The days crushed one another like blocks of stone. Each meal had the same taste of overripe fruit, sickeningly sweet, as if even the food was trying to keep me in this golden prison. Time stretched, lazy and treacherous. The air smelled of resin and rotting flowers, saturated with overly heavy perfumes. I paced in this suspended cabin, a helpless spectator of my own stagnation.
The seal on my chest still throbbed, but weakly, like a brazier smothered by ashes. No matter how hard I strained my senses and concentrated, I no longer felt the sudden surge of energy that had intoxicated me in the early days. Power refused to accumulate. The world reminded me that each womb offered only one spark, once only, and that I had just exhausted the vein.
The only exception: the nights.
Every night, Elandra returned. She slipped into my room like a queen coming to claim her tribute, her air haughty but her step already hurried. And I took her. Not by choice, not even by desire, but because my body had no other choice but to empty itself into her to glean a few more embers. The first time, she rode me like one tames a beast, cold and imperious, certain to still reign over its territory. But as the nights passed, I saw her lips tremble differently, her thighs tense with more urgency, her moans sound less like orders than pleas.
I could tell in the rhythm of her breathing, in the way her fingers dug into my arms. She wanted to resist, but her body betrayed itself. She tore from herself moans she didn't recognize, guttural cries her rank didn't allow her to utter. And each time, a part of me rejoiced.
You still think you're calling the shots, Elandra... but you come every night seeking what you claim to despise.
Yet, even as I drained her, even as I felt her writhe with pleasure beneath my loins, I knew it wasn't enough. The bucket barely filled, as if her body were offering me crumbs. No leap, no threshold crossed. Just a warm warmth, too weak to face what awaited me.
So I stayed there, after she collapsed panting, staring at her in the gloom. Her hair, matted with sweat, hung over her cheeks, her massive breasts still swayed with her ragged breathing, and her thighs opened in spite of herself as if inviting me back. She, the feared leader of all, was nothing more than a body offered up, a womb that vibrated in spite of herself. And I found myself thinking that this reversal didn't give me victory, only another rope around my neck.
I wasn't free. I was her prisoner... and she, without knowing it, was gradually becoming mine.
The second night, it was a shudder that woke me. Not a clear noise, just that instinctive disturbance that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I kept my eyes closed for a moment, breathing evenly to feign sleep. Yet I knew. Something, someone, was there. When I opened my eyelids, I saw her: a slim figure, barely outlined by the light from the vines. Lyanna. She had stopped in the doorway, her hands clenched on the wood, her lips parted as if trying to utter a silent prayer.
Her eyes slid to the bed. My bare torso, the boss collapsed beside me, the sheets caked with sweat and cum. She was trembling, but she wasn't running away. She was watching. And I let her, my throat tight.
The third night, innocence gave way. I caught her kneeling, her body bent forward, her clumsy fingers pressed against her damp loincloth. Her breath hit the half-open door, stifled sighs that no longer resembled prayer. She touched herself like a child discovering the burning of fire, clumsy but eager, each hesitant gesture turning into a more violent convulsion. I could have stopped her. I could have coughed, moved, broken the moment. But I remained motionless, my throat tight, hypnotized by her shameful excitement.
The following nights repeated the scene, even more cruel. Fourth, fifth, sixth… each time, she came back. Each time, her fingers pressed faster between her thighs. Each time, her eyes lingered longer on my silhouette, on her mother's lower back, still shaking with spasms. The modesty gradually disappeared from her gestures, replaced by a hunger she herself didn't understand.
I lay there, breathless, my chest pressed against the damp sheets, and I watched her in silence.
Every night, her fragile silhouette danced in the shadows. Her fingers trembled between her thighs, and I… I let her. Because sooner or later, this silence would have to be broken.
On the seventh night, the silence fell differently. No heavy footsteps from Elandra, no smell of sweat and leather that usually filled the room. Only the village's vegetal breath vibrated through the wooden walls. I immediately felt the difference, this abnormal emptiness that oppressed me. And then, as I expected, the door opened a crack.
Lyanna.
She no longer had the caution of previous nights. Her eyes wandered into the shadows, searching for her absent mother's body, then fixed on me. I was sitting, my back against the undone sheets, my bare chest bathed in the red glow of the seal. She jumped, frozen in the doorway, like a child caught stealing.
