Godfang: Ch. 08 Fertile Fantasy Epic

"I would more than happy to—"

"On whose behalf?" Vagyia sniffed. "You are a member of a society that has been formally disbanded, its members hunted and scattered. Your methods in Night Horde wars were deemed barbaric, or have you forgotten?"

"We did what we had to. For the good of—"

"Do not propose to teach me songs for which I know the verses by rote. I am the reason a few of your sect managed to wriggle free of the hangman's noose. And before you ask me to guarantee any more of my personal fortune to your endeavors, remember that it is I who financed your rebirth. Be not too greedy, old friend."

This was not going the way Calila had planned. Groveling did not come easily, but Vagyia would demand satisfaction, one way or another. "The Legion is, of course, grateful for—"

"When next we meet, you shall speak less of your gratitude and more of your results."

With that, Vagyia lowered the cowl over her head, pulled open the doors, and strode out of the room. The Diviner Maxima felt rage boiling in her veins as she fixated on the glistening trail of seminal droplets left in Vagyia's wake.

Vile woman! She would rue the day she thought to control the Diviner G'eal. Women's Legion! Bah! The name Vagyia had christened them was an affront to their ancient legacy.

Stalking to the tiny side door at the edge of the wall-to-wall divider, she produced a key and unlocked the door to the men's half of the drawing room. The hour was late, the drawing room vacant. She found them abed, snoring softly beneath woolen blankets on pallets furnished from the castle stables. Her fingers tingled with unshed fury. She spared only a glance for the sandy-haired fellow in whom she'd divined a measure of viability.

Instead, she turned her attention first to the large butcher's apprentice. His chest rose like a mountain. With a subtle tilt of her head, she observed him through half-lowered lashes, her gaze sharpening.

As the most formidable among the Diviners, Calila possessed an acute sensitivity to the flow of conatus, the vital essence that coursed through beings of breeding age, pulsing strongest in men. The mysterious force was the wellspring of perseverance, drive, impulse—an invisible tether to life itself. The Diviners had watched from the shadows as that vital essence slowly waned, ebbing for the past two decades, tearing at the fabric of mortal existence. Such a secret to their mysterious dis-ease could guarantee power, and Calila was close to figuring out how to weaponize the knowledge and ensure the Diviners' existence was never again threatened

Calila summoned faunus transmutia. The young man's skull became surrounded by a pulsating trail of synaptic light. His mind laid bare. It was a spectacular sight—thought and fear and instinct—all of it cascading through his mind, relentless even in slumber. Calila closed her hand and the light slowly winked out. The great bull chest stilled. Then she moved slowly toward the other and murdered him as well. It did little to ease her temper, but it would have to do.

***

The wind shifted. Smoke stung Lady Gis'may Vladivov's eyes beneath the black veil. She knew better than to cough, despite swallowing a lungful of ash with her last breath. The fact that it was her mother's remains searing the inside of her throat made it all the worse. The smell of the pyre was foul. Why did her people insist on burning bodies instead of burying them? Well, she was High Seat now—once the ceremony was complete, anyway—so perhaps she could command a change to the ritual honoring the dead.

Her part in the affair concluded, Gis'may made her way to the edge of the stone crematory platform. The air this morning was still crisp, but already foreshadowing an oppressively hot summer. Her father-general stood apart, straight-backed and face stone. His black uniform carved him a powerful profile against the river Danube beyond. Taloned scars on his cheek and throat, reminders of his bloody campaign against the Night Hordes, appeared more pronounced than Gis'may recalled. The aging man inclined his head respectfully as she passed, her bodyguard trailing close behind.

As her guard fell in with her pace, the young woman found herself being drawn toward the gravel path at the river's edge. It would eventually lead her back to the palace grounds, but the route was indirect, suiting her fine since she needed to think. Her father-general's success had brought glory to House Vladivov, that much was undeniable. But only a fool could not see that the power imbalance had shifted to favor his authority. Many troubles would demand her attention in the coming months. But if she was to wield the true power of the High Seat, she would need to address this situation immediately.

