Wanton Trials of a Sinful Throuple – A [FFF] Polyamorous Tale

Cyrene dropped her shoulder low while adjusting the folds of her dress. It just never felt adequate, irrespective of the times she checked herself in the mirror. Legends say mirrors never lie. Dispelling illusions, throwing away charms and enchantments of the mind, to only reflect truth and only the naked truth. Cyrene felt that the legend was a fabrication, or that the particular mirror residing in her chamber had a grudge to settle against her. No matter the number of times she glanced, the figure staring back at her always lacked something.

She lacked those feminine curves that she noticed, unconsciously and with subtle jealousy, in other women. Cyrene felt insufficient. She felt her bosom not well filled, no slender waist or wide child-bearing hips. Raising her hand to her neck, she slowly pushed aside the failing lock of hair behind, hooking them behind her ear. The freshly pierced hole in her earlobe stared back at her, emptily. Taking a sharp breath, she hissed and slowly cursed under her breath. She lost another earring.

How do women even keep their earrings safe?

Cyrene felt a host of emotions washing over her. She really liked those earrings even though she had them only for three days. The dangling connected small hoops with a tiny aventurine crystal at the end, complimented her eyes, made her jawline appear soft and narrow, almost feminine with an oval face and now it abandoned her, just like the rest. Tears slowly welled in her eyes and with trembling hands, she reached out for her cupboard, seeking the only thing that could give her comfort in these moments: Dark Chocolate.

As she took the first bite, she winced with delight. Taking another bite, she inhaled deeply letting the aroma guide her senses. Her tummy heaved with longing. Feeling her body heat up with an increased need, she could almost feel the yearning for the rest of the dark devil. Her cheek slightly pursed as her fingers dabbed the smooth skin. A thumb brushed her lips, wiping the small scraps of chocolate clinging to her lips. Cyrene felt her body move on instinct, seeking the distraction of sweet innocent pleasure. She flicked her pink tongue, licking the rich taste from her thumb. A small moan escape her, accompanied by the tinge of a blush, and the warmth building inside her. She had to devour it, sate her hunger and calm down, keeping herself together.

Cyrene finished eating her chocolate with another moan, moving to fold her legs underneath her to sit on the couch, dark purple pillows with golden embroidery on either side to cushion, while she settled herself comfortably. Karlienne, the herbalist and entrepreneur of varied skill, the only person she could count as a female friend at the moment, had warned her of the possible side effects of the potion that the herbalist concocted. When Karlienne mentioned the accompanying mood shifts as standing on the edge of a precipice, enjoying the caress of the cool breeze and the kiss of the warm sun, then without a warning, the rock face crumbled, and all she could do was ride out with the wave, without offering any resistance, Cyrene dismissed her words as mere exasperation. After all, Karlienne is a small-town herbalist, selling remedies for hot flashes to middle-aged women and Cyrene, hailed as a prodigy and though a planar mage, knew enough alchemy to spin gold from hay. Calming herself, Cyrene only felt immense gratitude for the half-elven herbalist and her advice.

Cyrene assumed she had enough willpower to be practically considered immune to the effects of the potion, after all, she is a mage with extraordinary fortitude. She was convinced of its effects, she felt calm but also excited to the deepest parts of her being. One more day, she thought to herself. One more day, she can ignore those nibbling thoughts, until her body fully reforms. Cyrene allowed herself a few moments of relief. A blanket over her lap, laid out covering her from ankles, warm and soft fleece comforting her, rising almost as if a magical spell she cast on had set to work, calming her from within.

Adjusting her long dark hair, she slowly combed her fingers through, delighting in the smooth silky strands. Her fingers moved slow, feather-light as she ran them along the flowing raven-black, sensuous hair, taking pleasure in their silkiness. Teasing the strands between her fingers, sweeping them gently, teasing them just a little, Cyrene pulled them behind her head, swinging her hands back and forth, again feeling those sensations on her fingertips that provoked a slight flutter in her heart. A dreamlike feeling flowed in her consciousness, the waves at sea breaking on sand, and a slow swaying to the song of the wind. She stared at herself in the mirror with an almost inaudible pout of her lips.

Was there anything she could do to improve her imperfect figure?

