Sex and the Spellplague

Lura had never seen such pain before. An epidemic had spread across the entire world, most often called the Spellplague due to its propensity to attack anything magical in nature. The region she lived in, the Silver Marches, had been mostly unaffected, with her home city Everlund and Silverymoon becoming bastions for victims all around. Initially, the gates of their respective cities had been thrown wide open, but now, with refugees overflowing into the streets, they had been shut. That had not stopped most, though. She was high up in the Dreaming Dragon, the tavern that had become as much a Festhall for Sune as a drinking hole, in a newly built third floor, and she could see over the tall walls of Everlund. Plumes of smoke, rising languidly from dozens of campfires all around the city, obscured the horizon.

Her heart swelled for those people, suffering on the outside. Clerics from all the temples in Everlund had banded together to conjure food for the refugees, but with magic even of a divine nature not entirely reliable, there was not much they could do. She sighed. Even though her connection with Sune was relatively untouched by the Spellplague, the rest of her life was beginning to suffer. Mikhail had grown distant the more time she spent trying to aid those in need. Not that she could blame him; they had not lain together in almost a month, relegating them both to masturbation whenever the time was right. She was not the only one hard at work. Mikhail had taken up the call to aid, as well, and spent most of the daylight hours working kitchens, keeping order, and doing whatever else he could to maintain some semblance of order during this worldwide crisis.

Lura sighed again, taking a few steps from her window to the thickly cushioned chair next to her and Mikhail's bed. Even now, the man was busy with Donnara and Benefast gathering foodstuffs and other necessary materials for the night's soup kitchen. She smiled as she thought of his return, even though she knew she would be leaving shortly thereafter. Lura's connection with Sune, being Lady Firehair's Chosen, made her the most powerful religious leader in the entire region. Therefore, she had the largest duty to those in need. She would spend sunset through midnight wading through the sea of refugees outside the city in an attempt to heal and mend those in need.

But that did not quell the liquid heat building between her thighs. The drow, horny as she had ever been, would not let a global crisis keep her from climaxing. Without such pleasure, she feared, she might go insane. Her Red Robe, a gift from Sune herself, spread of its own volition. She was pleased that at least that had retained its magical properties. Her breasts, pert, obsidian mounds of generous heft, rested on her chest with a comfortable weight, capped with dark violet nipples and areolas that stood painfully (delightfully) rigid.

She closed her eyes, her mind focusing on the image she most desired. Mikhail stood before her, clad only in a thin cloth wrapped around his waist. The drow looked hungrily at the thick silhouette hanging underneath it. She willed her lover to remove the cloth, and she smiled to herself as her mind's eye saw his impressive shaft. It was thick, thicker than most drow's she had ever known, and hairless. She imagined her hand wrapping around it, her black skin contrasting with the unusually tanned flesh of the nearly erect cock. Lura knew the sensation, knew what the cock felt like in her hand, even though she could not physically touch it.

But to imagine it was not enough. Were this any other time, she would have conjured a phantasmal cock, warm and sadistic in its ability to please, but she simply could not do that anymore. She reached into a drawer between her and the bed and pulled out the next best thing. It was long, almost as long as her forearm, and thicker than Mikhail's cock. The rubbery phallus was warm in her hand, and she ran her fingers over the stylized veins, over the ridge of the cock head, to the cleft at the tip. One hand returning to the moistened snatch between her thighs, she slipped the head of the faux dick into her mouth, wetting it and rolling her tongue around it as if it were Mikhail's. As she slid a finger into her sodden canal, so too did she slide her tongue up and down the shaft. Indeed, her tongue slid all the way to a suction cup at the base of the shaft, wetting it before she slid down to her knees on the polished wooden floor, planting the cock there and letting the suction up do the work.

Held firmly in place, Lura hovered over the thick, long shaft. She had not lowered herself, and still the tip of the rubber cock rubbed at her lips, as if the object was seeking entrance of its own volition. She was quick to appease it; Lura spread her pussy with both hands and watched as her cunny swallowed the pale rubber cock. The sensation overwhelmed her, and she almost fell to all fours as her pussy was stretched and spread, and subsequently filled as she lowered herself slowly until the tip of the cock pressed against her cervix. She grimaced slightly, but let out a profound sigh of relief. She leaned forward slowly, planting one hand on the smooth wood while sliding her other between her thighs to tend to her aching clitoris.

