Queen of Night (short story) (FemDom fantasy erotica)

 

Queen of Night

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“People keep saying that Jesus is Lord

He’ll take me in the Rapture, He’ll come with a sword

Preachers on TV tell me I’m living wrong

But I’ve tasted the lips of sweet Babalon

 

“I know they call you the Queen of Damnation

Our sacred love, abomination

But dying in your arms is sweeter than salvation

Heaven is the night of sweet Babalon

 

“Sweet Babalon, o heavenly harlot

Let down your hair and take me to bed

Hold out your cup and I’ll pour the wine

Drink to the night of sweet Babalon.”

–Lon Milo DuQuette

 

The city of Eru Sa’alam was as a dream.

It was a senseless maze of soaring towers and stepped mounds, all hewn and raised without mortar from blackstone glass.  Rather to say, it had a sense and an order, but its sense was beyond human sense, its order seeming beyond disorder.  Under the light of day, the glint of the sun off of the razor edges of its component blocks of glass was contrasted, subdued by the shadows of the seeming haphazard and lopsided buildings, making the whole city look like a fever dream.  Under the silver moon, it seemed almost to disappear, save for the occasional twinkling outlines of odd angles and trapezoidal battlements outlining brutish, malformed lumps of deeper darkness.  The city’s dwellers—grey-skinned, oblong-headed, shark-toothed, with no pretenses of humanity, yet beautiful—thronged her streets under the moon even as they’d slept under the sun; they could all see like cats in the dark, and few lanterns burned.

It all gave Wolf a headache.

As the warband stopped a moment, he closed his eyes and gripped the hilt of his sword; it was a good iron sword, and the feel of the cold metal helped him to gather himself.  The cold, hard blackstone under his bare feet, that was real.  The rough wool of his kilt scratching at his thighs and groin—real.  The weight of the kit and shield on his back—real.  He opened his eyes to find himself still in the dreamscape city under the failing sun, as he’d known he would, but the headache at least was less.  He chanced a glance up at one of the strangely-stepped conical buildings that made up most of the city, and the headache returned.  He cursed.

Their guide—a “woman” nearly a head higher than Wolf who led the warband—saw his discomfort and threw back her oblong head in a cackling laugh.  In a voice like silk, she said, “Fear not, worms; you’ll be indoors soon enough.”

This woman—female?—had led them from the deep forest to the gates of the city, and then down a seeming senseless route through its maddening alleyways.  Wolf scowled and said, “And when is ‘soon enough’?  It was morning when you started leading us.  My men and I have travelled long miles by fire and iron to be here, and we have important business.”

“Patience, patience, little ape,” she said.  “The city’s center is not far.  And anyway, you must speak with the Princess before you may speak with the king.”

Wolf rolled his eyes and the troupe resumed walking.

***

The path soon angled upward, and when the gloaming had given way to deep night they could just discern the outline of what must have been a great fortress looming up atop the hillock at the center of Eru Sa’alam.  Wolf judged what he saw.  The hill, though high, was not steep; climbing it would not be a chore, even if hauling kit while under fire.  The approaches, however, were narrow, and the keep before him loomed high and strong.  To overcome such would take strong men, disciplined men, with fire in their eyes and iron in their bellies; they would need to be in the high thousands to contest the city’s occupants; and even then, most would die.  He kicked at the paving-stones, stubbed his toe, and shuddered at the thought of trying to batter down such stones.

The citadel was under guard when they reached it, the open double-doors being watched by ten of the not-men in full kit carrying long spears.  The guide waved at them, saying, “These ones are protected.  They are to speak with the Princess at feast.”  And she disappeared into the hall.

One of the guards stepped up, gestured at the open door, and said, “If you’d follow me.  You may call me Ahmad.”

“I am Wolf,” said Wolf, “and these are my men:  Gorvig, Gedren, Ivar, and Atli.”

The guard rolled his eyes.  “Follow.”

