A Perverted Path to Victory

Evie Brown

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Training an army was exhausting. On an intellectual level, Evie had known this would be true. How could she not? It was obvious. She had known it before she accepted her faux-position of Commander of the Powdered Lead Mercenaries, and she had even experienced a degree of it when she and Sara had been forging the Tulian Army in the months before the Sporaton invasion. But for all the time she had spent over the last few weeks purposefully recalling the difficulties Master Graf had often opined on during his more active training days, she still hadn’t been fully prepared for the reality of undergoing the effort for herself.

Her foremost difficulties came from a deceptively simple problem. The Imperial Army and its members were not of the same stock as the Tulian people. Though loyal to the Adjutant and his faction, and, to Sara’s constant disbelief, willing to fight for his cause, they had not undergone the same trials as those whom Evie had first taken under her wing.

In Tulian, the population which had remained after the storms were what her father-in-law would call a “self-selected group.” They were the survivors of a terrible calamity, but rather than flee their shattered Kingdom, they had spent years building their lives in the aftermath of it. That meant they were a hardened people, those who had faced overwhelming adversity for many years without flinching. When a Sporaton army had appeared at their door, they had known that among them there were no equals for even a single member of the glittering Knights, but they did not care. Why should they? One impossibility to overcome was just another in a long list of challenges they had undertaken in their life.

The Imperial Army was different. The volunteer-majority force fought for their leaders willingly, yes, often voraciously, but to a decided limit:

The ‘Warriors.’

While not a legally defined social class of the Empire like Sporaton Knights, the Warriors were still wreathed in an awe-tinged fear by the Imperial commoners. They had no reason, and had never had been provided a reason, to believe that they could challenge the nigh-immortal Warriors. Where the Sporaton nobility maintained their claim to authority by disallowing the commoners combat Classes, the prolonged Imperial Civil War both required and allowed that Warriors maintain their power in society through more legitimate martial excellence. Those few commoners who reached a Level worthy of being included amongst their numbers were elevated to the lofty status of “Warrior” with great pomp and circumstance, featuring many elaborate and highly public rituals. It was a process which solidified the unreachability of their power for the common people. After all, they had seen the size of the armies, and they had seen how comparably rare it was for a Warrior to rise from amongst their ranks. What hope did they have of claiming the heads of such a vaunted enemy?

With musket in hand, Evie had tried to tell them, a very good chance indeed.

None of them believed her.

Oh, they were excited for the weapons. They had been as enamored by her demonstrations of musketballs piercing enchanted armor as their commanders had been disturbed. But no matter what she told them, no matter how she motivated, trained, or ordered them, when it came down to it, they remained convinced that should they come face-to-face with a Warrior, they only had one paltry choice left to them: that of how their conduct would be immortalized in the memories of those few who survived the slaughter. Even in the mock skirmishes Evie staged, Powdered Lead Mercenaries squaring off against Imperial Pike-and-Musket blocks, the Imperial soldiers could not bring themselves to fight against an Irregular, what they would call a Warrior. When Sara or Evie personally took the field, even knowing the battle was fake, their commoner opponents would either flee, surrender, or, on rare occasions, attempt some valiant final charge that was as impressive as it was damningly stupid. Not once did any consider the option of forming ranks and cutting them down in a volley of simulated musket fire.

Evie sighed deeply as she continued flicking out quick notes in her journal, tabulating the morning’s training results. She was in one of the multitudes of forges which ringed Battulen’s outer city perimeter, ears tucked against the melodious racket of hammers striking glowing iron. She had Tahn tucked gently into her lap, her precious little boy snoozing happily away beneath the enchanted earmuffs Garen had gifted him. She occasionally took a break from her writing to simply stare down at him, luxuriating in the simple fact that he was present, that he existed. She had protested Hurlish’s exit of Tulian vehemently, of course, but now that the decision had been made and the necessary details worked out, she was inordinately grateful to have both her wives and their child at her side. Even here, where glowing coals burned away the thick humidity which sought to wring every ounce of sweat from her body, looking at her son provided a lightness to her soul so profound it was almost discomforting. If it was not for the fact that she knew exactly where it came from, the suspicious absence of her lifelong pessimism would have convinced her some foul influence was attempting to hex her into a stupor.

She did wish she had a pair of Tahn’s enchanted earmuffs for herself, however. The forges were no place for a child, even one born of Hurlish, and it was only because of the magical devices that he could remain so peaceful. He had ears like hers, after all. That he was already inoculated to the scent of burning charcoal and molten slag, to the gusts of hot embers which dusted across the cobblestones? That had nothing to do with the earmuffs, and she was already proud of him. Before she’d had her own child, she’d have scoffed at the notion of anyone being proud of an infant. Now here she was, beaming with pride.

And occasional annoyance.

Evie lifted herself off the bench slightly, knees bent, ears braced.

