Melders of Flesh Ch. 01

In the language of the Sotilla Amazons, this place was called "The Pen of Brides". Sun never touched it. It was a domain of warm dusk, where shadows danced around fires in seductive twirls. Many figures moved about, half hidden in the darkness; the Brides, as the Sotilla called them. They could not be clearly seen unless close to a fire, but their outlines were clearly feminine -- petite and lithe, with youthful allure.

Moans filled the air, and sounds of strained breathing, and the subtle perturbations of wet flesh touching wet flesh. The Brides, when not in use by a rutting Amazon, were kept to their own devices; what devices, then, would a creature molded exclusively for sex seek out? They touched each other, kissed each other, explored each other. Loved each other. Their minds were clouded with the overpowering aroma of sardonic incense. They were beautiful, the Brides. Hand-crafted by the Sotilla flesh-melders into an image of slender lust, with only their small, elegant, dysfunctional penises and shapely yet utterly minuscule breasts hinting at their true sex. For the Sotilla, the Brides were to deliver pleasure without consequence. When a Sotilla rut a woman, she gets pregnant. When she ruts a man, he does not. Thus, their wisdom was such: rut a man who looks like a woman, and be greatly pleasured, and do not inflict the fruits of your seed upon the Sotilla before time calls.

Such were the Sotilla. And such were their Brides.

They could not keep their hands from one another, nor were they ever forbidden from doing so. When servitude, food, sleep or bodily function did not distract them, they would perform their main function upon each other. Slender, feminine body upon slender feminine body, thin fingers exploring unspeakable places and tongues performing unspeakable deeds.

There were many Brides in the Pen. When a Sotilla would desire one, the Bride will be called, dressed up in the whoring garments of his masters and offered as a receptacle of inhuman lust. They longed for it daily, during each breathing moment. For every one of them, it was the greatest pleasure: to offer their shapely, soft bodies for ravaging beyond comprehension.

For all except one.

He sat alone, nested among feather pillows and rugs. He drank wine, wincing at the overbearing sweetness of the polkki juice mixed in. To its aphrodisiac effects he has long since grown resistant. He wore almost nothing, as all Brides did; a piece of tohna, cheap silk from further north, to hide his chest, and another thin streak to accentuate his loins. Even among the Brides his beauty was unusual. He was taller than most, though to the seven foot average of the Sotilla he didn't come close. His legs were exceptionally strong and wide-hipped for a Bride, and his face was thin and elegant.

He was very much like the other Brides. He looked like them. He moved like them. He was trained like them. Yet something wasn't quite right. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes: the way it concentrated on a single point instead of looking for the next warm piece of flesh to squeeze. Kirch was his name. The Sotilla called him Gavva, "the one who is tall"; a simple way to describe the specific Bride they wanted to pulverize today. It was considered among those Brides who still cared for such things that to be granted a Sotilla name was a certain honor, a distinction for the most beloved. Kirch didn't see it that way. It was merely a way to accentuate his strangeness.

Time was hard to assess in the darkness of the Pen. Was it day? Or was it night? How long did he sit, alone, uncompelled by the ongoing orgy? Sometimes the bell would ring, and the penmaster would make her way into the chamber, choose one of the Brides and lead him away. Sometimes a slave -- a woman too young to breed or a man too old to be melded into a Bride - would bring in food and drink. Sometimes a Bride would be returned after a finished session -- twitching, hysterical, ass broken agape and dripping with pearly white strings. Brides not currently expected to be called would surround those who returned; they'd care for them, and set them to rest, and offer food and drink, and between that they'd ask a great many questions. Who asked for the Bride? What was the amazon's mood? How great was it, and in which position did she take the Bride? They'd hear the answers, offered usually in shaking, weak voices, still scrambled by ecstasy, and masturbate in preparation for their own chance to perform the dance of Sodom upon a horse-sized pillar of flesh.