The warband were happy to be off of the maddening, cyclopean streets, and happier still to see that the hall Ahmad led them down was lined with lamps.  He escorted them through twisting, shadowy halls and into a vaulted chamber with a wide table at its center.  The table was set, each place sporting a platter of meat and a great silver stein of red wine; there were no fruits, no greens, no bread, only the meat.  The grey-skinned folk stood next to chairs, waiting to take their seats.  On the edges of the room stood a few men and women—normal men and women—and these were naked, wearing silver collars, waiting with more meat and more wine.

Wolf and the warband started unbuckling their sword-belts; Ahmad stopped them, said, “Leave them on if you feel more comfortable.  I promise you, they’ll be of no use here anyway.”

Wolf dropped his own sword for the sake of politeness, and the others followed suit—save for Gorvig, who buckled his belt tighter and checked that his sword was loose in its scabbard.

As the men selected chairs, Ahmad directed Wolf to the head of the table where two empty seats waited, saying, “The leader of this adorable rabble shall eat with the Princess.”

Wolf ignored the jibe and stood next to his chair.  Ahmad walked to the entranceway through which they’d come, looked into the shadows, and said, “The Princess approaches.”

Striding into the feasting-room, her shoulders high and chest forward, came the woman who’d caught them in the woods and led them here.  She was dressed in flowing black robes, her ebony hair was plaited, and a silver tiara rested atop her oblong head, but it was unmistakably her.  The robes were drawn tightly against her grey skin to accentuate her form: effeminate, beautiful, full, but hard as iron.  Her grey eyes were ancient, but in body she seemed young and hale.

“The Princess Tryamore Blackrock,” Ahmad said, “daughter of Sulemain, of the House of Iblis, of the Sons of Shaitain, heiress to the Glass Citadel and the Blackstone Throne.”

Wolf rolled his eyes.

“Sit,” the princess said in her voice like silk.  When all present were seated, she walked to the empty chair beside Wolf and seated herself.

“Princess,” he said with a curt nod.

She ignored him.  Looking to Ahmad, she said, “I like this one.  Young and strong and pretty.  It’s a shame they’re all so hairy.”

“You like this one, Princess?” Ahmad asked, grinning.

“Yes.  This one.  Of course he is their leader; he’s the prettiest.”

Ahmad pointed to Gorvig and said, “I like this one.  He’s bigger.  Looks stronger.”

The Princess smiled.  “Such is your pleasure, Ahmad, but I’ve picked this one.”  She turned abruptly to Wolf.  “What are you waiting for, man?  Eat!  Drink!”

“Princess,” he said, “I came for an audience with your father.”

“That will come later.  The Silent King has many duties; tonight he could not make time for an audience with a gang of apes.”

“There is a war.  My people are dying.”

She turned her face away.

“My people are dying.”

Turning back toward him, she asked, “’My people are dying’, what?”

Wolf raised an eyebrow.

“I am Tryamore, daughter of Sulemain Blackrock, and one day I will be the Silent Queen on the Blackstone Throne; I will have my rank from such as you when you address me.  I’ve told you already, you will get your audience with my father if and when he chooses to see you, and no sooner.”  She lifted her stein to her lips and drained half of it.  Snapping her fingers as she set it down, she cried, “More wine!  And entertainment!  And where is Hild?”

The collared men and women standing at the walls approached the table.  A very old woman, stooped and wizened with years, approached Tryamore on shaking legs and asked, “More wine, Princess?”

Tryamore held up her stein and the old woman filled it.  She patted her servant on the bottom.

Seeing that Wolf had been watching the spectacle, Tryamore pulled her down and kissed her full on the lips.  Letting her up, the Princess said, “This is Hild.  She has been my serving-maid for nearly six decades.  Isn’t that so, Hild?”

In a shaking, ancient voice, Hild said, “I have served the Princess ever since I first came into womanhood.  I’ve not many days of life left, but I will go to my ancestors having served the Iron Gods.”

“I hold Hild firs amongst my servants; she has been nothing but obedient, and I will make her elderhood full of comfort and honors.”

She slid forward in her chair and opened her legs.  Hild, without needing to be prompted, dropped to shaking knees and crawled unsteadily between those legs, disappearing under Tryamore’s robes.  The Princess continued eating, drinking, and talking, though she would occasionally shudder and smile.