A thunderous slam shot across the courtyard, the reverberations of impact passing through the soles of her feet an instant before the accompanying clang pierced her skull from temple to temple, earning a wince despite the wax stuffing her ears. She’d fired pistols and rifles, had stood next to roaring cannons, yet none of them were half as loud as a hammer swung by Hurlish of Tulian when the woman was in a poor mood.

Evie sat back down as the dust settled, drifting in tiny flakes to rest atop the cobblestones they’d so recently abandoned. The stones of this courtyard would have to be replaced before long, she suspected. They’d already had to do it twice at Hurlish’s forge; once, when the repeated impacts had jostled the stones out of place, then again, when the mortar they’d used to set them more firmly in place had been shattered into loose gravel.

Perhaps Hurlish didn’t have to hit her current piece quite so hard, but Evie wouldn’t know. She lacked the expertise of Hurlish or Sara. She had her suspicions, though. When word had gotten out that Hurlish had begun to teach the smiths of the city how to forge new kinds of weapons using new methods, the “true” master blacksmiths had crawled from the woodwork.

Like termites, Evie thought, fighting off the urge to curl her lips in a snarl as she glanced at the elven smiths. Little colonies of infestations, easy to forget when out of sight, yet always insidious in their work, working to further the rot hidden behind the paneling.

Sara usually had to work to convince Evie that some group or another should be regarded as their ideological opponents. Evie did not hold the same fervor for Sara’s beliefs as her wife did, even if she had slowly come around to accepting the jist. In this case, however, Master Graf’s own prejudices had laid more groundwork than even Sara had been expecting. When the ancient elven smiths had crawled down from their lofty towers to personally survey Hurlish’s work, Evie’s opinion of them was already at the edge of a steep precipice, waiting for the slightest breeze to send it teetering over the edge to a cratering death below.

Then the rotten bastards had introduced themselves by leveling every conceivable insult at Hurlish’s work, and, though they surely hadn’t known nor cared that they were doing so, taken a club to the knees of Evie’s view of the Elvish people.

Master Graf was right, Evie thought, sniffing as she returned to her notes, longevity is a poison to the soul more pure than any death.

That she wouldn’t have cared in the slightest had they been insulting any other smith’s work never crossed her mind, because it hadn’t been any other smith. They had insulted Hurlish. And that meant anything they were, everything they had to offer, it was all less than worthless. Their very existence had become an insult in and of itself.

“See there,” one of the elven smiths said in Kemari, pointing. “For all your brutish strength, your strike was a dozen and three leg-of-ant off center. The plate will have been work-hardened unevenly.”

Even as a translator began relaying this laughably quaint criticism to Hurlish, another began nearby.

“And your form is poor. That you have the strength to swing a steel mallet the size of your chest is no excuse for wielding it as you do.”

Yet another insult began, but halfway through, Hurlish stopped inspecting her work, pointing to the second elf who had spoken.

“What are you expecting me to do?” She rumbled in Continental. “I can’t get proper form with a hammer this big. I’d hit myself on the back of the head. And any smaller hammer wouldn’t survive.”

When the retort was relayed, the elf scoffed, flicking her eyes upward as if in exasperation. This one was a woman with a build far too lithe and willowy for any blacksmith Evie had known, and she had thus far distinguished herself by primarily keeping her insults to Hurlish’s own body and how she handled herself, rather than the quality of her work.

The elves as a group were driving Evie to distraction. These were the first of their kind Evie had met, save for the occasional dignitary which had graced the courts of Sporatos, and those had all been “young” elves, having lived only a few centuries. Her mother and Master Graf had both agreed that elven peoples chose the young as their ambassadors because they were better at empathizing with humans.

These elves? This woman in particular? She was not a trained diplomat, even if she had the beauty for it. Her slanted ears were tipped back like a racing hound, as if folded away in preparation for a sprint, and the spider-silk garments she wore shimmered in a most irritating manner with every sharp, measured gesture. Like many of the elven smiths of either gender, her long hair had been tucked strand-by-strand into an iron circlet of dizzying complexity, spiderwebs of cool iron wrapped about one another like the mathematical fractals her father-in-law had oft described. From her dress to her movements, she was an elegant creature, all gossamer wings and ephemeral grace, and she was not unique in this. Every elf in the courtyard possessed a beauty that defied the very notion of approach, like the misting rainbow of a pounding waterfall. To Evie’s eyes, however, the effect was drowned beneath the bitch’s pinched brow and tight, barely civil smile.

“Use a properly enchanted hammer,” the woman said, enunciating each syllable like she was speaking to a child. “If you cannot do your work properly with the implements you have, do not persist in a fruitless task. Begin to craft tools capable of furthering yourself.”

“Don’t have anyone in Tulian that could make a hammer like that,” Hurlish grunted when she heard the translated reply. She turned the steel plate she had been working on with a finger, inspecting it from a new angle. “And even if I did, I’d just want them to work that magic on another hammer this size. There’s things that I work on that need an even hit across a surface this large.”

