kill you.’

Suddenly I’m free and Amber is standing, holding Narglarn’s head with one hand in some proprietary manner, the voluptuous black orc in a somewhat strained pose, kneeling for the shorter – though by no means short – succubus. Narglarn’s outfit shows off her fat, heavy butt cheeks, a band of black leather running between them, meeting up with the tops of her thigh-high boots, buckled in place.

‘Give him some space, pet,’ Amber says, patting Narglarn’s head. ‘So you can sit on his face.’

She releases Narglarn, who pulls back to glance at me, blushing hard, looking nervous. ‘Is this a good idea, Mistress?’

‘Do I have anything other than good ideas, my pet?’

Without another word, Narglarn momentarily lifts her rear. Amber grins at me. ‘Go on, idiot. Apologise the only way a wretched thing like yourself possibly can.’

I know why I do it, why I am doing it. Even if it feels wrong, even if something rejects this, deep within myself. Amber might well be joking, but I have reason to believe otherwise; the Queen of Maids is not known for being a jester.

My cock is hard all the while, a betrayer. I go down on my knees, but Amber clicks her teeth. ‘Lie beneath her. Go on, on your back.’

I say nothing, laying down on the tavern floor, sliding my face underneath Narglarn’s large body, between her thick leather-clad thighs. The black orc’s warmth is oppressive, her bulk intimidating, the sweat and musk of her body intoxicating. I’m staring up at a huge set of buttocks, blackish-blue, a meagre band of black leather running up between them, vanishing into that warm, sweaty cleft.

‘I’ll get the buckles,’ Narglarn says, reaching down, but Amber clicks her teeth again. ‘No, Mistress?’

‘No,’ Amber says. ‘Let the idiot do all the work. Get back to enjoying yourself, my dear pet.’

And so above, the wet and lewd sounds recommence, out of view. And below, I tentatively reach for the warm steel buckles, connecting the thigh-high boots to the band of leather, knowing my fate, fearing it, but nonetheless being excited all the same. The first time I’ve ever done this, to anyone, and it happens to be this voluptuous Amazonian black orc, Narglarn, Amber’s pet.

‘Mumph. Mhm.’

‘My good girl.’ Amber moans softly. ‘My lucky girl.’

Narglarn practically purrs, lusty and hungry, gorging on the ashen-blue cock of the succubus. Stray spit, from the sloppiness of the act, drops down on my (borrowed?) dress. I pull at the buckles, freeing the band of leather, which attaches to the strange corset ensemble covering the orc’s top half.

I’m presented with a cleft between those fat, voluminous cheeks, at the core of which is a darker region, a puckered entrance to her bowels. There’s no time to waste, so I gingerly push out my tongue and lift my head, for the first time tasting the black orc’s backside.

Narglarn reacts by flexing, shuddering, then sitting down on my face, in approval or as a result of some forced gesture by Amber. ‘Mhm. Mumph. Mhm-hm.’

Amber chuckles. ‘The idiot is actually being useful. What a surprising change.’

The taste is bitter, salty, the latter likely from sweat. The muskiness, the vaguely dirty stink, is only on the nose. Narglarn seems clean, but I suppose a place like this is always, to some extent, dirty. There are a few straggler hairs, littered around the rough wrinkles of the actual arsehole, but otherwise, the texture is smooth, simple.

I’m trapped here, nose and mouth buried in the giant woman’s backside, and…I don’t hate it. In fact, I’ve never been so hard; maybe I’m pent-up, maybe this entire time here has been nothing short of a perpetual cock-tease, and I’ve needed release. Not that this will bring it, but it’s a good substitute, and a solid basis for a later wan–

‘Ughn.’ I grunt, suddenly struck by the cool flat firmness of a shoe, pressed against my crotch. It takes my lips from Narglarn’s arse, makes my head spin. ‘Shit.’

‘The least I can do,’ Amber says. ‘So stick your tongue inside my pet, idiot.’