The most obvious choice would have been to wait and let the hormonal potions do their magic, as Karlienne told her in an assuring way. But Cyrene found it difficult to ignore the anxiety tugging at her heart. Feeling slight shame, Cyrene once again took notice of herself in the mirror. She stood tall, slightly shifted her weight and dropped her shoulders. Letting out another sigh of frustration, she rushed towards her ever-growing wardrobe.

She stared into the sight before her eyes. Cruel was the mistress of choice. Extravagant dresses, beautiful silk gowns in colours, gentle pale peach, crisp light green, thick wool skirts and fine dark rich dresses with elaborate embroideries, full flowery blouses and fine cotton smock tunics, gathered chemise overtops and work-skirts. A fortune in clothes, which according to a disapproving Karlienne, she would outgrow in two to three years.

She selected the most lavish outfit she could find, a yellow dress which left her shoulders exposed. Disgruntling, she threw it aside casually. That outfit made her frame look broad. Besides, yellow never complimented her raven-black hair and green-piercing eyes. She next retrieved a dark green blouse with a matching vest and long pleated black skirt. Too much fabric. She then grabbed a black long-sleeved shirt and a low-cut plaid waistcoat. She ran her hands through the fine gold, open-weaved embroidered, worthy of a minor noble's precious daughter, and discarded it on a whim.

Her lingering eyes finally settled on a cornflower blue bodice and chemise with white laced sleeves underneath. She liked the bodice. It complimented her figure, to an extent. Cinching her waist to give an illusion of an hourglass figure, while pushing her budding breast ever so lightly to form a small cleavage. She complimented it with a short pleated skirt, reaching only till her thighs, exposing a generous part of her pale pink skin. The sheer black stockings, exquisitely made from some exotic spider silk, with its small cute bow at the top, reached slightly above her knees but failed to reach the hem of her selected skirt, exposing a narrow milky white region of her thighs, would definitely draw unwanted attention to the mage.

The skirt was undoubtedly well made, with good craftsmanship, but Karlienne only scoffed when she showed her.

"You cannot expect academy students and fellow collective mages to respect you if you dress like a harlot," was what Karlienne gave as an explanation.

The herbalist probably spoke with the best of intentions. Or perhaps she only wanted the mage to spend her coins on her potions. But one fact was evident to Cyrene. She could almost feel the vulgar looks that drunk patrons would give her, should she wear the outfit. She could imagine their lecherous whispers while she passes by. Karlienne's dismissive tone only served to fuel her insecurity. Despite that, Cyrene still chose to wear it. After all, even Rylonvirah encouraged her to come out of her shell. Besides, she would be spending the days in the company of Antilorwe and Urganza.

Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply, letting out a tired breath. She needed to stop worrying. After all, she is not entering a rowdy tavern in that oh-so-tantalizing outfit. She is meeting Antilorwe and Urganza; other women, in the comfort of her own herd. She liked that expression. "own herd!". It gave her a sense of belonging, a part of something bigger than her. Some place where she could be free to indulge in silly pleasures. Not shackled by norms or caution. After all, women do not cast lewd gazes at other women. She silently shook her head. For a brief moment, she let herself feel annoyed and yearned to ignore.

Of course, Cyrene will not be judged. While dressed in voluptuous expensive garments would always draw looks. Men usually always stare at her with their meaning evident. But, if she wears that outfit in the comfort of Antilorwe's home, only she and Antilorwe and Urganza would notice her. Antilorwe is rigid but she has on occasion revealed her gentle side when not shackled by the responsibilities of her office. She would not admonish her. As for Urganza, the orc had once shown interest in her, before she came out. Who knows how she would react to Cyrene being a girl now?

Will she be cold and unfriendly towards Cyrene? Would it be unusual for her to gossip and tease her? worse, mock her?

No! Cyrene did not worry anymore. No need to agonize over it. She breathed deeply once more and accepted that the vanity of her garments would be worthier to be worn in the comfort of other girls. No risk of arousing anyone's passion and she would be showered with compliments, desired Cyrene naively. Opening her green eyes wide, she pushed her long raven-black hair behind and began to undress.