Part of the solution, of course, was simple. She would resurrect the ancient title of Vladbearer, used long ago when House Vladivov was the seat of religious authority in the realms. Restoring it by decree would be a straightforward matter. Endowing it with a new charter to make Gis'may the final authority in not just matters inside House Vladivov, but militarily as well, would require something more pronounced. The idea had come to her when she'd last visited the dungeons, a refuge to which she now felt her feet leading.

Putting her back to the river—and the Dagg'ar merchant captains who recognized her and bowed from their foredecks as the boats passed—she motioned to the head of her bodyguard. Longitz strode forward, producing a set of keys. She let him lead the way down the steps at the edge of the palace's northmost wall. The iron gates swung open with a rusty cry. Two of her bodyguards went ahead. They would dismiss the dungeon guards and take up their places until she had finished her business.

Gis'may contented herself while they prepared for her. The floors would be doused with fresh water, washing away the blood of torture—she could already hear the buckets sloshing and splashing. Meanwhile, she refined her plan for her father-general. He had served his House well, with distinction and no shortage of honor. He might even slit his own throat if she commanded it. But that would only provide a temporary solution. To ensure the unequaled authority of the High Seat—the Vladbearer—she had to eliminate the masculine power threat without compromising its usefulness on the field of battle.

Longitz returned. Eyes low, he inclined his head. The dungeons were ready to receive the High Lady. The newly installed braziers had been lit. Already, the dank, cool stone chambers were warming. She despised a touch of chill against bare skin. The cold was hardly conducive to a sexual liaison. As she entered, her guardsmen turned to face the stone walls. Only the head of her guard remained forward-facing. Longitz toured the line of cells at her side. He would say nothing—could betray nothing—for he had no tongue with which to speak treason.

Gis'may eyed each cell's occupant as she passed, settling finally on a soldier—once an officer if she remembered correctly from the man's sentencing—with tanned skin, wild hair, and cruel eyes. Broad-chested and tall, he had been beaten, but not yet broken. She gave a nod when the man met her gaze rather than cowering. Then she waited as the head of her guard entered the cell, scrubbed, and deloused the imprisoned warrior.

Yes, the plan would work. In her very first act as Vladbearer, High Lady Gis'may would set down the decree that, henceforth, the High Seat would no longer marry. Henceforth, the High Seat would receive as many men as she wished, and when she became pregnant, the identity of the donor would remain anonymous. Henceforth, no sire could claim paternal authority against the House of Vladivov. That authority would stay with the Vladbearer, once and for all.

When the head of her guard finished and exited the cell, the warrior stood naked. Clean, skin red. To the prisoner's visible surprise, Gis'may stepped into the cell and began gathering her gown around her waist. She secured the bunched-up fabric with a silk sash to keep it from falling.

"Hear me," she pronounced. "You are sentenced to die in this dungeon. But fortune and the gods may yet smile upon you if, by the time I leave, I am pleased."

A rakish grin teased the corners of the warrior's mouth. Even so, he raised an eyebrow skeptically. "And how does the Lady wish to be pleased?"

"Aggressively." Gis'may presented a perfectly round, small, pale bottom to the tall prisoner who drew a sharp intake of breath.

She watched him over her shoulder, feeling her body slicken at the hunger in his eyes. But what fed a wave of heat to her loins was the conflicted look he gave to Longitz who stood just outside the cell, arming a rather intimidating crossbow.

"How do I know your man there won't put a bolt in my neck if he confuses pleasure with pain?"

"You won't," Gis'may said, wriggling her rear at him. The waxing had certainly been a painful process—she was not sure how the women of the Deep South could stand it with regularity. But there was no mistaking its effect. Rolling her hips to show him the hairless sliver nestled between her legs, she beheld a pair of glassy, widening eyes. "Rest assured, Longitz knows I have a high tolerance for pain. Or shall I say... an insistence on it."

