The heavy double doors shut behind us with a velvet thud.
The click of the latch sounded final, like the world outside had been sealed away.
The Emperor Suite was lit only by a dozen beeswax candles in red glass. Mirrors covered three walls and the ceiling, throwing back endless reflections of the enormous round bed at the center. Crimson silk sheets, black pillows piled high, rose-oil smoke curling lazy in the air. Every breath tasted like sin.
Lady Amara and Lady Celeste let their sheer robes slip from their shoulders in perfect unison. The fabric pooled at their feet like liquid sapphire and scarlet.
Both women stood naked, skin glowing in the candlelight, curves soft and heavy and utterly unashamed.
Amara: long raven hair, golden skin, heavy breasts with dark rose nipples already tight, wide hips, a neat triangle of black curls above plump outer lips that glistened faintly.
Celeste: platinum curls tumbling over pale shoulders, ice-blue eyes, breasts fuller than Amara's, pink nipples pierced with tiny silver rings, completely shaved between her legs, inner lips peeking shyly.
Torren and I stood frozen, still fully clothed, brooms forgotten somewhere in the hallway.
Amara smiled first, slow and wicked.
"Sit, little brothers."
We dropped onto the edge of the bed like our legs had been cut.
They knelt.
Amara's nails traced the inside of my left thigh, starting just above the knee, moving upward in lazy spirals. Every time I twitched she paused, waited until I stilled, then continued.
Celeste did the same to Torren, humming softly.
Fingertips brushed the bulge in my trousers, feather-light, once, twice, then retreated.
Torren let out a strangled whimper.
"Patience," Celeste whispered. "Good boys wait."
Amara cupped my jaw, tilted my head, and pressed her lips to mine.
Soft. Warm. Barely any pressure.
She pulled back half an inch, waited until I leaned forward chasing her, then kissed me again, deeper, tongue sliding along my lower lip until I opened on a shaky exhale.
She tasted like honeyed wine and smoke.
Celeste kissed Torren the same way; I heard his muffled moan, saw his hands fist the sheets.
Amara sealed her mouth over mine and deliberately let saliva pool. A warm trickle spilled over my tongue. I swallowed; she hummed approval and gave me more, sucking gently on my tongue, pushing her own sweetness back.
A thin silver strand stretched between us when she finally pulled away. She licked it up with a smile.
Torren's chin was already wet; Celeste wiped it with her thumb and sucked the thumb clean while staring into his eyes.
They undressed us slowly.
Shirts lifted over heads. Trousers eased down inch by inch.
When my cock sprang free it slapped against my stomach, angry red, a bead of precum already rolling down the head.
Torren's was the same: thick, veiny, twitching in the cool air.
Amara wrapped her fingers loosely around my shaft, not stroking, just holding, letting me feel the heat of her palm.
"Look how pretty," she murmured.
Celeste mirrored the motion on Torren. "And so eager."
They started with kisses: soft presses along the underside, tiny licks at the slit to collect the leaking precum.
Amara swirled her tongue once around my crown, then took just the head into her mouth. Cheeks hollowed. Tongue flat against the ridge.
She pulled off with a wet pop, smiled, did it again.
Torren's hips jerked; Celeste pinned him gently with one hand on his stomach. "Still."
They took turns:
- Long, slow lick from balls to tip
- Soft sucking kisses on the head
- Complete stillness while we throbbed in their loose fists
Every time we tried to thrust they stopped entirely, waited until we whimpered apologies, then resumed.
Amara rose first, straddled my chest facing me, knees pinning my arms.
"Lesson two," she said, voice husky. "Worship properly."
She lowered herself slowly until her scent surrounded me, warm, musky, intoxicating.
"Start with kisses on the outer lips. Soft. Like you mean it."
I pressed trembling kisses to the plump folds. She tasted faintly salty-sweet.
Celeste was already settled over Torren's face, giving the same instructions in a patient murmur.
Amara guided me word by word:
"Flatten your tongue… long, slow licks from entrance to clit… yes… circle the hood, don't attack the pearl yet… perfect… breathe through your nose, darling… again… slower…"
Each time I did it right she praised: "Good boy… just like that… again…"
When I finally flicked directly over her swollen clit she shuddered and dripped onto my chin.
