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Kinktober 2021

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"Yes, there are also some old landscape photos stored in the album. I knew Princess Zelda had made frequent use of the Camera feature, but this..."

Purah’s wink had placed a shiver in Link’s spine, one he couldn’t shake for hours. Curiosity ate at his thoughts and replaced the missing pieces with an indefinable anxiety. It wasn’t dread—he knew dread, and he reminded himself every time he glanced toward the unrecognizable state of Hyrule Castle—but it wasn’t excitement or fear, nothing with so stable a connotation. When night fell and a thankfully white moon rose over the mountains, he settled in and withdrew his slate, as emotionally prepared as he thought he could be for the messages Zelda had left him a hundred years ago. And the first picture seemed perfectly normal, a photo of the sacred grounds under scorching daylight with the silhouette of the castle towering in the background…and a half naked woman sitting in the center of the dais.

Link rubbed his eyes and squinted. Was it Zelda? It had to be. He’d recognize her golden hair anywhere, and her pure green eyes filled with life, and the robes of the Hylian royal family draped around her torso. But the hair was in disarray, and the eyes peered at him with distress atop a deep blush, and the dress bunched at her waist to show the bare legs underneath. The woman leaned back on one arm, and the other stretched toward him, holding the camera to capture her in her full majesty. At the bottom of the frame she spread her legs, and underneath a small patch of brightest yellow he saw a shimmering artifact of the camera’s lens. Unless she truly did have a blob of white between her thighs, right where—

He almost bobbled the slate. Th-th-this was very definitely not a landscape picture! Yes, landscape was in it, but Zelda was front and center, smirking at the camera with something between embarrassment and affected sultriness. The composition left little room for misinterpretation: this was a woman who had just been with a man, at least somewhat enjoyed the process, and wanted to document the moment for posterity. The man in question was not in frame, but Link had his suspicions. It had to be him, didn’t it? He had laid with Zelda, broken his oath to protect her, defiled the flower of Hyrule…and she had approved enough to create a souvenir.

His shaking fingers moved the slate to the next picture. A mountain appeared, split almost down the middle, across a lake behind a low hillock flanked by birches. And before them all stood the Zelda he knew in her tunic as bright as the sky underneath a braid whose construction he never fully understood. Even miles apart and a hundred years away he could tell when her smile was fake, when her mouth twisted but her eyes stayed the same. Though, he thought, part of the cause might have been the thick white splotches covering her face, sealing one eye closed in a wince she failed to hide from the camera. One hand held the slate again, and the other prodded at her chin, a cutesy pose belying the overtly lewd paint dripping from her cheekbones.

And the next, an array of rock structures, tilted and weathered and covered with moss under the watchful gaze of Vah Medoh. The subject of this picture glared at him, a frustration he felt in his gut. He could only imagine her reaction in the moment, when an unnamed figure sprayed her pristine tunic with copious amounts of fluid. She pointed to an especially large glob on her chest, right where a nipple might lay underneath, evidence of an event she would not be able to hide without a thorough wash.

In the next picture, an escalation. Instead of the aftermath of some sexual event, this captured the event just before it occurred. Illuminated by the setting sun, just in front of an oasis in a rocky area, a bottomless Zelda straddled the hips of a man whose face rested just outside the photo. No leggings prevented his erect cock from resting against her bare pussy, nor did she attempt to hide the point of contact. She bit her lip with clear anticipation and one fingertip rested against his shaft, ready to push it inside her at a moment’s notice.

Photo after photo told the story of a relationship built across the four corners of the kingdom. Zelda on her knees in front of a canyon, pushing her breasts together with her hand and upper arm so the camera could see the penis trapped between them. Zelda on her hands and knees in a field with her leggings halfway down her thighs, reaching far backward to capture the seed oozing from her crotch just below a tight, pink asshole. Zelda sitting in a man’s lap—the same man as before, he thought—facing away from him, totally naked and drenched with rain as she impaled herself on his dick. The man did not appear in all photos, like the picture of Zelda crouched against a low stone wall, masturbating furiously and barely restraining a moan; or in a thin white dress, soaked through with the water of a sacred spring but standing upright to preserve the cum on her face; or completely naked in a seductive pose atop a statue of a horse; or hiding with her hand over her mouth while four vaguely familiar shapes lingered in the far background, seemingly unaware of her game. But they all showed an image of the princess fully removed from the staid, composed woman he thought he knew, and every one had him rock-hard on the edge of a memory.

The last picture was different. There was little sexuality in it, only a princess covered in mud with her eyes red and bloodshot, kneeling alone in some remote glade. She blew a kiss toward the camera. He felt no desire from her, no energy, no anticipation for a tryst about to occur or satisfaction with one recently completed. He just saw Zelda, sad and alone.

Link put the slate away. He knew there was more behind these pictures, information sealed somewhere in his brain. If he visited the locations where they were taken, maybe he could learn more. He only had to recognize them…and to be sure, he dropped his pants and turned on the slate for a second look.

Chapter Text

Daisy was not going to screw this up!

Mario had heard about the invasion of Sarasaland and swooped in valiantly to save it with a flurry of fireballs and well-timed jumps. He met Princess Daisy, and he flew into the sunset with her. A little while later, he contacted her because his brother needed a caddie for a golf tournament, and she gladly went along. Sure, okay, being a caddie instead of an actual golfer was a bit degrading, but it meant he remembered her. She was part of Mario’s inner circle, with all the fun and fame and adventure it entailed.

And then? Nothing. For actual years. There was another golf event, and she wasn’t invited. There were two go-karting events, and she wasn’t invited. There were two board game parties, and she wasn’t invited. The door had slammed shut on her foot, and she’d been relegated to the vast list of also-rans who crossed paths with Mario once and were quickly forgotten. There were a bunch of them. They had a monthly get-together. Mouser brought snacks.

Haha, but now! Now she’d been allowed into the latest tennis tournament, and she wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass her by. She was going to ingratiate herself with the movers and shakers of the Mushroom Kingdom, whatever it took, and she had a foolproof plan.

Gossip had swirled about Mario and Peach for…ever, basically. There had to be something that kept him laser-focused on Peach, and Daisy was sure it was sexual. Sure, Daisy herself had barely seen them so much as holding hands, but a little thing like evidence had never stopped the rumor mill for royals and their romantic entanglements, and it wouldn’t have surprised her for a second if the bubble-headed princess was an absolute animal in the sack. Just saying, Mario certainly wasn’t dropping everything and hurtling into danger to constantly save Peach from an angry turtle just for sporadic slices of cake.

But you know who probably wasn’t getting the same level of reward? Luigi (unless Peach was especially freaky, in which case, more power to her). That was Daisy’s in. If she could establish a “relationship” as Luigi’s “associate” the same way Peach was tied to Mario, she’d be the name in everyone’s mouth when it came to “partnering” with him for some “doubles play” or “backseat driving” or…whatever a good euphemism was for board games.

She even found a way to spin her biggest problem into her greatest strength. Daisy did not have the wealth of sexual experience she assumed Peach had. Or any experience, at all, unless reading steamy novels and squirming in her seat counted as foreplay. Her father’s watchful eye had fiercely deterred any opportunities for losing her virginity, assuming she could even find a decent man in Sarasaland amid the exploding turtles and swarms of hopping insects and one especially amorous sphinx (who was looking like a better and better option by the day, which only served to demonstrate her desperation). She wasn’t getting into Luigi’s good graces with mind-blowing sex, that was for sure. But, she realized, that was the lure. She wasn’t going to become the first lady of the second banana by giving everything up right away. She had to be coy and seductive and string him along, while also being very, very clear about the rewards she could give for his continued attentions.

This was how she got to standing in the men’s locker room with one hand against the wall and Luigi’s bare dick poking between her plush thighs. His gloved hands held her hips fast and a steady “hoo-hoo-hoo” accompanied his insistent thrusts, louder than necessary in the empty space. His stomach slapped against her rear more violently than she’d expected; considering how hard he had blushed and stammered when she’d propositioned him, she half-expected he’d pass out the moment he touched her skin. Instead she was on the defensive, barely hanging on to his pace as he used her virgin body.

She raised her miniskirt and watched his head slide in and out of her thigh gap, surrounded on all sides by tanned flesh and panty-clad folds. It resembled a mushroom less than she’d been led to believe, with no spots and a distinct skin-like color, but the shape of it didn’t interest her as much as how wonderful it felt sliding along her royal garden. Soft moans came naturally, interspersed with loud panting and an occasional sound she would prefer not to classify as a whimper. If his penis did this to her without penetration, with her underwear still in the way, standing in a cold locker room, actual sex would leave her euphoric. All it would take was a little tug and a slight change in angle, and she could trade her fiercely-guarded chastity for catatonia-inducing pleasure.

But she persevered, biting her tongue and squeezing her thighs together. Luigi groaned behind her, shaky and hot. He sounded as close to the edge as she felt, and their knees bent together, struggling to hold them up. His thrusts spread the damp spot across her panties, leaving a trail of moisture along the top side of his penis, and she stooped lower to press herself more against him. If she’d had a free hand, if she wasn’t leaning against the wall for support and holding her skirt up to watch every moment, she could reach down and touch it, or touch herself, or push him tighter against her lips where he could graze her bud until her resilience gave out and a scream of unspeakable joy burst forth…

“Oooh, yeah,” Luigi muttered, and a jet of white fluid burst from his head. Daisy jerked her hand back in surprise, watching it arc through the air and land on the floor, and a moment later she felt a mild tremor as the next shot hit the inside of her miniskirt. Paralyzed with shock and the shadows of her first male-induced orgasm, she let him finish under her dress, leaving small trails of semen against her panties and thighs while the bulk of it seeped into the fabric of her dress, leaving a dark stain right above her crotch.

He pulled away, still gasping for breath, and Daisy gathered her wits and stood. Despite the need tugging at her stomach, she had to keep up the facade for a moment longer. She winked at Luigi, flipped her skirt to give him one more look at her butt, and left the room to change into her purple backup outfit. He would definitely remember this moment, as would she. And if she got invited back, there would be plenty more like it.

Chapter Text

Simea pulled the Blizzard Bracelet out of the chest and admired it in the low light of the queen’s ruined basement. At last, he had all the components to increase the power of the Sword of Water. He didn’t yet know why he’d need its strongest magic, but he knew the day would come, as it had for every other upgrade he’d found for his weapons.

He added the bangle to his pack and lowered the lid of the chest, careful to avoid any loud noises. The last thing he needed was to alert the women upstairs. Yes, he was in their good graces after locating the Kirisa plant in Portoa and giving a sample to Queen Aryllis, and they recognized him as a hero by giving him the Bow of Moon. Except, really, they recognized her as a hero. The all-female citizens of Amazones would only give him the time of day if he appeared to be a woman, which required a shape-changing spell from the sage Kensu. (Simea had wisely not asked why Kensu knew a spell that changed the caster into a woman, or why it affected him so thoroughly in under-clothes areas.) If the women of Amazones caught him stealing from them, and if during the investigation his spell wore off and they learned he was a man in disguise, he didn’t want to imagine the repercussions.

He crept back up the stairs and glanced to the left, scanning the hallway for anybody who might catch him, which made him fully unprepared for the soft voice in his right ear. “Going somewhere?”

A collection of circumstances saved him: he stumbled back down several stairs, which threw him off balance, which meant he couldn’t draw his sword and stab whoever startled him, which meant he acted to protect himself from further damage, which meant he readied his mind for a spell, which meant he focused on the Change spell he already had in place and maintained his magical disguise. Even more than changing back into a man, lashing out with his blade would have caused untold trouble, which he verified when he saw the person who had surprised him. One of the queen’s guards smirked as she tiptoed after him, her hands mercifully free of any weapon. He’d avoided staring at the guards in great detail when he was in the queen’s presence, but from a lower elevation the length of her armored skirt—or lack thereof—drew his eye. “J-just leaving,” he croaked, still adjusting to the strange soprano coming from his mouth.

“So soon? You’ve barely arrived.” She placed her hand against the wall, blocking his escape with her arm. “We don’t get a lot of adventurers dropping by with such good…taste.” Her gaze lingered on his too-large chest, contained within the strapless top his spell had created, and Simea learned how meat felt in a market stall. “You should enjoy yourself some before you run off. I promise we’re very hospitable.”

He looked to the top of the stairs, suddenly very far away. The guard hadn’t caught him stealing the queen’s jewelry, but shouting for help would have caused questions he didn’t want to answer. “I guess I could rest up, maybe? I can stay at the inn.”

“My place is free.” The guard pulled off her helmet, letting dark hair tumble over her broad shoulders. “I have a spare bed if you want it. And a big one if you don’t.”

“Haaaaaai see.” Aryllis’s cellar had not been this warm a second ago, before the guard had closed in on him, before their chests touched as she leaned forward, before the smell of her perfume hit his lungs. Up close he saw how her lips shone, how her long eyelashes fluttered, how her muscles tensed under an obscenely tight mini-dress as fashionable as it was protective. His legs parted, and when he looked down he saw the knee she had pushed between them, so close to touching her thigh against his newly-female groin. “This, uh, this is kind of…sudden, so…”

“You’re in Amazones now, brave heroine. The girls in other towns may be happy waiting around hoping good things will come to them, but not here.” She rested her hand on his side, and as she slid closer two fingers slipped into his waistband, skin on burning skin. “If we see something we want, we go for it with every…thing…we have.” The guard tilted her head and closed her eyes, her mouth an inch from his, and he felt his body melt for the briefest second, ready to give in.

Again happenstance saved him: a thump came from upstairs, the sound of a door slamming shut or the queen rising from her throne, something to jar both of them from their mesmerizing near-contact. The guard started, and Simea ducked under her arm and clambered up several steps. “Next time, okay? Next time I’m in town, I’ll take you up on that. I promise!”

The guard snickered, taking one more look at his womanly body as he retreated. “Come back quick, then. I’ll show you everything you’re missing.” Simea rose to his feet and escaped to the safety of daylight, already wondering if the risk of getting outed as a transformed man was worth returning to the woman waiting for him.

Chapter Text

Sir Adequin hacked at his stirrups, frantically cutting himself free of the leather entangled around his ankle. His fallen ostrich slid another hand’s breadth toward the edge of the platform, where the lava waited to sear his flesh to the bone and beyond. Across the landing he spied Sir Humphrey extracting his leg from his injured stork and testing it with a few simple strides to close the gap between them. Trolls growled underneath the fiery lake, already reaching for his mount and seconds from taking him along with it.

It was not, to be blunt, his best round of jousting. The bounders had struck fast, nearly dismounting him with furious dives atop their infernal buzzards. The hunters fell at the tip of his lance, but their eggs always sailed out of reach, toward Sir Humphrey’s conveniently safe position. And the shadow lords, the accursed shadow lords, had unseated him time and again, forcing him to his last stand in the arena. Low on points, against a skilled opponent, and now unburdened by a weapon or mount, he saw but one chance to even the score.

Leather snapped apart, and Adequin rolled to safety while his mount plopped into the lava in an eruption of heat and sulfur. He stood and dusted himself off, then tipped his helmet to Humphrey standing a respectable distance away. “It seems we have had similar misfortune.”

“That it does.” Humphrey tossed his lance away, useless as it was in close combat. “I assume you are prepared for a duel.”

“A classic joust,” he nodded, “no weapons, no mounts, just men and what God gave them.”

“The most fitting end for a battle of technique.” He pulled his knife from his belt and dropped it as a sign of good faith, and Adequin did the same. They approached to within striking distance of each other, their hands empty and eyes level. “Need you time to prepare?”

“I am always prepared.” Adequin unfurled his belt and lowered his trousers, letting his fully-engorged penis sway in the hot, dry air.

“Good to see another man of action.” His opponent mimicked him, and his penis too bobbed until it came to rest. They pointed at each other, nearly tip-to-tip, poised for a sword fight of their own. “To the first?”

“To the first,” agreed Adequin, and he jabbed his hips forward.

The code of chivalry wove its way through the traditions of the joust. Both competitors received equal weaponry, equivalent mounts, and similar battlefield positioning at the start of the battle. In the same vein, should a match come to a tie, the competitors were free to determine their own means of deciding a victor. Casting lots fell by the wayside quickly, as did physical battles of might which almost unerringly led to the larger man’s win. None recall who first proposed a truly even battle in which any two men had an equal chance of success, where victory came from discipline and skill rather than brute force or the whims of fate, where each knight brought all necessary equipment by virtue of simple attendance. That this tie-breaking content could also, charitably, be called a “joust” was happy serendipity, and within a matter of years it had become the de facto final round of choice. Each man stands an upper arm’s length from his opponent and, without using his hands, must coax the other into giving up his allegorical life. He who sows his seed in vain, or who moves his feet, or who touches his opponent inappropriately (hands were disallowed, as were any body parts not sufficiently enjoined to the hips, and most men generally agreed a situation where testicles made contact with each other was a draw) was the loser, and he accepts his failure with the same grace expected of him when he releases himself on his opponent’s legs.

Adequin dealt a glancing blow, sliding his cock alongside his opponent’s length. Humphrey retaliated by twisting his hips in unmistakably intentional contact, stroking Adequin as with a thick, delicate finger. Their skin dragged together, pumping with deliberate strokes, as both men looked down, unwilling to avert their eyes from their enjoined dicks. “You show great fervor today, good sir,” Humphrey puffed, his hands behind his back. “I should say your genital prowess exceeds your riding skill.”

“So say you, a man content to ride along the edges and collect my spoils,” Adequin replied through clenched teeth. He tensed his hips, and his bouncing dick slapped Humphrey’s frenulum. “Does your confidence not extend beyond another creature’s backside?”

