Intrepid Pawns Ch. 15

Choosing to heighten her sense of touch had been a bad idea—a very, very bad idea. But when she'd chosen it, Yathi hadn't counted on being trapped in such close quarters.

Or on how soft and smooth Ia's skin felt.

Yathi could feel Ia's shallow breaths on her neck as the two knights huddled in the alcove, crammed behind the curtain. She prayed that the curtain wasn't as easy to see through for those without her currently enhanced eyesight.

She turned, biting her lip, trying not to focus too much on how her lips almost grazed Ia's as she mouthed, Where are the others?

Ia blinked at her. She leaned in slightly, and with her touch as sensitized as it was, Yathi shivered as Ia whispered in her ear, "I saw Mew and Trys run down further."

Yathi swallowed. She hadn't had many dealings with Ia, but the junior knight was exceptionally pretty, with her thick lashes and large dark eyes, her compact, muscular build, and the heat that radiated between the two of them. She hadn't noticed that before. Ia didn't worry much about looking pretty, with her hair cut so short, but even that was sort of cute—a kind of effortless beauty, casual, messy...

Yathi quickly tore herself back to staring out through the curtain, praying that the red in her cheeks wasn't as luminescent in the darkness as it felt like it must be. Her heart was racing. Even with her sense of taste and scent both dampened to be almost nil, just knowing that they were in the middle of a Thriae Hive—that every wall and floor around them would be as sticky-sweet as Yathi could ever wish, could melt her mind away into sticky sap, if only she would kneel and lick like a good girl—

The mead addict's knees felt like jelly at the thought. Yathi also knew, biting her lip, that the only thing separating her from all the honey a silly slut like her could ever think to drink would be the tiniest of cries for attention, the littlest of leans past the curtain, to let herself be discovered and captured and brainwashed at last. And that temptation was absolute torture right now.

She was horny—helplessly, brainlessly horny, and totally without her adorable catgirl admirer/mistress/lover to keep her 'managed.' Yathi felt her cheeks burning even hotter at the fact that she was already missing Mew, the catgirl who had used her, manipulated her, begun to brainwash her. The fact that she was thinking of Mew as the 'adorable catgirl,' as a 'lover.' The word honeycow still echoed in her head, reminding her of Mew's wickedness.

But she was so, so horny, and she thanked the heavens above that Ia had decided to mute her sense of smell, too, despite her inoculation against the honey. That meant Ia might not immediately notice how unspeakably, delicious wet Yathi was, rendered unable to smell the faint scent of Yathi's honey-tinged juices.

The knight couldn't notice how horny Yathi was. Tease her for it. Maybe slip a hand right down Yathi's tight leather pants, feel that slickness, giggle and give her a kiss on the neck and tell her she was a naughty girl... or, worse, a good girl for being so silly and horny, and there would be more kisses, and maybe a finger or two would slip inside—or Ia would pull her hand out and ease her knee between Yathi's legs, wordlessly inviting her to start humping like a wifwolf in heat, mewling like the needy, honey-drunk slut she was. Kept right on the edge by her effortlessly beautiful colleague—

Yathi was panting as, again, she snapped out of the daydream. She covered her own mouth and forced herself to breathe slower, barely containing a whimper of shame.

She hated herself in that brief moment.

All her life, Yathi had judged—no, despised—those who couldn't manage their needs. She had lived her life at the whims of people like that, cursed by beauty that others had the nerve to describe as a blessing. She remembered well her childhood best friends, so close when they were young, all to lose their minds over her, to break into feuding over her beauty and over who deserved her and who loved her most. Jenette, Tilah, even sweet, quiet Nessam—all gone one-by-one from close friends to would-be suitors, as they grew up and began to recognize Yathi's 'uncommon' beauty.

She remembered, too, the time when some cruel pranks had ended with her being tied half-naked to the Enterprise billboard—physically unharmed, but socially humiliated, only to be discovered that morning by her mentor, who would fail to conceal his erection even as he helped her down.

And she remembered each of her coworkers and superiors, who all teased and harassed her at every opportunity. As if it was her fault she looked as she did, as if she'd not spent her every waking moment looking for ways to be uglier: dyeing her hair, cutting it in the sloppiest of ways, never washing it. As if she hadn't sought out the ugliest armors imaginable (which, of course, conspired to look svelte and form-fitting on her). As if she'd not become a scout, the job that required squatting in mud and filth and camouflaging oneself in leaves and dirt (but somehow, on her, it always looked distinctive and flattering, showing off her plump lips and thick lashes and pretty brown eyes and dimpled cheeks). And still, her fellow knights made jokes about who she'd sucked off to get her position.

