Cinder and the Season of Monsoons

"There you are," Maeryll said, languid smoke swirling out of her mouth like a dragon's breath. "I was starting to get a little worried."

"Aw," Cinder brought her hand to her heart. The movement dislodged her keffiyeh, which was already struggling to hold back the relentless tide of her boobs. She took a moment to tuck away an escaped nipple before going on. "Thinking about coming to find me? Maybe mounting a rescue?"

"Nah. But I promise that I would've avenged you."

"Ha! You are stoned out of your mind."

"Not out of it, exactly. Cinder. Wait—Cinder?"

"Yeah? What's up?"

Maeryll's glacier-blue eyes narrowed to slits. "What... what the fuck are you wearing?"

"Fhweeew," the wood elf reclined on the cushions and let out a sigh, spreading her legs to expose the sodden, ink-covered strip of parchment currently serving as her underthings. The lips of her pussy were swollen and dewy, almost completely enveloping the poem-paper. "Now that is a story and a half. You're not gonna believe this shit, but there was this guy—outrageously hot forearms by the way—in this oasis, and... actually, maybe I should back up. It sort of started with this merchant I met out in the desert who said he had a map. Hey. HEY. Are you paying attention, or what?"

"Or what," Maeryll murmured, her electric gaze fixed upon the poetry betwixt Cinder's thighs.

Cinder snorted. "Never mind. Suffice it to say what I thought was going to happen didn't, and I'm, ah, rather in the mood. The city-scale party outside isn't helping."

"Al-Rabea," Maeryll said, and in response to Cinder's blank look, she clarified. "The festival is called Al-Rabea. It's celebrated every year to mark the start of the rains, the beginning of the season of monsoons. They start up north, and the deluge causes the Waveless Ribbon to flood its banks. The water is used to irrigate farms and orchards. Fertility, fecundity, et cetera."

Outside on the street, there was a blast-pop noise followed by a bright flare as someone set off a brace of fireworks. Cinder grinned. "Mansuriyahh knows how to party. Speaking of," she said with a sudden thought, "did you find what you were looking for in the library?"

The other elf's lazy smile faded a little. "No, the maktaba didn't have what I wanted." She was silent for a moment, then perked up. "But I did get you a present."

Maeryll reached behind the cushions and withdrew a flat box tied with a black ribbon. She held it out to Cinder, who regarded it dubiously.

"Is this a present for you, or for me?"

"You wound me with your unfounded assumptions. With the right attitude, it could be a gift to both of us."

"Ha! Alright." Cinder raised an eyebrow but accepted the box. Her nimble fingers made short work of the ribbon, and she soon had the lid off. Nestled into a bed of gauzy tissue paper was an open-backed cocktail dress that looked like it was fashioned from shimmering golden scales. It was accompanied by a matching thong, and to top it all off, an empty coupe glass.

The glass was a message Cinder received loud and clear. The two women locked eyes.

"I know how you feel about skirts," Maeryll began, "but—"

"Vendôme?" Cinder finished the thought, lifting the glass by its stem.

"Vendôme," Maeryll confirmed, trying to hold back her eagerness.

The word sent all sorts of delightful images flooding Cinder's brain—wicked fingers thrusting into the tight sleeve of her cunt, Maeryll shirtless with her delicate breasts spangled with Cinder's squirt, mugs filled and frothing-sticky, and a very particular thirst that was never quite quenched.

Cinder chewed her lower lip, then nodded. "Yeah, you know what? I'm into that, and the pump is more than primed, if you get what I'm trying to say. There's just something in the air tonight, y'know?"

"Al-Rabea in the City of a Thousand Vices," said the snow elf sagely, as if that explained everything. "Now go get changed," she flicked her fingers, "I hope you're thirsty."

"Bossy bitch," Cinder griped, but she gathered up the box and walked across the delicate mosaic of the courtyard's floor, heading for the lantern-lit bathrooms of the coffee house.

Cinder stepped inside, shut the stall door, and got down to it. Stuffing herself into the skimpy little golden cocktail dress Maeryll picked out wasn't easy. The matching thong looked like it was drowning in the ocean of her ass, just absolutely fighting for its life. But tonight, a short skirt was the practical thing to wear. Vendôme. She grinned, enjoying the tingling thrill the memories brought with them. This was going to be fun.

