Ai Love Therapy Ch. 04

With her glasses, as the frumpy girl widened her eyes, they took on the size of tea coasters as she shook her head emphatically. "Oh no! No body does that at all in Aoir! Well," and she paused, then firmed up quickly after looking in the air, "I've heard it happens sometimes, especially when faun travel to other countries. And sometimes a man misreads the Dance, thinking she's inviting him, but no. Any sex without consent is a capital offense in Aoir, and because this is an embassy, the palace, too."

I think I need to pay more attention to Etiquette classes if body language is so influential in this culture, Irene thought, drinking another glass and filling it again. I'm starting to sweat again...greeeeeaaaaat.

Perhaps Irene was exuded something, Dryn pulling off a bangle of blue stone with veins of silver and handing it over urgently. "I almost forgot, you're going to want this. Has a small scent enchantment, sucks away all the hormones you're emitting out of your hoohah and keep anyone from knowing you are Heating. Make sure nobody touches you, otherwise they'll get a face full of horny stank. Keep it for now, but make sure to give it back in a few weeks for my own Heat."

Irene slipped it on immediately, blushing again. The silver in the bangle flashed like a camera, but then nothing. "Thank you. I don't feel...what does magic feel like?"

"Depends on the magic," Dryn replied promptly, taking a deep breath and relaxing. "Its working, thank goodness, but you won't feel anything with this model unless you've had thaumian training."

"Every day, something else I don't know," Irene mumbled, committing the word to memory and thinking she'll search for books on magic next in the library. "Again, thank you. Yesterday, you were telling me how the Nine Hundred are a senate ruling all of Yrlmuh out of the giant floating glass castle in the distance over there. Called the Sal'an, if I remember?"

Dryn came alive, a veritable bottomless well of facts about how senators didn't only manage a section of the city, but also distribution of other governmental responsibilities as doled out by the Grand Chancellor. This was different to the monarchy of Aoir, the faun homeland across the ocean to the east and on another continent named Yerm. Irene absorbed it all, constantly interrupting with more questions to learn all about this massive and fantastical world she found herself in.

If knowledge is power, then I want to become She-Ra! Irene thought, the throbbing inside her furry thighs a manageable nuisance at the time.

********************

"Heat," Irene declared to no one, leaning against a wall to catch her breath and mop sweat off herself with the hanky retrieved from her room, "sucks balls."

It was lunch time, or fifteen o'clock, otherwise known as Mid Bell. Ringing outside the tree-walls of the palace inside the city kept time in a world without watches. Hungry to the point of wondering if she now tasted like venison, Irene's lips drooled a bit while her lips drooled a bit. Horny enough to jump one of those guards at the gate and ride him like a carnival attraction. However, freakin'-stupid-hormone-titty-faun-pussy, this was her body! and she cums when and with whom she decides, not before! Ergo, leaning against a tree wall on the opposite end of the long hall leading towards the gate and the guards stationed there: diaphragm tensing kept other parts of her flexing rapidly and causing a chemical reaction, a strain growing hard to keep at bay.

Bodily fluids became a problem, but only in the last few minutes. Irene though cumming an hour ago would mean she'd be done for the day, but nooooooo! Mostly sweating since, Irene comprehended now why the descriptive word was Heat. She's leaked while making her way towards the gate and if this was going to be a thing, cultural sensibilities be hanged! She would rip up sheets and make her own padded panties to keep thighs dry.

Her tunic idea proved to pay for itself in spades today. In her rooms moments before, changed into a sky blue with flowers stitched around the bosom, this tunic reaching around her neck the scooping downward into a Powergirl boob window. So long as there wasn't a stiff breeze, Irene would keep the bloated and dark red state of her majora from the populous. Though Irene couldn't tell, Dryn assured the bangle worked to keep her odor free. Apparently, Heating was when faun females took personal time they typically spent secluded or visiting brothels, depending on the girl. Which, culture shock, but the perfectly legal acceptance of prostitution still threw Irene for a loop. Needed more research to find out how well girls were treated.

"Maybe I'll try being upfront," Irene muttered, having a better handle on her body and trotting slowly but with purposeful clip towards the gate. "Hi, just going to pop into the city for a few minutes, hour tops. By the way, know any good brothels nearby?"

"There is no need to pay for sex, plenty of willing donors to help impregnate you here."