Wolf looked about the table.  As the unclad servants passed by their keepers, they would be groped and slapped.  None seemed to mind, and in fact they smiled and joked with their tormentors.  Ahmad, who sat next to Gorvig, grabbed one of the younger men and pulled him in for a kiss.  Laughing, that man disappeared beneath the table just as Hild had.

“Man,” said Tryamore, “you’ve not touched your food.”

“My name is Wolf, Princess,” he said, “and what sort of meat is this?”

Tryamore grinned, showing off her pointed teeth.  “Why, Wolf Princess, it’s only meat.  From an animal.  Only a mere animal.”

Wolf raised an eyebrow.  All of the Iron Elves laughed.  Tryamore said, “It’s venison, Wolf.  I killed the deer myself.  You apes eat venison, don’t you?”

Wolf tried a morsel of the meat.  It certainly was venison, and it was delicious.

The Princess drained her stein and helped herself to the vessel of wine Hild had been carrying.  She said, “So, man, what do you think of my city?”

“More than passing strange, Princess,” he said.  “My people have no cities like this.  The Southrons build great cities of stone, but yours is greater still.”

“That is to be expected.  The House of Iblis have been about such work for a long, long time.  You apes are still so young; one cannot blame the young for their lack of refinement.”  She thought for a moment.  “Wolf, you are ruddy and dark compared to your companions; are you not a Southron?”

“I was, Princess.  I am no longer.”

“Tell me that story.”

“I was a missionary.  I was sent north into the wilderness.  It went as well as it usually does.  The Long Men found me dying in the forest and took me in.”

“It could’ve yet gone better.”

“How is that, Princess?”

She gestured at the servants.  “All of these were once missionaries.  The priests of the Nailed God sent them to us to save our souls.”  She laughed.  “Not all apes who enter our lands unbidden are killed.  Some are . . . corrected.”

She gasped, shuddered, and said, “That’s enough, Hild, my dear.  Up.  Bring more wine.”

Hild rose.  The Princess kissed her before she went.

“Just think, Wolf.  Had you been luckier, you could be serving me alongside sweet old Hild.”

“With respect to your nobility, Princess, no.  I am neither whore nor thrall.”

Some of the Iron Elves, overhearing, looked offended.  The servants openly gaped.  The Princess but laughed, as though he’d told some great joke.  She stood up straight as a post and rested her hands behind her head.  “Wolf,” she said, “look upon me.  Am I not beautiful?”

“You are beautiful, Princess,” he said, transfixed.

She undid her robe to reveal more ashen skin and the top of her bust.  “How beautiful am I, o man?  What do I look like to you?”

Wolf, in spite of himself, muttered, “Princess, you look a goddess.”

Laughing as she took her seat again, she said, “Even this one who is so proud can’t help his nature.”

Gorvig looked incensed.  The other men aped their leader in gawking at the Princess.

Tryamore pointed at one of the servants, said, “You, boy.  How did you come to serve us?  Bodily, I mean.”

“I chose it, Princess.”

“Have your betters forced you into anything?”

“Certainly not, Princess.”

She turned again to Wolf, resting a hand on his thigh.  “I know you folk are not faithless men, but, if it was your pleasure, I could be your goddess.”

The steel returned to Wolf’s eyes.  “You are beautiful, Princess,” he said, “but grunting and grazing would not make me an ox.”

She looked wrathful, but only for a moment.  “Tell me, man: how did your gods become gods?  Were they not great men who became greater?”

“Aye.”

“I have lived so long that you would not believe me if I told you my true age.  Having reached what you’d call the full flowering of womanhood, my flesh will never change unless marred by accident or war.  It may well be that I remain a princess, and my father reign as Silent King upon the Blackstone Throne, until the world is unmade.  If I am killed, it will not destroy me; it will free me.  You apes call us elves.  We are not elves.  We are the Sons of Shaitan, we are the House of Iblis.  You would not be mistaken if you called us gods.”

Wolf smiled.  “The Iron Elves—the House of Iblis, if it pleases you—are far fewer than they were in ancient days, but you are still numerous.  If there were ten thousand thousand gods, being a god would mean nothing.”

