Amethystra

Amethystra

1

Lirafey Torvirr sat on her very large, very expensive chair, shapely thighs crossed as she watched the gray-skinned young man stirring in her bed. The white sheets she had chosen felt wonderful against her skin and contrasted beautifully with the obsidian black of naelf skin.

Not so much with the gray half-naelf's skin, though she supposed that wasn't too important in that moment.

The young man rolled onto his back, and the sheet tented over his hips. Lirafey couldn't suppress a smirk that slowly grew as her teeth inevitably pinched her lower lip. She stood, naked, and crawled onto the foot of the bed, knee-walking her way to the boy's hips. Carefully, she pulled the soft linen sheet away from his muscular torso, down his softly chiseled abdomen, until the young man's manhood stood tall before her. She admired its shape, but the scent of their night's activities assaulted her before she could truly appreciate him.

It was not at all unpleasant.

Taking great care to move slowly, she lowered herself down to her hands and knees, straddling one of his legs as she did so, as her lips wrapped around the crown of his cock. Her tongue swirled around the tip, coating him in her saliva as her lips, feeling swollen from the night's passion, slid toward his hilt. She could feel the half-elf stirring beneath her, his body shifting in the sheets as her mouth began to massage his manhood. Lira could feel his pulse against her tongue, the saltiness and sweetness of their lovemaking mingling together and thrilling her senses.

The naelf worked her head up and down, twisting side to side as she stroked him orally, tongue slithering all around his hard flesh. Her hands braced against his strong upper thighs and she threw herself into sucking his cock. She felt him pressing against the back of her throat repeatedly during her long oral strokes, then savored the sensitive underside beneath his crown during shorter strokes. His ash-colored manhood glistened as her obsidian lips spread spittle and more than a little of his own essence all along his shaft, and Lira could see the crystalline nectar pooling at the base of his cock, dribbling down his smooth sack. Under normal circumstances, she would have left off his cock and bathed his sack with her tongue, but now, first thing in the morning, she wanted only to drain him.

And she was close. She could feel it in his flesh, in the way his body kept spasming as he came fully awake, and in the way the taste of his cock changed in her mouth. It hit suddenly, and despite her expertise in the matter, she was surprised when he did climax. His seed hit the back of her throat first, and she struggled not to gag or cough around his flesh as more and more of his issue flowed into her mouth. Lira was able to keep pace, but she lamented the haste at which she had to swallow.

"Gods above," the half-elf said, sitting up in her bed. "What was that for?"

"A parting gift. Never again, Quilin Torvirr."

"You said that last time," he said with a cocky grin. "My mother and father are none the wiser, and it's not like you're truly my aunt. You forsook House Mourelefey and assumed my family name."

"It's not that," Lira said, leaning into her elbow as she reclined sideways on her bed. She could feel young Quilin's eyes on her full bosoms, the curve of her hip, and her sleek, long thighs as she rubbed them together. Despite her claim, she was certainly doing nothing to turn him away from his affections. "I am nearly two hundred years your senior. You should be waking up in the bed of girls your age. Felia, I hear, is quite the dynamo if you can get her away from her father."

"Adoptive father," he corrected, "and he would cleave my skull if he caught me with Felia again."

Lirafey smirked, licking her lips. "Regardless. It was a mistake for me to indulge your fantasies. Boys your age often long for older women, but I assure you, you'll be much happier with a girl your age."

"Why can't I have both?"

Lirafey laughed out loud. "By the Moonmaiden," she said, looking up to her ceiling, where a mural of the goddess Lunaire looked down at her, naked and graceful with eyes like full moons that glowed betimes. "I can't tell who you take after more," she said, "Luriia or Hammer."

Quilin shrugged. "You've been with both of them, haven't you?"

"If I were to base my judgment on that alone, I'd still not know," she said. "You are attentive and insightful as your mother, endowed like your father, and both of them are full of passion that seems only to be multiplied in you."

Quilin was grinning as she spoke.

"Last time," Lira reiterated, slipping off the bed and walking nude to her armoire. Quilin removed himself from the comfort of her bed, feeling quite ready for the day ahead.

"I'll see you tonight," he returned, slapping her bottom as he passed by.