Irene physically jumped in the air, scrambling to remain standing as she clattered on tiles and tried to keep her heart rate down below cardiac levels. It was Irene's biggest pet peeve...ok, second or third... with fauns: despite hooves and stone floors, everyone kept sneaking up on her! These giant ears had one job!

Spinning to peer into an adjoining narrow hall, the lamps outlined a hunched figure in black robes and the blood in her veins chilled.

"However, if you prefer exotic dalliance," Monjafar whispered in his dry rasp with sneery smile kept hidden inside his hood, "a visit to the city can be arranged. I'll lead you out personally, only a few guards to ensure your safe return."

Monjafar, seneschal to Prince Jeston, the second most powerful person in the palace, the one who had assured Jeston a summoning spell would not kidnap someone away from her home. Physically, the wizened old goat radiated Emperor Palpatine vibes so hard he might as well lure the Rebel Alliance into a trap. Yet it wasn't the stereotype frightening her.

"Maybe later." Irene couldn't ignore him completely. However, she deflected away from direct conversation while defusing what he overheard. "I learned about a festival in the city, but that's Mid Bell and I wouldn't want to miss lunch. Anyway, nice to see you again." Irene smoothly spun towards another hall away from the narcissistic bundle of manipulation, a determination made minutes after their first meeting. "I wonder if there's steak in the kitchen? I haven't had a steak yet in this world."

Monjafar paused, appearing about to go off on some tear, his face purple from a rage incapable of being contained, yet something she said confused him. "The cook purchased a butchered cow recently, for good price," he said, his low voice following as she made discrete escape. "Tragic, when a cow is only useful for her meat."

Why did he pause? Irene asked herself, hearing the threat loud and clear and glad to get away. Talking to the seneschal was a game of deadly chess, unsure which move leads to checkmate. Only when she thought about what her words was she reminded how strange this world truly was. A mystical effort to translate appeared seamless on the surface, Irene often forgot everyone spoke like a well-dubbed foreign film, their words not quite matching lip motions. However, probably only so much an omnipresent magical translation could perform: their word for brothel likely didn't rhyme with festival.

Whatever works, Irene thought, the innocent excuse of attending a festival worked just as well, just fumbled a bit on delivery. Besides, though she didn't feel any taller than her previous average height, Irene was taller than most females in the palace and had long legs. Even at a normal, easy pace not rude in the slightest, heading towards the safety of a crowded kitchen, she should be able to stay ahead of wheezing old goat...

"Our conversation remains unfinished, child."

Note to self: learn how to trot silently on stone with hooves. This time Irene remained steady, kept moving, but she sensed him an arm length behind. Without looking back, she maintained pleasant tones and schadenfreuded with classic Victorian sass, Londoning her accent for good measure. "Sorry, please forgive my hurried withdrawal: I truly am famished and I only thought that you - a distinguished gentleman of advanced years - were speaking in rhetoricals. As older individuals tend to do, you understand."

"Infant, your choices are running out." The rasp closed in, almost over her shoulder, a faint whisper radiating rage. "The Barren Curse will be broken, and one way or the other you will be on your back. Tell me your name!"

Irene fortunately didn't need to reply, reaching the kitchens and the safety of a dozen servants. A dozen witnesses. Monjafar's narcissism explained the mood swing at the end, his thirst to control only overshadowed by rage of knowing his manipulations wouldn't work on her. Truly dangerous when they were alone together, which is why Irene sought the kitchens. She didn't glance back entering wooden branch arch into a clamor of clanging and sizzling sounds, but she knew she escaped him for now.

"Something is rotten in the state of Denmark," Irene said to herself, fixing a smile towards the white aproned servants while soaking as much sweat off her with the handkerchief as she could demurely accomplish. The Heating woman heaped three times as much food onto a plate than normally requested (including two steaks rare enough to still chew cud), balancing it on a hip with one hand, grabbing a new full pitcher of water with the other, politely but firmly turning down any help, then leaving through another exit in the labyrinthian halls of this foresty palace. Her famished comment hadn't been banter.

Stairs were her undoing. Lots of thigh rubbing. Fur made it worse.