"Easy access," Cinder murmured, hitching the fringe of the dress up so she could look down at her thong-girdled pussy. As she watched, a long, gleaming string of arousal dripped from her vulva to pool on the tiled floor of the stall. Her clit throbbed, and a small, involuntary mewl escaped her lips. She sounded like an alley cat in heat, which might've been a little embarrassing if she hadn't been so... Unngh, fuck.

"I'm more worked up than I thought," she realized. A glint of light drew her eye to the coupe glass nestled amid its bed of paper in the open gift box. Cinder eyed it thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Just gotta take the edge off," she reasoned. If she was going to keep up with Maeryll, Vendôme-style, she needed to clear some of the hazy, horny fog out of her brain.

The elf set the glass on the floor between her feet, then squatted down over the empty vessel. She pulled aside her already saturated thong, then started to rub her fingers along the slick gusset of her pussy, her fingertips teasing between the folds. She made a V with her fingers, squeezing and rubbing and gently pinching when the mood struck her.

"Ohhh," she moaned as she teased herself. Cinder half-closed her eyes so she could focus on the fantasy playing out in her brain—Barkhiya railing her from behind while she was bent over that weird wall in the oasis, the one with the jeweled bees. "Mmph yeah, slap it," she ordered imaginary-Barkhiya, picturing the big bearded bastard getting rough, grabbing her hips, and turning her ass cherry-red with his palm.

Her fingers did their work, rubbing, stroking, pressing, and sliding through the absolute drencher building between her legs.

She thought of Maeryll, sitting out there in the coffee shop's courtyard, looking all fine and fey, so Cinder added her friend to her fantasy. In her mind's eye, Barkhiya paused in his destruction of Cinder's butt to pull his dick out of her with a wet slurp.

"Go on, M," Cinder urged, eyes closed and whispering aloud, "go ahead and lick me off him."

In Cinder's bathroom-stall masturbation fantasy, Maeryll did just that. The image of the slender silver-haired girl choking on a big fat dick was as undeniably compelling as it was unlikely to happen in real life, but hey, this was Cinder's wank. The curvy elf slid her middle finger deep into her sex like she was dowsing for water. In a way, she sort of was.

"Fffuck," Cinder grunted, feeling the pressure inside of her gradually build into an intense, nearly-painful crescendo. Her blood burned, and she felt all hot and delirious.

She found the spot inside of her, the one that unlocked the floodgates, and she clenched her teeth and hissed out her satisfaction as she came on her plunging finger. Cinder thrust away at herself as she did her best garden hose impression, squirting out her frustrated orgasm. Her come made a glorious mess as it jetted from her, but enough landed into the coupe glass to fill it with a healthy portion of elf-jizz.

Damp thighs trembling, Cinder stood up and pushed her hair out of her eyes, heedlessly smearing come across her forehead. The liquid felt cool against the flushed heat of her skin. Damn. That brief feeling of satisfaction faded far too quickly, replaced by a familiar aching itch.

Yeah the orgasm felt good. But if anything, she was more aroused than when she walked in.

The elf scooped up the glass in a shaky hand while she struggled to get her breathing under control. Her head was foggy and buzzing with lust. Almost of its own accord, Cinder's hand began to travel southwards again. The elf focused her willpower and managed to yank her hand away from her crotch, but it left behind a void of yearning.

What is with me tonight? She was just considering going for round two in an attempt to dull the needy throb between her legs when the door to the bathroom opened.

"Did you see their ears?" a man's voice asked. "Elves, in Mansuriyahh! May the Even-Handed God be praised, that's surely a good omen for the growing season."

"Elves aren't so rare as all that," answered a second man, "although I'll allow I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I've seen their like this far out west. If I'm being honest, though, I wasn't exactly looking at their ears. Did you see the body of the tall, red-headed one? God be good, I could spend days plowing those fields and never tire of the work."

There was something very, very familiar about the deep, pleasant timbre of the second man's voice. No fricken' way! Cinder grabbed the soggy poem from where she'd dropped it and pushed the stall door open. She stumbled out, parchment strip fluttering in one hand and her come-filled glass clutched in the other. It sloshed around a little, the viscous liquid flirting with the rim.

"Barkhiya," she crowed, "there you are, you slippery son of a—OH. Uh. Hey?"

Cinder drew up short, the ribbon of poetry drooping disconsolately in her fist. Sadly, neither of the two men currently staring at her in astonishment were the mysterious hottie from the oasis.

After a moment of stunned silence, one of them spoke. "Miss," he said carefully, "did you perhaps have an accident?"

"An accident?" Cinder asked, nonplussed. Then she caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror. Her too-small dress was askew, and her legs and boots were drenched in liquid lust.