Her fingers rubbed furiously and she began to rock her hips violently on the rubber dick, stabilized by her other hand. She panted loudly, not wasting time in seeking out her own climax. The thickness of the cock inside her meant that her g-spot was never neglected. Her fingers on her clit provided firm, constant excitement, shooting like lightning up her spine. Molten heat spread through her limbs, through her blood and her gut seemed to curl in on itself as her liquid cunt contracted violently on the cock buried within. She grunted, as a beast in heat, then let out a long, low moan and felt warm moisture trickle down her thighs. Lura looked down to her quivering quim to see that she had squirted her essence around the fake cock and onto her thighs. There was a puddle on the ground. Shamelessly, she slid her fingers through the warm nectar and licked it clean, relishing in her own flavor.

Sighing contentedly, she slowly pulled herself off the floor, and plucked the dildo from the wood with a loud pop from the suction cup. With a minor cantrip, she had meant to dry the soaked shaft, but in her post-orgasmic bliss, her reasoning escaped her, and the cantrip misfired, instead spreading the moisture from the dildo all over her arm and hands. She sighed, not entirely upset by having her own nectar spread over her arms. Lura didn't bother attempting again, and placed the sodden toy in her drawer. She looked out to the sky, saw the sun high overhead, and let her Red Robe slip from her body. Naked and loving it, Lura slipped under the decadently soft covers of her bed for sleep before her nightly work began.

****

Cyra was genuinely exhausted. Her ruddy skin shone with a fine sheen of sweat, and she was certain there was a pool of the salty moisture hiding at the base of her heavy leather corset. It was nearly dusk now, and she had been patrolling the streets of Everlund with her human lover, Samon, since dawn. She wondered, not for the first time, why Samon, after inheriting his father's nobility, estate, and political station, insisted on doing the work that many of similar status would consider menial.

Not that she was complaining. Cyra exulted in the thrill of martial combat and exercise; she felt like physical exertion of any kind only added tribute to her physical body. Only a few minutes ago, she had disarmed and crippled someone who was attempting to mug one of the refugees dwelling in the shantytown outside Everlund's walls. Samon had watched on with a smirk on his face as the voluptuous tiefling snapped both the mugger's wrists and sent him limping away.

But Cyra, for all her attributes and abilities, was no goddess, and she was absolutely ravenous. And not just for red meat, she realized when she felt Samon's hand press insistently against her lower back. She bit her lip as she felt the carnal desire heat her loins, but before she could enjoy her lover's thick meat, she needed the meat of a beast in her stomach. And it seemed, to her, that both of those things would have to wait. A very peculiar creature was approaching them with both wonder and fear in her eyes.

"Well met," Cyra said to the woman. As she and Samon neared, they realized that the creature wore a suit of scale mail and had a spear on her back. She also wore a deep green cloak with the cowl pulled over her head, but not enough to hide her face. "Well met," she said again, more insistently, when the woman did not acknowledge her. Then, the woman looked Cyra in her eyes, and the tiefling and Samon both paused and gasped.

Glowing golden eyes stared at her. The face was smooth around the lips, nose, eyes, and ears, but had small, smooth black scales as well that descended sparsely down the long, elegant neck. They realized that much of her actual armor that they had thought to be scale mail, were actual dragon scales, human-sized and smooth, and seemed only to cover her shoulders, forearms, flanks, and shins. Even then, they were not very dense. Her legs were covered by adventurer's leather leggings that cut off at the knee and her torso by a form-fitting tunic with thin straps over the shoulders. Even the woman's chin jutted out strangely, with two small white horns poking out.

Cyra reached up and pushed the woman's cowl from her head to reveal pointed ears, much like an elf's, but with tiny black scales on them. She had a long cascade of flowing black hair, shining even in the waning sunlight that descended in elegant waves to her shoulders. The woman smiled slightly, and showed twin fangs.

"What manner of creature are you?" she asked breathlessly, even as Samon put his hand closer to the hilt of his broadsword.

"I am dragonborn, from Tymanther," the woman replied. "What are you?"

"I am a tiefling," Cyra responded, putting a calming hand on Samon's shoulder to put him at ease.

"I know of your kind," she responded. "Kin of demons. I have seen some of your kin before."

"You're probably the strangest race this city's ever seen. And there are drow roaming these streets."

"Drow? Ah, the black-skinned elves, yes?" the dragonborn replied.

