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

Urganza leisurely extended her well-toned legs, hiding her apprehension. The gorgeous girl that Cyrene has become, made her heart thrum restlessly. Her breathing arrested, every time those emerald eyes gazed at her. Those brilliant green eyes appeared to reflect a look of searing edge that cut straight to the soul. A tingling sensation akin to the affectionate caress of a gentle lover ran through her spine whenever she pushed her long silken hair with those slender fingers. Whatever sensations that raven-haired mage conjured, Urganza failed to curb the mounting desire stirring within her stomach, swirling like molten lava through her veins.

Eventually, melodious footsteps echoed, cascading the marble tiles of the stairs. Cyrene slowly eased her way through, walking with a delicate pose. With well-mannered grace, she carried a small velvet satchel that dangled from her dainty fingers, swaying close to her slim waist. A pink hue of exhilaration burned brightly on her delicate face. Draped in a deep rich blue cotton frock, with a bright purple shawl that hung loosely on her slender frame, she seemed to possess a feminine delicacy and a stunning elegance. Dangling subtle silver earrings decorated her ears, highlighting her slender neck and swung against her throat. Her soft features were framed with those lush ringlets, that complimented her delicate facial structure. Atop the vivid richness, Cyrene’s eyes sparkled with genuine warmth. Her coral lips pouted and contorted into a luscious curve.

An air of mystique emanated from Cyrene, enchanting Urganza. It seemed impossible for her to describe how girlish and lovely Cyrene looked when she glided down the stairs. She was an angel descending down to mortal realms.

Urganza felt every fibre of her being, react to the approach of Cyrene. She felt alive. Too alive. The mere sight of the tall shy beauty threw her off balance, unnerved. The almost weak and delectable scent of her perfume reminded her of a melting frosty morning. Chill yet promising a hope of warmth.

Suddenly, everything started to click into place, like unraveling a perplexing pattern, refusing to cease surprising her. The mage she met in Arlond only lit her passion, nudging it ever so lightly, but the innocent delicate girl before her inflamed the wellspring of feelings burning within Urganza’s wounded heart. It was the much-needed confirmation. Yes! The girl did indeed hold her fiery burning heart unknowingly in her hand.

Yet, Urganza felt rather alone in her discovery. Excitement continued to grow within her as Cyrene descended to the last step and slowly, swaying her slender hips, sauntered with delicate steps towards them. She wished that Cyrene would feel that spark of those same sentiments.

“.....What are you thinking about?” asked Cyrene with innocent curiosity.

Tilting her nose slightly upward, reaching the edge of her seat casually, the Orc Overlord Urganza met the young planar mage’s gaze, face glowing with expectation. the powerful Orc Warrioress suppressed a grimace. Before the dazzling beauty of Cyrene, words failed her.

“I hope you both enjoy my own taste, the whimsical touch with which I decorated and the delights that my Manor has to offer,” said Antilorwe brightly, in an effort to break the awkward silence that permeated the space between them. Something about the way she uttered “delights” sounded almost too lewd to Urganza.

Cyrene regarded Urganza curiously. Her emerald gaze seethed with emotion, darting intensely at the Orc sitting at the edge of the seat. Never had Urganza encountered someone who elicited such immense emotions in her. The moment Cyrene stood transfixed in front of her, almost too close for the Orc to feel the heat radiating from her, Urganza felt as if the cold dark corners of her thoughts, slithering around voraciously and crashing into the pale, creamy skin of the innocent creature before her.

Drawing deep breaths through her coral lips, Cyrene summoned every shroud of her courage, knitting her arched brows together in a squint of determination. Inhaling again, she fixed her gaze at Urganza. She liberated herself from her shackling trepidation and spoke.

“My actions were......No.... I was insensitive at Arlond. I was at my worst. You witnessed the lowest of me. I shall endeavour to do better. To raise myself,” apologised the young girl firmly. A resolute expression smoldered in her verdant eyes, while Urganza gaped wide-eyed at the mage, doing a painstaking job to remain still in front of the humble girl.

Undaunted before the powerful Orc Warrioress, the girl continued, earnestness flowing with her genuine words. “Your kind has always been stereotyped as savage barbaric creatures, but deep down, I always knew that there is sophistication in you. I learned a bit about your culture while seeking a suitable gift. I do not hope to placate your anger with my present but merely ask you to find in your heart to look beyond my transgressions.”

The gesture of Cyrene, rattled every emotion of Urganza. The weight of expectation inside her shifted heavily. Hope mixed with anticipation, rumbled harmoniously deep within her stomach. Tossing her head from side to side, in a vague attempt to conceal the physical transformation in herself, the Orc Overlord stood, focussing her attention on the pulchritudinous form of the girl.

Did Cyrene actually research about orcs and their culture?

The respected mage actually took time from her research. Surely that should mean something. And the fact that she asked for forgiveness and to move forward.

Does that mean Cyrene is not averse to the idea of entertaining private moments with her? To pursue a courtship?

Digging into her satchel, Cyrene held a small package wrapped with care. A single strand of green satin ribbon with silver embroidery, folded in the form of a heart by a single knot, wound around the gift. Urganza slowly reached out to unwrap the package and brought the gift closer to her chest. A precious gift needs to be held closer to the heart. That is how an Orc shows their appreciation. Suppressing the rising anticipation, she unfolded the pristine piece of fabric, gently holding the silky smooth sheet between her fingertips. Curious eyes widened as the satin lifted, revealing a small ivory case. The fruits of the labour of Divination Circle, crafted carefully to fine geometric precision.