And Yathi hated all of them for it. She didn't like hating so many people, but she did.

And now she could barely breathe, she realized, because she knew her breaths would come out labored and throaty, steeped in lust at the mere thought of the knight sharing this cramped closet with her getting even a little bit mischievous.

But Ia never would, Yathi told herself firmly. Ia was a pervert—all those inoculated were, in her experience—but she was a dignified colleague nonetheless, and would never act without Yathi's consent.

So all Yathi had to do was not consent. Not rub up against Ia. Not wordlessly beg with her eyes, whisper the words.

But there was nothing else Yathi could think about doing. Nothing but making Ia fuck and tease and toy with her like a slut deserved.

And so it was almost with a sense of joyful relief that Yathi saw the door open, and the Thriae emerged.

But as she gazed upon the seven honeyed harlots from her most absurd, indulgent wet dreams, those 'plump lips' of hers parting in wonder, Yathi felt her thighs rubbing together in anticipation. And her heart was racing faster than ever.

~ ~ ~ ~

Trys bit her lip, squinting as best she could through the curtain. Luckily, it appeared to be fairly translucent, and with her enhanced eyesight, she could see quite well.

All too well.

The statuesque blonde bombshell of a knight was currently a little bit cramped—the little alcove she had ducked into was almost too short for her, and since there was a decent-sized crack between tapestry and ceiling, she had to duck her head in case a Thriae happened to glance over and wonder at the thick golden locks just barely visible above the hanging curtain. At least the curtain reached all the way to the floor.

It didn't help that she hadn't been the only one to duck into this alcove. Trys was built virtually like the archetypical Thriae herself—nearly six feet tall, with breasts literally the size of honeydew melons, a waist like a gourd's stem, and curvy hips to match the chest. She was extremely fit, but it wasn't doing her a lot of good right now—normally her breasts were bound tightly, almost painfully to her chest to allow for exertion, but some unknown catgirl or Thriae or vine dryad had taken those wrappings away long ago, no doubt confused at why Trys would ever want to cover her bounty. She had to cup her breasts just to run now, which was impractical as it was embarrassing.

But she could have handled it had she not been forced to cram herself into the little alcove with Morrowii—'Mew,' to her friends. And lovers. And captive playthings. The line between the three seemed, to Trys, to be awfully blurred.

But now Trys was trapped with the very catgirl who had brought her to her knees and made her low like a helpless holstaur at the mere whisper, the mere breath, 'Honeycow.'

And worse, she barely fit in here.

She watched as the Thriae emerged, one-by-one, her heart pounding—barely keeping her breathing in check. Years of meditative exercises had all been meant to prepare Trys for the moment she would encounter the bearers of that sweet, addictive honey again, but those years had never been meant for such exquisite challenge—Trys thanked the gods for Mew's scent-dampening magic, even though she knew it was only barely enough.

Barely enough for such delectable temptation.

The first to emerge was difficult enough. She was of average height for a Thriae warrior—meaning roughly the height of a human man, or taller, if one counted the wasp-like wings that fluttered behind her. She was dressed in what appeared to be a blue two-piece swimsuit—the kind that left almost nothing to the imagination, and yet still enticed the onlooker to imagine what she might look like without. She had long, wavy blonde hair, and an expression of curiosity as she strolled out of the vat chamber. She carried a pole that, with her lifeguard-aesthetic, could almost be taken for a pool skimmer—but the loops of red ribbon at the end were, Trys sensed, designed for heavier targets than pool detritus.

Even with her almost totally dulled sense of smell, Trys swore she could smell the sweetness of the woman that came next. She was, truly, barely a woman—or was a 'woman' in the basest, most animalistic sense of the word. She had strawberry blonde hair that curled up from her shoulders, and large bedroom eyes that darted around, not with the seeker's curiosity, but with a hunter's instincts. Her hips were exceptionally wide, and she seemed to taste the air with her tongue, a smile playing across her lips as she followed the lifeguard.