Clad only in her thin linen strophium and subligaculum, with slightly enough fabric to cover her private parts, she watched herself in the mirror again, letting her eyelid lower slowly down. Her tiny marble-white breasts hinted slightly at their growing presence, barely filling the already small cup of the strophium. Covered as she was, they remained teasingly concealed. Slowly her hands rose up and undid the binding cloth. The sensitive pink nipples, almost hypersensitive due to Karlienne's potion, hardened as the gentle current of cold air caressed them. Soon enough, she unfastened her subligaculum, dropping it on the floor. A cold pang of uncertainty hit her stomach as it lost its last warmth, leaving her distraught. Even after all these years, she still felt a loss of self-esteem just staring at her nudity in the mirror. Something about it felt wrong. She could not bare showing this weakness before others. Not even to the ones she is about to call friends. Definitely not to Antilorwe or Urganza.

Cyrene hurried back towards her wardrobe, flipping through it with renewed resolve. There are countless styles of brassiere and bindings, but Cyrene felt certain that not all of them were of good quality or even a perfect match. Just as Karlienne taught her, most wore it a tad too tight, pulling painfully on the ribs, while others simply lifted, pushing it up in size. Looking down at her tiny breasts, she let out a brief sigh and hoped that the magical elixir ensured their size. She desperately wished that those pretty pink nipples will puff up and sit atop an ample bosom.

She quickly packed her undergarments and a few more travelling clothes. Finally selecting a strophium, she ran her fingers over one gently tailored satin material that curved at the front, placed under her bust, firmly pulling the shoulder to achieve an ample bosom but she could not tighten it any further without hindering her ability to breathe.

Her green eyes held fixated on the silken string panties, bright coloured, finely embroidered floral patterns and round bottoms fitting snugly around her firm white ass. No wonder the high-elven women preferred it. Nervously, she stared at the silk panties, imagining she had been seen by another girl wearing them. She could almost hear her laughter at the situation. A sudden flash of unadulterated guilt coursed through her. With a huff of frustration, Cyrene took a leather sublicagulum, the material sturdy enough to give her the desired flat appearance.

Satisfied with her presentation, she checked herself once more and then carefully began donning the chemise and the snug bodice. She finished tying the laces, adjusting the sleeves of her chemise and the way the bodice sat around her waist. The chemise and bodice sat tightly, showing off the sensuous curves of her bosom, yet gave a hint of mystery to the sheer space, providing some freedom to breathe.

Sitting on top of her stool, she grabbed her stockings and ran her hands over the silky smooth, delicious silk. Leaning forward, She pulled the sheer black stockings up, and continued rolling the ends through the soft puffy flesh of her inner thighs. Running her soft white legs through the soft silken material made her strangely aware of her own skin, caressing every bit of skin on her legs with their feather-soft touch. Cyrene found that feeling exhilarating. Those enchanted spider silk, cool in summer yet warm in winter, coated her feet softly, tickling all the sensitive areas at her feet, while still allowing full control of her movement without restriction.

Slipping into the nice short pleated skirt, she slowly felt comfortable at how the skirt moulded over her thin frame, hugging her narrow curves, reaching to her thighs. The folds billowed providing an illusion of a broad hip and fuller, wide ass. The lightness of it, without any kind of bulkiness, pressed against her exposed thighs. The wide bottom with slightly heavy lace embroidery at the hem would ensure that she can easily sit on her skirts without worrying about exposing them, should she accidentally forget to swipe before sitting.

Cyrene relaxed her legs slightly, allowing the skirt to push higher up, revealing more of her milky-white thighs. Admiring herself, she almost softly sighed in delight as a tall raven-haired girl seemed to have mysteriously taken her place in the mirror. Glancing down at the richness of her attire, she caught sight of her green eyes gazing intently back at her.

She hurried towards the ornate armoire, removing a few loose pins, an ivory box from which she liberated two silver earrings. She clipped the pins to smooth her flowing hair. Placing both pieces into her ears, she caressed her bare neck lightly. Resting near the ivory box was the beautifully engraved silver pendant. The characters engraved on it read Cyrene's name. Without much thought, she fastened it around her slender neck. Checking her reflection once more, she silently acknowledged that she looked polished, elegant and a bit slightly naughty. So unlike her usual self.