All of the elvish spectators made their various versions of half-polite scoffs.

“Like what?” The woman demanded. “Are you making armor for all the wyverns your people keep in that hovel?”

If she hadn’t had Tahn in her lap, Evie would have leapt up. As it was, her fist only clenched, threatening to dent the metal of her fountain pen.

“Guns,” Hurlish grunted.

“Your weapons are not a tenth as large as this plate would require.”

“Ones I’m showing y’all aren’t.”

Another titter of arrogant laughter from the elves. Hurlish ignored them, setting the plate back down and raising her hammer high. Evie braced herself.

Hurlish swung, ending the laughter with the booming ring of steel against steel.

Evie had not yet seen an elf yet who could swing a hammer like that.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sara whispered in her ear, resting a hand on Evie’s shoulder, gently pushing down.

Evie had not realized that she was beginning to stand until Sara had arrived, forcing her back into a more relaxed sitting posture.

“My turn,” her wife said, reaching for Tahn.

“No,” Evie said petulantly, squeezing their swaddled son closer to her stomach. “I haven’t had him for a half hour yet.”

“But you’re working. I’m not.”

“No,” she repeated emphatically, setting aside her notebook. She’d gladly stop working if it gave her the full length of her turn with Tahn.

“Fine,” Sara said, snuggling her cheek into Evie’s shoulder instead to watch Tahn sleep. “But seriously. Don’t worry about them. If Hurlish didn’t want them there, they’d be gone.”

“Would they? The elvish are the elite of this society. Who would have the authority to eject them from this place?”

“Who’d be able to stop Hurlish from ejecting them herself?”

Despite herself, Evie felt a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. It wasn't true, of course. The path Hurlish’s anomalous Class had led her down may have given her strength unlike anything Evie had ever heard of, much less seen, but that didn’t mean she was capable of intimidating creatures a thousand years her senior. Still, it was a pleasing image.

“Does she truly think this torment is worth it?”

Sara shrugged, shoulder rubbing against Evie’s. “I don't see where else she's supposed to learn about the Skills of a blacksmith at her Level. It's not like our Skills. She doesn't get an easy description, and she can't just test it out for herself. Not without wasting a whole lot of money and material, at least.”

That Hurlish truly thought this farce of insults was worth it was yet another instance of something Evie knew intellectually, but found difficult to accept emotionally. Abusing the seemingly limitless resources of the Empire was half of why Hurlish had insisted she be brought along with the mercenaries. Experimental smithing projects which would have put a considerable dent in Tulian’s weekly iron ore stock were barely worth the tax reeve’s attention here.

“I still do not think they are being particularly helpful,” Evie muttered darkly. “They arrived due to their interest in her weapons, but now they stay only out of a macabre interest in watching her repeated ‘failings.’ They critique her work, her form, and her designs, but they have not offered a single piece of information relevant to her Skills or their own equivalents. I am happy to see Hurlish abuse Imperial resources to her heart’s content, but must she do it with such insufferable people in her company?”

“That’s up to her,” Sara said, reaching down to gently brush a bit of Tahn’s hair away from his eyes. “She can handle them on her own, I promise.”

“Dealing with sycophants and parasites is my responsibility,” Evie insisted. “She has never had a desire to deal with political blathering, and until now, I’ve worked very hard to keep these types of people away from her.”

“And I know for a fact she’s very grateful for that,” Sara assured her. “But she’s a grown-ass woman. She can- oh, wait. Here we go.”

Evie had missed whatever comment had passed through the translator’s lips to provoke such a reaction, but at Sara’s comment, she glanced over just in time to see Hurlish grab the glowing slab of steel with her bare hand, throwing it at the feet of the gathered elvish smiths in a spray of sparks. The Skill which let Hurlish resist the heat of forged metal was clearly not something the elves had, judging by the way they skittered away from the metal before it could bounce into their shins.

“If you’ve got something useful to say,” Hurlish growled, stabbing a single thick finger at one of the smiths, “I want you to say it. But if you’re just here to copy my work so you can spend fifty years shitting something out that’ll put it to shame, you can fuck off. By the time any of you have something worth bragging about, I’ll be too dead to give a shit.”

While the translator nervously stuttered their way through Hurlish’s remark, Evie leaned back into Sara, dropping her voice to an even lower whisper.

“It seems she takes after your techniques for dealing with irritants.”

“I don’t think there’s any technique involved,” Sara said. “She’s just pissed.”

“Good.”

Hurlish left the cooling chunk of steel at the feet of the elvish crowd, stomping off to select another batch of raw ore. It was all she had been doing the last two days: starting with entirely unrefined iron, then steadily working it through every step of the process required to turn it into pure steel. Her Class, being born of a life in an isolated village, lent her more generalized Skills than many smiths. If she wanted to understand the new instincts her Levels had gifted her, she had to take a holistic approach.