I spoke before she had time to step back.
"You think I'm asleep, Lyanna. But I've seen you. Every night."
Her mouth opened in a strangled gasp. She shook her head violently, her hands clenching the door.
"No... I... I don't know what you're talking about..."
I sat up, letting the light from the seal splash against my chest.
"Yes. You do. I know what's eating away at you."
Her eyes filled with fierce panic. She took a step back, as if every word was scorching her.
"Shut up! You... you don't know!"
I stood slowly, barefoot on the warm wood. Each step brought me closer, each word pinned her harder against the invisible wall of her secret.
"It's a curse, Lyanna. Cast by the Church of Purity. Because your mother and your people worship the Goddess those fanatics hate. Because they want to erase Lust at its roots."
She covered her ears, but her legs were shaking.
"Stop... I... how could you...?"
I leaned forward, my voice lower, more precise:
"I know a bishop cursed your mother. I know that you... you, his daughter... will never be able to conceive, or even come without pain. And I know what happened to the last man you tried with."
Her eyes widened, tears welling up.
"No... no, it's impossible... you can't know that...!"
"I know," I repeated softly, "because the Goddess told me. Because I am her apostle. And I am here to deliver you."
She faltered, her hands sliding down her thighs as if her own body were slipping away from her.
"But... why you? Why now?"
I didn't answer right away. I opened my palm. The red mark on my chest vibrated, and the air rustled. The Scarlet Illusion leaped forth, a glowing spectre with blurred features, the silhouette of a woman surrounded by a quivering flame. Her golden eyes set the room ablaze, and a gentle breath traveled across Lyanna's skin. She backed away until she hit the doorframe, her lips trembling in a silent prayer.
I slowly closed my hand, and the apparition dissipated.
"Come tonight," I said, my voice hoarse in the silence. "Come to my room. And I will show you what my power can do."
Her breath hitched, her fingers still trembling against the wood. She said nothing, but I already knew the seed was planted.
She was already waiting for me when I entered. Like every night. Her broad, bare back stood out against the gloom, her damp hair fell in strands plastered to the nape of her neck, and her breath filled the room with an animal warmth. She didn't need words: her body alone imposed its presence. But I had brought something new.
A blindfold.
I slid it between my fingers, slowly, just enough for the soft leather to catch the reddish light of the vines. She frowned, suspicious, but I didn't give her time to ask.
"Put it on," I said in a low voice. "If you want a pleasure you've never known, you must trust me."
Her lips parted on a raspy breath. Pride fought in her eyes, as always, but curiosity—and perhaps hunger—finally cracked her mask. She hesitated for another second, then ripped the blindfold off me with a sudden gesture.
"I'm not afraid of anything," she spat, as if convincing herself.
She fastened it. Her eyelids disappeared beneath the dark fabric. In that simple gesture, all her power changed in brilliance: she remained standing, her shoulders tense, but her breathing already betrayed doubt.
I moved closer. My fingers rested on her skin, first brushing her shoulder, then disappearing immediately. She jumped, her head turned into space.
"Where…?" she breathed through clenched teeth.
I didn't answer. I grazed her side with a fingernail, barely a caress. Her stomach contracted in a brutal shudder. She moaned in spite of herself, her chest heaving in an uncontrolled spasm.
Every movement became a trap: my hands slid down her hip then withdrew, my lips barely touching the nape of her neck before disappearing. She jumped, lost in anticipation she could no longer control. Her breath quickened, her thighs moved apart uncertainly.
"Stop playing..." she growled. But her voice trembled, and her body arched toward me as if inviting me to start again.
I didn't stop. My fingers lingered on her heavy breasts, pressing a curve, pinching a hardened nipple, then disappeared immediately. She gasped, a strangled cry escaping her lips.
"Hhhh...! Where are you...?"
I spun her around, my hands barely brushing her lower back, then stopped everything. Silence fell.
She remained motionless, blind, panting, her chest dripping with sweat, her fingers clenched on the air. Her breathing filled the cabin, split by moans she would never have let out in broad daylight.
"You like it," I finally murmured. "Not knowing. Waiting."