“If you counted ten thousand thousand of us for every star in the sky, you would still not have counted half our number.”

“No city could hold such a number, Princess.  The world could not hold such a number.”

“The world doesn’t.  The world needn’t.”  She glared at him, her eyes boring into him like augers.  “We fill the world.  We fill the stars.  We fill the empty places between stars, between stones, between cracks in walls.  This—“ She grabbed a fistful of the flesh on her arm “—is clay.  Merely a vessel.  Near enough to a prison.  What do you know of gods?”

He met her gaze.  “Princes, I know that in elder days there were men—apes, you call them—who were soul and bloody flesh just like any man, and who became great, and whose flesh became as a vessel.  I also know that Woden hanged by his neck nine days dead, and on the tenth day rebuilt the vessel he’d broken.  And I know, though your souls may go to Hell or Heofen if it pleases you, that Iron Elves stay dead when they’re killed.  Another thing I know, that my gods can make new vessels and throw them out as easily as a man changes his clothes.”  He leaned forward until their faces were near to touching.  “I know this because I never knew an earthly father.  I am Wolf, the Wodening.”

She scowled, then smiled.  “You are a bold ape, Wolf.  Perhaps overbold.  But I admire spirit, even in those of servile blood.  And you are very pretty.”  She returned her hand to his thigh, slid it down to his knee, gradually walked her fingers up beneath his kilt.

“If I may, Princess,” said Ahmad.

“Of course you may.”

“The ape is bold and rude, but he has some wisdom.  Even so, this one—“ He gestured to Gorvig “—is prettier.”

“Yet they’re both so disgustingly hairy.”

“Well, they can’t hide what they are.”

The Iron Elves laughed.  Gorvig slumped in his chair and grumbled.

“Speak freely,” said the Princess.  “This is true entertainment.”

Gorvig sat up and barked, “A shock-head I am, but at least I’m no egg-headed, cat-eyed, shark-toothed devil out of Hell’s halls.”

All of the Iron Elves laughed, and laughed, and laughed, as though this was the greatest jest they’d ever heard.

***

Soon after, the food and wine were gone and the dinner guests sated.  The men were led to sleeping-rooms deeper within the citadel.  Wolf and Gorvig together were led to a room of black stone unadorned and unfurnished save for two beds of purple silk.

Wolf slumped down on one bed, Gorvig on the other, and Gorvig said, “Boss, you seem entirely too at ease.”

“They won’t harm me,” Wolf said, “nor you so long as you’re with me.”

“You’ve said as much.  You haven’t said why.”

“Aye, I haven’t; I’ve been remiss in that.  Well, when I was young—perhaps a year before your folk first found me—I met a she-elf in the forest.  A Wood Elf, not an Iron Elf, but they’re cousins.  I was a fool with no idea of my peril; all I saw was a beautiful, willing woman.  Destiny loves fools, I suppose, so for some reason she didn’t kill me.  We just humped for a while, and she hallowed me before I went on my way.  With that blessing, not even these devils will harm me.”

“Like a treaty, an oath between nations?”

“More or less, I suppose.”

Gorvig gave a cold laugh.  “And you expect them to honor any oath?  Woden’s eye, Wolf, I do hope destiny loves fools.  I agreed to come with you because you’re my war leader, you’re my sword-brother, you’re my friend, and I won’t hesitate to die with you, but that doesn’t mean I’m in a hurry for it.  We’ll be lucky to speak with their king at all before they turn us into supper.”  He reclined, yawned.  “And their Princess is after your prick.”

“Not as if she tried to hide it.  That captain of hers is after your arse.”

“Not as if he tried to hide that, either.”

They slept.

***

A knock on the door awakened them, they knew not how much later.  The door swung open to reveal a plainly annoyed Iron Elf who barked, “You.  The ape they call Wolf.  The Princess wants to speak with you.”

“If you’re lucky,” said Gorvig, “she just wants a midnight snack.”

Wolf stood and strapped on his sword.

The Iron Elf laughed, said, “Go ahead, ape, bring your toy for all the good it will do you.”