“My confidence extends slightly longer than yours, it seems.” Humphrey leaned inward, poking Adequin’s loins while Adequin’s cockhead brushed only pubic hair. It seemed to Adequin a miscalculation, as Humphrey’s breath hitched when he rubbed his tip along solid muscle.

“Technique over size, as ever.” Adequin leapt at the opportunity, rolling his core against Humphrey’s cock. Humphrey backed away and Adequin gave chase, pushing forward and continually grinding on the sensitive head. His own cock grazed Humphrey’s underside, where he set nerves alight and teased a single forceful push that would place him firmly in his opponent’s tightening ballsack. The tendons in his lower legs cried out in pain and he ignored them, too focused on putting Humphrey off his game to care about the repercussions.

Humphrey’s weight shifted, resting on his heels, and for a long moment Adequin thought he teetered, a moment’s inattention from losing his stance. Just before he inched backward, Humphrey drew his chest upward and surrendered, covering Adequin’s hips with a long, uneven stream of his seed. Adequin laughed in triumph, relishing the warm sensation of white victory running over his base and down his thighs. With the joust complete, both men relaxed and took their steps back, and Humphrey stared with mild annoyance at Adequin’s dick, still raised in triumph. “It seems you are the better man today.”

“Indeed, today.” Adequin watched Humphrey’s cock deflate. “Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps. But in the interim, I will closely watch how you handle the pterodactyl.”

“The—“ Adequin’s heart stopped beating, and he looked up at the large, reptilian beast flying overhead, its beak already open in a jagged-toothed screech. “The pterodactyl. Yes, of course.”

“Remember, it can only be defeated with a jab to the center of its maw. And since you have no other weapon—“

“I am aware, Sir Humphrey.”

Chapter Text

Manic laughter filled the small room, echoing off every green brick and tarnished pane of glass. Shapes played in the giant mirror, wisps of smoke and malice perverting Firebrand’s reflection. They thudded into each other and formed another creature, a tattered robe supported by two floating hands and a leering, demonic face. Red lips parted below a hooked nose, and through the filed teeth an oversized tongue vibrated with mirth. “It’s you, isn’t it?” the demon cackled. “You’re the one causing all the ruckus. Do you have a name, friend?”

“Firebrand,” he muttered, “and I’m not your friend.”

“Firebrand! A little on the nose, isn’t it?” The demon tapped his chin. “Then I suppose you can call me the same!” His robe shifted, changing shape and color and texture as Firebrand watched. Hard muscles appeared along arms and legs, claws burst from hands and feet in brief gouts of blood, and wings unfurled from a broad back. No trace of the original demon remained, subsumed entirely by Firebrand’s mirror image, a perfect doppelganger with a malicious grin. “So how will it be, Firebrand the Less? Can you defeat your own power?”

“Yes.” Firebrand spat a ball of fire, his simplest magic, and scorching the doppelganger’s chest. His reward was searing pain, and he fell back half a step as his own body smoldered while the doppelganger stood smug and unharmed. “This magic…”

“A mirror spell! Poor, dumb Firebrand. Any attack you make will harm only yourself. Whatever happens to me happens to you instead!” The doppelganger spread his arms and wings and laughed at the ceiling, the picture of crazed amusement. “What hope have you when all your training, all your magic comes to bite you at last? How can you fight yourself?”

“I won’t.”

The doppelganger blinked. “Th-that’s right! Surrender now!”

“No.”

“That…look, you can either surrender and die or fight and die painfully. Not a lot of options here.”

“Anything I do to you affects me, correct?”

“Yes! My magic is unb—“

“So I won’t do damage.”

“Eh?” The doppelganger’s smile fell, and his fledgling cackle became a panicked cry when Firebrand flew overheard and grabbed him from behind. “What is this? Unhand you! Me! Whatever!”

“I have to beat you without hurting you? Fine. There are other ways to tire a demon.” He slammed the doppelganger to the ground face-first, snarling through the impact against his own cheek, and grappled with the copy until he rested on his knees. “And you’re in a body I know better than any other.”

“Wait, hang on. Let’s talk this out. You’re not seriously going to—“ The doppelganger gasped, a breath of surprise Firebrand didn’t like hearing in his own voice. With one arm twisted behind his back, caught in a weak position, and facing an opposite of exactly equal strength, the copy had few options when Firebrand reached between his legs and stroked his groin. In a few short seconds his new body responded, and two blood-red cocks emerged from their owner’s respective sheaths. “D-damn it! How does it feel so good?!”

“Attention to detail,” Firebrand responded with half an answer and curled three fingers around the copy’s dick, pulling it until he felt his own pulse with promise. “You showed me your true shape. I’m guessing you don’t have a penis.”

“What does that have to—ooooh, Hell.” He rubbed his face against the ground, trying to find a way to use the wells of tension building in his stomach. He ached all over, not from exertion but a lack thereof. His body screamed for motion, but he could only scrabble and lick at the stone floor.

Firebrand flicked his claw against the tip of the copy’s cock, barely enough to hurt, and pressed his thumb against the slit already slimy with precum. “I wonder what it’s like being a demon with no sex drive, suddenly in a body that craves satisfaction several times a day. Especially when that body belongs to a demon who’s been roaming the world with only his own hand to keep him company. It must be unbearable.”

The doppelganger moaned despite himself, wrenching in Firebrand’s grasp while bucking his hips like a horny mutt. “Light-headedness” didn’t begin to describe it. His mind sat among the grey clouds with his phallus locked in a hot embrace, burning to do something he understood mechanically but couldn’t put to words. Pulling against Firebrand only made his body tighter, straining muscles already curled into knots by unspeakable sensations just out of his grasp. “Please, great Firebrand! Let me go!”

“I’ll let you come.”

A squeeze and a few pumps and a well placed pinch, and the doppelganger lost all control. His soul squirted from his borrowed body and splashed on the stone, bouncing to leave droplets across his chest. Firebrand sighed and a similar heat covered the doppelganger’s side, a ratty sheet of black ooze from the small of his back halfway down one thigh. An ignoble whine left his throat and he clenched his hips muscles, straining to relieve himself of every ounce he could. With his attention pooling under him he failed to focus on his spell, and his body twisted in pain as it shifted back to his ghostlike form.

The last thing he saw was the demon towering over him, the last thing he heard was “there’s only one Firebrand”, and the last thing he felt was a heavy foot stomping his face.

Chapter Text

“Alright! Let’s get some of those kinks out!” Aerith flexed her fingers and wriggled them above Tifa’s back. “Ten to fifteen minutes of this and you’ll be back in fighting shape.”

“Thanks,” Tifa groaned, resting her face in her arms to cover the blush. The general situation wasn’t the source of her embarrassment; people pulled muscles all the time, even people as active as Avalanche members, though if she hadn’t been trying to show off for Cloud she probably wouldn’t have stretched so far in the first place. Nor did she mind taking Aerith up on her offer for a massage, because they were still allies even if a tension had started to weave its way through their interactions whenever a certain blond stoic was involved. But if she’d known Aerith meant a real massage—not a backrub, but a full-blown semi-professional massage—she probably would have laid some ground rules. And chief among those rules was “Tifa gets to keep her underwear on.”

But Aerith had insisted on “doing it right”, which meant Tifa had her strained body naked except for a towel, laying face-down on a table at the mercy of her love-triangle rival. She didn’t expect Aerith to intentionally hurt her or anything so vicious, but of all the members of Avalanche Tifa might approach while in the buff, the flower girl was definitely not in the top five.

She winced and jumped when fingertips pushed into her hamstrings, finding the muscles underneath the perfectly appropriate (both athletically and aesthetically, in her opinion) layer of fat. Pain hit her for an instant, then…didn’t? In its place came long-awaited nothingness, the relief she had sought for hours with ice and heat. With just a few pokes and prods, Aerith had found the problem and started to set things right, and Tifa relaxed for the first time in a day and a half.

Tifa almost drifted off as Aerith worked her over, surrendering to the nimble fingers of the angel in a pink dress. She resisted the urge to move and test her legs, opting to wait until the massage was finished. Instead she focused on her breathing, a steady in-out, in-out to wipe away lingering tightness in places it didn’t belong. Her shoulders fell, and her stomach, and her fingers, and even her jaw, and the bliss of total disengagement covered her like a blanket.

When Aerith nudged Tifa’s thighs apart and stroked one finger along her pussy lips, it didn’t register for a moment. She let it happen, moaning with the same voice she’d used to express contentment with the rest of the massage, and she realized the distinct change of pace only when something pushed inside her up to the first knuckle. “Um?”

“Something wrong?” Aerith asked, gently pushing against the flesh just past Tifa’s folds.

“That…you’re not…” Somehow the accusation felt wrong. Offensive. Accusing another woman of fingering her? It must have been a mistake. “I think we should stop here.”

A hand landed on the small of Tifa’s back, holding her down with surprising force and pinning her weakened body to the table. “Shhh, calm down. Gotta give you the happy ending to finish off right.”

Tifa intended to protest, but whatever word she started came out as a single, airy vowel. Aerith knew her way around another woman, pushing and curling her finger with the same patient delicacy she had shown to the rest of the massage. While one stroked Tifa’s insides, two others slithered over her lips, drawing them forward and back in the slowest, softest thrust imaginable. They stayed well clear of her clit, ignoring it until the absence of contact sent spikes of need through her lower body.

Her hips moved on their own, grinding a centimeter into Aerith’s finger. Tifa urged them to stop and they ignored her, shifting within the area allowed by the hand holding her in place. She told her hands to swat Aerith away, but they grabbed the edges of the table and held fast. Her legs, calm and pain-free, similarly refused to act beyond parting farther. Any attempt to speak resulted in a moan, and her eyes closed so tight she had to focus on the other senses teeming with pleasure. Her body had given in, leaving her mind to fight by itself, and it was rapidly losing.

A fingertip prodded her clit like a speeding truck, a tiny impact she felt in every nerve. Tifa gasped so hard she coughed, and she bit her cheek trying to keep her voice low enough to not alert the rest of the building. Aerith seized on her weakness, abrading her button in tight circles until her hips lifted clear off the table. Honey gushed from her pussy and she squeezed Aerith’s finger, an unbelievably small thing to have such a powerful effect. At the last instant Tifa surrendered, using the table to muffle her scream of breathless pleasure, and when it passed and she collapsed on the table, she admitted she felt more at ease than she had in months.

“There, all better.” Aerith pulled her hand free and wiped it clean on a towel. “All you needed was a good massage.”

Tifa stared straight down for a moment, balancing on her forehead while she got her bearings. She rolled off the table and stood upright, covering her nudity with both arms. “It was…good. But the, um, intimate stage seemed a little excessive. What made you go for the happy ending?”

Aerith furrowed her brow in genuine confusion and said exactly what Tifa had feared: “Isn’t that how all massages work?”

Chapter Text

“Clint, you get back here!” Annie’s pink heels kicked up a storm of dirt as thick as the head of steam billowing from her ears. “I will not be ignored!”

“Nothin’ personal, little lady,” Clint pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes, hoping Annie would get the hint. She did not. “Bein’ a gunslinger ain’t for everybody, that’s all.”

“It’s for me. I got a reason to fight, same as you.”

“Havin’ a reason’s worse. Makes you emotional.”

“Right now the only emotion I have is anger directed at a certain low-down, flea-bitten, bounty-hunting say-so who won’t give me the time of day.”

Clint stopped and turned to face her, and she thumped face-first into his chest without so much as budging him. “Listen. You got skills, I’ll give you that. Ain’t never seen a body, man or woman, knock a bottle off a fence from that distance, much less six. But Kid ain’t a bottle. He’s ruthless, he’s cunning, and he shoots back. Especially at…”

Annie’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment fear gurgled in Clint’s gut. “At what, Clint? Say it.”

“Look, I don’t mean nothin’ by it. Just sayin’, the Kid family has designs on womenfolk. If you’re gonna head after ‘em, you might want to wear somethin’ that gives away a mite less.”

“I beg your pardon?” Annie scoffed, and everybody on the street who stopped to watch the conversation suddenly found a reason to scurry off somewhere out of range. “So it don’t matter how well I handle a gun, by your own reckoning, I might add! You aren’t fixing to bring me along because of how I dress?”

Clint realized his mistake far, far too late. “Well, it ain’t exactly that, but, you gotta admit, you ain’t ready for a fight.”

“Is that so?” Annie grabbed her breasts through her bright pink dress, squeezing and lifting them until her cleavage ran as long as the Rio Grande. “And what about these, exactly, makes you think I can’t fight?”

No lowered brim could hide Clint’s sudden shame, nor did the hat save him from the heat of his own face. “Well, i-it’s just not proper is all. A lady shouldn’t flash her goods to a man who ain’t hers.”

“They’re my goods, Mister Clint, and I’ll do whatever I darned well please with them!” She took a tall step into his long shadow, close enough to press her chest against his. Courtesy suggested he always look a woman in the eye while speaking to her, but courtesy hadn’t accounted for a situation where looking at a woman’s face and looking down her dress were nearly one and the same. He pulled his gaze to her hard-set eyes, but it sank to her breasts almost immediately, drinking in the plush mounds of pale skin he ached to experience with his other senses. “Surely an accomplished gunslinger wouldn’t be put off his game by something as simple as a nice bosom.”

“It—“ he coughed, an excuse to avert his stare for a moment, “It ain’t me. It’s the Kid family. You’re paintin’ a big target right there, Annie.”

“Oh, my targets are big now, are they? I thought I was a ‘little lady’.” She pushed harder into his body, squashing her breasts until they bulged clear out of her dress. Their compacted shape bent her neckline, and now a flustered Clint spied the edges of a bra in the shadow of her bodice. He glanced left and right, praying to God that nobody saw her rubbing against him in a manner usually confined to the back room of a saloon. “If you’re saying a sight of skin will throw the Kids off as much as you, maybe I should give them even more.” Annie kicked her leg out and stood it on one toe, and the slit in her dress revealed bare skin most of the way up her thigh. “Or does that offend your manly sensibilities too much?”

“Jesus, Annie.” He wiped his brow and stepped back, and she stomped right along, even bouncing her breasts with her hands for good measure. “I don’t want you to get shot in the chest, that’s all.”

“Where should I get shot, then? Any other womanly places you’re fixing to protect?”

“That’s not—“

“And what happens if you get shot in the chest? Don’t you die, same as anyone? Or do your bristling muscles protect you from bullets better than my soft, supple body?”

Clint opened his mouth, hoping he’d find a suitable retort before the words started, and his eyes ogled Annie against despite his firm intentions. She had her bosoms in her hands again, this time not pressed together but pulled apart, widening her cleavage from a thick, dark line to a deep valley. With the noonday sun up above he could see straight between them, mounds like pillows bordering a view down her flat stomach all the way to a lacy unmentionable he’d never get out of his head. He jerked his head back, the only way to keep from losing himself in the best-smelling pit he could imagine, and sighed at the sky. “I ain’t goin’ to win this fight, am I?”

“You most certainly are not.”

“Kid’s dangerous.”

“So am I.”

“That you are,” Clint chuckled. “Fine, you can come along, long’s you bring your own horse.”

Annie finally sheathed her deadliest weapons and adjusted her hat and dress, returning to the image of a modest young woman in two seconds flat. “No need to worry. I’ll show you riding like you ain’t never seen.”

He shook his head. “Keep makin’ comments like that and a man’s liable to get the wrong idea.”

“Hmph,” Annie stalked past him, but threw a wink over her shoulder. “Start treating me like a person instead of a pretty flower and maybe I’ll see to making it the right idea. Assuming that gun I felt in your pants is as powerful as the one in your holster.”

Clint grabbed his hat and used it to cover his crotch, and he failed wildly at making the motion seem natural.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a fun prank. They’d see what was going on, they’d be shocked and maybe a little angry, they’d confront Sombra about it, and afterward they’d all have a good laugh and a story to tell for years. Like any good prank, nobody would get hurt and the confusion or fear or other negative emotions would hit hard and fast but fade away just as quickly. But Sombra didn’t account for her victims’ relationship with each other, or the sort of activities they had during their alone time, or how their love for surprising each other would lead them to casually accept unusual circumstances. She couldn’t know any of that when she came up with her brilliant prank, and it didn’t occur to her as she put it together.

She went through with it, using her translocator technology to create a wormhole network. After far too much titillating research into unsavory practices, she found the exact GPS coordinates of several of London’s seediest locations, down to the exact centimeter where certain holes allowed certain body parts to stick through certain walls where certain people waited for them on the other side. All of those portals ended in a specific drawer in a specific apartment shared by an Overwatch member and her girlfriend, with nobody on either side the wiser. With the flick of a switch, Tracer’s “toy box” filled not with her usual silicone dildos and their appropriate accompaniments but with real, actual, flesh-and-blood cocks teleported from a dozen gloryholes around town. And when Lena and Emily opened the drawer and saw their normal toys replaced with living human dicks on shimmering, neon bases, they’d be outraged only until they saw how hilarious it was.

Except they didn’t figure out the dicks were real, and Lena thought Emily had stocked up on a slew of very realistic dildos and vice versa, and they went ahead with the evening’s plans ignorant of the threats twitching in their hands.

They started using the dildos as accompaniments to their lovemaking, as they often did. While the cocks sat by the wayside, Lena and Emily continued the foreplay they had begun before entering the bedroom, stripping each other of their remaining underwear and mapping their bodies with finger and tongue. While the women entwined their limbs on the bed, several of their potential partners disappeared, bored with waiting for somebody to service them and ignorant of the lesbian pair cavorting less than a meter away. New men took their places, and the girls didn’t notice the dildos changing color or size or shape in the dark bedroom. They knew little more than each other, and when Emily at last reached over, grabbed a toy, and nuzzled its tip against Lena’s wet pussy, she only acknowledged how warm it felt in her hand before she pushed it inside.

