Knight of the Wood Ch. 01

Joran staggered out of the wood, frustrated, sore, and pants torn open. While the wilderness had never been safe, he dearly missed the time when monsters would simply try and kill you. Now, though? Now they were after a different sort of prey. He glowered down at himself. This was the third time in as many months that someone his Lord had sent him to protect had surrendered to some monster. It was also, embarrassingly, the third time Joran had fought, lost, and spent the night being ridden until he passed out. A cold wind blew past, and he winced as it moved over his exposed manhood. He blew sharply out of his mouth and began the long walk back to the Keep. Nothing else to be done but get ready to be scolded yet again. Hopefully this time he'd be allowed to put on pants, first.

Shoulders slumped under his armor, he walked into his room at the Keep and began to remove the clothing he still had on. It turned out that he had not been allowed to put on pants first. The entire Court had thus seen him, covered in the flaking remains of monstrous fluids, in all his glory. Perhaps, he thought, I would've have been less eager to leave farming behind for Knighthood, had I known what the Imperial Mages planned. It was not a true mystery, what had happened to the woods and wilds of the Empire, though it remained no less a scandal.

In the face of rising citizen deaths to a rapidly increasing monster population, the Grand Light himself, Guardian of the Mountain and Keeper of the Sacred Oasis, Emperor of the Known Lands, had issued two decrees. The first, which quadrupled the number of knights by uplifting some from the peasantry, had failed to do more than hold the yearly deaths stable. The second, whose exact wording was still unknown this far from the capital, directed the Imperial Mages to find a solution to the deaths using any means available. It was one year to the day after that decree, when the moon was full in the sky, that monster deaths stopped. That monsters...changed. And in the three months since that change, Joran had gone from the glory of monster slaying to the indignity of being repeatedly ravaged by monsters who were too-often aided by the nobles and merchants he was responsible for escorting.

If Joran thought about it, allowed a quiet, traitorous thought to bloom, he would admit that he couldn't exactly blame them. Where monsters had once been vile creatures, they now had a strange allure, many almost human in appearance, some notable few more beautiful than any human he'd ever seen. That said, he was certain they were still dangerous. No magic could change the essence of a creature, and while reported deaths had gone to zero entire villages had vanished overnight to join the monsters in the wilds. Again, he could almost understand. Last night, as a monster rode him--the full image of a buxom woman of middle age, were it not for her curling rams' horns and leathery wings--he had, for just a moment, wondered what it would be like to give in. He hadn't. Obviously. Monsters were evil. But...the moment had still happened, and it had planted the thought he continued to pluck out rather than confront.

He shook himself and pulled the lever for his private tub to produce water. A luxury this far from the capital, and near-always cold, but it would do him some good. Scrubbing himself and shivering a little, his mood continued to sour. Fighting as I am...I fear I will continue to be humiliated. I might even be stripped of my Knighthood and sent back to the farm in disgrace... Joran finished scrubbing and pushed the lever back into place, stopping the flow of water. Ranged weapons wouldn't help if your own escorts brought the monsters into your camp. Melee weapons had so far proven fruitless, although whether it was a lack of skill on his part, or some fell trick of theirs he didn't know.

Magic certainly still worked, although properly trained mages were almost impossible to find outside of Imperial employ. He himself had no talent for it. He blew out both lamps in his room and laid down on his bed, which was uncomfortably firm on his bruised back. I have two options to avoid disgrace, by my reckoning. I can either train further in bladework, until even these new monsters cannot overcome me...or I can ask the Witch for help. Joran stifled a groan. He disliked the Witch, despite her shared loyalty to his Lord. She reminded him more of these new monsters than a respectable woman of the countryside, frankly. Bladework it is, he decided. If I apply myself fully, I should be able to at least hold my own when I'm sent out again next month. With that decided, he focused on relaxing every muscle in his body, starting from his feet. By the time he reached his shoulders, he'd fallen asleep.

"Three days?!" Joran spluttered in confusion and barely concealed frustration.

"Yes," his Lord frowned at him, "and this time don't let him go missing. He must reach the next Keep unmolested to negotiate the specifics of his marriage to Lord Gareth's daughter. We must unite our forces if we are to stop the wilds from encroaching further on the outskirts of our territories." Joran's heart sank. Three days would not be nearly enough time to notably improve his bladework. Outwardly, he composed himself and nodded.

"Yes, my Lord." He turned to leave.

"One more thing, Knight Joran." Joran paused to listen. "If you fail, do not return to my Court. Surrender whatever armor those harlots leave you with and return to your village -- if it's still there."

"Of course, my Lord," Joran nodded smartly and left, managing to keep the panic from his face. Only one thing left, then. He began walking, quickly, through the Keep, giving small smiles to those he passed in the corridors. After a winding journey down and east, he arrived at a door etched with symbols and runes. He raised a hand to knock but left it hovering above the door for a moment. Another. He steeled himself and firmly brought his hand down.

"I already told you, handsome," purred a voice from the other side of the door. "You're always welcome to come inside."

Joran, already regretting this entire ordeal, opened the door and entered the room. It was larger than his, by two, perhaps even three times, but it was so cluttered that didn't mean much. Herbs, jars, and ingredients he didn't recognize were hung from walls, hooks on the ceiling, and even stacked haphazardly on the floor. Near the window, which faced east in the manner of trained Mages, the Witch was leaning over a large, red ceramic pot. She was, he noticed uncomfortably, dressed in her usual choice of a tight purple dress slit at either side on the legs. Her wide hips and large ass flexed as she vigorously stirred the contents of the cauldron, each movement causing her dress to slowly rise, revealing more and--Joran shook himself.