Most of the elves, predictably, did as Hurlish suggested. They turned their noses up and, with all the dignity accrued across centuries of noble lifestyle, fucked off. Some, however, stayed, including the majority of the most ardent critics.

“You complain of us not sharing with you anything of worth,” one of them said, a pale, waifish man, “but you have offered precious little yourself. I see no sign of the fanciful weapons which have so captured the imaginations of the mortal peasantry.”

Hurlish sifted through the barrels of ore, nostrils flaring as she picked up chunks to sniff. Her Skill for detecting the purity of ore was filtered through her sense of smell, and it made for an often comical sight, seeing the massive woman sniffing clumps of dirty red metal like a glass of fine wine.

“Guns aren’t hard to make,” Hurlish said. “I already showed half the city’s smiths how to make muskets. Cannons are harder, but the foundries we need for them ain’t done yet. So what do you want me to do? Pound out a few iron tubes so you can get pissed at my technique for them, too?”

“Making any weapon is simple,” the elvish man said testily, “but making them with the Skill of a master is not. Any weapon, no matter how ignoble its design, may become something admirable when born from skilled hands.”

Hurlish paused, eying the elf. “You admitting I’m a master smith?”

“I think anyone with eyes or ears can see that you are no amateur,” the elvish man said, though his tone somehow turned the frank statement into an insult. “Even if you do not understand the finesse which is required to elevate yourself to true expertise. Were I to imitate the works of your students, I would begin with the skill of a student. Were I to imitate your own work, I will start with the skill of the teacher.”

Hurlish dropped the ore back into the barrel, crossing her arms as she stared down at the much-reduced crowd of elven smiths. Just six of them, now.

“You think you can make a gun as good as mine just after watching me do it?”

“Yes.”

Hurlish barked out a loud “Ha!” and uncrossed her arms, moving to the forge’s bellows. Evie smiled inwardly. It made sense, she supposed, that the rudest of the elves would be those most likely to earn Hurlish’s laughter. “Alright,” her wife said, beginning to heat the coals. “But if I show y’all how I make a rifle, you’re gonna start talking Skills. I got shit I can do that doesn’t make any sense. Sometimes I look at something I made and I hate it. Think it’s terrible. I do the same thing again, the exact same way, but this time I somehow know it’s better than anything I’ve ever done. And I don’t have a damn clue why. If you help me figure that out, I might even let you watch me make some cannons in a couple weeks.”

“You could not stop us from observing your work,” one of the elvish women said in a snotty tone, upper lip curled far enough to show a glint of her teeth. “There are a dozen different laws ensuring we have the right to view the work of smithies within our city.”

“You may have the right,” Hurlish said, stopping her pumping of the bellows, “but you won’t have a cannon. And I will. So play nice, kids.”

Evie finally couldn’t keep her smirk hidden. Delight danced across her face as she watched the elvish smiths glance at one another, baffled to hear someone so many years their junior referring to them as children. It was delightful.

“Satisfied?” Sara asked, standing with a groaning stretch. “Told you Hurlish would handle it.”

“I suppose she did,” Evie said, “but I still don’t think she should have had to do so herself. That is my role.”

“You’ve got too many ‘roles’ for your own good,” Sara said, offering a hand to help Evie to her feet, which she took. “If you picked your responsibilities and didn’t let yourself worry about the other stuff, I think you’d be a lot less anxious.”

“Any woman capable of doing that is also an entirely different person from my current self,” Evie said, adjusting Tahn to rest better against her breast. “And unless you see fit to order me to change…”

Sara smirked. “I mean, I haven’t changed your mind about anything. Your body on the other hand…”

Evie fixed her with a glare. “Not in front of Tahn, Mas-” She cleared her throat. “Not in front of Tahn, Sara.”

“I know the rules. Just pointing out the obvious.”

They walked across the courtyard together, stepping under the wooden pavilion which sheltered what had rapidly become known to all as Hurlish’s Forge. Their two guards followed a distance, matching their footfalls step for step beneath their green cloak, heads turned outward to survey the area. Evie stepped up to Tahn’s crib, the gaudy, ostentatious thing her wives had pilfered from literal gangsters. She took a moment to inspect the gemstones, which had been lifted up and placed in new locations, the cosmetic carvings of sleeping sheep and rolling waves etched over by brutally utilitarian runes. Satisfied with her inspection, she set Tahn down in the crib, ignoring the prickle of electricity which passed along her arm, little pops of static briefly lighting her skin as the bolts jumped between each raised hair.

“Y’all heading out?” Hurlish asked, setting her massive hammer down before walking over, dusting her hands on her smock.

“We have a meeting with General Borek, yes,” Evie replied. “There’s a bit of strategy to be discussed. Officially, we are just attending to be better informed of our employer’s intentions, but…”

“But you’re gonna be butting your head in?”