She dabbed a purple-lip balm before applying a generous amount of pale sparkling lip gloss, bringing out the fullness of her lips. Cocking her head to one side, she opened her mouth, breathing lightly, trying to practice sound familiarization. She shut her mouth to stretch her lips open and when she opened her mouth again, blowing softly, almost too softly. The warm breath of air escaped through her lips, pouting her wide alluring lips, begging someone to kiss her.

Next, she applied a thick coat of mascara onto her upper eyelashes. Making sure not to leave any false streaks, she gently fluttered her eyelids, looking at the small, pretty gem-like green eyes, just a few hairs away. Moving her gaze slowly up, she lifted her chin slightly and met the emerald of her eyes. She gazed into those mischievous emerald orbs, swallowing a small moan at the fluttering sensation. Humming at the slowly rising feeling, she liked what she saw in the mirror. A lively vibrant girl painted with bright colours. She felt playful and felt even more radiant.

Sensing time slipping through her fingers, she darted towards her shoe rack. Wiping her finger clean, she caressed her deep red wine-coloured satin slippers. Cyrene always liked her slippers. She never understood the appeal of high-heeled sharp, almost lethal stiletto. Why would any women want to torture herself that way? Maybe Rylonvirah, but for the drow, it was less of a fashion statement and more to do with skirting around weapon restrictions in court. Cyrene was sure when it concerns the dark-elf, everything is a weapon, including footwear. But that is not what Cyrene aspired to be. To dance elegantly in a courtroom ball one moment and slit throats, mercilessly, the next moment. Definitely not!

Moreover, Cyrene quite liked the caress of fluff on her feet. She could never pick up a pair of leather as well as quality silk shoes as her compatriot mages were prone to, which is why she preferred the luxury of satin slippers and shoes that are also easy to walk in. She added the slippers to her travelling itinerary. That would come in handy for their late-night girls' talk, thought Cyrene. She removed a dark green pair of lace-up ankle boots. The black heel and intricate straps made the smooth figure-hugging boot somewhat revealing. Fitting it tightly around her ankle, she checked herself once more. She almost then realised why every solar had a large mirror close to their dressing table.

Almost satisfied, she bristly went to leave, before remembering that she hadn't finished adding colour to her nails. Hastily, she picked up a bottle of nail polish and daubed it on her fingernails. Turning back, she slowly blew on them, her cool breath caressing her fingertips. As she stopped, the nails flickered into a deeper shade of opalescent purple, bringing a smile of satisfaction to her face.

---

Walking through the wide corridor, she spied a trio of girls, huddled together, whispering and giggling among themselves. She almost recalled one of the girls, a human who attended one of her lectures, though the name escaped Cyrene. The girl's tone was always cheerful, gentle and bubbly, but now it lowered to almost a whisper, as the eyes of the trio followed Cyrene. They were particularly intrigued by her bold choice of outfit. A part of her didn't like their curious stares. A more dominant side, called from the depth of her, wished she could just casually ignore them.

Instead, she firmly greeted, "Afternoon."

The same girl, after a bit of trepidation, boldly stepped forwards with a bright smile and replied "Afternoon Ma'am." Cyrene perked at the slight intonation of the word, Ma'am.

"Your dress is pretty and cute," said the girl.

Cyrene stood tongue-tied and perplexed, wondering if it was a genuine compliment or a back-handed neg. She waited for the judgement to be spelt out clearly. It turned out there was none, just genuinely impressed. The smile of the girl unexpectedly became more and more charming. Another one of the girl's companions, an elf, elbowed the girl sharply.

Realising her mistake, the girl quickly added, almost apologetically, "You look lovely today, Ma'am."

Cyrene was a bit slow to realise that the honorific was meant as a sign of respect for her position within the Mages Collective and not a genuine show of respect. After all, the girl could only be paltry three or four years younger than Cyrene herself. Cyrene desperately wished now that she were a part of their gossip circle. It was either to stay silent to acknowledge their greeting or give in to the urge to break down her hard-erected walls and indulge in small talk. Somehow, the chatter in her heart won and she utter her little pre-rehearsed line.

"That's so sweet of you to say," she politely replied, suppressing the touch of overtly bubbling enthusiasm in her voice.