Torren's muffled moans told me he was receiving the same education. The room filled with wet sounds, soft praises, our ragged breathing.We were lost in it: mouths sore, jaws aching, cocks untouched and leaking onto our stomachs, when three soft raps sounded at the door.
A house girl's voice: "Ladies, Lord Gavren and his retinue paid triple for the Emperor Suite tonight. Madam says now."
The spell shattered.
Amara and Celeste sighed in perfect unison.
Amara stroked my hair once, apologetic.
Celeste kissed Torren's slick forehead.
"Duty calls, little heroes," Amara whispered.
They rose, wiped their thighs with a silk cloth, slipped into fresh robes the color of midnight and sunrise.
Celeste blew us a kiss. "Sleep here tonight. Door locks from inside. Sheets are clean. Dream of us."
The door closed.
Torren and I lay side by side on the huge bed, completely naked, cocks still painfully hard, faces and chests shiny with their arousal, hearts hammering.
We were too stunned, too overwhelmed, too exhausted to even touch ourselves.
Torren's breathing evened into soft snores within minutes.
I followed seconds later, the taste of Amara still on my tongue, the scent of both women clinging to my skin, falling into the deepest, most frustrated sleep of my entire second life
Far outside the village, in the stinking ditch beside the northern road, the ten members of the Black Boarclaw gang lay sprawled like broken dolls.
Their armor was dented, their weapons scattered, their pride shattered. Mud caked their hair; blood crusted their noses. A pack of half-feral village dogs (the same mangy curs that usually begged for scraps) had found them while they were unconscious. One mutt was currently lifting its leg and pissing directly onto the leader's scarred cheek. Another was gnawed lazily on a discarded boot. A third had curled up asleep on the second-in-command's chest, drooling.
The leader (Grash One-Ear) woke first to the warm stream hitting his face.
He jerked upright with a strangled roar, scattering dogs and sending the rest of the gang groaning back to life. The piss dripped from his beard. The dogs didn't even bother running; one just yawned and trotted off.
Grash looked around.
His men were in no better shape:
- One had dog shit smeared across his back like war paint.
- Another's trousers were down around his ankles (somehow).
- A third had "MADAM'S BITCH" scrawled on his forehead in charcoal (courtesy of a passing farm boy who'd watched the whole thing).
The laughter had already started.
From the treeline, village children pointed and giggled. A pair of old farmers leaned on their pitchforks, wiping tears of mirth. Even the dogs seemed to be laughing in that silent, tongue-lolling way dogs do.
Every howl of laughter was a knife in Grash's gut.
He had ridden in with ten hardened killers, demanding free women, waving steel.
He had been thrown out like garbage by one woman in a corset, using a broom.
Word was already spreading: tavern songs were being written, crude drawings nailed to trees, travelers carrying the story to every corner of the province. By tomorrow night every tavern from here to the capital would be singing about the Black Boarclaws who got their asses kicked by a brothel madam and then got pissed on by stray dogs.
Grash stood in the middle of the ditch, chest heaving, fists clenched so hard blood dripped from his palms where his nails dug in.
His remaining ear burned crimson.
His men avoided his eyes, shame thick in the air.
He spoke, voice low and shaking with pure, black hatred.
"No one laughs at the Boarclaws.
No one laughs at me."
He turned toward the village lights in the distance, the red glow of The Velvet Rose still visible.
"We're going to burn that place to the ground.
We're going to drag every whore, every customer, every laughing bastard into the square and make them beg.
Then we're going to salt the earth so nothing ever grows here again."
His second-in-command spat blood. "When, boss?"
Grash's smile was slow, ugly, and full of broken teeth.
"Tonight, we lick our wounds.
Tomorrow night… the entire village learns what happens when you humiliate the Black Boarclaw."
He kicked a sleeping dog out of his way, turned his back on the distant laughter, and began walking toward their hidden camp.
Behind him, the dogs went back to pissing on his men's faces.
The laughter from the village carried on the wind, sharp as broken glass.