Wolf ignored him and followed.  The elf led him through the nighted halls, up many flights of winding stairs, deep into the blackstone heart of the Citadel of Glass.  At long last his guide stopped before an arched oak door studded with jewels, said, “The Princess’ quarters,” and walked back the way they’d come.  Standing alone in the corridor, Wolf knocked.

“Come in, man,” her voice called from within, sounding bored.

The room was vaulted, the black glass cut and ground to suggest timbers, and gem-studded webs adorned the walls.  More than half the floor was taken up by a luxuriant bed covered with silken blankets and pillows in hues of scarlet, purple, and black.  A much smaller, humbler bed sat at the foot of the greater one, along with a set of chains and manacles bolted to the floor.

The Princess reclined on the decadent bed.  She made no dumbshow of acting dignified, but lay relaxed, her legs spread, her hands behind her head, the ties of her robe undone so that it lay loosely over her.

“Princess,” said Wolf with a nod.

She beckoned.  He approached the bed.

“I spoke to my father,” she said.  “You will have your audience with the Silent King in five days.”

“That is good, Princess.”

“He will refuse, of course, if left to his own council.  And if he refuses—as he surely will—you and your soldiers may not be killed, but you will never leave the city.  You must know this.”  She rolled over, propping herself up on her elbows.  “Whether you get your army or not—whether you ever see your people again or not—depends on the choices you make here tonight.”

“What do you want of me?”

She smiled, in as friendly a way as she could manage.  “Tell me about yourself, Wolf.  Tell me your tale.”

“I am Wolf,” he said, “son of Woden.  I was born amongst the Southrons of Etra.  My mother gave me up to the Church when I was young, and they trained me as a missionary of the Nailed God.  When I was thirteen winters old, they sent me to bring the Word of the Nailed God to the men of the North.  The Long Men found me nearly dead in the wilderness and took me in.  That was when my father revealed himself to me and bade me abandon the Nailed God and live as the Long Men do.  I took well to it.  I am Wolf, war leader, house karl of High King Clovis.”

“The High King and yourself, you hate each other, don’t you?”

Wolf said nothing.

“This errand of yours,” she went on, “is beyond foolish.  Men who enter our lands do not leave alive; that is our way, it has always been our way, and the fact that you’re beyond killing doesn’t change that.  Even an idiot knows that your doom was fixed as soon as you set foot in the forest.  You would only be sent by someone who wanted rid of you, and you wouldn’t consent unless you wanted to be away.”

Wolf nodded.  “You’re clever, Princess, but only half right.  The High King is a fool, and I can’t hate him for that any more than I can hate a worm for its crawling.  It is his Queen I hate.”

“Why do you hate your Queen, Wolf?”

“She often takes over as war leader, due to her husband’s being a fool, and she always leads into disaster.  She is no fool, however; I know it is planned disaster.  Every year she signs away more and more of our land to the Southrons, but I know peace is the last thing on her mind.  She serves the Nailed God.  She means to undo us.”

“And she sent you to me to be rid of you.”

“Aye.  I hate her, her and her wizard.”

“Court wizards always make for interesting tales.  Tell me of him.”

“He’s a priest of the Nailed God, though he looks like no Southron I’ve ever seen.  Tall, pale, with a head like a brick.”

Tryamore raised her brows.  “Does he carry a long black sword?”

“Aye.”

“Is he a despoiler of women?”

“Aye.”

“Is his name Nithad?”

Wolf cocked an eyebrow.  “How do you know his name?”

“I know the man—if you can still even call him an ape.  He’s very old and very troublesome.  Be careful of him.  Kill him if you get the chance.”  She sighed.  “Wolf, why did you come if you knew it would be your end?”

“Because it won’t.  The Iron Elves will march to war, the High King will be overthrown, and the Southrons will be crushed.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?”

“My father told me it would be so.”

She smiled, got to her feet, and said, “So you are a man foresighted.  I’ve said that you won’t sway my father without my good will, so it’s as good as foretold that you’ll do as I say.”

“And what do you want of me, Princess?”

At once, she tore her robes away and stood naked before him.  In a voice like thunder, she boomed, “Man, look upon me!  Am I not beautiful?”