The mage took in the sound of their giggling voices and their wide eyes, but only gave a nod of acknowledgement as she struggled with a lack of topics to engage in. She donned a polite face and, in the end, asked in a measured voice, "So if I were to give a gift of friendship to a friend of mine, what would be an ideal gift?"

"A gift?" said the trio with their eyes twinkling with untamed curiosity.

Catching the drift in their statement, Cyrene corrected, "It is only Antilorwe from the city council. She has invited me and an Orc High-Lady to spend some time at her country estate."

Now she was certain. Her answer only invited gawk, stare and plausibility for more gossip. The trio exchanged glances and quietly discussed among themselves, still having a hard time fathoming the idea of Antilorwe, a much more respectable female elf who is most likely married to her job, having invited Cyrene to her country Manor. Cyrene's revelation only excited their curiosity and made their expressions deepen with wonder.

Still calm and ladylike, Cyrene said softly, "It is an arbitration matter and Antilorwe was gracious enough to host all involved parties for the duration."

Cyrene couldn't help but feel proud, for almost managing to hold a conversation with them. The merry-eyed girl spoke again, more directly this time.

"You should then bring skincare products, maybe expensive perfumes. But not from the alchemist lane," she warned.

"Buy it from the one in Gem Cutter's lane," added the elf, "they have the finest quality. A lot of noble household purchases from there."

Cyrene quickly made a mental note.

The last girl, clad in long black sleeves with silver embroidery running around, marking her as a novice to divination, finally spoke.

"If your other friend is an Orc," her words suppressed and spoke with long hesitation in between," You could try a star chart from the divination circle. Orc shamans rely on earth spirits but value knowledge of constellations. A star chart guide would be well received."

Cyrene threw a glance at the sun slowly slipping down the horizon and thanked the trio for their invaluable tips.

When she reached the courtyard, the official carriage that she was promised by the city council, was nowhere in sight. She left quick instructions with the attendant and found herself slowly walking towards Gem Cutter's lane.

---

Cyrene passed a few dozen denizens as she strolled along Gem Cutter's lane. She nearly almost instinctively curtsied to a tall, old woman carrying some heavy bundles in her hands. The woman paused in her route and slowly scrutinised Cyrene. A look of disgust pasted on her face but another look at her mage's cloak made the woman hold whatever thought she had, to herself. Despite being in one of the wealthy quarters of Sarenthill, Cyrene felt a cold shiver run down her spine as several eyes, not so friendly, with lecherous gazes follow her. For once, she felt thankful for the official Mages Collective cloak that she had on her. She wrapped the cloak around her, more tightly, covering the exposed portion of her thighs.

Shifting her attention to the row of shops lining the lane, she felt a gentle nudge from behind. Turning around, she immediately found that it was a young lad that had caught her eye. A bit tall and probably close to her own age, the lad was dressed to perfection. His formal dress in sky blue colour complemented his hair and icy blue eyes. He smirked at her innocently, no doubt his plan to slowly tease her into an interesting conversation. Cyrene found him adorable because girls liked lads like him and Cyrene is a girl. She is supposed to find him cute and interesting. Instead, as the exchanges went by, she found him menacing despite his good social graces. When he finally asked her for an evening dinner, Cyrene found her courage lacking.

"I am not free right now," she replied in a hesitant voice. She offered a feeble smile to camouflage her apprehension, as she knew that the lad was giving her no choice. Besides, now that he made his intentions clear, Cyrene was not certain if she could entertain him any further. She simply cannot take the lad to her chambers, not with the way her body is.

The smile didn't take much effort on his part. Forcing a grin, he asked, "So, when can I expect the honour?"

Cyrene bit her lip nervously and counted, "I am attached to a contingent bound for Ellisinore. But I could give you a courtesy call. If you still want to go for dinner."

The lad looked happy and mirthful. " I await your invitation then, my lady."

Extracting herself without giving any further details, Cyrene felt relieved as her eyes fell on the pastel-coloured daffodils-engraved signboard. Her feet eventually brought her through the doors of "The Fragrant Embrace." The scent of sweet vanilla, lavender and rose lingered on the air as she walked through the threshold. The interior was adorned with numerous rows of bottles of scented oils. A few of the shelves were lined with bottles of perfumed soaps, hand creams and bath bombs.