Lena froze a moment, but not because she realized she had an unnamed man buried almost balls-deep in her unprotected pussy. She needed the time to appreciate it, hotter and thicker than her other toys. She could swear it even twitched, but when Emily started pumping it in and out little movements like that didn’t grab her attention as much. Within seconds she was on her back, clawing at the sheets as her girlfriend fucked her the way only she could. Where Lena went, Emily followed, and she too let the mood overtake her. When she licked at Lena’s clit, she didn’t taste the stranger’s musk over the familiar scent of aroused woman, and when the penis throbbed with its final warning, she was preoccupied with Lena screaming her name. In the afterglow they both assumed the cream dripping from Lena’s pussy was a feature of the dildos, fake cum to enhance the experience, and Emily felt no fear when she traded places with Lena and gave her real-dick virginity to some unknown lecher via her girlfriend’s own hand.

The women did note one difference: the new dildos were significant better than their normal fare. Beside the obvious temperature and texture changes, the sheer variety let them experiment in ways they’d never considered. Emily hadn’t thought about clutching a pillow while Lena took her from behind with a strap-on, but now it felt right. Lena had no desire to choke on a dildo Emily shoved into her mouth, but the new ones passed easily over her tongue. Every spray of cum drove them to further heights, and they both commented on the surprisingly pungent flavor as they lapped it up from each other’s tits. The novelty elevated the toys from a side dish to the main course, and they added it to all their favorite activities: when they scissored, a dick joined in, sandwiched between two pussies; when they sixty-nined, they pounded each other with cocks in addition to loud, sloppy licks; when they made out, they each sat on a dildo, bouncing as their tongues wrestled and their hands held on for dear life. The supply of penises and fake cum seemed endless, and they spent hours trying every one, unaware that new men immediately replaced any who painted the women inside and out.

Morning crept into view, and Lena offered one final act to end the night, an idea she had long considered but never had the means to enact or lust-fueled courage to suggest. With Emily’s help she straddled a pillow with a strap-on around one end, leaned her ass back on another cock (the smallest one they could find, which still required copious lubricant) attached to the headboard, and lowered her head to the dick secured to Emily’s waist. The gangbang commenced, her first time filled in every hole, and she let Emily take control while she pretended to be fucked airtight by three carbon copies of her artifically-endowed girlfriend. Emily went as hard as she could with the last dregs of her energy, stuttering through the sort of dirty talk she thought a gangbang victim might enjoy while staring lovingly into Lena’s eyes. Lena looked back whenever she wasn’t blind with pleasure, and with Emily’s tight body looming over her and sexy voice commanding her and incredible cocks taking her from every end, it didn’t take her long to finish. She came as two dildos filled her with seed and Emily came all over her face, and when the women collapsed against each other, they hugged close and dreamed of the fun they would have the next night and every night thereafter.

Learning about Sombra’s prank several weeks later, after they both started getting ill in the mornings? That was less fun.

Chapter Text

“Hello?”

“Hi, honey! It’s Mom.”

Kelly could hear Andrew’s exasperation. “I know who it is. You have your own ringtone.”

“I do? I’ve never heard it.”

“Because you never call me when you’re in the same room as my phone.”

Aaaaaaah!

“…what?”

“I said ‘oooooh!’ I understand now.” Kelly winced at her own reply. Taylor looked up, her wide eyes wracked with confusion, and Kelly waved her off. “So, anyway, I was talking to Taylor today.”

“Mom!” Something, probably a hand, covered the microphone on Andrew’s end, and after a second she heard his voice in a lower whisper with a smaller echo. “You didn’t say anything weird, did you?”

Kelly relaxed into the sofa and parted her thighs wider, making plenty of room for the teenage girl eating her out. Taylor’s tongue dragged across the underside of her clit as she pulled it free, and Kelly bit the inside of her cheek to hide a second moan. “No, I think we had a perfectly normal talk.”

“Did—“ Andrew coughed away from the phone. “Did she say anything about me?”

“You came up once or twice. She asked how your classes were going.” Kelly winked at Taylor, who buried her red face back in Kelly’s pussy, hiding behind a wall of brown pubic hair. “She says she can’t wait to see you over Thanksgiving break.” Taylor retaliated with a soft suckle on Kelly’s button, enough to force a groan suppressed only by Kelly’s hand over her mouth.

Luckily, Andrew seemed too interested in what his mother had said to notice her poorly-hidden erotic cries. “She said that? Me specifically, not just people in general?”

“You specifically. She misses having you around.” Kelly smiled as Taylor blushed deeper and tried to pull away, but Kelly held her in place with a hand on the top of her head. Trapped and none too bothered about it, Taylor shook her face, prying Kelly’s lower lips apart and taking a deep whiff of her scent. “Maybe you can visit for a weekend and catch up.”

“Ah, so it’s all just a trick to get me to come home for a few days.”

“Mmmmm!” Kelly shuffled her hips into Taylor’s mouth and pretended she was thinking. “Not just. But if you’re not, at least give her a call.”

“I can’t do that. It’d be weird.”

“What’s weird about a boy calling the girl he has a crush on?” She put herself on mute and whispered “no weirder than that same girl licking the boy’s mom’s pussy,” and Taylor giggled.

“Um, everything? I can’t just call her out of the blue. I’d look like a stalker or something.”

“You’d look like you’re actually interested in her for once.”

“…hello?”

“Oh.” Kelly craned her head back and let out a breathy scream, a moment of true vocalization instead of a muted grunt of restraint, then turned the phone off mute. “I said you’d look like you’re actually interested in her for once.”

“Mom, I told you, that’s the problem! I can’t just confess to her! What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

“Honey, I have been watching you two circle each other since you learned what boys and girls were. If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t have stuck around through your awkward teenage phases, and she certainly wouldn’t be asking about you in college.”

“You don’t know that.”

Kelly resisted the urge to hand the phone to the girl between her legs and make her explain her feelings in blunt terms. Not only would it be a major problem if Andrew asked what Taylor was doing there, Kelly also didn’t want to distract Taylor, not when she was so close to getting off. “I know it as well as I can. Honestly, you should’ve just gone to Silver Creek like she did so you could stay together.”

“State’s—“

“—architecture program is top five in the country, I remember.” She knew all of his excuses by heart. “But it sounds like distance is making the heart grow fonder.”

Andrew fell silent, and Kelly gave Taylor a thumbs-up. Taylor nodded, which pulled her nose over Kelly’s clit, and when her tongue joined in Kelly had to mute the phone again to hide her vocal approval. Taylor grabbed Kelly’s thighs and held her close, keeping her best friend’s mother in place while thanking her for meddling by licking her to the best orgasm she’d had in years. Kelly rolled her hips once, then twice, and her body went weightless as her clit pulsed with unspeakable energy. She barely came down in time to hear Andrew mutter “I guess.”

“What—” Kelly unmuted again. “What if she texted you first? It wouldn’t be weird if you responded, right?”

“Yeah, but she—“

“Great! I’ll see what I can do.”

“Mom, no, don’t ask her to text me! The only thing worse than looking like a creeper is a creeper who needs his mom to do his matchmaking for him.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just leave it to me.”

“Mom, I’m serious, don’t—“

“Work hard in class, love you, bye!” Kelly ended the call and let the phone drop from her hands with an exhausted sigh.

Taylor blinked up, hiding her shy smile behind a layer of pussy juice. “Thanks.”

“He just needs a push, that’s all. He’s wild about you.”

“Not wild enough to text first.”

“Well, he’s a chicken, too. A wild chicken.” Kelly and Taylor shared a laugh at Andrew’s expense. “Now get on the couch. It’s your turn.”

“Are you sure? You’ve already done plenty for me, Mrs. Franklin.”

“I’m sure.” Kelly slid to the carpet and watched Taylor shimmy out of her leggings. “You ate me out, so it’s fair for me to return the favor. And since it’s only a matter of time before we make it official, feel free to call me Mom,” she winked. “It’s hotter.”

Chapter Text

Today's chapter is part of another story, The Perfect Housewife. You can read it here.

Chapter Text

Claire had a hard time defining Sherry. She was a bit of a nuisance, for sure. Claire had never met a woman so sheltered. Sherry could barely throw a punch, she certainly couldn’t hold a gun, and she couldn’t keep up physically with anything more than a casual powerwalk. The sight of a zombie sent her into mild panic (understandable at first, yes, but after the first thirty zombies she should have developed some sort of fear resistance), and if one of them got hold of her Claire had no doubt she’d succumb in an instant. It was like her fight-or-flight instinct had a third option, “fright”, rendering her incapable of self defense beyond cowering in a corner and hoping real hard. A year younger than Claire but ten years away from being helpful, she was a liability in a city teeming with undead mutants.

But on the other hand, she was also stupidly hot. Physically, Sherry fell right in the center of Claire’s strike zone: slim in the middle, round on the bottom, modest but perky on top, with short blonde hair and wide eyes and firm thighs and mmmmm. Claire learned she had a thing for helpless girls who needed protection three seconds after she met Sherry, and she fell hard. The outfit didn’t hurt either, a schoolgirl-style crop top and short shorts that clung to her like spandex. Claire didn’t much care why an eighteen-year-old girl dressed like that as long as she did it whenever Claire was around, maybe with a pleated miniskirt now and again. The hassle of dragging Sherry out of the city would be well worth every wasted second and spent bullet if it meant they could have some down time without mortal danger, maybe in a motel or Claire’s dorm room or an apartment where they could start a life together and try an exciting variety of not-safe-for-work getups.

Sherry definitely wasn’t a child, as Claire noticed every time she looked her over, but she did act like it now and again. Living in a laboratory with absent parents and no friends had probably stunted her emotional growth a little. She had a tendency to pull back and let the adults make the decisions, which suited Claire’s forthcoming top tendencies just fine. But she also didn’t seem to fully understand her capabilities and restrictions as an adult, particularly in regard to her body, which did not hide behind boxes as much as she must have thought. Again, Claire found her behavior irritating until the exact moment it impacted her kinks, which in this case meant she did a complete about-face when Sherry thought she could fit into a vent too small for Claire, tried it, and got stuck halfway through.

Claire pretended she couldn’t hear Sherry asking for help, instead using the time to savor the heart-shaped ass waggling in her general direction. Sherry’s midsection bulged right above her waistline, where her child-bearing hips had lost the fight against unforgiving metal. Her shorts hadn’t followed her body as it bent forward, and Claire could see her crack peeking from between two mounds of flesh begging for a spanking. Her thighs rippled beautifully through her ineffectual struggle, and one of her shoes gave way and clattered to the floor when she kicked too hard.

Sherry’s voice rose, which brought the real danger of calling zombies to their position. Claire couldn’t just do nothing, but she intended to enjoy the something she did. “Hang on. Let me get a good grip,” she said, which calmed Sherry enough for Claire to grab hold of her shorts. The width of her fingers pulled the clothing even tighter, pinching Sherry’s ass into a muffin top she longed to taste. She gave a tug, and Sherry’s hips let go of the shorts before they gave up on the vent, an opportunity on which Claire seized. All of her lithe power went into pulling Sherry free of her bottoms, dragging them while more and more of her ass came into view. She planted her feet against the wall and grunted with a final pull, finally getting them off her hips and halfway down her thighs.

Claire thumped to the ground, and the bump on the back of her head was an acceptable price to pay. Only plain white panties protected Sherry from Claire’s lustful impulses, but she wasn’t stupid. Claire was playing the long game. While muttering apologies to Sherry, she drew her knife and made a few strategic slits across the threads holding the shorts together. Instead of burying her face in two delicious thighs, Claire stood again and grabbed Sherry’s calves, using more secure holds to renew her assistance. Sherry’s shapely ass distended as it actually moved, and with a few seconds of struggle, her widest place popped free of the vent.

Sherry extracted herself the rest of the way, setting back down with one shoe and one sock. She scrambled for her shorts and pulled them back up, and her face shifted from lavender to crimson when they failed to grab into her body. “What happened?” she whispered, torn between analyzing the situation closer and hiding her shame from Claire.

“Sorry,” Claire lied, “they tore when I was trying to pull you out. You’ll have to leave them behind.”

“What? N-no!” Sherry drew deeper into herself, tucking into a tiny ball.

“Here, try this.” Claire shrugged off her jacket and moved to tie it around Sherry’s waist. It didn’t cover much, and it meant she got a few good gropes in, but it put Sherry back on her feet. “Better?”

“I guess…”

“Great. The vent’s a bust, so we’ll have to try another way around. Come on.” She grabbed Sherry’s hand and pulled her along, with a small delay while Sherry retrieved her shoe. Claire didn’t mind. There would be plenty more chances to get Sherry out of the rest of her clothes, and Claire would gradually sacrifice her own along the way. If they were both naked by the time they reached safety, it would save her a lot of foreplay.

Chapter Text

“Hm?” Cloud’s eyes pulled themselves open whether he liked it not, interrupting his sleep with the harsh reality of morning. A simple, biodegradable, apparently one-use tent hung overhead, protecting his vision from the creeping sunlight. Nothing so nice protected his ears from Barret’s snoring, and he resisted the urge to whack his teammate in the shoulder, mostly because he knew it only solved the problem for a few seconds. Cool air blew through the tent flap, and a single lump in the uneven ground dug into his back despite the layer of grass and a soft bedroll. Also, he was half-naked. That seemed important.

“Shh!” Aerith hissed, alerting him to her presence. Her admonition slowed the natural response to finding himself partially undressed without his consent, and instead of hurtling across the tent (and likely through—it was not especially sturdy) he looked down with an abundance of caution. She lay between him and Barret, across the middle of the tent with her legs sticking out, which explained why a breeze rushed through the flap he was sure he had zippered shut before going to sleep. Half of her upper body lay on his leg, which put her head right about at his crotch, next to the hand she had wrapped around his dick. One finger sat in the middle of her lips, in case shushing him verbally wasn’t enough, and she winked as she pumped him with a soft, steady rhythm.

Barret snorted, and Cloud’s whole body tensed, including the cock jumping in Aerith’s grip. Cloud braced himself, ready to panic if his tentmate rolled over, but the broad back remained as still as a rock. He exhaled and tried to put on an emotionless response to Aerith, falling back to his intentional disaffection. “Care to explain?”

Aerith shrugged and spoke just above a whisper, where he barely heard the sound of her voice over her breath. “You looked like you needed some help.” Her thumb flicked over his head, where a pool of precum had formed before he’d woken up. “Gotta keep you focused on what we’re doing instead of whatever you were dreaming about. Or whoever?” She smirked and grazed his skin with her tongue, so lightly he almost wasn’t sure it happened.

He propped himself up on his elbows, pretending he didn’t want to grab her head and ravish her face until one or both of them passed out. “I could have handled it.”

“Could’ve. Didn’t.” Tiny kisses fell along his length from the balls to the head and back, and her fingers cradled him with delicate reverence. His cock jumped again, bopping her below her eye, and she gasped in mock surprise. “Must’ve hurt to be that hard all night.”

“It wasn’t all night,” he murmured, though he wouldn’t argue the pain or frustration.

“Close enough. Every time I peeked in, I saw this little—sorry, this big guy straining at your pants. Before everybody else wakes up, I’m going to do something about it.”

“You peeked—“ he stopped short, distracted by her lips sliding over his head and partway down his shaft. She winced when he bumped the roof of her mouth, though once she opened her eyes it seemed more like a sexy pout. Her face pulled back slowly, until her lips puckered only around his tip, and dropped like a rock until she reached her limits again. His dick flexed in her hand, ready to thrust but unsure how to do it without jostling her into Barret. His chest rose and fell in several deep breaths while she worked her magic, teasing him until he sat on the brink of losing control. “Somebody’s going to wake up and see you.”

Her mouth popped free, and it might as well have been a gunshot in the still dawn campsite. “Then you better hurry up and cum.”

Aerith returned to her languid pace, but she pulled harder now, using suction to help him along. Her cheeks buckled and her hand pumped, pleasuring him with just a few centimeters of motion. He met her eyes and couldn’t decide what he saw there, whether it was love or lust or admiration or simple camaraderie, so he picked the interpretation that best suited his erection. He did stare lower, where a hint of cleavage lurked near her dress, and he imagined her using her chest to get him off, or even stripping down and giving him a careful ride when she struggled to hold her moans. Visions of a brazenly sexual Aerith joined with the reality of their ongoing flirtation, and when she scraped her tongue against him, he gave her what she wanted.

Given the secrecy of the event he couldn’t give her more warning than an erotic groan, and she squeaked when he shot his load onto the roof of her mouth. She coughed into his dick, screwing her eyes shut and squeezing him too hard, then adjusted and swallowed the first and second shots together. The extra pressure milked him dry, and he watched her throat shudder with every gulp. She continued after he finished, swallowing until the pressure almost grew painful, and slid off with a smile and teary eyes. “See? Easy cleanup.”

“Thanks.” Cloud couldn’t think of a better response at the moment.

“Happy to help. I’ll be back tomorrow for your wakeup call, unless you’d prefer something beforehand.” Aerith winked, patted his cock, and squirmed backward out the tent door.

Chapter Text

Today's chapter is part of another story, Correspondent Giselle, but I haven't moved that story to this site yet. You can read it here, and I may get it up on AO3 before too long.