Those stories rarely changed. Brides sate the lust when the time of breeding has not yet come. When an amazon fucks a Bride, she aims at the simplest satisfaction. Quick, brutal, devastating and animalistic. But it didn't matter. In the warped mind of a Bride, a story of a brutal fucking repeated one thousand times and experienced three thousand times is still eternally satisfying.

A figure moved closer to Kirch, in the dark. Slowly, on all fours, it swayed with each movement. He did not regard it much. He knew who it was.

"Kirch..." - a sweet voice called to him. - "Can I lie beside you? Will you hug me?"

"Come, Teer. I have some wine." - Kirch responded, and shifted the elegant shape of his body aside, freeing up a comfortable spot for the arriving Bride. He soon felt the warmth of naked flesh. Teer laid his head on Kirch's lap, and smiled with content.

"You're so beautiful, Kirch. You're like a doll. Why don't you ever join us in play?" - Teer cooed.

"I'm not as sturdy as I look. If I tire myself in play and then displease a Mistress with my lack of energy, you know what awaits me, Teer."

"He-he. Nothing. You're too pretty. Even your voice is elegant, like sweet wine served on ice. They'll just call for another Bride and make you whisper sweetly in their ear while the ravage."

Kirch let his hand slip into Teer's hair, long, dark and braided, and played with the strands absent-mindedly.

"Maybe. Not many call for me anyway, Teer. You like me more than any Mistress."

"That's not true! That pair... you know them! They call for you all the time. The spear-woman and her melder companion!" - Teer exclaimed, at the same time rubbing himself against the Kirch's palm.

"Patella and Sunder? I don't... I don't think they like me as a Bride. They like me for my strangeness."

Teer shifted his weight and laid partly on his side. For a few seconds he held his gaze upon Kirch, then smiled. Something sly was in this smile.

"Does it matter? You know, they called for me some time ago, and while they had me, they talked about you." - Teer murmured, extending his arm to gently stroke Kirch's cheek.

Kirch's face was unchanged, yet he angled his head to meet the mellow touch.

"Did they, now."

"They said you're unique. That Bono might be prettier than you, but he's too far gone. Too much semen, too many poundings. His mind will soon dissolve into Bliss. But you, they say, you're special. The Bliss doesn't touch you."

For a flash, a grimace twisted Kirch's face. It was too dark to see it, but Teer felt it with his fingers.

"I wish it did, Teer. It would be easier this way."

"They say that even your Melding didn't go as it should. That your body took strangely to it. They said something very interesting after that, Kirch."

Kirch sounded distant. - "What could it be?"

"That your dick still works. The only one among all Brides, including Bono. Can I suck it for you, Kirch? I'd offer you my asshole, but it's far too loose. But my mouth..."

The mouth of Teer was soon shut by a deep kiss. Kirch held his companion by the chin and locked lips with sudden strength; seconds later he retreated, He kept his face close. His gaze was intense.

"Don't talk of this to anyone, Teer. Not even to me. I am a Bride. My body is as it should be; by the words of melders it was shaped and given form according to my task. You and I are equal and the same; we serve our Mistresses with mouth and asshole. That is the extent of it."

Teer was breathing heavily, a line of saliva extending from the corner of his mouth.

"Kirch..." - he called, voice shaking. - "Kirch... have me, please. I love you. I won't tell anyone... I'll do anything you say..."

"Save your energy for the Mistresses, Teer. Your love is not real. The air is filled with sardonic incense, and the wine we drink is spiked with polkki. You'll love anything as long as it excites you. We are Brides. Our love is only of the flesh.". - Kirch whispered. His voice wasn't harsh. It was mellow, and most of all, sad.

Teer righted himself, sat aside, brushing his fingers against his still-wet lips. His eyes were half-closed; in the darkness, the expression of his face could not be read.

"Kirch, do you know who I was before I was taken?" - his voice had a strange intonation. He was hurt, Kirch could tell. - "I was the son of farmers in Brekka, in the north, where the soil freezes over each winter and has to be rekindled with fires in the spring. If the soil freezes too much, if the seeds wouldn't take, we starved. If the fish didn't come far enough up the river, we starved. If wolves would drive the deer too far east or north, we starved. My life was starvation and fear. I was imprisoned under a free sky. Here..."