I seize hold of the black orc’s full fat buttocks and ram my face into her cleft, tongue going frantic, digging in that thankfully clean shit-hole, as Narglarn services the succubus, as the succubus presses down her high-heeled shoe upon my clothed cock, thankfully using the flat and not the heel. It’s pathetic, degrading, but I want the release. I need the release.

There’s a wet sound, a sloppiness. ‘Mistress,’ Narglarn says, breathily, ‘I want…I want to mount him.’

Amber laughs, pressing more firmly on my groin. ‘He belongs to you until I say otherwise, pet; do with him as you please, as soon as you’ve satisfied me.’

‘Yes, Mistress!’ Smooch, suckle, kiss. ‘Thank you, Mistress! Thank you so much!’

The succubus groans powerfully as the wet noises return, the eager, hungry sucking and slurping. I don’t cease my tongue movements but I’m stricken by a fear, low and terrible. The orc…she wants to…mount me. As in…no way. It’s awful, terrible, and perversely exciting. Why am I such a weirdo, a freak? What’s wrong with this world, to do this to me?

Or was I always?

‘Ugh. So good, my pet. So eager.’

The world spins, a glorious phantasm of eroticism and perversion. An arsehole in my face, a shoed foot upon my dick, a blowjob occurring above me. Pleasure, ecstasy, exoticism. And like all things, this too must end. Amber blows her top, grunting, moaning pleasantly in that sultry, husky, divine darkness that is her voice. Narglarn moans happily, lips smacking, making dirty noises; she starts to swallow, then clenches around my buried tongue, spilling a thick, heavy heat down the front of my dress, soaking through it.

‘Oh, my silly little girl,’ Amber says, breathily, the least composed I’ve heard her. ‘Someone will have to clean that up now, won’t they?’

Jesus Christ, there’s so much spooge. It just seems to continue flowing, spilling out in thick bursts every ten, twenty seconds or so. I can’t exactly move, can’t be free of it. The stink, that new scent that must be Narglarn’s jizz, is musky, potent, heady. It must be the novelty of it given how, despite my nose being wedged in the orc’s backside, the stench of her freshly shot load is noticeable.

‘Bloody hell, my pet.’ Amber groans, not with pleasure. ‘So little control! So little obedience! Why on Anthexxia should I reward you now?’

‘M-istress,’ Narglarn says, mouth sounding…messy, wet. ‘I just–his tongue–your seed–’

Amber sighs, stepping back. The orc almost tumbles forwards, reaching yet not finding, the succubus too swift. ‘Off him. Up.’ Obedient to a fault, Narglarn rises, still in the final throes of ejaculating, spilling a thick, off-white goo across my utterly covered chest, onto the wooden boards of the floor. ‘By Lasyrrix, my pet, you’re going to need to clean up that costume. I’m not putting it back in storage covered in your pathetic genes.’

Narglarn almost whimpers, her size and strength and beauty seeming suddenly lesser, weak in comparison to the ice-cold demoness above, now casually tucking away her flaccid cock beneath the black folds of her dress. Amber, again, is terrifying. Utterly, completely, alienly terrifying.

‘Mistress, I–’

‘Shush, my pet.’ Amber sets those golden eyes upon me, swallows me up. ‘You, idiot boy. You’re going to assist Narglarn here, at the tavern, for the next month. Starting tomorrow.’

As if I’d escaped. I nod. ‘Sure. Right.’

‘Come,’ Amber says. ‘Words are needed.’

I look from the succubus to the black orc, who blushes and avoids my gaze. She looks ridiculous despite her sheer hotness in that lewd outfit, her cock now softening, absolutely glazed – much as the floor, much as my dress – in off-white ropey seed. Then I look back to the succubus.

‘Me?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Yes, idiot. Rise, and follow.’