Chapter Text

Xander was a friend who was a boy, a fully distinct entity from a boyfriend despite the shared linguistic roots. Buffy didn’t think of him as a potential partner. Or, she did, because they’d partnered together plenty of times to fight the forces of darkness, but he wasn’t boyfriend material. Or, he was, because he’d gone out with Anya before, and that seemed to work, so maybe he was the type to thrive in monogamous relationships, but he wasn’t a sexual being. But he did talk about sex, and she had seen him shirtless, so it was more like he…

Damn it.

Agreeing to go out with him wasn’t a desperation move or an attempt to prove once and for all that they weren’t romantically compatible. It was more of a “what the Hell, why not?” play, just to see what would happen. Really, it was a sign of how strong their friendship was that she knew it could survive even a catastrophic date. Yeah, that was it. They were so good at being non-romantic, any attempt at romance with each other would be so inherently wrong that it would naturally fade into absolute nothingness, like denim jackets or camouflage in literally any non-military application. So she let him take her on a date. Whatever he wanted, no complaints—she pinky-swore—because she was so confident in the strength of their platonic bond that she knew he’d never do anything to sever it.

Which was how she ended up tied spread-eagle to the corners of his bed, with her pants and panties hanging from one calf and a stretched-out crop top bunched under her chin, blindfolded and gagged with a handkerchief that smelled like fresh laundry. Most of Xander’s things smelled like fresh laundry. It came with living in a basement.

Buffy could have broken free. She knew it, he knew it, and they each knew the other knew it. Tying her down (probably) wasn’t an evil scheme concocted by a mind-controller or a doppelgänger or another of the twenty-four things that might hijack Xander’s body or brain for an attempt on the Slayer’s life, because if it was a scheme, it was a crappy one. Villains used chains, not flimsy ropes. Thus she let it happen, because she could stop it any time she wanted even if her mouth was full of springtime freshness, and because she wanted Xander to get all the weird kinks out of his system so they could go back to muted sarcasm and stabbing people.

But Xander, to her complete surprise, mild disappointment, and overwhelming pleasure, was very, very good at weird kinks.

Buffy was not used to being submissive. That had to be part of it. Most of her sexual experiences were either dominant or antagonistic. Laying back and letting nice things happen to her was a weird sensation, like a day at the spa if it involved even more nudity. For once, she didn’t have to be the agent of her own success, the one girl in all the world who could slay evil and get herself off. It was…freeing. No thinking about the next step, no careful balance between her needs and the tensile strength of any given bed (or boy), no constant hum of expectations and worries rolling through her frequently-concussed head. When her mind relaxed and let things happen, so did her body, and with three of her senses muted she could enjoy every little touch Xander gave her.

And he gave her the best touches. He had an impeccable knack for finding what she wanted before she knew it herself, whether it was soft kisses along her stomach or fingertips feathered on the insides of her thighs or a nipple pinch so quick she wondered if she’d imagined it. He perched on the edges of her intimate areas, tracing her lower ribs without venturing higher or kissing her hips without even breathing on her pussy. He built anticipation so carefully she lost track of time, stuck in an unending cycle of sensual foreplay, but not the kind that eventually killed you because she’d done that song and dance once and wasn’t interested in going back. Energy danced in her fingers and toes, escalating until the whisper turned to a scream, a burning need to exert itself with muscle and voice. Yet he made her wait, squirming on his bed, begging him to sense her arousal and take advantage of it before she went insane.

He broke off and left her for an eternal moment, letting hew stew in her own desire. Then the bed settled and she felt pressure down below, a latex-covered visitor knocking at her door, covered in cold lubricant. Xander slid inside her without touching any other part of her body, forcing all of her attention to a few square inches of sensitive skin, and she might have taken delight in hearing his strained moans if she could perceive anything other than blessed penetration. He whispered her name and fell atop her, covering her body with warmth and muscle, and waited. Buffy bit nearly through the handkerchief, cussed several times in her thoughts, and rolled her hips, and only after she asked so nicely did he give her what she needed.

He played her like an instrument, gnawing at her neck and squeezing the sides of her hips and shifting his body against her breasts. His arms and legs linked with hers, reminders of the bondage securing her to the mortal plane. His length filled her physically and more, and she lay there and took it, never still but also unable to express herself with her whole, pulsating body. Xander took her to the edge and held her there, raking his hips against hers until she had no choice but to break free, snapping the ropes and clutching at his body while her core exploded with hours of pent-up bliss. They took each other through it, joined as one, and when her body gave out and she fell limp, he pulled free and stroked himself until he covered her from navel to nipple in his own ecstasy.

Buffy drifted off to sleep, too tired to cuddle or wipe herself clean with her spit-soaked handkerchief, already letting her dreams offer suggestions for their second date.

Chapter Text

“May I begin, Mother?”

“I was the last to feed on the previous man-thing.”

“But you were first during the course before.”

“Might we skip straight to his organs?”

“You will punish them if they bite it off, won’t you, Mother?”

“Come now, daughters.” Countess Alcina Dimitrescu, the lady of the castle, silenced her girls with hardly a breath. “We don’t want him to expire while you argue, do we?”

“No, Mother,” the women recited in unison, though a simple reprimand could not wipe the hungry grins from their blood-stained mouths.

“Nobody eats until everybody has been served. The faster your sisters drain the man-thing, the faster we all get what we need. Understood?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Alcina looked over her prey top to bottom. He’d lost weight in the dungeon, but he still would serve as a fine meal. Not his blood, no. That would come later. Males had…other delectable fluids, sauces they could create over and over again. When he ran dry, then they would kill him. But for the time being, they had other ways to milk sustenance free of his disgusting body.

He squirmed, as most did, when she slapped his dick. He swung on the rope suspending him above the dining table, and her daughters laughed at his begging. It was all background noise to her now. “Please stop” and “I have a family” and “it hurts so much” all lost their imperative nature after the first hundred utterances. She didn’t care about the method he chose to plead for his life. She cared only about the nectars of life inside him, and she cradled his cock in her giant hand, forcing it to life with the gentlest tug her body could create.

Decades of imposing herself on tiny man-things had lent a surprising finesse to Alcina’s touch. Through her gloves she felt his pulse rushing to his groin, as with all men who failed to control their impulses. She took little note of his size; no matter how proudly or shamefully a man might swing his weakest tool, its girth had no impact on his taste. While he struggled against his bindings she pumped him with two fingers, deliberately bending her body to flash her cleavage at him. Men were simple creatures, unable to restrain themselves when faced with anything they interpreted as sexuality, and his flitting eyes landed on her face and chest and never strayed far afterward. A little coo, a little pinch, and a little lick on her lips, and he shuddered and spent himself into her upturned goblet, filling it with viscous seed. His carefully-chosen diet (and a little help from Mother Miranda’s studies) produced fantastic results, and when her cup overflowed she directed the rest of his orgasm atop the food on her plate.

“One at a time, girls,” she warned, and she settled back to watch the festivities. Bela moved next, and though the others pouted and slouched in their chairs, they let their elder sister take control. She tugged her neckline low until her breasts popped free, drawing the attention of the sagging male, and she climbed onto the table to mash them around his penis. She stroked him as Alcina had taught her, withholding her own strength to provide a soft pillow for him to ineffectually hump. He whimpered, something about the pain of being massaged so soon after orgasm, and she ignored his cries. Her chest dragged him back to full length and more, stretching him out and forcing him into another painful orgasm. Bela watched his haggard expression, and when it faded she jumped down and clamped her fingers around his base. He screamed while she readied her own cup, and semen flowed from his tip while she gasped and bit her tongue in anticipation.

After the last dribble had decorated Bela’s plate, Cassandra pulled the man to her by his dick, a grip she maintained until Alcina cleared her throat. With a quiet “hmph” Cassandra bared her teeth, deliberately catching them on the man’s cockhead when she swallowed him whole. Even if milking a man-thing dry of his seed hadn’t required a processed escalation, even if Alcina and her daughters hadn’t already determined the correct order for four women using their bodies to coax ever-thinner loads from ever-more-reluctant victims, Cassandra would still have gone third. She nicked him with her teeth whenever she could, sending little spikes of pain through an organ already engorged with the aftereffects of two wasted orgasms. Sucking hard usually made her partners scream, and Cassandra always sucked the hardest, the better to pull dregs of seed from the decrepit cavities in which men stored it. He sobbed and kicked and bounced in his ropes, and it meant nothing as he squirted again, a pathetic display but more than any man-thing could produce without the Dimitrescus’ scientific aid. Again Alcina clicked her tongue, and Cassandra reluctantly spat a mouthful of semen into her goblet, savoring the taste on her lips while she sauced her meal.

Putting Daniela last was a threefold solution; she was the youngest, the least likely to wait patiently by a plate of food while her sisters took their turns, and the most intrigued by her irrelevant biological urges. When hand, breast, and mouth had each drained a man in such a short time, few acts could still extract a dose sufficient for a meal, and one of the remaining options happened to be Daniela’s favorite. While her mother and sisters looked away, as etiquette dictated, she clambered atop the table and hiked her robes to her waist. The plates shuddered when she hoisted her rear into the air, perched on hands and toes as she wriggled her vagina against her victim’s aching cock. It slid inside, and her wanton moans put a blush on every cheek but hers. Her body rocked and swayed, raping the man while he hung helpless and sending arcs of nearly-forgotten pleasure through her remade body. She readied herself to beg for his touch of life, but he gave in before she could say a word, and she barely escaped, uninterested in taking his seed inside her and squatting over her meal while it drained. Thinner but still delicious, his fluid sloshed out of her cup and fell into her food, painting it with the last of his shame.

“Daughters of the Dimitrescu line,” Alcina stood, swirling her goblet of cum. “To Halloween, to another year together, and to all the exquisite meals to come.” Her daughters raised their cups and agreed, and as a group they devoured their supper. The man hung, forgotten, within easy reach of sharpened knives and dozens of teeth, where he would stay until the next feeding.

Chapter Text

“So?” Ella perched her hands on her hips, well clear of her bottoms, and shifted her shoulders. “How is it?”

“Hot,” Brooke admitted. “Better than mine.”

“Shut up.”

“It looked better in the dressing room.”

“Everything does. Dressing room lights cheat.” Ella grabbed Brooke and spun her toward the mirror. “You? Are going to slay.”

Brooke shrugged, but with a twice-over she started to believe her friend, to a degree. Hot might have been an overstatement. Cute she could accept. Sexy? The jury was still out. Her bikini wasn’t as daring as Ella’s, but she filled it out more than her old one-piece, and in the right clothing she had to admit she sported some actual curves. With summer around the corner, a beach ten minutes away, and an actual salaried job for some spending money, it was high time to reinvent herself. An eye-catching wardrobe, a great tan, maybe a new haircut, and the first steps of a career all put her well on the path to being top-tier girlfriend material…according to Ella, at least.

“Maybe,” Brooke sighed. “As long as a certain woman doesn’t steal all the good guys first.”

“Pfft, I can’t handle all the good guys. Three or four at a time, tops.”

“Great, I’ll take your leftovers.”

“Shut up. Brooke, look at you.” Ella waved her hand over Brooke, mostly the unclothed area between her very low-rise bottoms and the string just under her cleavage. “Men are going to fall over themselves for a shot at this.”

Brooke bit her tongue, daring to allow a bit of pride in her body, but eight years of being in Ella’s hourglass-shaped shadow had done a number on any fantasies of being a decent guy’s first choice. “Sure.”

“Want me to prove it? Post a selfie, then sit back and watch the horny comments roll in.”

“Right, because I’m desperate for attention from online perverts.”

“Come on, get your phone,” Ella prodded her in the small of her back and Brooke gave in immediately. She’d rarely been able to stop Ella when she got going, and the faster she capitulated, the less Ella would bother her about it for the next…forever, really.

She got her phone from her desk and held it at arm’s length, capturing her body with her bedroom in the background. A few taps later and she had some half-decent pictures to share. “Done.”

“No no no. Here.” Ella stepped behind Brooke and rested her head on her shoulder, hiding herself while Brook took center stage. “If I’m here it’ll look more candid, like it’s not a lonely girl being all sad in her room. And smile. Act like you’re having fun.”

“Like this?” Brooke grinned and tapped again.

“Oh! Oh, oh, do that anime thing! You know, the,” Ella rolled and crossed her eyes at once and let her tongue loll out of her mouth, with just a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips. Her face transformed into the cartoon expression in a second, a testament to the amount of time she and Brooke had practiced it with each other to make fun of how terminally-online boys fell over themselves for it (and for no other reason, as Ella had stated several times).

Brooke winced. “Wouldn’t that look porny?”

Ella gasped and put her hands to her cheeks. “Oh no, you’re right. If only our goal was to point out how much guys want to fuck you, a situation where porniness would help!”

Only Ella could so easily combine brazen stupidity with flawless logic. Brooke sighed and readied herself, then made her version of the anime face, with her brow creased and less smile but more drool. Ella posed with her, and the next few pictures took on a much lewder tone. “Okay, yeah,” she said as she sucked air through gritted teeth, “these do look like something that would get a lot of comments.”

“We can do even better.” Ella hugged Brooke from behind, still hiding her most eye-catching assets from the lens. One arm wrapped just under Brooke’s breasts, pushing them higher than the bikini could, and the other hand sat between her belly button and her bottoms. “See? Now there’s that little hint of lesbian action. They’ll go nuts.”

“I don’t—“

“In fact, here. Take a video. We’ll look at each other, and we’ll smile for the camera, and we’ll do the face, and in fifteen seconds you’ll be the only thing anybody you know is talking about.”

Again, Ella wasn’t wrong, and at the moment she was the sort of right Brooke wanted to hear. She shook her arm to relax her muscles and held the phone out again, framing themselves for the video. She hit the button, it turned red, she and Ella glanced at each other over Brooke’s shoulder, and they gave their future viewers a look at their goofiest, sexiest expressions.

While the video recorded, Ella moved, and Brooke watched what happened through the screen in her grasp. One hand pushed under her top, cupping her breast and stroking her nipple with the middle of one finger. The other slid under her bottoms, where it found her pussy in an instant and nearly pushed inside. Her bikini hid none of it, stuck so tight to her body she could see individual fingers roaming around the very small areas her clothing ostensibly protected. Brooke froze in shock, holding her expression as Ella groped her, trapped in the middle of some on-camera heavy petting. Her face made her seem like a willing participant, not a befuddled victim, and her first try at telling Ella off instead made her moan like an amateur porn star.

The video reached sixty seconds and stopped automatically. The hands pulled back, and while Brooke reeled and wondered where the time went, Ella snatched the phone from her hands and tapped it. “And…posted!”

“Post—what? What the hell, Ella!” Brooke jumped for her phone in sheer panic. “God, at least tell me you made it private!”

“What’s the point, then? You have to—oh!” She waved it at Brooke as notifications popped onto the screen. “See? Admirers already.”

Brooke finally took it back and immediately moved to delete the softcore porn Ella had put on her account…but she couldn’t help reading the notifications as she cleared them. Boy after boy after boy, all replying in seconds, all complimentary, all lusting after her? One or two said “I’ll take the brunette in the back”, but no more. The rest were split; half wanted to see more of both girls, and half wanted her alone. They had a choice between her and Ella, and they picked her? Cute-but-not-hot Brooke? Her phone continued pinging as she lowered it, and she blinked at Ella in confused defeat. “I guess…maybe you’re right?”

“I knew you’d come around. You are going to have the greatest summer. I’ll make sure of it.” Ella glanced at the phone and bent forward, shaking her chest inside her top. “Want to post more? Maybe on some…other websites?”

For once, Brooke considered it.

Chapter Text

“If you’re going to fight in a dress, have a plan.” Simple, straightforward advice passed from hero to sidekick for generations. Every female superhero—and many males, especially those who leaned on ancient clothing standards like those depicted in myth—learned the dangers of fighting crime in loose legwear from their mentors and allies. From the offensive (“a flowing dress disguises your foot movements when you fight up-close”) to the defensive (“a bulky garment can snag on things while you’re trying to maneuver”) warnings traveled to younger ears by way of oral tradition, and everybody knew the address of at least one tailor who specialized in “magic skirts” that clung to the thighs and tended to fold just right to protect the wearer’s modesty. Established heroes at all levels of popularity made a point to tell newcomers about the risks of certain clothing styles, not to deter them from expressing themselves but to make them aware of the complications so they could make conscious decisions about their uniforms.

Nobody told Starfire.

To be fair, she found a correct answer by accident. Traditional Tamaranean battle garb for woman closely resembled the Earth skort, a pair of shorts that only appeared as a skirt from most angles. When she joined the Teen Titans, everybody assumed she knew what she was doing. She didn’t have a mentor to walk her through her options, and Tamaran had wildly different cultural norms from Earth, so she didn’t see a reason to reconsider her clothing as long as nobody said anything about it. But as she grew, her uniforms had to adapt, and eventually she had to seek out clothing for her adult curves, which led her to shopping in human department stores. It was inevitable that one day she’d grab a true miniskirt off the rack, fail to understand the importance of the missing layer of fabric underneath, and fly into the city to fight crime with her panties on full display.

The panties were not, in and of themselves, shameful. Starfire didn’t have anything in her underwear drawer covered in bows and cartoon characters, and her skimpiest undergarments lived in a separate drawer that only opened when she and Robin got some alone-together time, along with costumes for a half-dozen other female heroes and villains, all hand-chosen by Robin for the purposes of “the playing of roles”, which Starfire always found as educational as it was exhilarating. No, these were ordinary panties. They did have a little flair about them, lacy trim around every edge and a bright blue color scheme, but they were perfectly reasonable underwear for Earth women. (To verify, she had shown them to Raven and asked if they truly were “the adorbs”, as she suspected, and Raven had responded with a noncommittal “mm” and returned to her book, which was akin to emphatic approval!) Nothing weird at all.