"I swear...upon...aaAAaall that is...I wish this world had Propercorn..." Each step Irene took upward rubbed something: labia, clit, even her mons felt like a good massage would jumpstart her, yet despite gritting teeth and cracking on until she returned to privacy, her Heating body decided to quote the Walrus and talk of many things. The next step proved too much.

"Ohmygoshijustcame!!"

Fortunately, there was a small landing, Irene finding enough wherewithal to set the tray and pitcher on there while goat legs jellied and she collapsed into stone. It wasn't a giant O, nothing like the whole body convulsions when she went...Pussy Digging (and thinking that brought a touch of blush and uncontrolled giggles). A small climax, her muscles straining in time with the contractions of her vaginal gate, each one squirting out a shot glass of juice until her legs look like she waded across a river and the stairs needed a warning sign and a janitor.

"Ok, I'm not allowed to make fun of Ai for that time she orgasmed while walking in the mall with me," Irene muttered, grabbing ahold of herself and crawling to the pitcher. Didn't take a rocket surgeon to realize she expended a lot of fluids, guzzling the cold clear liquid until only a third remained. She eyed one of the steaks then, her tummy rumbling, but decided a servant's stairwell was not the place to eat steak.

"Also, why didn't Dryn mention any of this?" Irene asked, mad and hurt someone she thought a friend would let something this important slide, gathering food and pitcher and climbing the last flight. "Or Miss Kitty? This was definitely something I should have been taught..."

Exiting the stairs, into the plain hall leading towards the branched doorway into her own garden, Irene stopped as higher brain functions sped into gear.

Jeston was there. Facing away from her, but the Prince heard her clopping and turned slowly.

Irene might not smell like a footballers' locker room after the team won and the cheerleaders snuck in, but she definitely looked it.

Nothing else to do, Irene quickly dumped the rest of the pitcher onto her chest and soaked her blue tunic as much as she could.

"Oh crap!" Irene said, possibly over the top but whatever. "Still getting used to these hooves, and now I'm all wet!"

Ug, I sound like a bad porno! Irene thought, but it gave her reason to crouch and set the tray and pitcher down. When she rose she made to leave back down the stairs. "Sorry, Prince Jeston, let me just visit my rooms to change..."

"Wait, stop and talk with me? Please?"

Irene did stop, turned to her side partway towards the servant stairs. She did not look directly at him, though her periphery saw better in this body and he drew her in. That chest always came first, broad and taut with muscle under sun darkened skin, presenting it like all fauns did - which increased the Heat, he was so hot! - it wasn't steroidally large, just perfect and Irene's fingers aches to trace lines, to lay her head on him and fall asleep to his heartbeat. Wearing what she called his Prince Vest, really a long sleeveless velvet coat enveloping him like a cape. The hallway was lit with lamps, and for the first time she could look past turquoise eyes and notice his mane of hair appeared black, but instead shimmered in deepest of crimsons. The metal filigree of his hooves silver today, yet the concern on his face prevented Irene from looking longer.

"I need to change," Irene pointed out the obvious, motioning at her soaked self and realizing how water turned this fabric into Wet T-Shirt Contest transparent. Moving her arms across her chest and blushing, also realized how Heating needed padded bras to keep nipples in check. She didn't stop and wait to take the long way back to her room - avoiding the femjaculate mess down the otherwise perfectly capable stairwell leading to the kitchens - walking slowly to avoid another incident.

"Of course," he said, following in silence and trotting beside her, though not close. They clopped that way for a time, the hallways of this part of the palace empty.

"I'm sorry I haven't spent as much time with you as I should," Jeston said, reaching out but stopping short, scratching his head in what Irene assumed was a nervous habit. "I want to, but every second it seems there's a new emergency. Which isn't an excuse, and I ask your pardon."

Irene remained silent, though she gave a small nod of acknowledgment. Wished she knew more about this Dance body language thing fauns had and wondered if she mistakenly said something rude. Or lewd.

"I also wanted to talk to you about other things, about why you are here."

Irene couldn't hide frustration and anger, though she tried to keep a lid on it and sped up to a canter. "Something about a curse?"

"The Barren Curse. Whether we deserve it or not, the fauns as a race will be dead in one, maybe two generations." Jeston grasped his hands behind him, as if confessing some great sin. "There was a bitter hatred between our race and the dryads who lived in a neighboring country. For thousands of years we've fought a dozen wars, but this last one started three hundred years ago and we both knew it was us or them this time. For three hundred years, our peoples fought a crusade."