“Naturally,” Evie agreed.

Hurlish snorted. She reached out and grabbed Evie by the shoulder, dragging her in, so her face was buried in the bulk of her stomach. It would have been nothing but a rough hug, if not for the way Hurlish just so happened to turn Evie aside, just so happened to lift her foot a touch, leg rising between Evie’s thighs.

“Have fun,” she said, patting Evie on the head as she pulled her even closer, forcing her to grind the front of her hips against her muscular leg. Any protest Evie could have made would have been lost in her wife’s abs, so she stayed silent, suppressing a shiver. They had a long walk ahead of them. She tried to think calming, pure thoughts.

“Oh, she will,” Sara said, the salacious tone almost forcing another shudder through Evie. “I’ve got her dressed up real nice for the meeting.”

“Yeah? Mui gonna be there?”

“Can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be,” Sara said. “Why’re you asking?”

Hurlish’s voice dropped a touch quieter. Just enough that the elves couldn’t easily hear her, not without straining for it.

“Just surprised you haven’t dragged him on top of our pet yet.”

Evie tried to turn her head aside to say something, but Hurlish palmed her skull like a ball, turning it back into her stomach. Her efforts went ignored.

“I’ll get to it eventually,” Sara said. “Mui’s still a bit shy, all things considered. Besides, why do you care? You don’t like men.”

“But I like this little whore,” Hurlish rumbled, petting Evie’s hair with a thumb. “And I know she’ll enjoy it.”

Evie made a noise of protest, squirming ineffectually as she tried to free herself. She was trying as hard as she could to control her arousal, to not let the pounding between her legs grow problematic.

“Oh?” Hurlish’s finger flicked over her ear, freezing her. “What, kitty? You think you wouldn’t get off on that?”

If she’d had room to speak, Evie would have said that she wouldn’t. That Mui, while an attractive enough man, was nothing particularly exceptional. That the reasons why Master found him so appealing did not engender the same desire in her. But she couldn’t. So she was forced to listen as Hurlish bent forward a bit, just enough that the underside of her breasts brushed the tips of Evie’s ears.

“Don’t lie to yourself, kitty,” the orcish woman whispered in a low purr. “We know you. Are you really gonna try and tell me that if Sara told you to spread your legs for him, you wouldn’t?” Hurlish’s leg dug just a bit deeper between her thighs, striking something that made Evie shudder. “Do you really think that you have it in you to tell your Master no? That if she told you, ordered you, to get on your knees for him, you could say no? That if she tore your pants off and pinned your wrists to the ground, you wouldn’t be sticking your ass up for him to take you whenever he wanted?”

Evie whined, feeling her self-control slip. The pounding between her legs grew and grew, heat rising, elongating, her newest gift from Sara’s Blessings making itself known through the cloth of her pants.

“Oh, come on, Hurlish,” Sara said, stepping closer. Evie felt a hand come to rest on her lower back, just above her tail. “She’s not like that. She’s a proper Lady, isn’t she? I mean, it’s not like she’s getting turned on just by talking about it. She’s got more self-control than that. If she was really a whore, she’d be grinding on your leg like one, trying to get off even when she knows it’s useless.”

With a flash of horrific embarrassment, Evie realized she’d been doing just that. She’d been thrusting herself up and down Hurlish’s thigh, trying to bring any pressure and friction she could find to her newfound appendage. She’d not even realized. They were in public. Not even Tulian, but a foreign Empire, and there were members of high society a dozen feet away. People who could do true, genuine damage to her reputation. She couldn’t even see. Had any of them wandered to the side while she’d had her face buried in Hurlish’s stomach? Could they see her? Had they already seen her?

“Got bad news, Sara,” Hurlish said. Evie could hear the grin in her voice. “She’s hard as a rock down there.”

Sara clicked her tongue disappointedly, like a headmaster addressing a failing student. “Damn. And here I thought she was getting better. Are you sure?”

“See for yourself,” Hurlish said, grabbing Evie by the back of her neck and jerking her away from her body.

Evie instantly tried to hunch her shoulders, to curve her body to hide her throbbing erection, but Hurlish never let go of her neck. She held her out for Sara like a tailor showing off a dress for a wealthy client, both women eying her with a mild, possessive interest.

Evie felt her cock throb in her pants. Sara had decided not to give her anything particularly abnormal- well below human average, in fact- but she had also ordered Evie to wear azarketi leggings and a pair of short panties. A thick outline was traced in the material, the head of her cock dripping a bit of fluid to stain the material.

Hurlish tsked. “Told you so. Little whore can’t help it. It’s almost unfair to expect anything else, really.”

“I guess you’re right. Maybe I should get the whole thing over with already. Put the collar on her and make her go after Mui herself, so I don’t have to screw with it. It’d be a lot easier.”

No, Evie thought, desperation filling her. No, no, no. She’s teasing. Joking. She wouldn’t make me debase myself like that.