"Oh, no," she said hurriedly, "I didn't wet myself. Well, I did, but not like that. Also, it was on purpose." The men's expressions told Cinder that her explanation wasn't helping things. "Yeah. Okay. Welp, have a good night, and happy Al-Rabea."

She backed out of the bathroom without another word, stuffing the poem into a rubbish bin along the way. The two men watched her leave with stupefied expressions on their faces.

A light rain started while Cinder was in the bathroom, and she found Maeryll leaning against the coffee shop's counter instead of her spot in the open courtyard.

"You look decadent," Maeryll said when Cinder returned wearing her new dress, "and you already found a drink." Her eyes roved up and down Cinder's body, lapping up the sight of her extravagant figure squeezed into the golden cocktail dress. "Bottom's up," Maeryll urged, unable to keep the keenness from her voice.

Cinder brought the glass to her lips and knocked it back, downing her still-warm squirt in a few showy gulps. It was sweet and tangy, vaguely reminiscent of honeydew, or perhaps icemelon.

"Let's get out of here," Cinder said, smacking her lips together. "There's a couple of guys in the bathroom who think I peed myself, and it's really hard to explain exactly what we're doing with this." She flicked a fingernail against the empty coupe glass. The noise was crystalline.

Maeryll nodded and pushed up from the bar, lithe and cobra-graceful. "The night is young, and your glass is empty," she said with a lazy smile. "Let's go find out why they call this the City of a Thousand Vices."

Cinder followed her friend out of the quiet coffee shop and onto the street, letting the noise and light of the festival wash over her. The air was filled with laughter and the smells of sweat, perfume, alcohol, and now rain. The drizzle didn't seem to deter the partygoers but served instead to energize them. People dressed in black and gold moved their bodies in dance, hands stretched towards the leaking sky, smiles bright and delighted.

The only thing that Cinder had drunk so far was her own squirt, but she felt vaguely tipsy and approaching a truly dangerous level of horniness. It was the kind of horny that likely meant getting into the sort of trouble that made walking straight hard the next day.

"Sheesh, just hold on a sec," she whispered to her pussy beseechingly, feeling like a debtor trying to cut a deal with a loan shark. No matter what, that bill was going to come due.

"Come on, Cinder," Maeryll called. The pale-haired woman was waving her hand impatiently, and Cinder realized she'd fallen behind.

The elf blew out a shaky breath. Her vagina clenched forlornly around nothing at all, and a trickle of dampness slithered down her leg. The wet had nothing to do with the sprinkling rain, and it pooled in one of her boots, soaking her sock.

Cinder's fingers tightened around the stem of the coupe glass and she hurried after Maeryll, each step a soggy squelch upon the street.

Part 3: The Meathole

The stars were playing hide and seek from behind a line of dark rain clouds, but the City of a Thousand Vices still shone like a jewel under the golden glow of oil lamps and the occasional color-burst of celebratory fireworks.

The two elves walked down avenues lined with rain-damp moonstones and past marble palaces with roofs of hammered bronze. The skyline was a collection of towering silver minarets and domes of sandblasted glass filigreed with gold. There were ornamental murals everywhere depicting scenes of harvest and plenty, worked by master artisans in ripe, mouthwatering detail. Bees often featured as a prominent theme in many of the murals. The little insects were picked out in delicate, thumbnail-sized tiles of onyx and amber.

Cinder barely saw any of it. She was lost in a cloud of lustful thoughts, every fiber of her being saturated with an intense urge to come. She tried to ignore the craving, but when Maeryll grabbed her hand to pull her through the crowd and she nearly creamed her knickers, Cinder knew she was in real trouble.

"Hnngh!" A weird little whimper escaped from Cinder's lips as she clenched her fingers around Maeryll's hand and struggled not to rub her thighs together like a slutty cricket.

Maeryll glanced back over her shoulder. "Did you say something?"

"N-nope. Look, are we almost there?" Cinder's voice was rough, and her tongue felt thick in her mouth. "I guess I'm thirstier than I thought. Must be all that desert air finally catching up with me."

Maeryll rolled her eyes. "Get a grip," she said, but despite the woman's callous words, a fierce, hungry look flashed across her face. She let Cinder walk ahead, and carefully watched the ripe peach of the other elf's butt flirting with the dangerously short hemline of her dress. The chick had a thing for skirts.