But they were bright blue, and neither Starfire not her skirt were. They stood out, though from far away it wasn’t completely clear what they were. Most people on the sidewalk ignored Starfire flying on patrol, and those who watched her go saw only a flash of clashing color, easily interpreted as a glare or optical illusion. People in office buildings had a much better view up her miniskirt, and when she turned onto a new street, anyone with a corner office was close enough to see the fabric riding up between her taut ass cheeks. Aside from those lucky individuals it took a very particular circumstance to spy Starfire’s underwear, like the citizens using binoculars specifically to follow the movements of superheroes, most of whom had hoped for an upskirt view ever since the female Titans had turned eighteen (because they were ethical perverts, thank you very much) and finally got their long-awaited payoff.

Criminals were luckier. Well, they did get beaten up and arrested, which wasn’t great. But they had a much closer eyeful of Starfire hovering just a few yards away with her arms crossed and one leg raised in a standard power pose for a flying hero, except when Superman did it he wasn’t directing everybody’s gaze to his panty-covered pussy. She didn’t understand why she had the bank robbers’ undivided attention, or why they listened to all of her valiant speech of righteousness and victory without once trying to shoot her or look for an escape route. When they fought her, they resorted to hand-to-hand combat, and they were incredibly bad at it because they only managed to tug on her skirt. But she wasn’t in danger from ordinary human fists, and she corrected her minor wardrobe malfunction shortly before the police arrived. She also didn’t find it strange that those police wanted to take the selfies with her, or that they wanted her sitting on their shoulders when they did it. They were simply appreciating their local heroes.

She had no idea half the force got upskirt photos of her within a few hours. Nor did she know about how the pictures spread from one cop to his friend, then online at the breathless pace of social media. Suddenly half the cameras in a ten-mile radius were turned upward, and she became the talk of the town. Rumors swirled about what she was doing. Was it a hint at a wardrobe change, or a hex put on her by a magical villain? The most salacious rumor, obviously, was the most popular: Starfire wanted to declare openly that she wasn’t a Teen Titan any more, and she intended to flaunt her body to anybody and everybody until they accepted it, even if it meant eventually fighting crime while wearing nearly nothing. Those same “ethical” perverts latched onto this, their favorite explanation, and with their boost it quickly became the only possibility anybody wanted to discuss.

Starfire didn’t know any of this. That night she worked out and watched a movie (with popped corns!) and went to bed early, so she missed the news and blog posts and everything else making her the new poster adult for young superheroes embracing their sexuality. She only knew she’d be patrolling alone again tomorrow, and she’d probably wear red. It was Robin’s favorite color.

Chapter Text

Madlen barreled through the door, glistening with sweat and red as sunrise. She slammed it shut behind her before Hector could say hello, and she fastened only one of its locks before she rushed to the counter. “I got something.”

“No kidding.” He looked at the window over her shoulder, staring for a mild eternity in case the town guard showed up at the front of his shop. Madlen whimpered as she waited, peering at him through baggy eyes, withholding voice until he nodded and looked back at her. “What can I do for my favorite supplier?”

“Scroll!” She threw the scroll case onto his counter so hard it bounced. “Need to offload it now.”

Hector glared at the case like it might bite him if he glanced away. “How hot is it?”

“Not. No heat. Ice-cold. I just need it gone.”

“Is it cursed?”

“…maybe.”

“Damn it, Madlen, how many times have I told you about stealing cursed gear? You know I have to get this fixed before I can fence it.”

“Fine! I—mmmmm!” She screwed her eyes shut and grabbed the counter. “I’ll pay for it.”

“I know.”

“But you’ll take it, right?”

“What’s the curse?”

“I can’t tell youuuuuuoh gods!” Her legs gave out under her, sending her down to the counter elbows-first. Hector backed away and watched her writhe, maintaining what he thought was a safe, non-communicative distance. “It’s, uh—“

“Then no.” He almost pushed the case back toward her but thought better of it. “I’m not taking a weird magic scroll that spreads some collapsing sickness.”

“I’m not sick! I’m just sick of all these—fuck, already?” Madlen dropped her head onto the counter and screamed into her forearm, bouncing her hips in the air like an invisible horse under her needed some training. When she could breathe again she punched the wood, shook her hand, and peered at him through the messiest bangs he’d ever seen. “Hnnngzz.”

“What?”

“Tongues! It’s tongues, okay? I stole this scroll from a wizard, and I tried to read it, and now I’m being attacked by tongues.”

“You’re saying tongs, right? Poked by—“

“I know how a tongue feels, Hector!”

He raised his arms. “Fine, I gotcha. So it’s a tickling thing.”

“Gods, I wish. They’re not focusing on ticklish places.”

Hector looked her over from top to bottom until a death stare stopped him short. “I’m about to assume something lewd if you don’t tell me to stop.”

Madlen gritted her teeth, inhaled, and responded with the cutest moan he’d ever heard from a woman.

“Alright then. So they’re, um, underneath?”

“They’re everywhere I’d want them to be if I didn’t want them gone more than anything else in this world. They phase through clothing. All clothing, no ma—ah—ah—ah—aaaaah! Whatever I wear, they get past. I can’t walk without panting. I can’t speak without sounding like a brothel girl. I can’t sleep, Hector! All night it’s just lick, lick, lick—FUCK.” He’d never heard a more intentional expletive, and it was the last he heard from Madlen until her thighs stopped convulsing. “I saw them once,” she panted. “They’re ghost tongues.”

“Just tongues? No ghosts attached?”

“Just tongues. Lots of them. Thick ones, long ones, wet ones. I think one of them’s forked? I can’t tell whether I’m so sensitive I can feel taste buds or I’m so numb I’m imagining them.” She fell on the counter again, draped over it like a corpse. “You have to help me, Hector.”

“I’m not a wizard, Maddie. I can’t cure curses.”

“But you know people, right? You know everybody. You have to have some contact who can get this off me. Or destroy the scroll. I don’t care any more. Getting rid of these tongues is worth every copper of profit I would have made selling it.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Um…” he waved his hand at it. “Is it safe to touch?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s s-s-saaaaaaafe.” She dropped to her knees and beyond, and he heard her voice from the floor. “It didn’t activate until I tried to read it. If it stays in the case, you’re good.”

“Great. I’ll just…” Hector pulled a decorative sword from the shelf and poked the scroll case until it rolled away from him. “I’ll take a look in the morning.”

“Hector, by all that is holy—“

“Kidding! I know a witch who specializes in this sort of thing. I can see her right now if you can watch the shop.”

“She’s good with curses?”

“Curses, enchantments, items, salves. If it has anything to do with sex, she’s the expert.”

“Why do you know a sex witch?”

“In case some thief I know is getting tongue-banged by spirits and needs a rescue.”

Madlen’s counterattack was just an exhausted, lusty whine. “I think I can cover for you.”

“Great. And who knows, maybe getting some distance from the scroll will help.”

“It doesn’t,” she sighed with all the weight of person who had long ago tried everything she could think of. “Please hurry.”

“I’ll do my best.” Hector dropped his apron on the counter and put the scroll case in his traveling pouch. “You’ll owe me after this one.”

“I will pay you anything you want if you—“ she gasped and bucked off the floor, “—if you fix this.”

“…anything?”

“Hector!”

“Right, going now.”

Chapter Text

Dirk the Daring was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He did not set forth to save Princess Daphne from the aptly-named dragon Singe because he wanted a chance to lay eyes upon her peerless beauty, nor did he plan to leverage a successful rescue into a landholding from her father. He did it because it was right, and because he was in love. Love buoyed his courage and vice versa, and he slew the great beast and took the princess in his arms.

Luckily, Daphne loved him too. At first he thought she had such a simple view of love that she believed she should dedicate herself to the man who saved her, and he would never take advantage of such purity. But the kisses she laid under his ear and the hands she used to map his upper body suggested more worldliness than he had assumed, and when she praised him for exploits he had performed throughout his career, he understood her long-held feelings for him. Theirs was a classic love, two bound souls who overcame the social and physical distance between them one way or another, and they would express their love the way in the manner than befit them.

Dirk did, though get a sense of mixed messages from Daphne. She was all over him as he carried her out of the castle, but she never suggested they stop and find a more comfortable place to lay. She stretched in his arms, demonstrating her flexibility in a maybe-dress most women might refer to as “outrageous”, but she never showed an inch of bare skin beyond its (admittedly liberal) borders. She mentioned how her father would gladly offer them land on which to build a house and family, perhaps the most obvious hint in the lot, yet left the idea dangling without further detail. When night fell and Dirk set her down on his bedroll, he lay in the dirt, fully intending to give her the space she needed until she lifted her blanket and asked “Aren’t you going to keep me company, hero?”

“If you insist!” Dirk shot erect in every sense of the world and pounced on the princess, already letting his fingers reach for her legs under her sheer skirt.

He nearly touched actual skin before she pushed him away with all the strength of half a feather. “Oh, but Dirk!” Daphne cried in her breathy sopranino, a voice like birdsong or perhaps a slide whistle with asthma. “I must remain a maiden until our wedding night! I could never let a man other than my husband undress me!”

“Never?” Dirk winced and pouted at once, a feat of facial musculature. “Not even a husband-to-be?”

“Never! We must not be naked with each other until we are married!”

He sighed, then shrugged. “Well, that’s the way of things.”

She cleared her throat before he could roll over. “I said we must not be naked, good sir. Your skin may not touch my skin and sully me.”

Dirk sat upright. “So as long as we’re still clothed…”

Daphne winked. A bell chimed and a heart flew from her eyelash. It was a princess thing.

He knew what to do. If Daphne’s slender legs and dainty feet and squishy bubble backside were all barred to him by virtue of a gown that gladly bared them to his (and everyone’s) leers, he would start with the most prominent features that were, technically, covered. Though her dress stuck to her curves like glue, even its skintight material wasn’t strong enough to hide her nipples. As large as a finger joint and apparently as hard as steel, they drew her breasts into narrow points regardless of the temperature around her. As a gentleman, Dirk would never dream about pinching them between his fingers or flicking them against his nails or teasing them with his tongue. But if Daphne offered them, that was something else.

He closed his fingers and thumbs around them, keeping his hand well clear of contact with her exposed breast. They resisted his strength, yielding just enough to show him he had made progress. Beneath her glittery attire they squished, tenting the dress further as they spread between his fingers. She moaned, loud as a conversation, and her dancer’s limbs stretched until they burst free of the blanket. She offered herself as a canvas and he painted in an area the size of two gold coins, focusing all his lustful thoughts on points he couldn’t see.

Pulling came naturally and accidentally, a way to test the waters before his higher mind could warn him, but Daphne’s toothy, rosy-cheeked scream told him to press on. He dragged them up and down, back and forth, scraping them across the inside of her dress while she kicked and groped in loud ecstasy. He fiddled with them in childish fascination, staring agape at the reactions he caused throughout her body. His ears had never experienced a sound as addictive as her moans, a constant stream of “Oh, Dirk, yes, more, yes, oh, Dirk, yes, Dirk, oh, oh!” on which he believed he could subsist as food. On a lark he bit her nipple, a cautious nibble no stronger than a pinch, and Daphne‘s head flew back so fast she almost knocked herself out on the ground. She screamed his name and lifted her hips, humping the night air for a quarter of a minute before collapsing and drifting almost immediately into a blissful stupor.

“Hmph,” Dirk smiled to himself and settled next to her for a good night’s sleep. He didn’t need physical satisfaction himself. He was a gentleman, more interested in the pleasure of his love than his own. Also, he had no doubt Daphne would make it up to him once they were wed, likely within days. Maybe her wedding dress would be as revealing as her current gown. Or, perhaps, more so? He could only hope.

Chapter Text

Servants came and went. It was the nature of things, especially for the von Carsteins. Ordinary nobles might have selected a young man or woman to stay by their side until death, a personal manservant akin to a shadow. But most nobles did eventually die, and the von Carsteins did not. Isabella and her husband had controlled Sylvania for four human generations, vampires with humanity as their rightful demesne. Maintaining the charade required a modicum of discretion, including the gradual introduction and retirement of vassals. Every so often Isabella dismissed one of the maids or cooks or other servants, some of whom went back to their families and some of whom…didn’t. To fill the void she would accept new blood from one of the villages under her control, and they too would work until she decided otherwise. Isabella did not get too attached to the help. One way or another she would remain and they would not, and usually she did not need to engage with them more than necessary.

But once in a while a hire piqued her interest. Viola arrived at Castle Drakenhof a few days after she came of age, and almost immediately her wandering eye made an impression on the countess. Most maids knew to keep their gaze low and look toward their mistress only when she spoke to them. Viola did not know, and once informed by an older servant, she did not care. She stared openly at Isabella, following the countess until she left sight and shirking her duties in the process. At first Isabella thought Viola suspected her undead nature, perhaps as a child of Witch Hunters. The longer she observed, the more she thought Viola was inspired by an even more base instinct than the drive to cleanse the world of evil: the drive to appreciate beauty. She was a woman who lusted after women, a mild sin of thought but a great sin of action, and Isabelle relished the opportunity to lead Viola into her fall.

Isabella knew what men desired from women, and though a woman’s adoration was a new endeavor she assumed the crux of the interest was the same. Viola wanted her body. Loathe as she was to resort to the standard noblewoman tactic of flashing skin and lacing entendres into every sentence, Isabella would never resort to baring her legs or arms for the attention of a peasant girl. Thus she found a compromise. A corset was standard attire for a lady of bearing, even those who partook of the hunt and other activities of the male persuasion. Drawing it a little tighter each morning was the simplest act. Viola noticed the effect on Isabella’s figure instantly, watching with such attentiveness she dusted a plant three times, and Isabella had found her path of seduction.

Corsets were, by and large, awful. Their very existence spoke to the meddling of men in the wardrobe of women, a social mandate to add to bust and hip by subtracting from the proper functions of internal organs. In this Isabella had a pronounced advantage; the blessing of undeath had freed her of the need to breathe fully and granted an eldritch robustness to the quality of her spine, eliminating most of a corset’s injurious effects. She could cinch tighter for longer than any human, and she used her gift to wonderful effect on poor, sinful Viola.

The servant girl perhaps thought herself clever, sneaking peeks at Isabella’s molded body through sideways glances and from behind grand furniture. Isabella encouraged her silently, subtly, with every stare she felt on her cold skin. When Viola gazed upon Isabella’s breasts, pushed up until they spilled from her clothing, Isabella found cause to bend forward as part of every inspection. When Viola watched Isabella’s backside, bulging enough to be spied under her ruffled skirt, Isabella swayed her hips with every calculated step. It mattered not whether her husband noticed her change in demeanor or wardrobe, or whether he stewed in frustrated impotence or tacitly approved. Isabella did this for Viola, in that she did it for herself with Viola as the unwitting pawn, a naive mouse in the paws of a well-proportioned lioness.

Viola’s morals held fast for a time, and Isabella grew bored of chipping away at a servant’s sense of restraint. She commissioned new corsets, smaller, tighter, taller, more fit for distributing her weight to the areas she deemed necessary. Shortly they arrived, and she paraded about Drakenhof with her body barely contained by the most powerful laces within seven days’ ride. Smaller clothing naturally came with the change, audacious bodices and skirts to better accentuate her impossible, unnatural physique. The less she wore, and the tighter she cinched, and the more she strutted, the further she engrossed Viola in her every action. The girl had admired her as a mistress but worshiped her as a target of carnal desire, and Isabella knew she only needed to provide an invitation to seal her fate.

It came to pass one evening, when Viola visited Isabella’ chambers to clean them, and her work suffered greatly in the presence of Isabella herself. After the third dropped book, Isabella sighed as much as her compressed lungs would allow, extended her arms, and said “I will allow it” in her most patient tone. Viola paused for several heartbeats until she threw away her caution and her morality. She descended on Isabella like a boy on his wedding night, burying her face in her mistress’ cleavage until she was nothing but a wave of unkempt hair. Her hands clapped around Isabella’s rear and sank deep, rummaging around lumps of fat prepared to swallow her whole. Something filled Isabella’s chest, not lust or love but pride in drawing Viola into a world of sin. No god-fearing girl would use her tongue to clean the valley between a vampire’s breasts, nor would she dig her nails so deep into undead flesh that they would draw blood if Isabella had any to give. Viola pressed their bodies together, straining to become one through several layers of clothing, and even muffled Isabella understood the eternal pledges of devotion Viola willingly offered for a chance at more.

She grinned, fangs exposed. Training Viola in the arts of pleasure would be a delightful diversion. She would teach the girl everything she needed to become a proper bedwarmer. And if Viola performed dutifully enough, perhaps she would have the role forever.

Chapter Text

*FINISH HER!*

The disembodied voice boomed through the forest, announcing Cassie’s opportunity to end her opponent’s life. In the brutal tournament of Outland, several allies and enemies had already fallen. Now it was Cassie’s turn to finish Sindel off once and for all.

Eventually.

“Cassie Special.” She extended her hand and issued a command to her drone. It hovered toward her, positioning itself above her open palm.

“Fitting,” Sindel chuckled as she fell to her knees. “To be ended by the technology of Earthrealm. So be it.”

“Ehh, well, ‘finished’ is only kinda correct.” Cassie grinned at the object her drone released, and she began to attach it around her combat armor. “See, I won, so I get to do whatever to you, right? That’s the rules.”