Teer went silent, for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

"Here, I am loved, and I love. Perhaps only my flesh is loved, and I only love flesh. But this is more than I ever had."

Kirch didn't respond. He searched for the right words, but couldn't find them in time. The bell rang, and, as the Pen's gate was swung open, the penmistress called his name.

...

A Matron led him, a slave woman beyond child-bearing years. Up, through the stone-and-wood halls of the Pen, to the upper chambers, where Sotilla granted a visit to a Bride would be offered a comfortable place to engage in their vicious carnality. A raw, tense soundscape surrounded them as they walked; roars, groans and moans, sounds of flesh impacting flesh, the rustling of pillows and the pitiful squeaking of furniture. Two Brides went past them, downstairs, into the pens, skin wet and glistening from the steam of the large sauna. They bowed to the matron, passing by, and to Kirch they nodded and smiled. He nodded back, though a smile he didn't force.

"Who called for me, esteemed Matron?" - he asked, after the pair passed them by.

"Patella. As per usual. You are unpopular, Kirch. You should redeem your unbecoming presentation." - the Matron responded, voice cold, yet not uncaring.

"I am trying my best, esteemed Matron..." - the Bride-boy opened his mouth, but he couldn't finish the phrase, interrupted by a sudden stop. The Matron turned; a strange glint was in her eyes, perhaps a reflection of a nearby lamp.

"Don't 'Matron' me, Kirch! Ever since you were seventeen, I cared for you. When you reached the age and was chosen for Bridehood, I was there for you. Your lot is not the worst. Far from it! You don't have it easy, no. You resist the Bliss, though how I don't know. You can't take the easy path and give in to the pleasure. But this is no reason to disrespect your place in life!!" - she didn't scream, but spoke with painful sharpness. Kirch lowered his gaze.

"Esteemed Matron..." - he murmured, but was, once again, interrupted.

"My name is Nahlisa, Kirch. When you were taken, you were in my care. I will not pretend to be your mother, but neither will I pretend that you're just another flesh doll for me to educate in the art of sucking cock. Redeem your act, Kirch. Before the Penmistress decides that your lot should be changed to that of field work, or, worse, to be sold off to the ogres of Khazra."

The Matron turned and resumed walking. Behind her, Kirch has pressed his lips.

"I'm sorry, Nahlisa. I'll try my best."

"Come, Bride-boy. At least serve those who'd choose you." - the Matron responded. Her voice lost the heat of emotion. It was, once again, cold.

...

Patella was waiting in a corner room. She positioned herself atop a throne of rugs and pillows; her spear was thrown aside, though a knife she still carried on her person. When the Matron and the Bride entered the room, she merely nodded in response to their deep bow.

"Leave us, esteemed Mistress! I am now in the company of my favorite Bride. Let me enjoy him in peace. Were you warned by the Penmistress? I'll be taking the Bride for a few hours. Don't expect him soon." - the amazon boomed. Her voice was feminine, yet it bellowed with such immense strength from her monstrous lungs that it acquired a quality of its own; it was an amazon's voice, impossible to mix up with any other.

"Yes, mistress Patella. Let Kirch, Bride of Flesh, offer you comfort. I will leave."

The Matron turned, and closed the door behind her. Kirch was left alone. His head was still lowered in bow; he was not yet talked to, and had to maintain this position until he'd be called.

He heard, but didn't see, how the amazon sprung up to stand; he heard, though faintly, the muffled beating of her heart. He heard the slap of spongy flesh against muscle when her member swung aside and impacted her thigh. When she stepped, the floor creaked, and when she breathed, the rush of air was easy to discern. She came closer and closer. Yet she didn't yet allow him to undo his bow.

"My Kirch! My lovely, lovely Kirch. You are my favorite. Do you know how much I love you? Show your face. Stop with that bow."