She bit her lip, the headband already dampened by her sweaty temples. Her throat vibrated, unable to give me a clear answer. So I moved away, leaving her alone in this fabricated darkness, a prisoner of her own desire.
And for the first time, it was she who almost begged, her voice low and broken:
"Come back..."
I twisted the handle without a word. The door creaked, and the glow from the vines in the corridor outlined her face. Lyanna was there, motionless, panting, her cheeks reddened by the fever she didn't yet understand. Her hands trembled along her dress, her parted lips letting out a short breath. She should have fled, looked away, but she remained frozen, captivated by the sight before her.
I grabbed Elandra by the hips and bent her forward, her torso crushing against the table. She didn't protest; blinded by the blindfold, she arched her back of her own accord, her powerful back tensing like a bow, her wide thighs spreading in a silent offering. She was unaware that her daughter was watching her, that she was already breathing in her scent of sweat and desire through the opening.
I entered her with a sharp thrust. Her throat immediately tore open in a brutal cry.
— Aaahhh…!
Each thrust made the cabin shake, her enormous breasts bouncing against the wood, her fingers clawing at the surface as if to cling to it. I fucked her roughly, my palms sliding down her sides, squeezing her waist, rising to capture her glistening breasts. Her moans turned into screams with each thrust, into uncontrolled curls of wrenched pleasure.
I leaned over her, pressed my lips to hers. She responded, her hot mouth pouring into mine, her teeth biting my breath. My hands kneaded her heavy breasts, pinched her hard nipples, as I guided her face toward the half-open door.
I felt the moment shift. Elandra's body arched violently beneath me, her nails scratching the wood of the table as if to anchor herself to reality. Her moans were nothing more than hoarse cries, broken pleas torn from her throat. I thrust my hips one last time, deeply, and the wave washed over me. My cum spurted into her in a single, brutal, hot spurt, filling her already spasming belly. Her scream tore through the room, animal, uncontrolled, as if she were burning from the inside out.
I lay pressed against her back for a second, my fingers tightening on her waist, panting in the smell of her sweat and fever. Then I pulled out. The wet sound echoed through the cabin, followed by a whitish trickle that escaped from her quivering pussy. Elandra collapsed against the table, her thighs spread open, her heavy breasts crushed against the wood, her breath scattered in raspy sobs. She was nothing more than a body shaking with uncontrollable spasms.
I slowly put my pants back on, my throat still tight from the effort. When I raised my head, my eyes locked with Lyanna's. She hadn't moved. Her dripping fingers were still trembling between her thighs, her face flushed with shame and ecstasy. She took a step back, clumsy, but unable to escape what she had just experienced.
"That's enough for tonight," I said in a low, raspy voice. "Tomorrow... I'll come back."
She looked away, red, dripping, unable to form a single word. Her lips trembled, parted in a ragged breath. Her whole body screamed contradiction: shame burned, but her stomach still vibrated with the pleasure she had just secretly stolen.
I crossed the threshold without another glance. Behind me, the leader still lay, dripping, the headband still stuck to her sweaty temples, her mouth half-open in muted gasps. Her hips twitched with residual tremors, her thighs still spread as if calling me. A queen reduced to a trembling offering.
And in the shadows of the corridor, her daughter remained, unable to deny it.
And our eyes met.
Lyanna was still there, unable to look away. Her hand had already slid between her thighs. Her clumsy fingers pressed against her intimate area through the fabric, then disappeared beneath it, feverish, ashamed, and eager. Her breath caught in a stifled moan. She arched her back, racked with spasms, her eyes fixed on her mother's body, bent forward, offering itself to my thrusts.
"Yes... more..." Elandra screamed, choked by her own orgasm.
Her legs buckled, but her body kept opening, swallowing my cock as if it had no other goal than to come again, again, again. Her hoarse voice filled the cabin, her cries echoing off the walls.
Behind her, Lyanna was also panting. Her moans mingled with her mother's, lower, more shameful, but just as uncontrolled. Her fingers pressed faster, her thighs trembled, and she came before my eyes, shaking, her mouth half-open in a silent scream.
Two women, bound by blood, broken by the same fever. One screaming her throat out, the other choking with shame and pleasure in the shadows. And I, at the center, held them both in the same scarlet prison: my Lust.