Lord Amplevine's Revenge Pt. 01

So despite writing a ton of fetishy stuff about really huge boobs, I realized recently that I very rarely write breast expansion. Why not change that, I figured? So I started writing this, and it turned into this neat little erotic adventure thingy, which I think is pretty fun, so maybe you will too?

This is sort of an erotic adventure story. It's kinda long, and it features breast expansion (obviously), lactation, a M/F pairing, an entitled and deranged manbaby getting elbowed in the face, and overly indulgent use of the letters ð and ø.

-~o~-

A goblet full of red wine. That had been easy. Lord Amplevine had plenty of wine. It was the family business, after all.

A measure of serpent's venom. That had been harder. The ritual specified "enough to kill", but that was ridiculous, of course. How could he complete it if he was dead? He had consulted an apothecary, the best in the city, and purchased a vial of Lonian lyre snake's venom. It would, he was assured, cause no harm to him even if he drank a whole pint of the stuff.

A knife made of silver. Expensive, but easy. There were a hundred blacksmiths in Branturhem who could make it, and he had provided the silver himself.

And finally, the blood of the petitioner. Hmm...

The glade was still and silent, but for the hoot of a distant owl. Starlight filled it, glimmering off of the small pond in the middle, and making the glass eyes of the statue of Hrungnir gleam. He didn't like the way that those eyes seemed to follow him in the darkness, like the snake was almost alive.

But then, it was alive, wasn't it? In a way. That was the whole point.

He took a deep, quivering breath and held his hand over the goblet, which he had placed on the dais in front of the statue. He pressed the knife lightly against his palm, and for a moment he considered dumping the wine out in the pond and leaving...

But then he thought about her. He thought about how she had packed up all of her things and had them brought back to her father's manor. He thought about the way he had begged and pleaded for her to change her mind, and how she had so cruelly and callously ignored him. He thought about who would come after him. He thought about her in bed, her fat tits bouncing as she rode atop another man...

The knife slid across his hand like it was made of silk. He hardly even winced. Plump little droplets of blood glinted in the starlight, made ripples in the wine. He gently set the knife down, wrapped his hand in the bandage he had brought with him. He picked up the goblet. He drank...

It tasted sweet and bitter and coppery all at once, and he had to fight the urge to spit it out, had to fight to keep swallowing. He had to drink all of it. The ritual was very specific about this. Once he had downed it completely, he set the goblet back down next to the knife and said the words prescribed in the Stornæddersspell:

"Hrungnir! Great Hrungnir! I seek your aid! I have been wronged, and I seek revenge!"

He waited. There was a distant hoo. The statue's eyes gleamed. But nothing happened. The ritual was supposed to have summoned a servant of Hrungnir, or, if he was lucky, the Great Serpent himself. He had, of course, expected to see the snake in person, for after all, he was Lord Amplevine, master of the Royal Vineyards and the third most wealthy man in Branturhem. To not even send a servant... It was an insult. Hrungnir was mocking him.

Incensed, he threw the goblet in the pond. First that cow of a woman had insulted his honor by leaving him, and now this. It was almost too much to bear. He collected the knife (waste of money that it was, he thought that perhaps he could sell it and make back what he spent on it) and began to storm out of the clearing, but he had not even taken two steps when he heard someone speak to him.

"You know, you are supposed to drink enough poison to kill you." It was a woman, and her voice was like a dagger hidden in silk. She was sitting on the dais at the base of the statue, right where the goblet had been just a moment before. He had expected Hrungnir's servant to also be a snake, but she was not lizard-like in the least. Indeed, he would have even call her beautiful. She had curly, blonde hair and a smallish nose, and was rather voluptuous, with wide hips and a full bust covered by a plain, unadorned white dress. She seemed to be completely human, except for her eyes. They were slitted, like a snake's, and the parts of them that weren't black were red as blood. "It's part of the meaningfulness of the ritual. You must be willing to die to achieve your revenge, and then as a reward for your utter devotion the Great Serpent lets you live. But you were prepared to do it. Your dedication is important, you see."

"I am Halvar Yngvesson, Lord Amplevine, and you should count yourself lucky to be in my presence, wench. Now where is the Great Serpent?"

