Vashti Valant - Slave of the Goblin

Finally, he was damned because all he had to offer her was the darkness in him, and though some streak of darkness in her responded to his lustful touch, it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted something from her that could only be born of the gods of Light.

You love him, don’t you? He had asked her about the elf lord.

Yes.

She would fuck Akraz. But she loved Lathaniel.

And, as he carried Laya from the Hall of the Dark God, he cradled her body limp from hours of being used and aroused and spanked, he couldn’t blame her. Of course she hated him. He hated himself.

Akraz carried Laya into the midnight air of a cool balcony, one of the castle’s ramparts. He stretched out her body on a marble bench. Within, the fete continued. Soon , Akraz promised her silently. Soon I will make it all up to you. Then you will be free, your people safe, and you will have your precious Lathaniel. And I will be out of your life forever . He had gambled everything that his plan would work, but he did not expect to survive to claim the victory. Victory would be meaningless without Laya by his side in any case, so he cared not.

Gently, he peeled away her ruined dress. Her naked body shone in the moonlight. The stripes where he had whipped her across her breasts, buttocks and thighs clearly stood out against her pale skin. None of the welts had drawn blood, but he felt ashamed all the same. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. She looked up at him with her huge emerald eyes. Hunger burned in their depths.

“Akraz,” she begged. “Don’t leave me like this. Give me what I need.”

He had aroused her again and again, yet denied her climax. He couldn’t stand the thought of those strangers sharing the ecstasy of that most personal of all emotions. Even now, he knew it would be best to wait until he had her back in his den to satiate her. But they were alone on balcony. With her nude body stretched out on the marble bench like a sacrifice before him, his cock pulsed in his britches. He could not wait, and neither could she.

He traced a single finger down the curve of her cheek. It brushed her mouth. She suckled it. He dipped the finger deeper into her mouth and felt her lave it with her tongue. Then the fingertip moved on, down her neck. He traced lazy circles around her breasts. He pressed in one nipple. She gasped. He repeated the featherlight pattern on the other breast, and pressed that nipple too. His touch was light, barely a pressure, but her skin, especially all of her sexual parts, had been so sensitized by the night’s activities, that the least touch felt magnified.

His finger resumed its journey down her hyper soft flesh. He tapped it against her clit, and she buckled from the single touch.

“Please, oh, please,” she begged. She raised her hips, lifting herself to him as an offering. A warm surge of power and tenderness flooded him. She was so vulnerable, so helpless, so desperate for his touch.

He wiggled his finger in the barest of motions, a mere flickering of his fingertip against her engorged clit. She gushed with wetness. Her thighs clenched and spread, entreating his hand to use her harder. He refused the silent plea. The tease continued as the lightest of tickles on her clit. Yet he knew the sensation was mounting. She writhed beneath him in the most delightful fashion. He loved the way her tongue unconsciously lapped her lips, the wild circles traced by her jiggling breasts. Her toes pointed. Her whole body thrashed and bucked in response to the tip-tapping of his one finger. She danced for him. All for him.

With his other hand, he unlaced the front of his britches. He pulled out his hard cock and wagged it in tempo with her rocking hips.

She arched her head back and screamed.

He clutched her knees and spread them to the sides of her breasts, while he silenced her scream of ecstasy with a hard, demanding kiss. His cock was more than ready for her. In he plunged to her hot, yawning pussy. He felt her inner muscles clutch at him, squeeze his cock in welcome. He pressed her knees wider and further, almost to the bench, so that she was spread completely, with no way to hide her charms or control the depth of his entrance. Her cunt opened fully to him. He penetrated to the hilt of his considerable length. He drew back slowly, then drove in again. Slow, sensuous strokes alternated with fierce, rapid thrusts. His cock rubbed every part of her sheath, deep, deep inside. All the while, his tongue plundered her mouth, in mirror image to the way his cock plundered her cunt.

She wrapped her legs around his back and matched his thrusts with her own. His hands left her knees. Back arched, he clutched her breasts and kneaded them.

“Tell me you belong to me!” he commanded.

“I belong to you.”

“Tell me you want only me!”

“I want only you.”

“Tell me you love me,” he ordered. His voice cracked. Roughly, he said it again. “Tell me you love me and only me! Say it!”

“I love you,” she panted. “I love you, Akraz, I love you, I love you!”

To the beat of those sweet lies, rapture poured through him, and out of him, and emptied him of himself as his cum spurted hot and deep into her pulsating cunt.

“I love you, I love you,” she said over and over, even after he collapsed on top of her. He buried his face in her hair, wanting to weep. He had ordered her to say it, just as he had ordered her to pleasure him a thousand perverse ways this evening. She had obeyed, to save her life and the life of the elf lord she truly loved. Her compliance, her need for him, addicted him like wine. She awakened in him all his darkest possessiveness and lust. But he could not fool himself. Declarations made under coercion meant nothing.

“I love you,” she moaned into his neck. He did not have the heart to silence her.

But he knew better than to believe her.

Akraz rolled off Laya. He had fucked her fully dressed, but now he removed his black tunic to give to her. She wiggled into it. The hem reached her thighs. She looked as striking in black as in white.

A flutter of black wings interrupted his reverie. A black swan landed on the rampart and transformed into an ebon-haired beauty with purple eyes. She wore black gloves, a high-collared black dress, and a hooded, floor-length black cape.

In his arms, Laya stirred and tried to collect herself. “Strathgora?”

“I have come to collect,” said the wizard’s daughter with a weird smile.

“Collect?” Akraz asked sharply.

“The dress, of course,” said Strathgora. “It belongs to the Garden collection. It’s magic you know. Not easily replaced.”

Laya pried herself from Akraz’s protective embrace. She picked up the dress where Akraz had dropped it and glanced down ruefully at the tatters of the once exquisite gown. The bodice and skirt had been ripped open. The white silk brocade and frilly petticoats were soiled with wine and semen.

“I’m afraid it’s rather ruined,” Laya said in a small voice. She glanced sidelong at Akraz. “I’m sorry, I never expected…”

“I did,” interrupted Strathgora. “Why do you think I gave you the bodice-ripper? I haven’t all night. Give it back.”

With a shrug, Laya handed the torn dress to Strathgora, who received it with a black-gloved hand. She shook the tatters in her hands, once, twice and thrice, and the material began to sparkle and billow. Within moments, where rags had been, the shining white gown hung in Strathgora’s hands, as crisp and full as new.

“Oh!” exclaimed Laya. “That is magic.”

“Yes.” Strathgora set aside the dress and drew off her black gloves. “It was a wedding dress fashioned by the wizard Zagor the Cruel, who married a new woman every night and had her murdered in her wedding gown. You can understand that with that many brides, he didn’t want to deal with the expense of buying a new dress each time.”