"You know," Maeryll continued conversationally, sliding a surreptitious hand up Cinder's dress to gently caress her buttocks, "they call Mansuriyahh the City of a Thousand Vices, but they keep most of that restricted to a pair of islands in the middle of the Waveless Ribbon. Bars, brothels, gambling dens, theaters, and more, all crammed into a few mad miles."

Crammed. Cinder liked the sound of that. Focusing on the feeling of Maeryll's palm on her ass, it took Cinder's brain a few seconds to catch up to her friend's words. "The Waveless Ribbon... Oh, you mean like the river?"

Cinder was finding it pretty hard to think straight. A pair of men dressed in gold and black kissing each other in a doorway caught her eye. They were really going at it hot and heavy, and the sight of their roving hands and hungry lips sent a fresh wave of lust crashing against the bulwark of Cinder's self-control.

How bad would it be to just plop down on the curb and butter up my muffin?

"Yes, Cinder, the river that the city is built around. What is with you tonight? Come on, there's the bridge."

The elves crossed a delicate arch of stone and metal and onto the first of the islands. If the mood in the city had been celebratory before, on the island it was downright riotous. The crowds bordered on disorderly, and the predominant outfit seemed to be the ubiquitous golden paint splattered everywhere.

Maeryll was whinging about some sort of drink she wanted to try at a bar down the street, but Cinder only got every other word. Her heart was thudding in her ears, syncopated to the frenzied pulsing in her clit. Need flared inside of her, and her pussy felt hot and slick and depressingly empty.

Ohmygod. She wasn't going to make it, and as bohemian as these people seemed to be with their bodypaint and their fun fertility festival, she was pretty sure getting fingerblasted in the middle of the street would fall squarely into the category of 'things that are not cool to do in Mansuriyahh when in public.' Cinder felt like a shaken-up beer bottle straining at its cork. She needed a solution, and she needed it fast.

"Let's go here," Cinder blurted, grabbing her friend's hand and dragging her to the nearest building. A dingy, lantern-lit sign hung above the door proclaiming it as 'The Meathole'. The bar looked as dubious as its name suggested.

Predictably, Maeryll resisted her proposition. "Is this a joke?" she asked. "Are you playing a joke on me right now, Cinder? Because I am not laughing."

Cinder rounded on her friend, and let all the desperate intensity she could muster fill her eyes. She probably looked a little unhinged, but that was only because at that moment she was.

"I need thisss," she hissed, cupping Maeryll's face in her hands and squishing the girl's pale cheeks. It made the fey snow elf look completely adorable, but Cinder was too horny to fully appreciate the cuteness. "M, I am literally begging you. Get me in there, get me off, and I'll do whatever you want. A fist? Fine. A fist in each hole? I'll just ask for more. Maybe jam a foot in there? Who gives a shit! I just Need. To. Come."

Maeryll blinked, seemingly taken aback by the force of Cinder's conviction and the capital letters in her plea. "Yes, alright. But the Meathole?"

With a snarl of inarticulate horniness, Cinder dragged her friend along behind her and into the bar. The doorman smiled and said, "Happy Al-Rabea—," but motivated by Cinder's urgency, the elves swept past him with barely a muttered "Hey."

The bar was dimly lit and redolent of cheap liquor. The place was large and square, with tables and booths arrayed around a central pit. A trio of braziers in the pit provided most of the inadequate lighting. Men dressed in little more than aprons and smears of festival gold tended spits of slowly roasting meat at the braziers.

Perhaps the roasting pit was what gave the Meathole its name? Cinder didn't know, and she didn't care. She chose an especially shadowy booth in the back corner, as far away from the central pit and its coal-red light as possible, and made a beeline for it.

They slid into the booth, Maeryll first and then Cinder next to her on the same bench. Cinder set the coupe glass onto the table, the cup still streaky with her come. There was a time for subtlety, and this wasn't it. She grabbed Maeryll's hand and pulled it into her lap, all while leaning in to plant a ravenous kiss on her friend's lips.

Maeryll's mouth tasted like hookah smoke and sin. Cinder moaned against it and rolled her hips suggestively, which is of course exactly when the waiter arrived.

"What can I get ya, girls?" the guy asked distractedly. He was staring at the pad of his order paper, unaware of the elvish make-out session he'd interrupted.

Cinder nearly wept from frustration as Maeryll's hand hesitated scant inches above her steaming pussy. The corners of the snow elf's lips lifted ever so slightly, as if amused by Cinder's desperate predicament. In a truly infuriating display of indifference, she set her other elbow on the table and looked around Cinder to address the waiter.