For the briefest of moments she seemed surprised by this. Clearly she had not expected her petitioner to be a man of such high status. It only lasted an instant though- in a blink she was wearing a polite smile. "Well! You must forgive my master's absence, Lord Amplevine, for he is a very busy deity. I assure you, however, that I can assist you in whatever you need, for Hrungnir has granted me a portion of his power. I am his eyes, ears, and hands on this mortal plane."

He scoffed. "Fine. You'll do, I suppose. You're the servant of a god, so you must already know what I want, yes?"

"Even the gods are not omnipotent, my lord." He puffed his chest out a bit when she called him that. Clearly Hrungnir was a god who taught his servants to respect their betters. "You must have attempted this ritual because you want revenge for someone who has wronged you, but you must tell me who, and what form you would like your revenge to take."

"A woman. A slut. She left me, probably already seeing another man, and I want to curse her."

Her smile grew wider. "You sound like you have already thought this out."

"I have, and I know exactly what I want the curse to do."

"You don't like to mince words, I see. That's good. Neither do I." She waved her hand, and all of a sudden there was a wand between her fingers, thin and made of a deep ebony wood. "This will be your curse's vessel. You will point it at her, and say the word 'sting'. The curse will fly from the wand and strike her."

"What? You have the power of a god! Just curse her from here!"

"I'm afraid that I don't make the rules, Lord Amplevine. This is how it must be done."

He glared at her, then he glared at the wand. "Pah! Fine!" He snatched it out of her hand.

"Tell me what you would like the effects of the curse to be. Choose your words very carefully, for I am bound to follow them to the letter."

Ah, now this part, he had been prepared for. He'd spent hours thinking about how exactly to word it so that he could get everything that he wanted. He'd even prepared a script, and it had covered two full pages of his diary before he'd had his epiphany. He'd ripped those pages out, for he didn't need them anymore. The curse that he described to the snake woman was simple, yet complex in its possibilities. It would allow him to have everything that he wanted from her, everything that he deserved, now and forever, and it only took him a few moments to describe it to her.

"A most wonderful curse, my lord," she said when he was finished. "Truly, I have delivered thousands of them, but I have never heard any so delightfully creative. Will that be all?"

"No. That is all that she deserves." He was quite proud of himself, and he swelled with pride at her compliment.

"So it shall be." She touched the tip of the wand with her finger, and it grew warm for a moment. "But my lord, I must warn you..." She leaned in close, and he suddenly found himself unable to look away from her terrible, snake-like eyes. "You only get one shot. Aim well!"

He looked at her, then he looked at the wand. "And what of my payment? There is always a price, and this was exceedingly easy."

She smiled toothily. "Your soul."

"Yes, yes, the spell mentioned that, but what does that mean, exactly?"

"It means that when you die, may that day be a long way away, your spirit will not go to Tarja's Hall, or Aaliye and Shii's Eternal Dream, or the Numinous Peace of the Eight, or the domain of any other god that you have spent your life worshiping. Instead, you will be delivered to Hrungnir. If he deems you worthy and useful you will become his servant, just as I did. If not, he will consume you, and you will spend the rest of eternity inside of his stomach."

"And I will be able to do the things that you do? Appear from nowhere, and bestow curses and whatnot?"

"If you become his servant."

"Of course I will," he scoffed. "I am Lord Amplevine. Only a fool of a god would squander the opportunity to use my unique talents. So I will get my revenge, and after a long and fruitful life with Synne utterly devoted to me I will gain the magic of a god? That is no price at all! I accept your terms, demon!"

"I am not a demon, my lord. Demons lie. I always speak only the truth." She leaned back against the statue, caressing the snake's jaw tenderly, almost sensually. "The Master has heard your words. The contract is sealed. May we meet again, Lord Amplevine." He blinked, and suddenly she was gone, without the slightest trace that she had ever been there in the first place.

Except for the wand. He smiled, tucking it away in his cloak as he left the glade. The statue's eyes gleamed in the starlight...

---

"Well, my lady, it's finally happened."

Synnøva groaned and looked down at Ædde, who was holding a tape measure around her chest. "I've reached fifty inches, haven't I?"

"Fifty exactly."

"Gods and demons, I'm twenty-four years old! Are they going to keep growing until I am an old woman?"

"I have clients whose chests didn't stop until they were well into their thirties. I admit, though, none of them ended up as big as you."