Wolf stood transfixed.  She had looked hard even under her robes, but that told not the half of it.  Her form was full and lovely, but every ounce of it was knotted muscle; she looked like the idol of a goddess carved from granite.  And she was, of course, beautiful.

Her silver eyes met his, and she barked, “Kneel, ape.”

Without thinking, indeed without a single thought in his head, Wolf knelt.

“That is more like it.  Now, am I not beautiful?”

“You are beautiful, Princess.”

“Of course I am.  I am Tryamore, daughter of Sulemain, son of Dahveed, son of Yeshu, son of Iblis, son of Shaitan, heiress to the Blackstone Throne and the Citadel of Glass.  You are an ape.”

Wolf said nothing.

“You want to serve me.  It is in your nature.”

Wolf said nothing.

She sighed.  “Come here, ape.”

He rose and came to her.  She put her arms around him.  She was, indeed, as hard and cold as stone; Wolf felt she could’ve crushed him like an egg if she’d wanted to.  She put her hands on his shoulders and forced him to his knees.  She spread her legs, and Wolf stared into her womanhood, swollen with lust, glistening, dripping; the smell of it filled his nose and clouded his mind.

“You want it.”

Wolf nodded.

“You haven’t earned it.”

She turned around, showing her arse, and said, “There.  Now, eat.”

Wolf ate.  He leaned forward, buried his face in her flesh, and instantly his mouth found her opening.  He brought his hands up, gripped her hips, and drew himself in closer.

Betwixt gasps of pleasure, Tryamore was laughing.  Wolf didn’t notice; his mind was wholly occupied with what his mouth was doing, his lips and tongue caressing her, trying to draw out every bit of pleasure.  The Princess sank down to rest her head on the bed, her rump in the air.

After a few minutes, she cried, “Enough!”  Wolf stopped.  She stood, turned, grabbed his shoulders, drew him to his feet.  Taking a fistful of his beard, she said, “Merciful Shaitan, you apes are so disgustingly hairy.”

Wolf said nothing.

“It tickles.”

At that, Wolf couldn’t help but laugh.  The Princess laughed as well.  She sank onto the bed and said, “You know, Wolf, when dear old Hild chose to serve me, she’d never heard of using her mouth for pleasure at all.  I had to explain it to her.  Took me a fortnight just to get her to lick my cunny.”  She was thoughtful for a moment.  “The son of Shaitan who blessed you, which stopped me from killing you when I found you in the forest, was a daughter.  A nymph, I believe, is your word for her kind.”

“She was, Princess.”

“Tell me that story.”

“When the priests of the Nailed God sent me on my mission, I nearly starved to death in the wilderness within the first month.  One day, on the edge of death, I heard a woman’s singing.  I followed it and found the nymph bathing naked in a stream.  I was in such a state that she took pity on me and, rather than kill me, she fed me and bade me stay the winter in her tree.”

“And did you . . . oh, Shaitan, what is it that they call it?  Did you grow fat on the milk from her teats and the honey from her loins?”

“Aye, Princess.”

“Well then that’s better than half my work done for me.  So many of the apes I find think that a tongue is for talking.”  She placed her hands behind her head.  “Take off that ridiculous skirt and come here.”

Wolf removed his kilt and joined her on the bed.  She threw an arm around him and said, “At dinner, you seemed amused more than perturbed by Ahmad.  Are you a bugger?”

“I am, Princess.”

“A bugger who likes cunt.  I approve.  We’ll have a lot of fun together, I think.”

She slid a hand down to the crack of his arse, spread him, tickled him.

Wolf tensed and pulled himself away.

Tryamore sighed.  “Oh, you poor, poor little ape.  Someone hurt you there, didn’t they?”

Wolf nodded.

She drew him in.  “No need to worry, my little ape; you’re with your Princess now.  Your Princess will never, ever hurt you.  Do you trust your Princess?”

Against his better judgment, almost involuntarily, Wolf nodded again.

“Good.  Now, then.”

She slid two fingers across her cunny and held them under Wolf’s nose.

“You want it, don’t you?”