She grabbed him by the arm, whipped him around, and drove her tongue into his mouth. He was quick to wrap strong arms around the woman, crushing her against his body. She felt his manhood prodding between her thighs—though it was far from the turgid flesh it had been moments ago—and his muscular chest against her soft bosoms. She may have been an imposing specimen of naelven femininity, but Quilin was his father's son, tall and muscular. Lira couldn't deny her excitement in feeling him this way.

As their kiss broke, she whispered, "No," while looking into his gray-blue eyes. Quilin grinned, then walked, naked, out of her bedroom, retrieved his clothes from the foot of her stairs where she had eagerly removed them, and dressed himself as he walked out of the front door. She may have denied his promise of meeting during the revel, but she knew full well that she would be hopelessly lusty for his thorough affections.

Lira was still staring into her armoire, the pleasant ache between her thighs from his youthful, passionate vigor reminding her that he was, indeed, quite up to the challenge of pleasing her. She should expect no less, of course. His mother was a powerful Paragon of Syrune, goddess of love, while his father was a mighty barbarian and, at one time, the divine consort of at least three different deities. As far as breeding went, Quilin was the cream of the crop.

Lira couldn't help a little smirk at that turn of phrase. Hammer's "cream" was no doubt the finest any would ever find as far as breeding goes.

The naelf shook her head, shattering the budding arousal as she considered the family she had thrown in with. House Torvirr was a reborn entity, one that had risen to power in distant, glacial Chambressir, far to the north, beyond even the realms of Aesir and Jotun. The naelves there had always been of dubious morality, and House Torvirr was particularly noteworthy for its trade in flesh—not slaves, but sex. Lirafey had been a daughter of a rival house, House Mourelefey, and when Luriia had returned to Chambressir with a purple dragon and powerful allies to rescue her sister and a conclave of rebels, Lirafey had been ordered to capture the naelf and return her for punishment.

After all, the incursion had not only destroyed an allied house, but had slain many, many Mourelefey soldiers. More than that, it had upset the balance of power between the prominent worshippers of the naelven deity Sinsri, a rapacious and sensational goddess, and those that had worshipped freely without her for centuries.

It wasn't until Lirafey met Luriia that she had seen the misguidance of her family and half of the city she had called home.

And subsequently fallen in love. Yes, Lirafey could admit that now, after years living in the city Luriia had miraculously constructed on the southern edge of the Free Marches. She loved Luriia Torvirr. Lirafey smiled, looked up at her goddess, painted on the ceiling, and said a prayer of thanks.

She thought the painting had smiled at her, just for a moment.

Knocking at her door broke her from her thoughts, and Lira threw a tunic over her head. It was long enough to eclipse her buttocks and preserve her modesty—not that she was overly concerned about such things—but thin enough that her obsidian skin shone through the white garment.

She opened her door to see an old friend, a former slave, staring back at her with violet paint on her lips and violet irises gleaming back at her. Matching scales accented her elbows and upper arms, as well as more intimate locations, Lira knew, though her robe hid them well.

"Shandra," she said to the dark elf smiling back at her, grinning wide. "It has been too long."

They embraced, kissed each other in earnest, and simply held each other for a long while before Lirafey invited her to sit with her in her not-so-modest two-story home, built on the third largest hill in Amethystra.

"Was that the Torvirr boy I saw leaving your home?" Shandra asked.

"Yes," Lirafey said with a conspiratorial grin. "I can't shake him."

"I could turn him into a horse," Shandra said, waggling her fingers in mock arcane casting. "Or a bull."

"Either would suit him," she quipped with a fond smirk.

Shandra laughed heartily, and the room seemed to fill with whimsical magic as she did so.

"What brings you to my humble abode?" Lirafey asked as the laughter died down. Shandra favored her friend with a smile, and Lira was momentarily jealous of her counterpart's fuller figure, plump lips, and the heavy bosoms bound up within her robe.

"I thought it was time," Shandra said mysteriously. With no further explanation forthcoming, Lira sighed. "You know I have been growing in power ever since Alluvamethystra died. My blood and spirit have united with her fully, at long last, and there is something I have been hiding. I want to show you first."

"I'm flattered," Lirafey said, smiling genuinely at the sorceress. "Here?'

"No, of course not," Shandra said. She closed her eyes and whispered. Lirafey felt the air sizzle with arcane energy all around her, then winced as a loud popping sound displaced her from her home and brought her to the gem-covered cavern that the ancient purple dragon known as Alluvamethystra—who was also known as Alluva Lovedrake in her human form—called home. Two shallow ponds flanked a long stretch of gem-studded stone that lead to the deepest part of the cave, where the encrusted bones of the late dragon now rested, and where Shandra devoted a majority of her time, gathering power. Directly above them was the Violet Tower, sat on the highest hill of the small city known as Amethystra, where a variety of arcanists studied their craft and otherwise served the realm around them.