“By the standards set in place for thousands of years, the Mortal Kombat tournament allows the victor to—“

“Whatevs, that’s a yes. So! Normally I’d kill you to save the Earth and stuff, but as long as I have you here and you’re not allowed to say no, seems like a good time to test out my newest toy. Just got it last week, fresh out of the box, only did a quick rinse because, you know, hygiene.” She tightened the final buckle and placed her open hands on either side of her hips, directing Sindel attention to the eight-inch strap-on protruding from her groin. “Whaddya think?”

Sindel shook her head slowly, just in case she had some broken bits she didn’t want to jostle loose. “You intend to use me sexually?”

“That’s the idea. Assume the position!” Cassie kicked Sindel’s shoulder, knocking her to her back on the uneven ground. “See, military life is rough. Lots of ripped, square-headed guys and tough-as-nails girls, but I want my lovers to have little more cushion. Like, squishy all over, but especially on the top and bottom. And experience is a big plus. So…”

Sindel inched away, barely able to move her arms much less climb to her feet. “I see. You lust after me because I am a finely-built warrior, and a worldy queen of Outland.”

“I guess? I just have a thing for MILFs.” She nudged Sindel’s legs apart with her foot and knelt between them. “That’s Earth slang for ‘mother I’d like to fuck’.”

“This has nothing to do with my position? No great attempt to humble the queen of Outland?”

“Nope, just think you’re hot.” She tucked her fingers inside Sindel’s leotard and pulled it aside. Sindel’s pussy peeked out, plump and luscious, and Cassie felt her heart skip as she considered it. But if she only had one shot at Sindel, she wanted to get right to the best part, and she continued yanking on the fabric until it stretched and tore. It fell off Sindel’s lower body, and by raising the queen’s legs Cassie could line herself up with Sindel’s asshole, barely visible between two fat cheeks as big as her head. Common sense—and a couple of relationships with older women on Earth—suggested the use of lubricant, but this was Sindel’s punishment for losing a life-or-death battle and also Cassie forgot to bring some. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and pushed forward, wedging her strap-on into Sindel’s anus and scanning her body for every ripple and jiggle of soft, motherly flesh.

Sindel screamed as Cassie speared her, thankfully a shout of simple pain rather than a skin-tearing screech of sonic energy (which, Cassie prayed, would have been totally against the rules, since Sindel had already lost and everything). Spasms wracked her body, convulsions in her legs that made it hard for Cassie to hold on and small jumps in her shoulders that made her tits bounce inside her costume. Her anus clenched, enhancing the ache and prolonging the penetration by forcing Cassie to shove deeper in fits and starts. Cassie glowered and grunted and pushed, fighting against the firm ass muscles underneath the layers of soft fat. At last she hit a wall, resting imaginary-balls-deep inside Sindel, and she let the queen rest while she caught her own breath.

Cassie waited for Sindel to exhale, then pulled back without warning, drawing a surprised moan from her victim’s lips. Before the shock of pleasure could wear off Cassie pressed her advantage, pumping her hips and giving Sindel the hard fuck she didn’t know she needed. Her visible suffering faded in and out, and glimmers of true arousal showed in her eyes and voice. Cassie watched the transformation as Sindel braced her hands on the ground instead of reaching for escape and relaxed her asshole so the strap-on could rub her faster. She barely saw the woman raping her, instead staring at the black sky, and Cassie grimaced at the thought of some other person in Sindel’s imagination. She pushed Sindel’s legs back to her shoulders, angling her ass higher, and leaned on top of her, hovering directly overhead to say “You’re gonna look at me when I fuck you.”

And Sindel did; though a queenly mask obscured most of her emotions, Cassie still saw the occasional wince or pout that made the position worth the strain in her core. Her hips slapped Sindel’s ass, using the force of her body weight to drive harder, and each smack traveled all the way to the bouncy tits working their way out of their purple enclosure. Sindel snarled, but her fingernails dug lines in the dirt and her chest trembled and a hint of color came over her cool face. Cassie kept up the pace, denying Sindel a second’s rest, and when her orgasm hit even millennia of royal demeanor couldn’t keep it hidden. Sindel’s lips locked open and her body went rigid, though no sound came out, a truly silent spell overtaking her body and soul. Cassie pounded her until she went limp, and when she pulled out, she grinned at the damp patch Sindel’s pussy had made on her uniform just below her stomach. She crouched next to Sindel’s head and brought out her phone to take a series of pictures of the strap-on against the blissful queen’s face, the perfect propaganda tool for the forces of Earthrealm.

*CASSIE WINS*

*SEXUALITY*

Chapter Text

“Thank you for attending our ritual, friends!” Starfire clasped her hands together and smiled far too giddily. “Your presence is most appreciated.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Raven deadpanned, already collapsed into a bored heap on the Titans’ couch.

Jinx raised her hand. “Question!”

Starfire pointed at her. “Yes, friend Jinx, I call on you!”

“Why am I here? I’ve never even met…uh…”

“Blackfire,” Starfire’s sister glared with self-important fury.

“Yeah, Black…wait, Blackfire? I always thought Starfire was one word. So you’re, like Star and Black of the Fire family?”

“First of all, you will now and forever give me top billing over my sister. Second—“

Starfire raised a finger. “Up bup bup! Jinx, you have been invited as a fellow of Blackfire for the Tamaranean ritual of bonding.”

Jinx shrugged. “Again, we’ve never met, so…”

“But you are kin by effort if not by blood! You too have fought viciously against the Titans, and you have transferred to the side of good, enticed by the power of love! Like Blackfire, you understand the trials necessary to cleanse oneself of the old and embrace the glorious future.”

Raven leaned over and whispered to Jinx. “They each need a witness but Blackfire doesn’t have any friends, so you’re the only person we know who counts.”

Blackfire glowed with righteous fury. “I heard that, witch!”

“Neat.”

“Enough!” Starfire stomped, and Titans Tower shook for a moment. “We must not fight on the day of bonding! By performing this ritual, we wipe away our rivalries and begin anew, true sisters again.”

Blackfire settled back to the ground and rolled her eyes. “Fine. Let’s do the ritual.” She took a breath and turned to her sister with her arms forward and her palms out, and Starfire mimicked the pose and curled her fingers around Blackfire’s hands. They took a step inward, within punching distance, and grabbed each other’s forearms. When they retreated, each kept hold of her sister’s left gauntlet, which dropped to the carpet. They repeated the motion, now removing the right gauntlets, and on the third step moved close enough to wrap their arms around each other’s shoulders. They stared, absorbed fully in each other while their hands fiddled, each finding the zipper on her sister’s top and sliding it down.

“Um.” It was Raven’s only comment as the clothing gave way, ceremonially removed by familiar hands. Starfire tugged off Blackfire’s top and Blackfire returned the favor, though she waited longer while Starfire struggled with long sleeves and a midriff-covering shirt. They shut their eyes and moved closer still, pressing their chests together with only overworked bras in between. Hands drifted up arms, over shoulders, just barely into vast cleavage before drawing sharply to the side, and down to miniskirts. They cupped plump asscheecks and held fast, pulling their bodies so tight their breasts bulged out in every direction, and with a shared breath they pressed their lips together.

“Whoa,” Jinx rubbed her eyes and leaned forward to watch the sisterly makeout session. “Are you seeing this too?”

“It’s probably not what it looks like. Tamaraneans can absorb language information by kissing, so this is likely an emotional bonding…thing.”

“Yeah, I tend to emotionally bond with somebody too if I’m using that much tongue.”

The miniskirts came apart and fell down the sisters’ legs. Starfire dropped first, and she caressed Blackfire’s raised leg as she removed her sister’s boot. Her fingers groped Blackfire’s calf through her leggings, and she laid kisses across her foot and shin. They traded places and Blackfire took off one of Starfire’s boots, touching skin directly with her hands and the faintest bit of tongue. Both stood for a short round of kissing, then Starfire dipped again for the other boot. Blackfire’s nails massaged her sister’s scalp, and they lingered longer in that position until she lowered her leg and stooped. When she had Starfire in nothing but a bra and panties, thin garments around her wide chest and hips, she leaned in. Her nose brushed Starfire’s pussy, and Starfire held Blackfire’s head and ground her hips against her face. A dark spot leaked through her panties by the time she let go, and when they faced each other again they shared a moment of anticipation before they reached for each other’s bras.

Jinx stretched to Raven without looking away from the half-naked aliens. “What Tamaranean power is this?”

Raven raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure this is just stripping.”

The bras flew off, and the sisters each took handfuls of the other’s breasts, using whatever super-strength was necessary to carry such heavy objects. Blackfire went for the nipple first, swirling her finger around the darkened skin, and Starfire responded with a short pinch and a quick wink. On an unknowable signal they turned away from each other, pressing their asses together and shimmying back and forth. Starfire crouched, sliding her rear down Blackfire’s legs and up again, and Blackfire mimicked her, swaying as she climbed. Starfire hooked her thumbs in her panties and bent as she slid them down, rubbing her bare ass against her sister and removing the last of her clothes. When Blackfire followed suit, she took both her leggings and the panties underneath, and Starfire shivered at the naked Tamaranean flesh pushing back on her. They swayed in perfect rhythm and opposite directions, slapping their cheeks together, and when they turned back around they thrust their legs forward and ground on each other’s thighs while their breasts docked together.

“Yeah, this is just stripping.”

“They’re, um…” Jinx whistled. “They’re really getting into it.”

“Yep.”

“Should we give them some privacy?”

Raven stared blankly as the sisters fell to the floor, humping each other like frantic animals. “It is a ritual. They do need witnesses.”

“Right, yeah, that’s what I was thinking. We have to watch the whole thing. For their sake.”

“Exactly.”

Jinx squirmed in her seat and pointed at her lap. “Do you mind if I…?”

“I already am.” Raven let the movement of her hand show under her cloak for just a moment.

“Perfect.” Jinx settled in, tried her best to ignore Raven, watched Blackfire turn around until the sisters were face-to-groin, and wondered why nobody had given her this ritual when she’d joined the Titans.

Chapter Text

Lucca covered her face with her arm and snarled at the sky. “If somebody could turn off the sun, that would be amazing, thanks.”

Crono’s insufferable half-chuckle had her reaching for her pillow, cocked and loaded for a fluffy arc right into his smug face. But her pillow wasn’t there. Nor was her bed the rough texture under her, or her roof blocking the light above her head. She squinted beyond her arm and pieced her situation together logically. Right, she wasn’t at home. Not since she’d broken into the castle and freed a prisoner on death row, then accidentally sort-of kidnapped the princess and committed…treason? Probably treason. Something something future, Lavos, Magus, and now she was in the very ancient past. She’d met a young woman with esoteric fashion sense, and they had a party, and—

“Uhnnn…My head…” Shooting pain lanced between her temples, and the extent of her situation made itself clear. She remembered the party, and the fermented beverage the cave-people had given her. That must have been the problem. She’d tried it and liked it, so she’d had more, and by the time she identified it as an intoxicant her faculties had deteriorated too much to stop her. Brilliant. The finest technical mind in Guardia laid low by prehistoric booze. No wonder her father swore the stuff off. He’d probably never gotten so plastered he’d woken up in a field with the dusty ground against his bare back and the sun beating down on his—

Lucca bolted upright, throwing the blanket off her body as she did. She regretted it immediately as her stomach and brain lurched, and she flopped back down with the blanket barely covering her chest. Crono stepped next to her, enveloping her face in his shadow, and she peered at him through her fingers. “Please, please, please tell me I’m wearing clothes.”

Crono winced.

She didn’t recognize her voice in her groan. “Great, I got naked and collapsed after the party. This couldn’t be any worse.”

Crono winced harder.

“…during the party?”

He nodded.

“D-did you see anything?”

He held his finger and his thumb a quarter-inch apart.

Lucca kicked in his general direction. Hitting his leg was like trying to fell a tree with harsh language, but it made her feel an iota better. “Did I do anything else I should be aware of?”

He held up three fingers and gestured to the side. She shaded her eyes and let his wave lead her to the far end of the clearing, where three prehistoric humans chatted with each other and shot goofy grins in her direction.

Even her brilliant mind took a second to process it all. “I did what last night!? Liar!” She kicked again, harder, and Crono had the good sense to fake some pain. But she couldn’t deny the evidence: her clothes missing, three men looking at her like they’d won a lottery and she was the prize, and the blank space in her memories where most of the night should have been.

But that wasn’t entirely true. She remembered glimmers here and there, brief flashes of situations emblazoned in her head like they were placed with branding irons. She recalled looking over at Crono and following his gaze to Marle, who danced so enthusiastically her top nearly gave way. She recalled the spike of emotions his stare gave her, then the taste of the drink flowing across her tongue. She recalled dancing—poorly—alongside the members of Ayla’s tribe, letting the drums and the alcohol scare away her inhibitions. They crowded around her, and she lost track of Crono and Marle and Ayla and time and sense and up and down and…

It hit her all at once, so hard she might have fallen if she hadn’t already been prone. It was accidental at first, stumbling into one of the men. He helped her up, and she reached for him to keep herself steady, and her hand lingered too long on the hard musculature of his bare upper body. He returned the favor, and his fingers set her breast on fire through three layers of clothing. In the moment she wasn’t pining for a childhood friend who only had eyes for a princess he met less than a week ago. This time she was the one people desired, the woman to whom they flocked, the body they longed to touch and taste and smell. She hiccuped her way through a pickup line she was glad she didn’t remember, and she knocked off her helmet as she pulled off a tunic suddenly too warm for her burning chest. Clothing fell away until she was as naked as Ayla and the other ancient women, then kept going, and she didn’t remember whether one of the men stole her first kiss or if she gave it away when she leapt on him and rode him to the ground.

She was definitely on top the first time, riding a caveman whose cock was chiseled from the same stone as the rest of his physique. The second time she let him take her on her back—no, wait. It wasn’t he. It was a second man, using the cum already in her pussy as additional lubrication. She stayed there after he filled her again and the third took his place, only a few feet from where she’d woken up. She’d held on to each of them, letting them take her with all the strength in their iron bodies, giving them the moans she had been saving for years and years, wrapping her legs around their waists to pull them deep as they came, shivering with pleasure as her own orgasm made her forget the risks, the setting, the alcohol, and everything else that might ward her away. For several moments, everything was right in the world, and everything she needed was being held against her body and spilling inside her. And then the third finished, and the first man took another turn…

“Oh…why does my head hurt like this?” Lucca slumped. She should have known better, should have regulated her ingestion more. Now all she could do was hope this was the end of it. “Ayla doesn’t have any good hangover tips, does she?”

Crono shrugged and jerked his thumb toward a hut.

“Yeah, sleeping it off sounds pretty good right now.” She pulled the blanket up to her neck, covering her body. “Please get me my clothes and wake up Marle. We need to get the Dreamstone and head to a time with medical science. Oh, and Crono?” She stopped him before he turned around. “If you tell anybody about what I did, or bring it up, or even think about it, I promise I will shoot you.”

He gave her a thumbs-up, but he did look at her shape under the blanket once more before he left. She sighed. At least he wasn’t totally uninterested. A small victory.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure about this?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Because I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“Darling, the entire point of this exercise is to overwhelm me.”

Honey sucked air through her teeth and twisted her body to see her boyfriend. Looking over her shoulder didn’t work, not with their height difference. If he’d been a human, or she, they would have lined up better. But amazons towered over humans, and humans in turn towered over halflings, so an amazon and a halfling together was…a mechanical challenge, to say the least.

Hazel loved it. Halfling women didn’t do anything for him, and human women were closer but still missing something. Honey was, physically, perfect. He barely came up to her knee, each of her thighs was as broad as his shoulders, her breasts probably weighed half again what he did, and she happily let him indulge himself with and on and in her. And even beyond her statuesque body, he’d rarely met a person more concerned about the well-being of others. She treated him with respect, not just as a member of the “little folk”, and she would never do anything to hurt him.

Which, to be honest, was part of the problem. Hazel wanted to experience Honey fully and completely, and Honey’s kindness got in the way. He’d begged her—literally on his knees—to sit on his face, and she wouldn’t allow it. Her weight would crush him, and he wouldn’t be able to breathe, and what if she lost control and started bouncing, et cetera. One day he’d truly get under her, smothered from head to toe in her fatty thighs. For the time being he was willing to accept a compromise.

“I understand,” Honey sighed. “Please tap my leg when you need to breathe, okay?”

“I promise.”

She rested her hands on her ass and bent forward. He imagined her blush, and if he could see it he’d kiss it away and tell her she had no reason to be ashamed of her perfect body. At the moment his focus was on the opposite end. Honey had a voluptuous backside even for amazons, fully capable of absorbing him and not letting go. That was the point. He climbed onto one of his step stools to put his mouth at the right height, and with each of his preparatory breaths he reveled in her scent. With one final, loud inhale he pushed his face forward and placed his tongue against her asshole, and Honey released her grip, letting her ass cheeks swallow his head whole.

The darkest black fell over him, deeper than night. All sound stopped except the blood in his ears and the faintest sense of Honey’s voice. Lush pressure attacked him from all sides, crushing him in a prison of flesh. Shaking his head nudged the walls to the sides for a moment before they closed back in, jiggling with the aftershocks of his movement. From the shoulders up he was gone, trapped in his girlfriend’s claustrophobic ass. He couldn’t have dreamed anything better.

His lips could move, with some effort, and he used his minor freedom to kiss Honey’s asshole. Its familiar taste pushed back against him, stronger than when she lay on her stomach and he dove in from behind. She relaxed and her sphincter opened, one of the few parts of her he could manipulate under his own power. His tongue delved in, slurping at her bowels for the short distance it could reach. Heat overwhelmed his taste buds, disguising the flavor of Honey’s ass until he acclimated to it. Once he found it he experienced little else, just the pungent aroma of her most private place, an experience he never wanted to leave.