Lust won out. The prisoner's last weapon in the world did not fail him. Gis'may watched it turn leaden and stiffen. She had made a wise choice. The crown grew fat, the man's heavy balls cloying. He did not spare another glance at the crossbow before stepping behind his captor and laying his large hands upon her tiny hips.

"How old are you?"

"I am two days into my eighteenth name day," Gis'may replied, wrapping her fingers around the bars. "Does that please you?"

His answer was to gather his staff in hand. Gis'may hissed when she felt a hot splatter of spit impact her crease. The thick underside of the prisoner's shaft slapped in his mess, and when he shoved she felt his glans cleave the length of her velvet channel. With a thrust, he rode the channel so that her puffy lips hugged the underside of his shaft, though he had yet to penetrate her quiff. The head kissed her puckered anus with each circuit and his balls clapped her cunny. Gis'may let her head rest on an arm and savored the vileness of her proclivity.

Slap. Slap. Slap. He again beat his staff against her fleshy vise, the third time hard enough to sting. She did not recoil, though. He needed to know that it would take a great deal more to—

Abruptly, the warrior drove himself fully into her quiffle with a single thrust. Before Gis'may could fully shudder, there was a sharp crack followed immediately by a bolt of pain spreading through her ass cheek.

The girl gripped the cell bars and the prisoner did the same at the curve of her hips, gathering a handful of flesh before slamming his thick cockstaff through her needy fuck pouch. A guttural sound of sticky flesh against flesh reverberated through the dungeon. Other prisoners woke from torture-induced stupors to watch, and the thrill carried Gis'may upward.

Gods be honored, she would concentrate her power before the end of her first week in her mother's seat. Her father-general would be reduced, but not impotent. He would come to see the necessity of her decree.

Their collective slime leaked from her frothy hole, swimming down the inside of her thighs. Whack! Again, he slapped her quivering gluteal cheek. Compared to him, she was quite small. The man's hand covered almost an entire half of her ass. His large swinging testicles battered at her distended button with every frenzied thrust. And that every thrust was indeed deep. She could feel him in her guts, feel the head rake her nerves like a fist digging through knotted tension. Could feel the spongey tip kiss the back of her lady-cavern.

Suddenly, a hand twined in her long hair and she was being wrenched upright. Her fingers came detached from the bars. His drilling at her backside never ceased but he drew her throat to his mouth and attacked her with bites barely disguised as kisses. His teeth raked down the side of her throat to her shoulder—she felt him bite and hold fast to the taut muscle connecting neck and collar. The pain leaked into her bloodstream and poured oil over the fire of her lust. She squeezed her thighs tightly to reward him, forcing his cock into a grasping sleeve, then grinned as he groaned his grateful ecstasy in her ear.

Ripping her off his talented pipe, the warrior spun Gis'may's small figure, lifting so quickly she barely had time to process the new position before he'd re-sheathed himself in her clutching snatch. The shlooping sound of his sword ramming home in her dripping scabbard caused her to bite her lip and hiss. The prisoner left her to clutch his waist with her legs—his hands were like iron clasps around her wrists—and he bounced her on his cockmeat while the two of them stared down to watch, the view unfettered by so much as a hair of pubic fur. She marveled at the blood-engorged lips of her puss, grasping and quivering over his pistoning tool. Every time his magnificent cudgel reappeared, its veins glistened with her teenaged goo. Her girl juice squelched with his every lunge, and the man's hunger was rapidly turning her hole into a nut-churned frothy mess.

Gathering her at the waist on one forearm, he managed to drag the top of her corset down over her breasts. His eyes became fixated on the jutting points and he fucked into her even harder. She lost sight of his other hand as it snaked beneath them, but she suddenly felt his cockstaff slip free. Anger boiled, and she opened her mouth to protest. He pulled her close, squeezing her waist so hard she thought he meant to break her spine. But that was only a prelude to the exquisite pain that poured into her as the prisoner forced his fat cockhead into her neverslot.