"How may I help you, my lady?" a petite woman, rather more mature than most of the staff greeted her. Her warm welcome slowly pulled in Cyrene from her clutches of hesitation.

"I am meeting over the week with some friends. What would you recommend as a gift?," said Cyrene, "Price is not a concern," explained the mage almost as an afterthought, feeling embarrassed at the question of price.

The woman brightened and smiled, "To be fair, all I can do is offer opinions. Though I think that someone like you, my lady, might not easily find the appropriate gift for a near stranger."

"She is a friend. I have known her for a while," Cyrene answered. The perfect view from the counter with a charming selection of fragrant oils drew her attention. She stopped near a shelf of a few silvery bottles and turned back to the woman.

"Red Rose and Midnight Hour, is what it is called, My Lady, but it is not a gift you would give to a female friend," said the woman.

"Why is that?" asked Cyrene.

The woman blushed deeply, eyes shifting in the corner, avoiding the direct gaze. Cyrene regretted immediately having said anything. The woman focused her attention on her hand eventually.

"My Lady, Red Rose is because it will give you deep, passionate, fiery flames that will not let your partner sleep until dawn. Midnight hour will fill you with an ocean of night clouds. Or to put it differently, a lady will drown in the sweet tenderness if the couple receives a pair of them."

Cyrene's eyes sparkled with excitement and anticipation, accompanied by crimson colouring her face as waves of blush roll through her.

"My Lady, is your friend a human?" asked the woman.

"She is High-elf," replied Cyrene, confused. She looked for any reaction from the woman.

"Then Red Rose and Midnight Hour would work better as a present for your friend," added the woman before quickly averting her gaze. Cyrene noticed the shift in her voice. Lowering her voice to a barely audible whisper, the woman added, "Those high elves are somehow more triggered by massage oils."

Before the eagerness of Cyrene, it was an unimportant fact for the woman to mention the aphrodisiacal effect of the perfume on the heightened olfactory nerves of the orcs. Or the subsequent ban of the perfume in Asterlund or any other territories boarding huge orc communities.

"I will have the Red Rose and Midnight Hour then," said Cyrene.

Taking another look at Cyrene, her smile and that demure expression that made her look innocent and clean, the gentle swaying of Cyrene's hips as she stood still with her weight on the delicate heel made the woman perk up a bit. Cyrene strolled towards the counter.

"It has a dash of ambrosia in it," the woman offered, handing the tall and narrow-lidded bottle wrapped with a satin bow around the neck and safely placed inside a small ornate box to Cyrene.

Just before Cyrene was about to take her leave, the woman stopped her and added, "So....you friend, like..... no orcs?"

The mage silently argued with herself for a moment. It is not like Antilorwe to immediately try gifts. She, eventually answered with a wide smile, "No, she is high-elf."

---

Cyrene paid a generous amount and rushed back to the Mages Collective. As soon as she stepped inside the courtyard, she found the extravagant carriage waiting for her. It's horse puffing on the cool evening breeze, while the two of the city guards stood on either side and her travelling luggage was already loaded. With a sigh of relief, she quickly grabbed a star chart guide from the divination circle before she opened up the door and hopped inside.

Paying a small curtsy nod, she let her escorts slam the door shut. Settling back into the rich scarlet-red leather seat, she noticed the velvet shades around the window offering her enough privacy to leave her alone with her thoughts.

She still questioned her own motive for spending a fortune on the perfume. Surely, she cannot expect anything to happen between the three of them. Not with Antilorwe, the high-elf and Urganza the Orc high-lady. After all, they are all women from different races. None of them will ever dream of something so scandalous. Besides, Karlienne had assured her on multiple occasions that she is saturated with a potent potion that would make a virile bull mammoth go limp. Nothing could ever excite the organ between her leg. In the end, Cyrene was determined to strike a friendship, genuine female friendship with Urganza and Antilorwe; like the ones that she read in stories, the sort of friendship where friends pull through tough times, sacrificing for each other. All those fun, gossip evenings, fine dining, expensive wine, poetries and art discussions, she will have it all. Idle chat, brushing hair, head pats, and exchanging stories, a first proper girls' sleepover. After all, nothing else could happen between girls.

Then the carriage took off.