Kirch obeyed, and raised his face, slowly, until he met Patella's gaze. He had to raise his head almost vertically to do so.

The amazon towered over him. She stood close enough that the inhuman heat of her breath rolled past his face and unto his shoulders. He suppressed the shudder, and held his gaze.

"I don't like the Brides, Kirch. They are toys meant to satisfy adults still bearing the mindset of spoiled children. What pleasure is there in pounding the wet hole of a Bride that desires that pounding more than you yourself? I never liked it. I felt an inherent disrespect in the sole fact that the Brides exist. They are proof that the Bliss has power over me, and I have to sate it, lest I will be like an animal. I hated this reminder. Until I met you, Kirch." - Patella whispered, lowering her face just a tad closer to the Bride underneath her. She rested her elbow on the wood above his head; he was thus surrounded by a living prison of hot, muscled flesh.

"I love how small you are. I love how thin you are. I love how powerless you are. I love how your pitiful dick stands at attention merely because I'm present, and I love that it's still capable of standing at attention. Look at you, Kirch. How tall are? Five six, five seven?"

"Five seven, mistress." - Kirch responded in an emotionless voice.

"I am seven and a bit. The meldstone in me still has some power. I'll still grow. But even now I am your superior in every possible way. I am stronger than you. Larger than you. My form is a mix of beauty and might, like the goddess Morkko shaped us. Even in manhood I surpass you so much they should not be considered similar organs; mine hangs down almost to my knee, while yours is elegant, pristine, and even at the height of erection just barely capable of fulfilling its role. So tell me, my beloved, inferior Kirch: how is it that you can still look at me with those cold, planning eyes? How is it that when I pound your delightful behind, you do not squeal in ecstasy, like Brides do, but look me in the eyes, flustered, resisting the orgasm that inevitably comes?"

Kirch did not answer. An answer was not required. Patella was just setting the mood. She suddenly moved much closer; her lips were right next to his ear, and her cock, slowly gaining mast, pushed into his belly. Her voice was sultry: but there was something else there. Something he never heard before.

"I'll tell you why, my beloved Kirch. You resist the Bliss. Even I can't resist it: I have to accept my flaw, and go to the pens, and find me a Bride to destroy until he is a heap of meat distended with semen. But you resist it naturally. In this, you are better than me. What's your secret, Kirch? Why is there something you can do, but I can't? What is it, Kirch?"

She was very close. Her heat, her breath, the odor of her sweat, the tinge of lohka grass she burned in the sauna surrounded him from every side like a vice.

"I don't know, Mistress." - he whispered, finally. - "The secrets of melding are beyond my comprehension."

Patella released her hold a bit, and retreated. Her long, snow-white hair was braided, and with each intensive movement flew around like a living creature. The amazon grinned.

"Nor do I. It interests me, Kirch. I will use you later. In the meantime, you and I are going to visit somebody in the Stead."

Kirch was surprised, though he didn't show it. - "Are we going outside?"

"Indeed. I've brought you a coat and a facial covering. Wear them carefully. It's the second month of Akki Ice-Shaper -- the outside is very cold."

Confusion grew inside Kirch, but he did as was asked of him. The coat was huge, far too large for his form, but it was warm; the face covering was made of cloudy silk, usually worn by Matrons running chores. He put the clothes on -- though the contrast of his non-existent garment of dim silver and dark silk, a garment of enticement vexed him.

"Hey, Kirch." - Patella suddenly called for him, spear already in hand. Her grin was sly now, unpleasant, scheming. - "There is a knife I left on the pillows. If I turn my back to you, will you strike me?"

"No." - he said coldly.

"Why?"

"Because I wouldn't know how to kill with it, nor would I know how and where to escape."

The amazon stood silent, for a moment, and then a bout of laughter boomed from the depths of her chest.

"You're so boring, Kirch! You retain your mind, untouched by the Bliss, and you use that mind for logical conjectures! Are you a coward? Or are you too much of a snake for your own good? Come, my beloved Kirch. Let's go into the Stead. We have a lot to do."

...