"If they keep up at this pace they will be at my waist in ten years! And they are so heavy! How much more weight will I have to carry around with me everywhere I go?"

"A good brassiere will help with that, although at your size, it will only help so much. Still, I can make one for you, and if you find that it suits you I can make more. Which of your dresses would you like for me to let out for you this time?"

Synnøva sighed and opened up her wardrobe. "The Herzog's Summer Ball is in a week, and I was planning on wearing this one," she tossed a silky white dress at Ædde, who caught it deftly on her arm. "So do it first, please. And then this one. And this one with the lace hems. And these three, you might as well let them out even more than fifty inches just in case the sorcerer can't help and I grow even more. Let's be honest, that will probably happen."

"Sorcerer, my lady?" Ædde was carefully folding the dresses up now and placing them in her bag.

"More of a consultant, really. I have given up on the hope that alchemy or medicine can help me with this problem, so I am hoping that magic will do the trick."

There was a knock at Synnøva's bedroom door. "Enter," she said. It was Bjarna, one of her father's servant boys. Although, really, he wasn't a boy, being older than Synnøva. He opened the door, then blanched at the sight of her.

"I- I'm sorry, my lady! I didn't mean to-"

"Oh, come in, Bjarna! They're just breasts." He hesitated for a moment, then sheepishly shuffled in, gaping at her chest. She probably should have covered it with something before letting him in, but her frustration with them was so great that she was finding it difficult to care about her modesty at the moment.

"Uh. Your, er, guest is here, my lady. That is all I came to tell you."

"Speak of the sun and it shines. Take her to the parlor and tell her I will attend her in a moment."

"Yes, my lady." He gave an awkward bow, covering his crotch with his hands in a way that was clearly not meant to be as abundantly obvious as it was. She rolled her eyes. How any man could find these ridiculous things attached to her chest attractive was a mystery to her.

"Oh, and Bjarna, did my father ask you to pick up the last of my things from Halvar's manor today, or was that Viggi?"

"Both of us, my lady."

"When you're there, make sure to take back the old family sword. If Halvar tries to stop you or claim that it belongs to him, tell him that we have signed letters from Magistrate Sigrun that state that the dowry must be returned upon nullification of the marriage. Don't let him bully you, but if he becomes violent, leave. It's not worth getting hurt over."

"Yes, my lady." He bowed again, even more awkwardly than the first time. Hopefully he had heard that. She had noticed that the bigger she got, the more certain men seemed to lose their wits when staring at her chest.

Ædde and Bjarna both took their leave, Ædde with the promise that all of her dresses would be done within the week. She was expensive, but she was fast, and did the finest work in town. Synnøva squeezed herself into the least ill-fitting dress that she was left with (which Ædde had resized for her just two weeks ago, but it was already feeling tight around her chest), and made her way to the parlor.

The sorcerer that she had invited to meet with her, Astrið Issansdotir, had come at the recommendation of a friend of her father, who had said that, though she was quite young, she was supremely skilled and very knowledgeable about all aspects of magic. When Synnøva entered the parlor, she was unsurprised to discover that Astrið had pointed ears, for her surname was a giveaway to her Shalian ancestry. She was surprised to see that Astrið's skin was a bluish-purple in color. That meant that in addition to at least one of her parents being Shalian, her mother had spent at least part of her pregnancy in Felu Shala itself. It was possible that Astrið had spent part or all of her childhood there, and thus might share the typical Shalian views regarding wealth: that being wealthy was inherently immoral and that Synnøva and her family were evil because they did not spend every last penig that they owned on the welfare of the city.

"Hi!" said Astrið. "You have an amazing house!"

Hmm. Or, perhaps she didn't. Synnøva shook her hand and bade her to sit down. Astrið was tall and slim, with big, ice-blue eyes and long black hair, tied back in a loose tail. Despite her skin and pointed ears, she did not have the long, pointed canine teeth that all elves shared. One of her parents was human, then. She wore the blue robes of a member of Branturhems Storlerandhall- the University- and over them she had the white shawl that indicated that she was a Højvetare- a Master in her chosen field of study. This was despite her apparent youth. She could easily have passed for Synnøva's age or even younger.

"Your servant, the one who showed me to this room, is quite the flirt!"