Hurlish laughed. “You think she could actually manage it? She doesn’t know the first thing about seducing. She just offers herself up to be used.”

“She’s pretty good at being used, though.”

Hurlish shrugged, tucking Evie back into the same crushing hug she’d started off with. Someone had been coming around the corner, Evie realized with a surge of horror. She’d seen them as nothing more than a blur as Hurlish had dragged her in. Had they had time to see? To see her? Had it been one of the elves?

“I guess so,” Hurlish said. “But I think Mui’s not gonna like her like this. Too desperate, too whiny. I mean, she’s about to cum just from grinding on my leg. Who’d want that? If Mui was gonna have his first time with a cock, he’d be better off finding someone that won’t blow their load in a few seconds.”

Evie was panting open-mouthed into Hurlish’s smock now, breathing deeply of the mixed scents of her sweat and the ashen forge. She kept trying to stop herself from thrusting, but she had even less control of herself than she normally did. Sara had given her a cock before, several times in fact, but the sight of Evie with such an appendage seemed to do something terrible to the woman. She’d never, not once, allowed Evie to cum when she’d had a cock.

It was driving her mad. She felt her hips begin to stir, her body moving of its own accord-

“Well, I don’t want to keep you two for too long,” Hurlish said, abruptly releasing Evie and shoving her away.

Evie groaned, clenching her fists as she stumbled to a stop. She’d been too desperate, too obvious. Her thrusts had started to grow faster, stuttery, her teeth gnashing against Hurlish’s stomach. The orc had recognized the signs and tossed her aside before she’d finished.

When the wave of frustration finished rolling through her, Evie’s better mind reasserted itself. She spun on a heel to face an empty section of the forge, tugging her shirt down as far as she could. It was a cloth shirt, however, and couldn’t stretch far, so she had to surreptitiously reach forward and pull her cock- stifling a groan as she touched it- into an upright position, as hidden as it could be.

If only I’d known she’d do this today, I would have worn a longer shirt!

Sara and Hurlish laughed at her behind her back, no doubt confusing the elves who were still milling about the forge, waiting for Hurlish to return to her work.

“You need a minute before we get going, Evie?” Sara asked.

“Yes,” she breathed, tucking a hair back into her braids, “That would be-”

“Sucks,” Sara said, swatting her on the ass as she walked past. “Let’s go.”

Evie was left to stumble after her, one hand still desperately tugging her shirt down. It exposed a great deal more of her cleavage, but at least that was comparatively modest when compared to the overt bulge that would have otherwise been on display.

“And why, exactly, are we doing this today of all days, Master?” Evie asked, hissing the question between clenched teeth as they stepped out onto the bustling city streets.

“Oh, no reason, really,” Sara innocently hummed. A lie if Evie had ever heard one. “I was just thinking about how unfair it was that you get to go around horny as hell most of the time, teasing me and Mui whenever you want, and you never have to worry about it showing. I thought it would be fun to turn the tables a bit.”

That wasn’t strictly true, Evie wanted to say. She’d come close to soaking through her clothing on several occasions, when circumstances had forced her to forgo her wives’ bodies for a particularly long stretch. But considering the rarity of that situation, she knew voicing the point would be useless.

“I hardly tease Mui of all people,” she said instead, doing her best to think of anything but the throbbing between her legs. “As I would have said earlier, I have no particular interest in him.”

Sara arched an eyebrow, glancing at Evie from the corner of her eyes. “Oh, yeah? A strapping young soldier, more skilled than he should be for his Level, with a powerful sense of loyalty to his people and cause? One who’s spent months happily protecting me and Hurlish, and who’s the last person to argue with any of your plans for defending us? The same Mui who squared up with a whole army just because it was his job to keep me safe? That Mui? No interest in him?”

“Just because he has admirable qualities does not mean I want him between my legs,” Evie said snippily, glad for the argument. She could feel her stiffness fading, the debate keeping her mind off the tightness of her pants. “As Hurlish said, I’ll happily pleasure him at your request, but he’s not the sort I would pursue of my own volition.”

“Right,” Master said, drawing the word out into a deeply sarcastic remark. “Evie Brown, child of the Night’s Eye, doesn’t get turned on by hot soldier boys. Of course. Makes perfect sense. I’m sure you didn’t grow up watching mercenaries train, realizing when you first started growing up that hey, maybe those sweaty shirtless soldiers over there are catching your eye for more than one reason.”

Evie flushed, long-suppressed memories involuntarily brought to the forefront of her mind. She hadn’t thought of those days in years. Master couldn’t know of the glances she had stolen as she began to grow into her womanhood, painfully unaware that her staring was far more blatant than she realized. Not until Master Graf had scolded her in the middle of a practice bout, telling her in front of the entire Night’s Eye that if she couldn’t focus in the yard, she should start using her mother’s money to hire a courtesan to calm her down before attending a training session. She’d been fourteen, and it had been the most mortifying moment of her life.