She was, Trys could tell, positively drenched in lust. She glowed with exertion, and the eyes in her heavy-lidded gaze were as much narrowed from suspicion as from exhaustion. She was totally naked save for a basic, pale slip that concealed nothing and suggested everything.

Trys was still watching her hips swing back and forth as her eyes were drawn to the next three. It was hard to see them as individuals—dressed in identical black corsets, short skirts, and fishnet stockings, these three fey were draped over each other, kissing and groping eagerly. Strands of saliva stretched between two of them as they pulled back from their extremely sloppy makeouts, giggling, and one chirped, "I don't, like, see anyone, Evadne!"

"Well, I heard something." Evadne was smiling slyly, her eyes darting from curtain to curtain. Trys's heart nearly stopped as the fey's eyes settled briefly on her alcove. "Maybe it'd be easier to hear if you sillies could put the kissies on break for a moment, don't you think, Siproites?"

"Mm..." Siproites sighed, batting her eyelashes, and kissed her partner once more before pulling back. Her voice was slurred and positively dripping with love as she stroked the other Thriae's golden locks. "Okay, dearest, we should probab—mm!!" The third fishnet Thriae saw her chance and took it, moving in to steal a kiss. At first, Siproites seemed to struggle... but she didn't fight it that hard. Soon, their lips were smacking against each other as noisily and lewdly as ever, and Siproites was moaning happily, and her original kisser was now kissing between their necks as if nothing had changed. But they kept walking.

Trys heard Mew breathing heavily, and inwardly, Trys shared the feeling. The wide-hipped harlot was walking past them, and the scent was thick enough to make out, even through her dampened senses—the sweet, sweet smell of honey. Apparently, this breathtaking creature was so horny, so imbued with lust, that even Mew's magic could not block the smell of her sex. Trys's eyelids fluttered involuntarily.

But then the Thriae passed, and as the sixth Triae emerged, Trys realized she could still smell it. Still smell that impossibly delicious, sugary scent. It hadn't dropped at all in intensity. She blinked in confusion.

The sixth was a good, brief distraction from the mystery, unfortunately, and Trys felt the moment of curiosity slipping right out of her slippy-sweet mind as she stared, open-mouthed, at the debauchery.

She was short for a Thriae—a shortstack by any measure, curvy and plump in all the right places, and much shorter than Trys. But she still radiated a kind of power that made Trys's knees weak—made her long to bring herself down to her level.

Her blonde hair was done in an elegant bouffant, ever so-slightly curly and down to her shoulders. She was dressed in naught but a plain white t-shirt and knee-length maroon skirt. She was exceptionally beautiful, in the manner of a goblin maid or gingerbread witch, with an easy, confident smile that made Trys feel like this Thriae knew everything in the world, and that she should just kneel before her, since this gorgeous creature certainly knew best in every possible way.

But it was neither her appearance nor her smile that made Trys's breath catch.

It was the human man she was leading along with her, tugged on by his cock, as if it were the short leash of an especially ill-behaved dog... though not that short, Trys realized. The human—the mead sprite—was swaying, practically drooling, his eyes glazed over in the honey haze as his Mistress pulled him forward, occasionally giving his cock a little squeeze. He was so massive, and clearly so sensitive, that Trys could see a little precum dribbling out every time.

Despite herself, Trys licked her lips, staring at the cock, imagining what it would be like to take it inside her—to take that poor, needy mead sprite and fuck his brains out. To fuck her own brains out. What it would be like to taste his sweet, drugged cum and fall under his spell—under the Thriae's spell—

"Hestia," complained Evadne, "I told you to leave your toys inside! Like, we might be able to find some new toys here, and he's gonna have us all distracted if you keep him around!"

Hestia blinked big eyes up at Evadne, then up at the man. She stroked his cock with one finger of the hand not pulling him along. "Would you like me to stop, love?" Trys heard her murmur.

The sprite moaned and shook his head, wordless, apparently totally beyond speech.

The smell of honey was as strong as ever, and Yathi couldn't understand why. She frowned, trying to manage both her panic and her breathing. What was going on? Did the Thriae truly smell that sweet?

She could barely keep her focus together, keep from rubbing her thighs together, as the seventh Thriae emerged. This one was, Trys sensed instantly, the leader.

The mistress, one could even say.