"You must be new to this plane," Cyra chuckled. The dragonborn merely cocked her head curiously.

"Yes, actually. From what our leaders have deduced, our homeland was once on a planet called Abeir, a sister planet to this Toril that you inhabit. In fact, at one time, they were as one. Abeir-Toril. There is much lore on the matter, and I will not bore you with it. However, for whatever reason, the two have collided, though not entirely in a physical sense. My city was removed from Abeir and thrust onto this world, on top of what was once the realm of Unther. Many of my kind have left Tymanther to explore our neighbors. Some have met with great friends, others with dire enemies. I have only determined that this realm, this Luruar, is in dire straits."

"That's quite a story," Samon said. "But it is a bit far-fetched, don't you think?"

"Yes, I do," the dragonborn said matter-of-factly. "In fact, I am not sure if I believe it myself, yet here I am."

"She should see Lura," Cyra said. Then her appraising eye fell over the dragonborn. "What is your name?"

"I am called Ambrusia Blackscale," she said. "And I should clarify: I am not entirely dragonborn. My mother was elven, and loved my father, Lord Sharn Blackscale, very much."

"Good for you," Cyra said. "I have to say, you are quite the specimen of your species, even if you are not full-blooded."

"What do you mean?" Ambrusia asked. Cyra looked her up and down. Ambrusia stood six feet tall, and clearly was of solid build despite her half-elven heritage. She also was quite well-endowed, a feature that Cyra was noticing now that she was not being shocked by the unusual woman. Her hips flared out pleasingly, a solid base for fighting—and for lovemaking, Cyra mentally added. Her breasts, as well, were quite generous, and despite being the size of large melons, larger than the tiefling's even, seemed to hold themselves up quite well. Cyra found herself wondering if maybe there were scales beneath them to help in that regard.

"Hmm," Cyra said, licking her lips. "Never mind that. Let me get you to Lura, my dear, she will be quite pleased to meet you."

"She is someone in charge?" Ambrusia asked.

"Very much so. She is the Chosen of her goddess and has very much authority concerning all the refugees you see here," Cyra said.

"Then she is a woman of honor, and skill," Ambrusia said, a smile on her face. "My people look highly on these things."

"She is definitely those things, and more," Cyra said, smiling coyly. Even Samon had a chuckle as they both knew well Lura's skills and charms.

"Is she a warrior, then?" Ambrusia asked. "Certainly, to earn such favor from her goddess, she must have vanquished many mighty foes."

"Dragonborn look highly on such things, I suppose," Cyra said. Ambrusia nodded excitedly.

"Our leaders are skilled generals as well as rulers, and many have had several dragon heads displayed in the Hall of Trophies," Ambrusia said enthusiastically.

"Well, Lura has never slain any dragons. In fact, I know not why Sune has Chosen her. I do not follow the goddess, but one of her allies, Sharess. One might say I, too, am my goddess's Chosen, but no such declaration has ever been made. Lura is simply a powerful individual and embodies all that Sune extols."

"Such as?" Ambrusia asked.

"Beauty, Love, Passion, Kindness," Cyra said. "As well as being a gifted lover. There are whispers that she has even coupled with the goddess," Cyra said with a conspiratorial giggle.

"These...these are not things that would make a great leader in Tymanther," Ambrusia said, a confused look on her face.

"It is good you are not there, then," Samon said. He pointed ahead, where Lura was standing over several kneeling refugees. The drow's skin had a fine sheen of perspiration in the humid evening and shown with what was left of the dying sun. Her Red Robe clung to her body, hugging at her perfect form. Breasts not quite as large as Cyra's were pert and firm, and the robe plastered to them as Lura made motions with her arms and breathed deeply. Her hips swayed to and fro in a mesmerizing dance that made Cyra's mouth water.

She snapped herself out of her trance when Lura saw her approach. The drow raised her hand in friendly greeting even as her face affected an intrigued expression at the peculiar half-dragonborn walking beside the tiefling. She left the refugees she had been attending to meet her Cyra away from prying ears. "Cyra, Samon, good to lay eyes again," Lura said, leaning in and kissing the tiefling warmly on the lips, then kissed Samon in a similar fashion. "And who is this?"

"This is Ambrusia, from the dragonborn kingdom of Tymanther," Cyra said.

"Dragonborn, yes," Lura said, extending her hand. Ambrusia responded in kind, surprised at the softness of the drow's hand. "I have seen one or two of your kind, but never knew of any kingdom."