When I go to stand, the world shifts. The maid outfit seems to drop from me, landing on the floor, in all the cum. My own clothes, robe upon them, folds back around me, clean but for the marks of the alley outside where that Amazon tripped me, where the brutes pinned me. Amber walks ahead, towards the side door, beckoning me with curling fingers.

‘The outfit will be cleaned by tomorrow,’ Amber says, stopping. Mesmerised by the rhythm of her hips, the erotic sway of her perfect form, the playful chaos of her tail and its heart-shaped tip, I almost run into the back of her. Shit, that would end me. ‘Won’t it, Narglarn?’

‘Yes, Mistress. All will be well.’

‘Good.’ Amber goes on, pushes open the door, but this time holds it in passing. The alley beyond is empty of people, leaving only myself and Lasyrrix’s daughter, the Queen of Maids herself. ‘What the fuck were you doing out here?’ she says, as the door slams behind me. ‘Well, idiot human?’

I shrug, failing to speak, and Amber turns, affixing me with that goddess gaze, that infernally perfect pair of eyes. There is some dark humour to her nearly heart-shaped face (too long, too sharp, but the idea is there), curving into that sickle fullness of a smile.

‘Do you have idea what those two would have done to you, boy?’

‘Yes,’ I say, lowering my head. Out of fear, not respect, as such. ‘I know.’

‘And do you have any idea how lucky you are that I arrived when I did?’

‘Extremely.’ Now I bow lower, out of acknowledgement. ‘Thank you, Mistress.’

She actually giggles, a sound so lyrical it doesn’t befit her fierceness. ‘I’m not your “Mistress”, idiot. Honestly, I wasn’t even protecting mother’s property.’ The succubus is upon me, a warm, perfect hand at my throat. Some insane part of me thinks that to die here, to have my trachea crushed by this hand, would somehow be pleasant. ‘I can’t have you out here, wearing Lasyrrix’s tokens, being confused for one of my pets. I won’t have Narglarn – or any of the others, out of loyalty to me – being hurt on your account.’

She releases me and turns side-on, then takes several heel-clacking steps up the alley towards the castle. It’s done, then. A prison, forever, because if I leave, I’ll be utterly finished. Lasyrrix was my shield, but Amber won’t allow it.

‘You don’t get it,’ I say, wary but consumed by the need to speak the truth. ‘It’s far from hell, in there, but it’s a prison. A little fucking box. I can’t go for walks, can’t talk to anyone, can’t do anything but sit there, knowing the world goes on, knowing I’m trapped.’

Amber stops suddenly, freezing my blood. ‘The mouth on you.’ I’m done, fucked, dead. But then she laughs, and actually smiles when she turns. Smiles. The succubus points upwards, beautiful finger erect. ‘Do you see the roof, there?’

I nod. ‘Of course.’

She points past the castle. ‘And the wall, the horizon, far over the way?’ I nod again, and she points behind me, at the opposite side, distant but obvious. ‘And that one, as well?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Four walls, a floor, a ceiling.’

‘That’s my room, boy.’ Amber fixes me with a deadly, divine gaze. ‘Four walls, a floor, a ceiling. Not an inch above or below, or north or west or east or south. Just that, forever.’

‘I didn’t mean to imply–’

‘I get it, is my point,’ Amber says. ‘Being trapped is the most horrific thing of all, especially if you’ve known otherwise. At least, in my case, I never have.’ She closes the distance, frills swaying, hips swinging, and puts a hand, now gentle, beneath my chin, squeezing around my jaw. ‘To live outside of your prison, you need people willing to protect you, given your feeble human constitution, and the value of your race.’

My eyes widen. ‘Are you…offering?’

Amber shakes her head slowly. ‘My girls are not pets. They are submissives, they are friends, lovers, but I cannot order them to do this.’ My eyes, again, lose their hope. ‘But I can ask what it would take.’

She leans in, sulphurous sweetness of her breath warming my ear. ‘Is freedom from your room worth slavery to my girls, however?’

And again, my eyes widen.