Gis'may's pretty mouth fell open and she bared a set of perfect white teeth. Her brows knitted themselves into an expression hung between horror and confusion. The forbidden ringlet of muscle would have screamed if it had its own voice. Such as it was, she could not work sufficient breath through her diaphragm. She planted her hands against the man's broad chest and pushed as hard as she could. Her every instinct told her to turn her head toward Longitz. All she had to do was turn her head and her defilement would end.

"Relax," the warrior cooed, and to her surprise, she did. At once, her pooplet began to yield. His agonizing trespass seemed to rip her thoughts apart before they could form. She felt the head pop inside and a deep groan was drawn from her throat. A despicable notion filtered through the screaming whine in her ears: did it not occasionally feel strangely glorious to pass an enormous meal on the privy? Bah! Every ridge of his staff thrummed like breaking harp strings. Yet, each seemed connected to a nerve that was itself holding lightning by the tail.

She stared into his dark gaze as he slowly filled her to the bowel. And gods, was she full. Never had she felt so stuffed and spitted. "You have killed me," she growled. "It is not meant to be there." Her eyes were full of fear, of desperation. Of barely concealed need. She felt plucked and force-fucked like a withering virgin. "I should have you executed."

"No," he answered. "It is done, this act. In the east, it is enjoyed." His cockstaff flexed its own retort, all the pressure focused on the gaping ass wound he'd opened in her backside. "Before the dis-ease of mankind, it was a pleasured way to prevent the accident of motherhood. You are small, but you enjoy the pain, no? You would come to love this. In time, I think you would come to beg for it."

"Take. It. Out," Gis'may gasped. "I will see that you die s-slowly." Surely, he had killed her. As good as driving a dagger into her gut. Clever, she'd never seen it coming.

With a wolfish smile, the prisoner eased his fat shaft stick from the girl's tiny nether crevasse. Disgust warred with a seedy, strange—what was it—could it really be pleasure? She felt her chin trembling as she shat him forth. When she felt the head trying to pass through her dirty muscle, she caught her breath. "Wait." To his credit, the prisoner did not smile. Embarrassing the one who held your fate in her hands was not an insult to heap upon one's injuries. Deliberately, her steely eyes fixed, she fought to control her voice. "Put it back. Slowly."

This time, pain receded. Gis'may felt numbness swim up her chest. Her cheeks felt too large, filled with blood and shame. But dirty, filthy need poured strength into her limbs. Tightening her legs at the warrior's waist, Gis'may took over, impaling herself on his glorious manstaff.

"Ebbing gods!" she cried. And quite soon thereafter, he was drilling, plumbing her nether nectar as though pillaging rich fields. The lewd slap of pelvis against bottom fell in time with her lung-emptying moans and whimpers. She found that as long as she surrendered to the invasion, she could keep the tension out of her bum ringlet, thereby effecting a hitherto unknown ecstasy that danced in harmony with kisses of rapturous pain. The act also had the benefit of freeing up her honey slot for her own delving. She toyed and rubbed and circled, diving and dipping, fingering and fragging until her hips were bucking of their own accord.

She never even sensed the warrior's proximity to his own tiny demise. He simply tore his fuck pole free of her bum, drove it past her snatch-sunk fingers, and straight into her love slot. Two grand thrusts later, she felt the man go tense. Looking down her body at his half-buried shaft, she beheld in fascination as it grew rounder and began to lunge against the roof of her puss.

"Ffffuuck!" he groaned. Gis'may released a long-held breath and followed him into the void. She clung to a single thought, imagining good seed swimming for purchase. Her climax tightened every muscle in her body. She threw her head back and screamed. As they sunk to the floor, she held on tightly, extracting his every nut-squeezing spurt as deeply as he could place it. He churned again and again, cock belching jets of white life which her quimlet drank greedily.

She would continue to bed no shortage of men in the coming weeks. There had to be one out there capable of planting a viable injection. Closing her eyes, she placed her hands to her abdomen, envisioning the drowning swill filling her. Plant well, tragic fool.

She swung her gaze to Longitz. THWANG!