"I will never get used to that," Lirafey said to her friend. Both were seated on Lirafey's chairs, magically teleported to this location within the semicircular skeleton of Alluvamethystra. Shandra ignored her, stood, and walked to the center of her "grove," where she undressed unceremoniously. She uttered not a word as she began to shapeshift before Lirafey's eyes.

As she shifted, she grew, doubling in size again and again. Lira watched, mouth agape, as her oldest friend turned into a violet-scaled dragon, complete with deadly teeth and longsword-sized claws. She didn't roar, nor did she speak. Instead, she pulled her head back, opened her mouth, and exhaled a wave of force that rushed out of the cavern and rattled the stones and gems all around them. Bathed in the violet glow of magelit amethysts, Lirafey was certain she had never seen a more magnificent spectacle in her life.

Except, of course, Alluvamethystra herself, who was nearly twice the size of Shandra's dragon form.

In a soft voice, surprisingly so for her size, Shandra spoke to Lirafey, bringing her maw close as her lips twisted to form the words. "I am become Shandramethystra, my friend. I am, at long last, a dragon."

Lirafey felt herself trembling. It was one thing to know Alluvamethystra, the benevolent purple dragon that used her hoard to help fund the construction of Amethystra, but another thing quite entirely to bear witness to her closest friend in the world shifting into a giant, scaled beast of incredible power. Nay, not just shifting, but completely transforming, body, mind and soul.

"This is some spell you have learned? Some polymorph?" Lirafey asked, voice hushed.

"No," Shandra said, and the draconic smile that followed the word sent chills of fear and excitement down Lira's spine. "My magic has always come from within," Shandra explained, "as it does with all sorcerers. For some, it is the very essence of magic that suffuses them, whilst others may derive it from a divine bloodline or favor. Others yet have draconic blood that grants them their innate magic. I never discovered the source of mine, but when Alluvamethystra and I became lovers years ago, she sniffed it out.

"And so she made an offer," Shandra continued, "to join her blood with mine through some ancient draconic ritual, one that would bind us body and soul. She told me it would dislodge my sorcerous heritage and replace it with a new one, and I accepted. To be so close, so united with such a woman, such a terrific creature...how could I say no?"

"You're starting to make me jealous," Lirafey said.

Shandra closed her eyes and leaned toward Lira, though the dark elf felt herself resisting the urge to move out of her way. She nuzzled Lira with surprising gentleness, her cool, scaled snout pressing against Lirafey's upper arm and shoulder without knocking her over unceremoniously.

"My transformation is not the work of some powerful spell," Shandramethystra said. "I have been changed, truly and completely, into a dragon. I cannot explain it any more than that."

"We are all fortunate to have you as our ally," Lirafey said.

"And as a lover," Shandra said. She surged forward, rushing at Lirafey, but she was changing as she neared, so rapidly that Lirafey heard her bones and sinew snapping and popping, reforming. Shandra, naked, sheathed in smatterings of violet scales atop her midnight violet naelven flesh, collided with her, bearing her to the glittering stone floor.

Lirafey surrendered to her wholly.

Iliari couldn't help but watch her wife as she rocked back and forth, a half-naelf babe cradled in her arms as she suckled on her swollen breast. Cyra was an impressive specimen on her worst days, and this was far from a bad day for the dragon-blooded brawler. Muscular, with grand horns swept back from her brow and bright golden hair cropped short at the top of her head with the sides shorn near to the skin, Cyra's golden eyes peered down at the happily suckling infant.

Despite herself, Iliari's eyes were drawn to the full bosoms bared for the babe, one of them leaking pearly milk while the other was drained by the hungry girl. Cyra, ignorant of her wife's attention, caressed her swollen breast and gingerly tested the sensitivity of her nipple. The Torvirr child was testing her, Iliari knew, though the much smaller, slim elf had never felt the suckle of a child before. It wasn't until Cyra began producing milk that the elf even began entertaining the idea of what motherhood would be like.

Unlike Iliari, though, Cyra had thrown herself at the opportunity. The infant's mother was more than capable of feeding the little creature, but Cyra insisted the girl could benefit greatly from dragon's milk in her belly.