He nodded.  “I want it, Princess.”

“Have a taste.”

He drew the fingers into his mouth.  The clear fluid dripping from them didn’t taste like cunny.  It tasted almost like mulled wine.

She smiled.  “You’ve been so accommodating, I’m almost considering giving you more.  Will you do as I tell you?”

“Yes, Princess.”

“Good.  Will you submit to me?”

“Yes, Princess.”

“Very good.  Will you bow to me and worship me as I deserve?”

“I will, Princess.”

At this, Tryamore moaned as though Wolf’s words gave her physical pleasure.  She said, “Will the great war leader, son of a god, swear to serve the House of Iblis and obey the Silent King?”

“I cannot do that, Princess.”

Tryamore, with a puzzled look on her face, wetted her fingers again and presented them to Wolf, who accepted them.  “Who do you serve, ape?” she asked.

“I serve you, Princess.”

“To whom do you swear fealty?”

“I swear fealty to none but Woden who is my father.”

Tryamore howled with frustration.  Roughly, she rolled him onto his back, sprang to her feet upon the bed, and—to Wolf’s surprise—sat down hard upon his face.  Wolf didn’t question the gift, but thrust his tongue deep into her womanhood and lapped.  She accepted the tongue and rode his face like a war horse.

“You are an ape,” she moaned, “you are an animal.  You are a slave.  You are born, you live, and you die in a mere instant.  I am Tryamore Blackrock, daughter of Sulemain, son of Dahveed, son of Yeshu, son of Iblis, son of Shaitan, heiress to the Blackstone Throne!  You!  Are!  An!  Ape!”

She thrust against his face like a rutting stag.  Wolf, his ears clamped between her thighs, heard none of this.

“You will serve me!  I!  Will!  Rule!  You!  I—ah, Shaitan!”

A jet of clear liquid shot from her cunny, filling Wolf’s mouth and nearly choking him as her body convulsed.  With a loud moan, she rolled off of him to sit beside him on the bed.

“So,” she panted, “how did you like that, little ape?”

“It’s the most wonderful thing in the world, Princess,” Wolf mumbled as if in a dream.

“You want more, don’t you?”

“Yes, Princess.”  He added, “As it pleases you, Princess.”

“That’s a good ape.  You can have more, and more, and more for the rest of your life, if you’ll swear to be my man.”

“I can’t do that, Princess.”

She rolled her eyes.  “In the name of Baal, Iblis, Shaitan, and The One, why can you not do that?”

Wolf’s voice at once grew stern and sober.  “You are beautiful, Princess.  You are as glamoring, enchanting, and perilous as you are beautiful; don’t insult me by thinking I don’t know my peril.  You are . . . wonderful.  I would serve you.  I would worship you.”

Tryamore nodded.  “But.”

“But, as you know, I am a man foresighted.  My father has shown me a dark and terrible future.  My life is not my own to give; I am  a thrall of Wyrd.  I am Wolf, war leader, son of Woden, and I have a duty to my people that can’t be escaped; if I made to escape it, it would find me.  Swearing obedience to the House of Iblis is not a part of that duty, and so that doom is not deemed.”

Tryamore’s reaction surprised him.  She said nothing, and looked troubled, for a long while.  Finally, she asked him, “Has your god told you the true purpose of my race?”

He nodded.  “The Nailed God lives.  If the Sons of Shaitan perish from the earth, the earth will perish in fire.”

The Princess slapped herself on the forehead.  She muttered, “Of course, of course, of course.”

“Princess?”

Tryamore sprang to her feet.  Staring at the ceiling and raising her fist, she launched into a frightful tirade in her own language.  It was as nonsense to Wolf, though the names “Iblis” and “Shaitan” must have come up in every sentence.  At last she sank back onto the bed, her eyes still furious.  Rubbing her temples, she said, “Ape, when I first heard you claim to be the son of a god,  I thought you were a madman.  But apes don’t know the true purpose of my race.  No ape has ever been told.”  She slapped the bedding.  “Your obedience to my House is not foredoomed.  Just the opposite, even.  Your very coming to my city was foredoomed by Iblis himself, so many thousands upon thousands of years ago.  You are the Immanuel.  I am a fool for not questioning you sooner.  So many humans wander into our lands in blind foolishness, it seemed unimportant.  But in the ages I’ve been alive, do you know how many slaves I’ve had?  Do you?”