“That’s what I thought,” Master said when Evie had lingered too long without a response, lost in thought. She flung an arm around Evie’s shoulder, bringing her close. “I’m not saying you’re in love with the guy,” she said, laughing. “I’m not either. But if you think I don’t know that you find him hot, you’re a dumbass.”

“That’s… that doesn’t mean…” Evie writhed in Master’s grip, trying to pretend she didn’t notice the way Master’s hand was creeping down and to the side, towards her breast. “He fits a certain archetype I might find appealing,” she eventually admitted, breathing hard. “But I could never lose myself in him like I do you, like I do Hurlish.”

“Y’know fucking doesn’t have to snap your brain like dry grass, right?” Sara asked. “You can just, like, fuck because it feels good. Hurlish and I won’t mind. We pick up people all the time. Hell, we’d find it hot. I mean, how many times did Hurlish tell us about some chick she grabbed while we were away? Ten, twelve times?”

Evie’s dizzied mind was grasping at straws, trying to find a response that wouldn’t lead her further into delirium. Every step stirred her stiffness against her pants, grinding the head of her cock against the soft fabric.

“That’s… that is not my place, Master,” she muttered shakily, twisting the marriage ring on her finger. “I am yours. My body has a purpose: your pleasure. I am nothing more, and this is what brings me joy.”

Master rolled her eyes. “Alright, Evie, come out of subspace there a bit. You do realize you can get fucked by anyone you want, right? If you need our permission or whatever, you have it.”

Even as she said this, Master’s hand slipped lower, tweaking her nipple over her clothing in the brief instants when no eyes were upon them. Evie felt confused. Master- Sara- knew what gave her delight. To be taken, owned, used, and even abused; it was wonderful. The profound satisfaction she felt when submitting to her wives had been a joy without equal, at least until Tahn had come into their lives. The idea of simply ‘taking’ Mui for the sake of her own pleasure was so foreign a thought that she knew she never would have conceived of it on our own.

How would I even do it? Evie wondered. It’s not like I could just come up to him on a night when Master has left me frustrated and present myself, allowing him to sate his needs with my body. That would be absurd. I would have to push him, encourage him, perhaps even demand that he take me. He would not even believe me, at first, I’m sure of it. He would not think Master would allow it, much less approve of it.

Evie licked her lips.

But if I could convince him anyway… If he would take me as an animal does, driven to such lust that he drives inside me even while knowing that doing so tramples on Master’s claim to my body…

“Hello?” Master pinched her nipple harder, this time in full view of passersby. “Earth to Evie? You good in there?” She pinched harder still, twisting a touch.

Evie’s back arched involuntarily, shoving her chest into Sara’s touch as she was ripped from her thoughts. The motion pulled her shirt up, exposing herself to any who happened to look, and she knew people would be looking, because a high-pitched mewl forced itself from between her trembling lips.

Master released her nipple with an evil cackle, allowing Evie to sag, covering herself once more. Her head seemed to throb in time with her cock, which was pulsing at the very precipice of release.

“Remind me not to do that again,” Master joked. “Can’t have you blowing your first load on accident. I’ve got places I want that to end up on.”

“B-bastard,” Evie stuttered, hunching her shoulders as her ears fell flat. It was an undignified posture, absolutely not how she wanted the people of Battulen to see her, but it was better than letting the growing stain at the top of her pants be shown to any citizenry who happened to glance below her waist.

“I guess I kinda am,” Sara mused, tucking Evie close. “I mean, I was born out of wedlock. But most people that get called bastards have absentee fathers, not mothers. Guess I get points for uniqueness, there.”

“W-we are almost to the meeting,” Evie groaned, having lost any hope of ignoring the feeling of her body and clothing rubbing against her new anatomy. “Remove the Blessing already, Master.”

Her Master hummed thoughtfully, tapping a finger on her lips. “Mmm… no,” she said, smiling. “I think you need to get better at controlling yourself. I’m sure you can get through a meeting with the General and his staff without ending up distracted, right?”

“I am a-already distracted,” Evie hissed, though her trembling robbed the words of any venom. “Remove it, please.”

“You know,” Master mused, “the funny thing about the wording of that Blessing? It’s all about bringing me and my partner pleasure. Which means that if you aren’t enjoying it, you wouldn’t have that cute little cock dripping cum down your thighs.”

“That is u-unfair,” Evie whined, hunching even further. “Y-you know that if you desire it, I will too. I can’t help it.”

Master’s fingers suddenly clenched in her hair, dragging her close enough that she could spit acidic whispers directly into her ear.

“That’s because you’re mine, you pretty little whore,” Master growled, digging her fingers in further. The words and the pain were nearly enough to have Evie finishing on the spot, and it was only through heroic effort that she held off. “Now be a good girl and stop complaining. We’re almost there.”