Around him her ass trembled with soft moans and surprised jolts. To somebody with her strength his mouth probably felt like a feather; even when he put his all into pounding her silly, he couldn’t shift her body an inch. The only places he could affect were her most pronounced, the breasts and thighs and especially the ass made of fat designed to shake at the slightest provocation. Now those shakes were his entire world, the result of his actions and everything he felt with all five senses. He mashed his nose against her tailbone and sucked on her anus, letting her twitches batter him until he thought he might bruise and then some. His hands and cock sat tense but useless, irrelevant to his current act of foreplay. Only his lips and tongue mattered, wet fuel for Honey’s irregular sighs of joy and the best reason to shake his face again and feel her slosh around him.

Hazel’s lungs ached for air and he ignored them, extending his time in paradise for several precious seconds. He considered the effects of passing out entirely, succumbing to Honey’s ass and drifting off to sleep lodged inside her intimate areas. But he had made a promise to her, and when he felt the dark clouds rolling into his eyes he tapped Honey’s thigh. She pulled her cheeks apart and took a quarter-step forward, catching him on her ass when he slumped forward. He took a deep breath and flopped to the floor, spread-eagle and grinning like a madman. “I love you, Honey.”

She knelt next to him and cradled his body, lifting him like a kitten. Once his breathing returned to normal she kissed his forehead. “I love you too.”

“So…round two? You can be on the bottom.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?”

Hazel gestured to his crotch. “I am nothing but up for it.”

She laughed and carried him to the bedroom. The night had just begin.

Chapter Text

The monster was getting smarter. Once content to lumber ineffectually after Claire, it now moved to cut her off from the streets she could use to escape it. Bullets hardly phased it, damaging its trenchcoat and hat more than the creature itself. Its attacks remained as strong as ever, punching through cars and concrete like paper. Her only option was to flee, and as its growing intelligence made flight harder, each encounter became more dangerous.

She plugged it several more times, putting fruitless holes in its torso before she lurched aside to dodge another bone-breaking punch. Its dead eyes stayed on her, watching her core avoid destruction by inches. It hesitated a moment as she pulled herself up, and once she was on her feet it rose to its full height and stormed after her again. If only she understood. If she knew what made it pause, if she knew what she did or what happened in the environment to trigger the momentary lapses in its relentless pursuit, she could get away. One more shot, then several clicks, and she spent a moment reloading while it closed the distance between them. Another swing, another roll, and as she tried her stand her foot slipped in a puddle of wet sludge she opted not to identify. She tottered on one foot and one arm, and the creature paused again, watching her stumble with its remorseless gaze locked on—

Claire stopped short. It couldn’t be. But she well knew that angle of vision from friends and teachers and cashiers and everybody else who thought they could sneak a look before she noticed, and now it was unmistakable. The monster wasn’t looking at her body to check her center of balance, or using x-ray vision or some other weird science power to monitor her heartbeat or something. It was looking at her chest.

She vented frustration with a growl. What was the point of giving male gaze to a bio-weapon?! Was it some transformed human, now fixated on her breasts for…some reason. She didn’t know. It seemed ridiculous, but not too ridiculous to exploit. As a test, she turned tail and jogged away, shrugging off her jacket as she went. When she turned around she found the creature a few yards away, ready to attack again, until she bent forward and gave it a look down her top.

The creature stopped, which was just about the dumbest bit of luck she’d ever had. It truly was enthralled by her cleavage. She raised her hands slowly and pulled off her top, and the sight of her bra made the monster finally lower its fists. Claire took a breath, watching it follow the rise and fall of her breasts. She was safe…ish. With one hand on her gun she picked up her clothes and sidled around the creature, keeping her cleavage in its field of vision at all times. Walking by it, she could really appreciate its ridiculous size, its dangerous muscles, the lines carved on its face, and the weapon she hadn’t noticed before: the massive bulge in its pants.

It shifted, and she raised her gun to its nose, hoping the muzzle flash would distract it enough for an escape. Instead of crushing her head, it fiddled with its pants under its coat, and she took her eyes off its face when it unsheathed a pale grey penis the size of a novelty horse dildo. Why, again, why would a bio-weapon have something like that?! Pure shock made her pause for the critical second it—no, he—used to smack his growing cock against her chest, and she shook with furious disgust. He didn’t want to look at her breasts. He wanted to experience them, and as long as she was within easy reach she didn’t have much of a choice.

Claire kept one hand on her weapon and the other on her clothes, letting the creature stretch her bra with a finger as thick as three or four of hers. The strap dug into her back as he pulled it out, and her chest lost some definition as her support moved a few inches from her skin. The monster didn’t mind. He prodded the underside of her breasts until his dick poked through, wedged between her bra and her sternum with its tip just shy of her chin. He released her bra, it snapped tight to secure his cock in her cleavage, and he growled as he gave her chest the smallest hump.

She whined through gritted teeth, but she pressed her breasts together with her upper arms. The monster’s first thrust knocked her backward, and they stumbled together until her shoulders hit a wall. With its hands against the wall it fucked her breasts with robotic passion, compressing her lungs between unforgiving concrete and equally unforgiving dick. Claire turned her head, avoiding at least the smell of its precum under her nose. Ashen skin scraped the insides of her breasts, unnaturally smooth but tacky enough to pull at her flesh. The creature made no sound, leaving her with her own echoed grunts and the sickly rhythm of the bio-engineered cock sliding in and out a foot from her ear.

Minutes passed, and Claire wondered whether the creature was capable of finishing or if she’d be pinned to a wall until somebody came to distract it. His pace increased so slowly she didn’t notice until it was as almost fast as her heartbeat. While she twisted to keep her eyes and mouth far out of range, the monster humped her with the same stony expression and unflinching force. The quietest sound crawled from his nose, an inkling of a growl, and his cock swelled farther still. Her clasps held on as long as they could, but when cum rushed through the creature’s dick they gave way, and her bra snapped an instant before semen smacked the side of her head. It spread down her neck and chest in dollops, cold and thick as yogurt, a slate-colored mark of shame. Claire screamed inwardly as he added layer after layer, coating her with what felt like ten pounds of semen before he stepped back.

While he reeled in his one-sided afterglow, Claire staggered to an exit. Her bra was a lost cause, and she’d need a thorough bath or several towels, but she was free…until the creature’s refractory period ended and he sought her out again.

Chapter Text

“Whew! I am spent!” Lug fell into a chair and let his limbs sag. “Let me tell you, desert battles are no fun!”

Ken grimaced at him over a set of half-polished armor. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Don’t be like that. It’s how tactics go. Sometimes you’re the best option, sometimes you’re not. Can’t help it if centaurs don’t handle sand as well as us two-legged folk.”

“Still, I wish I could have been there. Being cooped up the caravan doesn’t sit right with me. I should be up there, leading the charge with you and Max and everybody else. What good is a knight sitting at home?”

Lug sighed and pulled himself upright to place his hand on Ken’s shoulder. “My centaur friend, you are a valuable member of the Shining Force even if you can’t be in every single fight. I’ve been stuck here too, and I understand being antsy, but we can’t see this war only with our hearts. We have to see it with our minds, which means we have to do things we don’t want for the sake of…is that a love bite?”

Ken’s hand snapped to his neck. “No!”

“You sly horse,” Lug grinned and prodded Ken’s chest. “You’ve been hooking up with somebody during your downtime, haven’t you?”

“Absolutely not! I would never disrupt our team by fraternizing like that! I’ve been here polishing my armor this whole time!”

“Yeah, that’s why you’re only halfway through.”

“I-I polish thoroughly!”

“Oh, I don’t doubt you’ve been polishing something.” Lug jabbed him a few more time in the stomach. “Come on, tell me. Who’s the lady who’s been keeping your ‘spirits’ up?”

Ken rubbed his eyes, abandoning his poorly-thought-out denial under Lug’s brilliant deductions and physical pestering. He huffed and drew himself back up with the air of chivalry Lug knew. “I would never kiss and tell.”

“Not even for an old friend?” Lug grinned, though Ken remained undeterred to an outsider’s eye. Luckily Lug knew Ken’s body language, like the fingers drumming on his waist and the expectant arch of his eyebrows. Ken had news to tell, and it excited him no matter how his discipline wanted him to keep it secret. “Ah, but if I managed to guess, you wouldn’t actually be telling, would you?”

Ken’s hoof scratched at the ground. “I can’t stop you from guessing, no.”

Lug rubbed his hands together. “Alright! So, obvious first guess: Mae.”

“Why is that obviously first?”

“Because, you know…”

“Lug, I’m ashamed of you,” Ken puffed his nose. “What, we have to become romantically entangled just because we’re both centaurs? You’re better than that.”

“That’s not it!” Lug folded his arms, an ineffective defense against Ken’s raised eyebrow. “Okay, yeah, that’s part of it. But she did also sit out this battle, so she was in the caravan. And even if a dwarf can’t speak for her bottom half, I wouldn’t mind spending some time with the top. Gotta be some breast under all that breastplate, doesn’t there? Admit it, you’d bury your face in those tits.”

“Lug!” Ken clapped his hand over Lug’s mouth and examined the room. “People might hear you!”

“Mmm-mm,” he pulled Ken’s hand away. “Sorry. Right. Inside voices. But…?”

“It wasn’t Mae, no.”

“Okay, fine, one miss for ol’ Lug. But how about Tao, then? We’ve all known each other a while, can’t blame you for carrying a torch. Plus, have you seen her new gear? Those robes hinted at something before, but rowr. If she’s planning on wearing that bikini into battle from now on, I’ll happily follow her, about three inches behind that tight ass.”

“You—ugh. Please tell me you’re actually fighting during fights and not just leering at our allies.”

“Hey, if she didn’t want guys to look, she’d have stuck with the robes. I’m just playing along. Unless you don’t want me staring at your new lover?”

“No. I mean, yes.” Ken cleared his throat. “I have not been intimate with Tao.”

Lug stroked his chin and scanned Ken up and down. “Hm. Okay, so the childhood friend and fellow centaur knight are both out. One more guess. Let see…Anri was with us, so even if you’ve fallen for her, she couldn’t have marked you today. Too bad. You’d have loved that skintight mini-dress she’s wearing now. If only I was a little shorter, I’d be able to see right up it. What kind of panties do you think a princess wears?”

“Lug.”

“Right, right, I’m still thinking. Don’t rush me. That only leaves three women. Khris probably has all kinds of thoughts running around in her head. The quiet ones are always animals in the sack, right? Get it? Animal, dog-girl? Ah, but then she wouldn’t stop at just a love bite. Alef, maybe, if she wanted to brand you. Diane seems more the free-love type, like she’d neck with you one day and forget about you the next. Not a lot of forethought, which is fun too, in its own way. But you’re a fine, upstanding centaur knight! You wouldn’t go in for all that casual stuff. So there, that’s my guess.” Lug pointed up at Ken’s nose. “You’re getting dommed by Alef, and she gave you a mark on your neck to claim ownership, you lucky devil.”

Ken peeked from between his fingers. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you want to share tales of your romantic exploits with your good buddy Lug. Come on, tell me. Does she have fur everywhere, or are the good parts free and clear? How much of that ass is squishy and huggable, and how much is just fur? You can tell me, I won’t blab.”

“It’s not Alef!”

Lug crossed his arms and pouted. “Huh. Thought I had something there. So…it is Khris, then?”

Before Ken could confirm or deny, a new arrival paused Lug’s interrogation. Gong entered the room with a handful of weapons, and he glided to a stop in front of a chest. “Don’t mind me.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Lug stared Ken down while Gong put away some disused gear, watching his ally for signs of his resolve breaking.

Gong closed the chest, wiped his hands, and nodded to Lug on the way out. As he passed Ken, he tapped the side of his neck. “You should take care of that.”

Ken nodded furiously. “Right. I am. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“Sure. Sorry for…being sorry, I guess.”

Gong smirked, a rare shred of outward emotion, and exited fully. Lug looked at Ken, then at the doorway and back again. “Nooo.”

Ken shrugged and cracked the slightest smile.

“So is he as bald down below as he is up top?”

“I’m not having this conversation, Lug!”

Chapter Text

Today's chapter is part of another story, The Star of Elune. You can read it here.

Chapter Text

Harley rolled backward, pushed herself into a handstand, and vaulted into a somersault, landing neatly on the busted couch with her feet on a duffel bag full of stolen money. Her handcuffs clinked around her wrists as she reclined, waggling her eyebrows at her mortal enemy. “So, Bats, what now?”

“Now you go back to Arkham, and the money you stole goes back to the children’s charity,” Batman’s stern voice emanated from his own shadow. He dominated the room, a monolith in black, and Harley had no doubt he could spring into action at a moment’s notice. She was kind of counting on it. “It was a waste of time, Quinn. All that planning, all that running, all that fighting, and you’re just going back to your cell. It’s not worth it.”

“Yeah, you know, I’m startin’ to think somethin’ similar. Kinda nice bein’ out here in the fresh air again. Forgot how good it was. I’d probably do anything to keep breathin’ it.”

“Anything but follow the law, it seems.”

“I’m not good at the upstandin’-citizen stuff. I’m good at other things, though.” She let her feet drift apart. “Interested?”

“I know what you can do, Quinzel. You’re a brilliant psychiatrist. You can use your skills for good in Arkham. Make a difference.”

“Oh, I got skills alright. But I can’t put them to use behind bars. Might be better if I was…” She pulled her wrists apart, snapping the handcuff chain between them, “remanded to your custody?”

He glared at her, same as he always did, like a disappointed father. “I’m not looking for a new sidekick.”

Harley picked up a glass of water from the end table and took a sip so she could do a spit-take. “Sidekick?! I’m not gonna be your dumb sidekick!”

“Then what—“

“I’m trying to boink you, moron! What, you don’t got a brain in that utility belt anywhere?”

He didn’t reply for a moment. She had to say, seeing Batman at a loss for words was a fun change of pace. “Hard pass.”

“Come on! You got me cuffed! I’m at your mercy! I won’t blab, and even if I did, nobody’d believe me! This is your one chance to get a piece. Keep me out of Arkham for a few days and you can ride this Harley all you want.”

“You’re not my type.”

“The hell I’m not!” Harley sprang to her feet and stormed toward Batman on squeaky sneakers. “I know what you want, Bats. Brilliant psychiatrist, remember?” She tapped her temple. “You’re a classic case of obsessive-compulsive personality disorder manifesting as a preoccupation with a specific construction of civil justice, fueled by anhedonia mitigated only by violent tendencies bordering on self-harm. You—“ she pointed at his chiseled jaw, “are a weapons-grade sourpuss.”

“Mm.”

“And as your personal psychiatrist, I’m prescribing you 34Ds of manic pixie dream girl. You can finally let go a bit, vent a little frustration on one of those sexy crooks you keep nabbin’ but never takin’ advantage of. Put all that rage into a more constructive purpose.”

Batman didn’t move as he spoke beyond setting his jaw at a slightly different angle. “What’s your game, Quinzel? Seduction’s not your usual tactic.”

“Oh, yeah, totes, the girl who skips around down in booty shorts and a tee shirt from the Juniors’ section definitely isn’t lookin’ to get looks.”

Batman remained unmoved.

Harley’s head flopped as far back as she could get it. “Fiiiiiiiine. God’s honest truth? I haven’t gotten laid since me and Mistah J went Splitsville. I’m on a dry spell so long FDR’s gettin’ involved. And you’re, you know, you, so I’m guessin’ you don’t spend a lot of time findin’ dates. Take me back to the Belfry, do whatever you want to me for a few nights, and I’ll head off to Arkham like a good girl. Two birds, one stone.”

“You stole two hundred thousand dollars from a children’s charity banquet…for a hookup.”

“Yep!” She grinned and licked her teeth. “Don’t that make you mad?”

“It makes me feel sorry for you.”

“Mmmno! No! Bad superhero! None of this humanizin’ crap! You’re supposed to be angry at me! Mad enough to throw me in a very dark cell for a while and teach me the error of my ways by slammin’ me raw six to twelve times a day!”

Batman shook his head. “You know there are more constructive ways to find a…sexual partner.”

She sighed and dropped to the floor, sitting cross-legged and resting her chin in her hand. “Constructive don’t do it for me any more, Bats. You know what it’s like being in a relationship with the Joker? Pfft, look who I’m talkin’ to, of course you do.”

“Um—“

“And you know, I liked it? Like, I know Mistah J is bad for me. I’m still wrestlin’ with emotional attachment to a serial abuser. I know I gotta work that out. But the sex? God, the sex was fantastic. Mind-blowin’. It had that danger, that pain-slash-pleasure dynamic, that constant worry about ‘is this the time he’s really gonna hurt me?’ and it was chaotic and vicious and dirty and so fucking good!”

“I don’t think I’m—“

“And you! I know you can do it, Bats. I’ve seen you let guys run away instead of hurtin’ them, and I’ve also seen you break arms like Pocky. You know how to control your rage and your violent tendencies. You can hurt me real good if you want to, and I know it, and you have no idea what a turn-on that is. So there, cards on the table.” She popped back up and extended her hands toward him. “I’m offerin’ you free use of a crazy blonde for as long as you need. Nothin’ off limits. Take any hole, give me a good cuffin’ and roughin’, make me put all those years of gymnastics to good use. Dress me up like Catwoman or Ivy or Robin or whatever you’re into. I’ll even pretend I’m not into it if you want. You’re the victor, so spoil me…please?”

It wasn’t easy to read Batman. Patterns of behavior over years of encounters, sure, she could develop a profile from that. But face-to-face, trying to figure out what he was thinking was basically impossible. Harley could only wait while he stared a hole through her (though since he was looking at her face and not anything lower, that was probably a hint) and considered his response. “I’m not going to abduct a criminal to use as a sex slave, even if she consents.”