She was statuesque—the fey ideal, her platinum blonde hair spilling down to her narrow waist. Her half-lowered eyelids were a dusky gold, a match for her golden lips, which parted in a soft coo of delight as she reached forward—her long nails painted a pretty blue—to touch the boytoy's chin, caress his cheek. She gently guided his moaning mouth down, easing his head down into her cleavage. "Ooh... Evadne, you can't possibly expect us to leave all of our toys behind. Suppose..." She thrust out her chest with a soft gasp as the man started to suckle at her teat, sucking right through her beautiful, diaphanous white wedding dress. "... s-suppose another Thriae were to come alone and steal then away from us."

"Yeah," mumbled one of the fishnet Thriae, "like one o' our, um... mmmwah... cute girlfriends!"

Trys was so lost in the unspeakably lewd display, she almost didn't notice until too late that she was leaning against the curtain slightly. She quickly pulled back—and bumped Mew.

Mew made a tiny squeak. Luckily, the little sound was covered by the leader's next words, but Trys's eyes widened as she suddenly connected the dots.

"It's not like this one could resist," the leader of the clique murmured, stroking the man's hair as the Hestia stroked his cock. "Could you, baby?"

Trys turned and stared, wide-eyed, at Mew—the catgirl was bright red, sucking desperately on her fingers to muffle her little mewls and moans, her other hand shoved right up her skirt and down her panties as she silently fingered herself. Her eyes were wild, dizzy, half-closed. The catgirl was fucking herself silly.

Moaning and suckling, the man could only whine and whimper his agreement.

And, Trys realized, taking a deep breath of the tainted air, the source of the smell wasn't the Thriae at all. It was the mead addicted catgirl. Her arousal.

Mew, Trys realized with a creeping dread, had never turned off her own sense of smell. The stupid, wanton slut. She glared down at the catgirl.

The catgirl stared at Trys's tits.

Her fingers popped out of her mouth. Out from between those plump, luscious, suckling lips.

And she leaned in, starting to purr.

"None of them can resist," Trys dimly heard the leader cooing, as the man's suckling sounds grew louder.

"Of course not!" Hestia giggled. Trys heard the wet sounds of the fey's stroking speeding up, and the man's moans rose. "Poor, horny darlings. I honestly haven't the faintest idea what they'd do without us!"

Finding herself between a cat and a sticky place, Trys had a feeling she might be about to find out.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Goooood boy," cooed Primme.

"Goooooood!" agreed Emberli with a soft giggle. "You're doing so well! Not long now, no, no, not long at all!"

Brist panted and bit his lip so hard it nearly broke skin to hold in his cries of tormented ecstasy. The worst part was, he couldn't tell if the sprites even understood exactly what his struggle was.

Because every time he made a pathetic sound, or looked at them imploringly, or mouthed the words please—or even bit his lip like this—they seemed to take it as a plea for more.

"Aww!" Primme beamed and leaned in, and before he could do a thing about it, she'd planted a bright red lipstick mark on his cheek—one of many, many marks. "Poor thing!" she whispered mischievously. "Y'know, Emberli, like, I don't think this boy's ever been... pampered before!"

"Oh, reeeeally?" There were conspiratorial smirks, barely contained giggles.

The one blessing Brist had was that the sprites knew how to keep quiet. They took advantage of every word spoken outside, every cry from whoever was being pleasured—he hadn't been able to look and see what was going on—to cover their own wickedness. They whispered ever-so-intimately in his ears, or to each other, their voices as soft as misty morning breath.

His one blessing was how quiet they had been. Very quiet, as they had made him take off his robes—threatening to cry if he objected—wrapped their warm, slick fingers around his cock, and began to pump up and down as they guided him to sit back on the bed while they cuddled up on either side, sandwiching him between their sexy, soft, enticing, indulgent mead sprite bodies.

Mead sprites. Not even Thriae—mere mead sprites. Brist barely held in a whimper. Mere mead sprites had subdued him so, so easily. But what choice had he had? If they called out, he'd have been caught instantly. Caught like a fly in honey. He could either swim out, and be caught by the wasps above... or swim deeper.

Deeper.

That made it sound like he was submitting. But he wasn't, Brist told himself desperately, squirming as Emberli kissed his neck with merciless sweetness, as their soft, gentle fingers ran up and down his sensitive length. He was just buying time. Buying time to escape. As soon as the Thriae were gone, he could escape these, too.