She dropped her hand back to Evie’s shoulder as quickly as it had gone to her hair, barely more than an instant having passed. Evie’s entire body was thrumming with the desire to disobey the order, to give herself the lightest touch that would be needed to bring herself over the edge, but she didn’t.

Her Master had told her not to.

The meeting was being held in the city’s largest garrison. With stone walls that rose three stories above the street, crenelated turrets placed at each corner, it rivaled many of the castles of Sporatos in terms of sheer dimensions. Unlike the Sporaton castles, however, the garrison lacked defensive enchantments, as it was already ensconced within the far more robust outer walls. It was placed at the border of the city’s skyscrapers, where the towering buildings shrank down to a more reasonable height. Should the walls be breached, it was where the last-ditch defense of the city would be coordinated from.

And much like the Sporaton castles Evie compared it to, it had been designed with practicality and prestige as equal priorities. Through the open gate she could see an elegant interior courtyard, beds of flowers laid out before a fine manorial home. In times of peace, it was General Borek’s place of residence. When the city was under siege, it would be filled to the brim with milling soldiers.

Master walked up to the guards outside the gate with her signature sloped smile, politely introducing herself as if there was any chance the guards had not recognized her on sight. Though the meeting was due to begin any minute now, she began a lighthearted chat, asking about the soldier’s work and the duties it entailed.

Evie stepped behind Master to hide her waist from the guards, squirming in place. She had their enchanted bag on her hip, and she knew there were several pieces of clothing in it which might help hide her shame. She thought of wrapping a scarf around her waist, or putting a longer shirt over her current cloth top.

But Master had told her this was a test of self-control. Hiding her arousal would be cheating, no? So she could not.

Master eventually concluded her chat with the guards, apologizing that she had to leave so quickly. She stepped past them, Evie trailing close behind, hunched to hide her erection.

“Where do you think the meeting is being held?” Master asked, flicking her gaze around the courtyard. There was no obvious gathering of people.

“You didn’t ask the guards?” Evie asked.

Master raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t pay attention to my conversation with them?”

“I can’t imagine what was distracting me,” Evie growled, trying to find any way to stand which would relieve the pressure against her erection. She couldn’t find one, and even shifting from pose to pose was making things worse, so she stopped.

“Let’s just head inside the manor,” Master said, sweeping forward. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find someone to point us in the right direction.”

Evie stumbled after her, trying to rid her mind of the thoughts which kept stirring her arousal. It was nearly impossible, of course. Every eye that fell on her, every passing soldier and staff member, they each added another piece of tinder to the smoldering heat in her gut.

How do men handle this? Evie asked herself, biting her lip. The times I have caught them with an erection are so few, yet here I am…

The answer, she knew, was not one she wanted to admit. Men didn’t deal with what Evie was struggling with. Neither did women, nor anyone else for that matter. Her arousal, her unfettered neediness, it was almost wholly unique, and only now was she suffering through visible proof of that fact.

She focused on her own breath as she followed in her Master’s footsteps, old habits returning with ease. She was very nearly placing her feet in the very same spot Master had trod, like a cat’s hind legs following after their fore. That was something that could distract her. To fall back into the routine of being Master’s bodyguard, an ever-present shadow whose greatest contribution to the conversation was an occasional scathing scowl shot over the woman’s shoulder. To abandon the still-fermenting idea of being her own woman in favor of total supplication, trusting a woman who was better than her in all conceivable ways to guide each and every action, directing her as if she were a puppet…

No, those thoughts are most certainly NOT helping, she realized. She’d felt herself beginning to slip beneath a familiar fog, thoughts of Master’s superiority echoing in her slowly emptying mind. What little ground she’d made in controlling her throbbing arousal had been lost, a newfound instinct demanding that she shove her hips forward, trying to bury herself in something that wasn’t actually there.

“We’re here,” Master announced.

Evie drew up short, staring at a rather impressive looking door. To her shock, there wasn’t any guard in sight. She supposed they were in a castle of sorts. If an intruder made it this far, a few extra hands weren’t going to be of much help.

“There’s going to be important people in that room,” Master said, putting a hand on the door. “General Borek, his attendants, and probably some local dignitaries. Whoever managed to squirm into the meeting to see me in the flesh, too, so maybe even the city’s Visya. They’re people you’re going to be working with for a long time.” Master raised an eyebrow. “Last chance to use your safeword.”

Evie licked her lips. She stayed silent.

Master squinted at her, running her eyes up and down Evie’s form. Then her eyes narrowed further, and though there was no outward sign of it, Evie knew her well enough that she was suddenly being scrutinized much, much more deeply than should be possible.

The thought made her shudder.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Evie followed Master into the meeting by biting back one last whine, then threw her back up straight, dragging into the forefront of her mind every single lesson on diplomatic propriety she’d ever received.

She’d accepted Sara’s challenge. She knew her wife planned to enjoy herself.

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