Her shoulders and face drooped, and she took a sudden interest in her sneakers. “Yeah. Yeah, I kinda figured you wouldn’t. But you miss all the shots you don’t take, you know?” She stuck out her handcuffed wrists and sighed. “Fine, let’s go. Long ride to Arkham.”

“Right. Arkham, where you can get the treatment you need to end your criminal tendencies.”

Harley stared at the wall for a moment before she understood. “And then…if I am all reformed, and I’m not a criminal any more, just a normal citizen who happens to like participatin’ in some guy’s violent sexual proclivities…?”

“…I’ll think about it.”

“Best I’m gonna get, I guess.”

Chapter Text

It was nice not being in charge. As the Slayer, Buffy was on the front lines of stabbing vampires and banishing demons and saving one or more worlds. As a Summers, she was the head of the household, responsible for balancing the family’s financial needs with her continuing education. But as Xander’s secret lover, she didn’t have to make difficult decisions or come up with strategies. She only had to do what her master told her. It was…freeing.

Not that she could turn off her brain entirely. He was still Xander, and he was as prone to fumbling through life as he had been when they were platonic. It just showed in different ways now. “Hey, Buffy, when you come over tonight, wear that blue thing I like.” Did he mean the periwinkle halter top that constantly teased glimpses of pert, youthful sideboob? Did he mean the powder-blue strapless dress that hugged her butt like a date for junior prom? Did he mean jeans? She was going to have to sit him down and give him a crash course in general fashion. Letting him pick her wardrobe wasn’t any good if he didn’t know what he was saying.

That was a little thing. She could handle the little things. Xander handled the big questions, like when to go out and where they would meet and what they’d do when they got there. Buffy could follow his lead, content in the knowledge that the night would all work out. Sooner or later they’d get to the sexy part, and every bit of impatience and anxiety in her body would scurry away in a series of loud moans and erotic palpitations.

Xander never let her forget the endgame. He was a young man in his very early twenties. Duh, of course it all came down to sex. Every date, and several occurrences she’d classify as hookups rather than standard courtship, eventually left them both sweaty and panting. But he worked her up to it over the course of hours, starting foreplay the moment he told her what to wear or where to be. As she put on her outfit, she imagined how he would take it off. As she entered the restaurant or cafe, she checked sight lines to see how many people could leer at her. She didn’t have to consider alternatives or escape routes. Xander handled those. Her job was to look good, do what she was told, and enjoy every second of it.

A little part of her brain told her to still fight back. No modern woman, much less the Slayer, should follow along with her boyfriend’s whims like an adorable puppy. She had wrestled with her conflicting interests for a few dates before the answer came to her in the lyrics of a song on the radio: “if you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.” Buffy, being of sound mind and body, opted to forgo the decision-making process and let Xander tell her what to do. She was in charge of her life and she could change her mind at any time. She simply didn’t want to. Thank you, Professor Rush.

And Xander didn’t press the point too hard. He didn’t correct her posture or control her bathroom breaks or make her regret a million life choices leading up to this point. He took a subtle approach, just as he did in the bedroom. A hand on her bare lower back, a long kiss while waiting in line, sometimes a quick ass squeeze while they were walking through the park, that was the extent of his control in public. The most domineering thing he did was order for her at a restaurant. While out and about he kept the leash slack and mostly treated her like he always did, with just a little extra physical contact and a few more innuendos sprinkled into conversation (and a lot of extra looking at her chest, but again, young man in his very early twenties).

In private he was different. Still Xander, still kind, never cruel or hurtful, but willing to use every inch of deference she gave him. In his bedroom the leash snapped tight, sometimes literally, and cool leather or hard metal around Buffy’s neck or wrists set off a psychosomatic response below her stomach. He tied her to the wall, or the bed, or a chair, or the beams in the ceiling. Sometimes he kept her free as he undressed her, forcing her to stand perfectly still while he made her squirm and gasp, or he asked her to dance for him while she shed her clothing piece by piece. His hands and mouth traveled across her neck and side and calves and arms and back and jaw until she literally, vocally begged for him to take her, and then usually for a few minutes more. He made her a quivering wreck, straining against her physical bonds and the weight of his orders, nearly driving her to orgasm with the heat of his body and the constant artistry of his fingers.

Buffy knew her role. She could snap the ropes, throw Xander to the ground, and ride him until dawn, but she never would. Her job was to satisfy him and, in doing so, become satisfied. If he dangled his cock or a finger in front of her face, she licked it until she could get it into her mouth and bathe it with the tongue-laden moans he liked. If he told her he enjoyed the sound of her voice, she spoke louder, praising his skill and his body and his attentions. If he nudged her body, she changed positions, getting onto her hands and knees and presenting her ass or crossing her arms behind her head so nothing blocked his view of her chest. She was anything he wanted at any given time, and when he’d had his fill of drawing out the night he always gave her the ending she craved.

When Xander put his face between her thighs, or laid her down so they could service each other, or filled her with his length (always with protection—Xander was a conscientious master), a hint of Buffy‘s true power leaked out along with her grunts. She coiled her body around his to pull him deeper, or sucked him dry with every bit of power in her chest, or rolled her hips as her muscles squeezed around him. In those moments of true consummation she could almost let go, but still she waited until he gave her a sign, anticipating the explosion he sensed and fostered with every movement. When he told her to cum, she did, sometimes loudly and sometimes with her throat too tight to scream. Her body melted under or on or against him, fully engrossed in the pleasure only her master could create, and when it was over she practically fainted, a satisfied girl with nothing to do but smile and recover.

Buffy knew their situation wouldn’t last forever. At some point they would break up, or she’d have to go to some faraway country to fight and he wouldn’t be able to follow, or maybe a vampire would finally get lucky. Or, hell, maybe he’d ask her to marry him. Either way, things would change. But for now she intended to get the most out of their relationship, following every order and loving every date, and to savor every moment she could stop being the one girl in all the world and simply be his.

Chapter Text

“That is…fourteen.” Rie’s mouth moved in a warm smile, but her eyes didn’t. They stared at the board, where a pile of chips rested on the red circle with a felt “14” in harsh, objective white. “The payout is thirty-five to one, so your total payout is…one thousand, eight hundred dollars.”

The Kid shrugged and smiled back. “What can I say? I like to play the long shots.”

“Indeed. Well, my bankroll was only one hundred dollars, so I am out.” She pushed her small stack to his side of the table. “I wish you luck on the rest of your trip.”

“Hang on,” he raised a finger. “I was promised eighteen hundred. I won it fair and square. A hundred’s not enough. I’m expecting seventeen hundred more, right now.”

“Yes, well, I am afraid that is the limit of this level of the competition. Our benefactor asked me to bring no more to the table, and so I have no more to give. I am sure Mister Paul Kieton in the United Kingdom will be happy to take your new challenge.”

The Kid picked up a chip and rolled it between his fingers. “Probably. But that’s for later. Right now we need to talk about your debt.”

“Debt? As I said, I have no more to give you, so if you will—“

“That’s not true. I see something you have that I’d happily take in exchange.” He blew her a kiss, which he hoped shattered the language barrier. “Interested?”

Rie slammed the table and stood, and while she fumed he took a look at the short blue qípáo hugging her delicate body. “How dare you! I will not go along with your…propositions! Are you even old enough to know what you are saying?”

“Twenty-two, baby.” He fired a finger gun at her. “You didn’t think I got to be the biggest gambler in the U-S-of-A before I was old enough to step into a casino, did you?”

“S-s-still! I will not sit here while you try to purchase me like a prostitute!”

“Hey, now, I’m not saying you’re a prostitute. You’d be an escort. High-class. Hang on my arm, make goo-goo eyes at me, blow my…dice,” he winked. “But if you wanted to make a little extra up in my hotel room, I’m willing to pay above market price.”

“You can throw yourself out the window of your room if you think I will—“

“Fifty bucks an hour. That’s, what, 270 yuan for sixty minutes of your time? What do you earn as a casino model?”

Rie’s cheeks puffed and turned pink, but after a moment of seething she sat back down. “One hundred dollars per hour, no sex.”

The Kid knocked on the felt. “Bet on it? Ball lands on red, a hundred, no sex. Black, fifty, and yes sex.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Green?”

“Zero, all debts are forgiven. You walk away owing nothing, and I take just my measly hundred dollars to England.”

“A jackpot,” Rie’s smirked wryly, but she looked long and hard at the triangle on the far end of the board. “And double zero?”

“You accompany me for the rest of my trip. I pay for everything—meals, airfare, hotels, the works—but you don’t leave my side. And if I want a little,“ he clicked his tongue at her and rubbed his fingers together, “you do it with a smile on your face and a lot of noise.”

“So I am still a prostitute.”

“Mmm, more like a short-term girlfriend.” The Kid leaned back and draped his arms over the adjacent, empty chairs. “Or we could make green a re-spin, but then you wouldn’t get that chance of being free and clear. It’s exactly as likely as being mine for a few weeks.”

She glared at him, reading his expression. She could try all she wanted. He never gave anything away unless he wanted to. It was how he ran through every dealer in the Golden Crumbs, and it was how he beat King…and, though he rarely bragged about this part, it was part of how he’d bedded half of the women who had dueled him over a deck of playing cards.

Gamblers, he’d learned, were his type. Since he’d won the title, women had flocked to him—not all women, but definitely the sort who hung around in casinos or got jobs that involved wearing tights and bunny ears. Most of them were, bluntly, boring. He wanted a woman who could match wits with him, challenge his decisions and assumptions, keep up with his jet-setting lifestyle, and look great doing it. The best candidates were fellow professional gamblers. They knew what it took to succeed in a high-risk, high-reward environment. They had the means to pay their own way into most venues and events. Most importantly, they enjoyed the game enough to let it bleed into other part of their lives, a diversion he fully embraced.

The best women were his former opponents at the Golden Crumbs, either because they appreciated his success or because they wanted to get back at him. He’d won a date with Pam over a game of poker, and a lucky round of Keno meant he got to watch her ponytail bob through several blowjobs under the table that night. Blackjack dealer Bo claimed to give him her anal virginity on a roll of the dice, though her screams in the limo seemed less to him like painful grunts and more like the grateful cries of an experienced lover. On the other hand, Mahjong was definitely not his game, and his former rival Lisa used his inexperience to win three straight hours of cunnilingus, which left her happy and satisfied but made his jaw ache for days. He loved the back-and-forth, the wins and losses, and only gambling women had the knowledge and skill to make it interesting.

“Make black sixty an hour, and you have a deal.” Rie peered at him over crossed fingers. She sat perfectly still, completely unreadable, except that being unreadable told him everything he needed to know.

The Kid waited an appropriate amount of time, pretending to think it over. “I accept.”

She laughed once, without joy, and spun the roulette wheel. “Whether this lands on red or black, I do not plan on following you outside China. At best you have only won a date for a single evening.”

“I’d guessed as much,” he shrugged. “Shame. I’d love to have you with me for the whole trip. But there’s always Jyina.”

“Jyina Nagule? You are bold to think you could win her instead.”

“Instead? Nah. I’m hoping to win you both. Hope you don’t mind three people sharing a bed.”

Rie froze, her eyes wide, and the ball fell from her hand onto the wheel.

Chapter Text

Ed huffed his way up the stairwell, tottering from side to side with each step. His costume pulled at his skin, especially around his midsection, where his stomach barely fit under the foam padding pretending to be abs of steel. Sweat dripped from graying hair where the mask didn’t allow his skin to breathe, and his cape weighed on his shoulders like an anchor dragging him to the ground. And this was just the store-bought version, designed for comfort and vague approximation instead of stealth and protection. Honestly, he didn’t know how the real Batman did it.

But the real Batman got to wear what he wanted. Ed didn’t. For years his students, his co-workers, and especially Holly, his wife, had pestered him to dress as Batman for Halloween. Sure, from the neck up he saw a resemblance. He had the square jaw, the near-permanent hint of stubble, the lips constantly set in resting disappointment face. And, yes, his voice was a near-match for Batman’s, according to the few recordings the media had. If there was a Batman look-alike contest that only checked from the neck up, he’d be first place for sure. In public, Holly jokingly referred to it as “his superpower”. In private, she wasn’t joking, and she frequently pulled out her sexy Wonder Woman costume to take full advantage of it.

Below the neck, however he was a slightly-overweight middle-aged high school history teacher with two kids and a mortgage, and Batman probably wasn’t. He admitted, the costume did a decent job at covering his stomach and shaping his shoulders. He’d been getting compliments throughout the Halloween Dance about his (fake) figure, and Holly certainly gave him an appreciative eye when he left the house to chaperon the event. Ed expected tonight’s role-play would be much more intense than normal, and he’d been trying to calm his erection for hours.

Patrolling the school for pranksters let him think about Holly without running the risk of a student spotting his arousal, though he hadn’t accounted for how hard it would be to do the rounds in his ill-fitting outfit. With a sigh he hefted himself up the last stair, stepped out the door into the roof to check for trespassers…and nearly tripped over a girl dressed as Harley Quinn.

“Jesus Christmas, it’s the Bat!” She chucked a bottle of something at his face, and while he reeled from shock and pain she tackled him to the ground. Her hands pinned his wrists with surprising strength, and as he stared up at the manic eyes and intricate makeup, he started to think this was not just a girl in a costume. “Ha, finally gotcha! Thought you could sneak up on me by takin’ the stairs, didn’t you? Well, joke’s on you, I didn’t know it was a crime to trespass on a school zone after-hours and consume alcohol near impressionable minors and…hey, random question, am I sitting on a Bat-flashlight, or do you have a boner right now?”

Ed had never met a supervillain before. He, like anybody in Gotham, had imagined what he would do if he’d been captured, and all his heroic fantasies locked themselves away in the face of actual danger. He tried very, very hard to look her in the eye instead of down her pale white cleavage, and without a better idea he tried his angry teacher voice, the one he used for misbehaving students. “Get off.”

“Don’t mind if I do!” Harley shifted her weight and locked both of his hands under one of hers, and with one arm free she reached for the zipper at his crotch. “Long as I got you here and I’m not actually doin’ a crime and you’re not resistin’ and I’m too drunk to think about how dumb this is, hows about you and I celebrate All Hallows’ Eve by stickin’ this thing up my tall, hallowed sleeve?” She fished out his cock, still hard from his daydreams of Holly, and licked her lips. “Okay, Riddler’s gonna lose a mint in the ‘does Batman secretly have a micropenis’ poll, because wow.”

While she contorted her body to kick her brief shorts and briefer panties to the roof, he pictured Holly waiting for him. “You can’t do this! I have a wife!”

“Bats, we both know you don’t have a life,” she slurred, and while he tried to determine whether she ignored him or simply misheard, she settled her bare pussy onto his erection. “Oh, God, that feels good. I’m about to be the first villain to finally fuck the Bat. Or, second, after Catwoman. Third if you count that assassin chick. Or that time when Ivy…Bats, you’re kind of a slut.”

Ed’s body couldn’t summon the power to buck Harley off, and his dick twitched automatically when it sensed the wet hole an inch away. “Wait, please. I can’t cheat on her. If you’d—“

“Pfft, I know you’re not with Catwoman right now. Villains talk, ya know. Give up the story. And speaking of giving it up…” She sank onto him, surrounding his cock with the tightest grip in fifteen years. They moaned together, though he thought of his as a sob of defeat, and she set her feet on either side of his waist and bounced on his hips in a springy crouch. All of her upper body weight kept him pinned, and all of her lower body weight drove him balls-deep into the most dangerous pussy in Gotham. She hummed through pouty lips and her multicolored pigtails swung with the rhythm of her head, nodding away to a song of pleasure.

Despite his protests Ed’s body responded to the young woman using him. No matter how much he tried to close his eyes and picture Holly he couldn’t break away from the jiggling breasts packed into a shiny red and black vest, or the bare white lips stretching in and out along his length, or the lilting voice so much louder than his wife’s. He muttered to himself, saying her name over and over, and his imagination answered his prayers in the worst way possible. In his mind he saw Holly, faint wrinkles and all, dressed like Harley, tied to their headboard with rope and asking the Caped Crusader to punish her. A flood of unmet kinks rushed down his spine, and with a final gasp, “Holly!”, he blew his load inside Harley Quinn.

“Holy fuck is right!” Harley sat down and rubbed against his base, jerking her body with a nearly-simultaneous orgasm. She shouted a few expletives he hoped nobody else in the school heard, then wiped her brow with the back of her arm and grinned at him. “Whoops! Probably shoulda used some Bat-protection. We’ll get it right next time.”

“N-next time?”

“Uh, yeah. I got the Batman right where I want him, weakened in the afterglow and cuffed to a pipe.”

Ed tugged his arms back, and the tinny clink of metal on metal stabbed right into his brain.

“Aaaaand yoink!” Harley ripped the utility belt from his costume. “Huh. I remember this bein’ metal, not cheap plastic. This economy, am I right?” She tossed it away and raised her hips, letting his cum drip from her pussy onto his thigh. “No lock-pickin’ tonight. It’s just your dick, my holes, and a whole lotta spunk fillin’ me to the brim.”

“Please,” he tried one last time. “My wife.”

Harley gasped. “You wanna marry me? This is so sudden! But I guess you gotta do the honorable thing when you knock a gal up. Don’t worry, baby.” She slid down his body and lapped the semen from his cock. “I’ll make our honeymoon real, real special.”

And as she went down on him, bringing back an erection faster than he thought possible, he winced and tried to think of a way to explain the sex stains on his rental costume.