Wolf shook his head.

“And neither do I!  Your lives are so comically short, I’ve not even bothered to count how many slaves I’ve owned.  But of that numberless number, not a single one has ever denied me anything; I don’t command, I ask, and they obey because they want to, all to a one, but not you.  Yes, ape, you are the Immanuel foredoomed.”  Her rage subsided, and she smiled.  “And here I’ve got you all to myself.  You will not be my man?”

“I will not, Princess.”

“But you will worship me?  You will serve me?”

“Aye, Princess.”

“That will have to do.”

She threw a leg over him and mounted him, her cunny hovering mere inches over his throbbing prick.  Slowly, maddening slowly, she lowered herself onto him.  Wolf gasped and moaned at the touch, the pleasure of it almost more than he could bear.  When the full length of him was inside her, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, “No matter what may be foredoomed, no matter what Shaitan himself might say, you are mine.  You belong to me.  If you don’t yet, you will.”

Wolf didn’t respond.  Pleasure coursed through every inch of his being, pulsing with the very beating of Tryamore’s heart.  He had been with his share of women; none of them—not even the first—had been anything like this.

He gasped and managed to spit, “Princess.”

“Do you like the way it feels, ape?”

Shaking, he nodded.

She laughed.  “And I’m not even moving.  You must realize, man, that you’ve just been ruined.  No man or woman will ever satisfy you the way your Princess can.”

Wolf found that he didn’t care.

“Who am I, ape?”

“Princess,” he whispered.

“Yes.  I am your Princess.”  She yawned.  “I think I’ll move around a bit.”

She lifted fully off of his prick and fell back upon it.  Wolf shot his seed into her with an ecstatic scream.  She pinned his wrists to the bed and rode him.

“You lost your seed so quickly,” she panted.  “You can do better.”

“Princess . . .”

“I suppose I can forgive you, this time.  If you want it to stop, ape, you need but say so.”

“Never,” he managed to gasp.

“Good.”

She rode him harder, faster, as though punishing him.  Wolf felt a world away, drunk with pleasure, entranced by the beauty of his Princess.  Time lost all meaning for him; it was both an instant and an eternity before Tryamore, with a shudder and a scream, drenched his loins.  Her womanhood spasmed around his member, drawing a scream from him as well.

“Akbar Shaitan!” she howled, laughing, drunk with pleasure and power.  “Akbar Shaitan!  Wolf, the fearsome swordsman!  Wolf, the great war leader!  Wolf, Immanuel foredoomed!  Wolf, son of a god!  Under me, serving me, like a slave, mine, mine, MINE!”

She spasmed again, gushed again, screamed, and it drew another spurt from Wolf.  The Princess rolled off of him, clutched his now-flaccid member, and purred, “Seems that one finished you.”

Wolf could barely breathe.

“Worry not.  You did well, for your first service.  And you’ll have plenty of practice; so long as you’re in my city, I’ll expect you back every night.”

Catching his breath, he grinned.  “I look forward to it, Princess.”

“Of course you do.”  She yawned and reclined on the bed.  “You will have the Silent King’s good will; I can promise you that.  Now dress and go, prove to your friends that you haven’t been devoured.  After dinner tomorrow, come straight here.”

Wolf grinned wider, kissing her boldly before he took up sword and kilt and left the room.

***

Tryamore Blackrock, Princess of the House of Iblis, heiress to the Blackstone Throne and Citadel of Glass, lay staring up at her ceiling for a long, long time.  This man Wolf, he knew he was special, knew he was a man with a grim and glorious doom, but this god men called Woden seemed very selective with the information he gave out.

The words of Shaitan, from the mouth of Iblis, were far more informative.

“I don’t want it,” she muttered, rising to extinguish the lamp.

“I don’t want this doom,” she grumbled, returning to bed.

“I will not love him!” she yelled into the darkness.

The darkness seemed not to care.

 

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