"How noble," Irene practically spat, feeling vomit in her throat over the horror of something like that.

"I do not disagree." Jeston's face downcast as he continued in a monotone. "I will not defend the actions of my people, nor of the actions of my father, who ended the war before I was born. And by ended, I mean he razed the Hearth Glades to the ground, killing an entire people. For our sins, we deserve the Curse, the final stroke of dryad shamans. They could not kill us outright, but they could stop a woman from baring children to term. Every woman.

"It didn't happen all at once. First, a few stillborn here and there. I have three brothers and a sister - who are all, by the way, arriving any day now on matters of state - but the same number in dead siblings. My generation, though, was when we realized our karma. Maybe, maybe, one in twenty children are born alive. So we tried harder, initiated programs."

He was silent for too long, Irene turning to look upon him fully, only their hooves on stone making noise.

"When I looked into the overflowing mass graves behind the camps, I knew I had to do something."

"I am not without empathy for you," Irene said carefully, desperately trying not to lose herself to the holocostic imagery, "yet how can you condone one evil to justify redemption from generations of evil? I was not asked to save you, I was given no choice. If I was, full disclosure, I might have said yes."

"Do you think I don't realize that?!" Jeston stomped a hoof down sharp enough to crack the tile, stopping both of them short of the grand staircase. "I'm a thousand miles away from my home in a city of thieves because I hoped, possibly, I could find a way to break the Curse. Then, a year ago, we find some old prophesies in the libraries. Either we sacrifice thousands of our people on altars to the gods and maybe it happens? Or we summon someone from beyond the Maw and when a child is born of her, the Curse is broken. You."

"Don't try and guilt me into this!" Irene shouted, something unwinding inside her and releasing everything she guarded inside. "This isn't some plague or natural disaster, this is a counter attack in a war longer than any known from my own world. I am a stranger and a captive. For all I know, your people deserve to die and the world would be a better place!

"However, I might overlook that. Dryads are killing babies from beyond the grave, an evil I can scarcely imagine. What I don't hear are any guarantees. A piece of old paper tells you to kidnap a girl and then baby her up and poof, problem solved? What if it doesn't work? How many babies until you stop if your prophesy is lying? How long before I'm on one of those altars you mentioned? YOU WILL NOT CONTROL ME!!"

Huffing breath and thinking she went too far, Irene wondered if Heat came with hormonal problems, like the combined PMS of a women's dojo. Prince Jeston didn't take it kindly, his jaw bulging and his face darkening. When he reached out and touched her shoulder, possibly he meant to say something comforting or stern. Irene would never know.

Juiced on outrage and Heat, her body moved before she realized or could stop herself. Even inside a faun, years of training took over. Within a single second both of them were on the ground in a perfect juji gatame, Judo's most effective arm lock, her furry legs pinning over his head and diaphragm, his fist gripped firmly between her breasts. The second after that, adrenaline and other hormones overwhelming her, she leaned back onto the ground and yanked, accompanied with the celery snap of broken elbow.

"Oh no!" Irene said, scrambling away and so horrified she couldn't remember how to balance hooves to stand, sobbing at acting without thinking. "I'm sorry, I, I..."

"It is alright, the fault is mine." Pain evident in his voice, but unhurried as he awkwardly stood, using the banister to steady before moving his limp and aggressively swollen arm carefully against his chest. For a moment, Jeston appeared truly a king, regal through Irene's tears as she huddled away from him. Then he sighed and winced, biting back probably the foulest curse he knew, face screwed up in hurt, frustration and a desire to vent.

"Tomorrow, I will arrange all the funds I personally own brought to the palace." His voice strained to remain level, though it cost him dearly with each sentence. "It isn't enough to live in luxury for the rest of your life, but you will be able to purchase passage to Faluss, negotiate citizenship and live a peaceful life. I will also release Miss Dryn from my service and allow her to accompany you. She will help navigate any issues you might have not being of this world. Faluss is far away from here and Aoir, and while mostly humans live there, enough of the other races are welcome you could hide for the rest of your life. I don't even know your name, so no need to change it, I am sure no one will try and control you. Again, I am sorry this has been done to you." Finished, he didn't wait as he passed by and descended the staircase toward the lower and busier levels.