"It is only recently that we have come to your world. Our sages believe that this 'Spellplague' your world is experiencing is the same that we also shared just before parts of our world violently merged with yours," Ambrusia said. She looked down at her hand when Lura withdrew hers; amazed that something so soft had ever been held within.

"Interesting," Lura said. Her mind was already a-whir with what could possibly be happing to Toril, and her communion with Sune had hinted at much. "What is it you seek here, Ambrusia?"

"Many of my kind have been sent out abroad to experience the cultures of this world. Those who earn renown and fame are heralded as heroes among my people. I am here to experience the realm of Luruar," she said.

"Luruar. It wasn't long ago that we were simply called the Silver Marches," Lura said. "A testament to how things have changed, I suppose. Very well. If you want experience, you will find it aplenty in Everlund tending to these refugees."

The drow smiled, her pouty lips forming the shape of a cupid's bow. "Come with me, I will show you around."

Cyra looked longingly at Lura's perfect hips as she walked away, Ambrusia in tow. "You fancy her," Samon commented with a wry grin.

"I've always fancied Lura," Cyra said, confused.

"I meant the dragon girl," Samon said, wrapping his strong arm around her narrow waist. "I saw how you appraised her like some piece of merchandise when you saw her up close."

"It is my nature," Cyra said defensively. "She does have quite a set of breasts, though. And her ass...strong hips...exotic. Fine, I fancy her, what of it?"

"I just want to know when you bed her, that's all," Samon said with a chuckle.

"So you can spy on us?" Cyra asked, smirking as her hand grasped at his bottom.

"Never," Samon said. "So I can join!"

Out of compulsion, Cyra grabbed Samon by the collar of his tunic and thrust him into an empty tent. She knew not what its use was, but at this point didn't care. She hooked a foot behind him and pushed him over it. They both fell hard on the ground, Cyra atop him and quickly mounting him. Her hands pressed hard against his shoulders, driving him into the ground as her lips ravaged his mouth. The tiefling plundered his mouth with her tongue and his own questing muscle simply wrapped around hers as it delved into her hot mouth.

Samon offered no resistance as Cyra reached down between her thighs, where his rapidly growing cock was straining the seams of his cloth trousers. Her skilled fingers unbuckled the belt and undid the ties on his pants before thrusting hungrily underneath to pull the engorged member from its cloth prison. But the human was not idle. His hands had grasped at her bared, red thighs, sliding up slowly to the leather skirt she called armor. He delved beneath the black leather to the thick swell of her ass, grasping urgently and slipping his fingers into the cleft between her two perfect cheeks. Cyra never wore undergarments, a fact that had always pleased him.

His fingers slid down her ass crack, down to the puckered, and somehow always clean, asshole, and began rubbing and poking. She bit his lip, hard, as his middle finger slid, unlubricated, into the tight orifice. She grunted as he plunged it in to the last knuckle and he felt blood dribble down his chin. Grinning, he quickly thrust with his hips, sending her off to the side. He followed, landing between her legs as she was stuck on her back, legs up high and spread around him. Her eyes smoldered, though whether with lust or infernal desire he could never be sure, as his cockhead pressed against the moist folds of her pussy.

Without a word, Cyra conveyed her demands over Samon, and he reached down to grab his prick and ram it savagely into her sodden canal. She groaned aloud, fingernails digging through his cotton tunic and into his flesh. Samon was almost overwhelmed at the heat from her infernal loins, and the way her cunt squeezed ever so hard around his thick, hard shaft had, at times, been enough to give him instant orgasm. But he had been with Cyra enough times to be able to control his urges, and began to methodically thrust forcefully into her, breaching her deepest walls and sending as much pain as pleasure into the oft sadistic tiefling. He felt her tail curling around his leg and he knew he was doing his job perfectly.

Cyra bucked her hips into her human lover, meeting each of his savage thrusts with her needy cunt, drawing him deeper and deeper. The tiefling was adept at many styles of lovemaking, and she certainly enjoyed them all. But at this point, she needed to get off, she needed his cock plundering her cunny repeatedly, jarring her insides with his powerful strokes. She needed to feel her cunt clench and squeeze around his thick member and feel his virile seed flooding her channel. Cyra wrapped her arms, deceptively strong, around his neck, pulling his body tight against hers, feeling his chest against her leather-encased breasts, and bit his ear. "Cum in me, Samon. Fill me!"