"Witch. I have come to seek your aid."

"My aid?" She stopped stirring, looking into the pot with a satisfied look. "Now whatever could little old me do for such a big, strong...Knight?" As she turned, her heavy breasts came into view, and Joran scowled at the impropriety.

"I fear my bladework is not enough to fight these new monsters. Whatever the Imperial Mages did to them has vastly increased their regenerative powers. They have, three times now, fought me to exhaustion. Is there some way magic might increase my stamina, to allow me to fight them to their exhaustion rather than mine?"

"Sir Knight," the Witch teased, waggling her eyebrows, "I had no idea you were so clever with euphemism. I'll happily grant you the stamina to wield your blade for however long you need." Joran blushed deeply as he caught the implication. Not for the first time, he wished he had inherited his mothers' darker skin tone rather than his fathers' pale, as the Witch easily spotted the red creeping up his neck. She laughed, before continuing. "That said, the ritual I have in mind comes with certain...limitations."

"I assumed so," Joran said stiffly. "I am not so uneducated as to believe this would come without cost.

"Excellent," the Witch smiled again, full lips stretching wide. "Then I will be direct. This ritual will grant you the stamina to best anyone. However, the energies required necessitate a period of incubation to make the effects permanent, which can only happen while you're awake. This means that, until your new stamina is fully settled, you will need to refrain from finding release during your waking hours. Any questions on that portion?"

Joran squinted, suspicious. "That's all? I just continue my celibacy until this ritual is permanent? How long will that be? And..." a corner of his mouth quivered slightly. "What happens if I fail?"

The Witch stretched out a hand to stroke his hair. He managed to avoid recoiling. "Why, Sir Knight, if you fail, you'll have to wait five years before I can use the ritual on you again. So don't fail. As for the rest," she turned, examining the pot again before throwing in a handful of glittering powder. "In my experience it takes about a year of waking time before the ritual becomes permanent."

"Um," Joran hesitated, mind on both his Lord's stern face and the smug grin on last night's monster as she rode him to climax. "Is there anything you can do, perhaps as part of this ritual, which will ensure I do not fail?"

The Witch became very, very still. Joran feared for a moment he had offended her. "Why, Sir Knight," she spoke, finally, softly. "I would be happy to do that for you." Her tone had changed, becoming almost velvet, which further confused and unsettled him. "If you'll just take a seat right there." She pushed him firmly, stronger than he anticipated, and he fell into a chair he was certain had not been behind him a moment ago. She waved her hands and muttered something, and his clothing vanished, then reappeared neatly folded on the foot of her bed.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Joran spluttered, moving his hands to cover himself.

"Be still, Sir Knight," the Witch said commandingly. "I will need access to your entire body to ensure the ritual is completed with the addition of your special request. Think of your dignity and allow me to do my work." Joran, a red flush present across his face and upper body, lowered his hands with a slight tremble. "Good boy," the Witch crooned softly, stroking his chest. Her deep brown hand made him look even paler, which only made him flush harder. With her other hand, she took a small jar and dipped it into the red ceramic pot. Its contents were revealed to be a thick, green paste, glowing slightly. It smelled heady, dizzying him slightly, which only worsened as she began using a small brush to cover him in the paste. The longer she went, the more relaxed he became, slipping into the state of near sleep that only warmth and safety could motivate.

"Sir Knight." He woke with a start as the Witch called to him. "For this next part, you need to be fully awake. I need you to remain still despite your current state, as well, so I've bound you for the moment."

While Joran was still relaxed, he also found that he was bound to the chair at his wrists, ankles, and belly. He also found that his manhood was straining towards the Witch, hanging proudly despite his own embarrassment. He stared as the Witch poured a rich brown oil into one hand, then gasped sharply as she began rubbing the oil into his swollen flesh.

"Shhh...be still Sir Knight. This will ensure that you do not fail."

He strained to be still, even as his throbbing shaft pulsed and jumped in her firm hand. He closed his eyes to try and block the sensation, before opening them wide as her other hand began oiling his sack. With each rub, he felt himself grow closer by degrees to a climax. He was reminded once again of the monsters that had had their way with him and let out slight moan of pleasure despite his best intentions.

"That's it, let it all out." The Witch laughed, deeper and richer than he'd ever heard from her. "Or don't, for a year or so, as the case may be." Her hands moved faster. Joran was certain he was moments away from erupting all over her hands and legs. But that moment stretched, his mind going static with pleasure.

When he became aware of himself again, he could see by the sun that it was late afternoon. He was still seated in the chair, but now dressed and no longer bound. The Witch was smoking some intoxicant from a long pipe, staring out the window. As he began to stand, she turned and smiled.

"It is done, Sir Knight. Your stamina will outmatch any foe, now, and you will not spill your waking seed until said stamina becomes part of you forever. May it serve you well."

Joran nodded in thanks, finding it harder than usual to draw his eyes from her lush curves and wide mouth. Then, before he could embarrass himself further, he walked out to test the limits of his new prowess.

Several hours later, as the sun began to go down, he helped the nineteenth Guardsman he'd fought in a row to his feet. Outwardly, he was gracious, even with the growing whispers of admiration spreading across the crowd that had gathered to watch him after the eighth Guardsman. Inwardly, he grinned. Those monsters don't stand a chance.