A sharp slap on her wrist drew her away from her gaze, snapping her attention, and the thin wooden rod in Iliari's hand, at her sparring partner. Pubescent and scowling at her, Analise Torvirr parried the slap of her wooden rapier and counter-attacked, thrusting for Iliari's bare stomach. The elf danced to the side, savaging the girl's wrist and sending her rapier to the floor.

"Ouch!" she snapped, rubbing her wrist. "Mother won't be happy when she finds out you broke my wrist!"

Iliari only smiled at the girl. "If you do not want a broken wrist, then do not let me strike you," she admonished, slashing again swiftly. Analise leapt back, dodged to the side, then dove forward in a roll, grabbing her training sword as she passed by the elf, who held back her backhand strike that would have hamstrung the girl. She rose, balanced, onto the balls of her feet.

"Well executed," Iliari said, wooden sword pointing to the floor. "You must create more space before attempting such a roll, though. I could have hamstrung you—or worse."

The girl, for all her inner fire, nodded at that. She lifted her sword again, settling into a fencer's stance, and Iliari mirrored her.

She stabbed forward once, twice, then raised her hand for a slash. In so doing, she blinded herself, just for a moment, and did not see her elven trainer's swift crouch and spin, leg outstretched to sweep the girl's leg. Analise could have seen it coming.

And so, Iliari was indeed surprised when she leapt over her sweeping leg and landed with an elbow to the elf's face.

"Ho-ho!" Cyra exclaimed from afar, clapping and disturbing the infant suckling at her bosom. "Well done, child!"

"Got you!" the half-naelf exclaimed to Iliari as the elf, grinning, rose with blood trickling from her nose. Her triumphant smirk melted when she saw the elf's fair face stained with crimson. "Gods, I'm sorry! Are you hurt badly?"

"It's fine," Iliari said. Indeed, she was irritated. Frustrated, even. "The lesson was in underestimating your opponent."

Analise looked confused. Iliari let the blood drip from her nose, onto the white, cropped tank top covering her chest as she brought her training sword back to its resting place.

"What she means," Cyra said, walking topless toward the pair, babe cradled and still suckling hungrily from her other breast, "is she didn't think a fifteen-year-old girl would be able to blindly avoid her sweeping leg, much less counter it."

"I was thoroughly surprised," Iliari said, her smile and tone congratulatory as she regarded the meekly smiling, thoroughly blushing scion of House Torvirr. "You do justice to your lineage, Analise Torvirr. And your teachers."

"I'll make sure they all hear your compliments," Analise said. She reached for her little sister. "If Sigir will let go, I will take her home."

"I fear her tiny stomach will never have its fill," Cyra said, looking down at the child's closed eyes. Milk dribbled from her mouth, as though she had forgotten to swallow, and began hungrily suckling again. "I can return her when she's asleep properly."

Analise smiled. She looked at Iliari again. "Sorry, again," she said, but Iliari caught her by the wrist.

"This," she said, touching the blood coming from her nose and holding it up for Analise to see, "is nothing. Pull your punches with your training partners but not your teachers. It is good for us to know what you're capable of."

Analise nodded, hugged Iliari, and gathered her belongings. "See you soon, Aunt Iliari, Aunt Cyra."

"She caught you staring," Cyra said once Analise was gone.

"How can I not?" the elf said, looking right at Cyra's bosoms. "They're right at face level, you know."

"Just where I want them."

"I'm hungry," Iliari said, removing her blood-stained top. She saw Cyra looking down at her elven breasts, though they were of no comparison to her wife's bountiful bosoms.

"I have a stew on," Cyra said.

Iliari clenched her jaw. The statement was jarring to her. "Proper housewife you've become," she said.

Cyra stiffened. "That bothers you?"

"I was caught off guard by a child," Iliari complained, turning away. Her voice was hard as iron, now. "You've a stew on. Are we domesticated, then? Doomed to a life of marital bliss, devoid of all adventure?"

"Devoid, bride? I think not." Cyra's hand shot out, snapping around Iliari's throat. She shoved her into a wall and felt the elf's head bludgeon against the wood. She held her gaze, even as the child wriggled in her arm, the tit free from her mouth. Cyra paid her no mind as she stared into the dark pools of her wife's eyes. "You know what I am capable of. What we are both capable of."