Synnøva blinked. "Bjarna?" He always acted so meek around her that she could hardly imagine him being forward enough to flirt with a master sorcerer. "Goodness, I apologize. I'll have to remind him to act more professional around company."

"Oh, no need for that!" said Astrið cheerily. "He was very sweet. Timid, but charming, and not pushy at all. Anyway!" She twirled her finger around the rim of the teacup that had been brought for her while she was waiting. "You need help with a certain 'problem with your body'? Your letter was very vague."

"Yes, I..." Synnøva trailed off, because she noticed, for the first time, an amulet around Astrið's neck: a small, many-petaled flower made of silver. "You're a Knight of the Chrysanthemum?" she asked in surprise.

Astrið grinned. "I am. Go on, ask the question on your mind! Everyone does, and I don't mind answering it."

"Okay. How old are you?" Becoming a Master of the University typically took a period of intense study lasting at minimum seven years, usually more, and the training that the Knights put all of their initiates through lasted at least that long as well. Astrið had apparently completed both, but she looked scarcely older than twenty. That was, Synnøva suspected, her elven blood. Elves commonly lived to be two centuries old or more, and they retained their youthful appearances all the way up until their very last years. She didn't know if a person with one human parent and one elven parent would inherit the full span of their long lives, but apparently they did retain their youthful appearances for longer.

"I am twenty-three!"

Oh. Or, perhaps not. "You're younger than me! That's quite an accomplishment for someone your age."

"So I'm told!" She giggled girlishly. "So, your problem?"

"Oh, right. I apologize for the vagueness of my letter. It's just that the nature of my problem is a touch... Delicate. It's about, well, these." She gestured to her chest with her hands.

"They're quite nice," said Astrið with a wink that Synnøva found... confusing. "What's wrong with 'em?"

"They're too big!"

"You think so? Hmm. Well, I suppose that you want me to shrink them for you?"

"Yes, with sorcery. Is that possible?"

"Nope."

There was a moment of silence. Synnøva hadn't expected such a blunt answer. "Oh. Ah..."

Astrið waved her hand. "Allow me to save you some time, my lady. There are a lot of hedge mages and apothecaries in this city who will claim that they can use sorcery make your breasts smaller, or bigger, or make your tummy flatter, or any number of other things. They're all charlatans. Your body is made of matter. Sorcery is the manipulation of energy, not matter." She stopped herself, thinking for a moment. "Well, technically it is possible to manipulate matter with sorcery, but it's a poorly understood field, even among the best of us, and experimenting on a person's body with it is asking for trouble. Better sorcerers than me have accidentally killed themselves trying to reshape a simple chunk of copper, and the body is much more complicated than a lump of metal."

"So... There's no way at all to shrink my chest with magic?"

"Not with sorcery. With god-magic, on the other hand, it's quite possible, and if you can find a skilled devotee of the right god it would be quite easy for them, I imagine."

"I've checked with the temples of Tarja and Faira and they both said that what I wanted couldn't be done."

"Wrong gods. Tarja's a war-god, when it comes down to it, and not especially keen about letting women have control of their own bodies. Faira's more about healing, which is close, but not quite what this is. Really, none of the gods of the North fit the bill perfectly. You'll need a skilled follower of a god who isn't local, one who is interested in changing and fulfillment of the self, or perhaps love and sex. Pyll Tal, maybe, or perhaps Vela Shei. Hmm..."

"Couldn't you, I don't know... Pray to one of those gods for their magic? Surely a Master Sorcerer is skilled enough to handle any magic that they would grant you?"

"Skill is only part of it. You've got to be able to handle the magic, but your devotion to the god and the causes they champion has to be legitimate. They can tell these things, when you pray to them. The gods can't lie to us, but we can't lie to them either. No, you'll need to find somebody who has spent their whole life in the service of a god who will be favorable to what you want."

Synnøva sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Vela Shei is a Shalian god. Where is Pysh Tal worshiped?"

"Pyll Tal, and Ettatiam."

"Both are very far away. I would probably have to travel to those places to find a worshiper skilled enough to have this magic, yes?"

"Yeah, most likely. Although..." Astrið looked thoughtful for a moment. "I do know someone. A friend of a friend. She travels this way from time to time. Perhaps-"