Fluttering with faint expectations, Urganza flipped the lip of the ivory case. The intricate arcane mechanism clicked, transforming the ivory case into a square board. Made of beautifully inlaid white enamel, the smooth surface provided an exquisite first glimpse of the multitude of lines and etched curves connecting abstract symbols; thin as a hairline with barely visible arcane weaving pulsing through them.

Urganza caught herself unconsciously staring at Cyrene, whose pupils dilated with obvious intrigue.

“This is for you,” said Cyrene sweetly.

At the words of the mage, the spellbound Urganza moved her hands across the surface. The movable tile pieces slowly switched, following the geometric directives dictated by the Divination Circle. Seemingly random dots, connected by arcane etchings that glowed as the constellation finally sprung into view. Urganza’s bright amber eyes sharpened as the familiar starsigns from the tales of the Shamans manifested on the small board. The Maiden first blinked into existence, outlined by a dazzling purple glow. Then the Stag in green followed. A joyous triumph raced inside her. Slowly more constellations blinked into existence, more spectacular and magnificent than Urganza could have imagined. But her lovelorn mind, stood transfixed on the Maiden and the Stag.

“I too have a gift for you....I mean... for the two of you,” corrected Urganza. “I will fetch it now.” Blurting out those words and with the agility of a virile antelope, Urganza sprung away.

Having received Cyrene’s gift and realising the symbolism it represents, the patience to stay and witness the gift for Antilorwe failed her. Urganza could not risk a delay to brood on the growing elation. She experienced a pleasurable flutter deep inside.

The mage, indeed, did possess a certain air of mystery and that only added to her charm. Cyrene, despite the circumstances of her birth, could be coy as any girl could be. Of course, that was her way of dropping subtle hints. To speak out with impunity and willingness about one’s desire for another was not a trivial matter. Rather than abandoning her modesty, Cyrene took her pains to make every gesture count. She had informed herself about the way of the Orcs. The Maiden, to represent her awakening and the Stag, the constellation for hunt or pursuit. Cyrene wants to be pursued.

There simply is no other plausible explanation for why else would she educate herself about the orcs and present a star chart, the only gifts where the Maiden and the Stage could appear simultaneously.

Urganza was convinced that fortune was smiling on her. Rummaging through her belongings, she grabbed the carefully wrapped package containing both gemstones.

When Urganza returned, she found Cyrene laughing melodiously to Antilorwe. The peal of her laughter only added to the mellifluous magnificence of the hall, pulling Urganza into a higher realm. Suddenly, Antilorwe reached Cyrene, embracing the girl in a not-so-subtle hug. Their lips, almost close as Antilorwe slightly nudged the girl.

Urganza gasped at the sight.

Their tenderness laced with gracefulness in the two being before her was divine, accentuating the strong pull in the Orc’s heart. Her gaze roved, searching through the space between the two, but the will failed her. Where Urganza expected to face jealousy, she was greeted with something far more potent. She could not, try as hard as she would, withdraw her fiery amber eyes from the scene before her.

Finally, Antilorwe broke the contact.

“Sugarplum,” the gorgeous Elf Maiden cooed, twirling a loose tendril of Cyrene’s hair in her slender fingers, “The Orc Overlord has brought her gifts.”

Urganza, instinctively, went down on one knee before the adorable mage and the dazzling diplomat. Just like those knights in tapestries kneeling before their monarch that Urganza often witnessed in cities. In the palms of her raised hands, rested an opulent emerald and a brilliant ruby. Each delicate gem set in either hand, harmonised with the perfect beings before her. It felt odd, standing like that before the two of them, as though Urganza was an insignificant creature granted the right to bask in the glory of the two ethereal maidens. Yet, the haughty aura remained intact with her. No doubt about it, Cyrene knows what Urganza’s heart desires.

Hesitation held the girl’s hands, for a brief interminable moment, but seeing Antilorwe reach out and graciously accept the gift, Cyrene, shattered the shackles of trepidations and slowly grabbed the dazzling gem in her fingers.

“Thank you,” said Cyrene kindly, “but there is no need to kneel for such a sweet gesture.”

Seeing Antilorwe and Cyrene clutch their gemstones made Urganza realise, how much the quality and colour difference has changed in the hands of their new owners. Perhaps, could they alter the emotions of their owners as well? More importantly, could the ruby and emerald change the landscape of their hearts? Urganza pushed aside all those eager anticipating thoughts, taking only pleasure in gazing at Cyrene and Antilorwe’s exhilarated faces. Unable to tear her eyes away from the eager smile of both the creatures, Urganza became acutely aware of the sharp ache in her soul.

Antilorwe turned her attention to Cyrene, who flickered her eyes with curious intensity. Without uttering a word, the pair shared looks of understanding.

“Cyrene,” whispered Antilorwe, placing her index finger beneath the chin of the girl, slowly lifting her flustered oval face.

Cyrene felt her whole persona gradually slip away at the touch of the Elf Maiden.

“Since she knelt like a Knight before a Lady, it is only proper that you grace the Orc Overlord Urganza with a dance.” Antilorwe gently circled her arm around the girl’s own.

At Antilorwe’s action, Cyrene clung to her and looked with radiant beams streaming through her pale skin, hiding her growing bashfulness behind a blissful smile.

“But why only me?” asked Cyrene.

“I beg your pardon, Little Lady,” teased Antilorwe, “We both owe her a dance. But not before we get you into something more appropriate, something more leisurely, for the evening.”

Sensing Cyrene’s hesitation, she added, “Just between us, treat it like a girls makeover.”

Hearing those words, a sudden brilliant bloom washed over Cyrene's delicate face, brightening the hall. Luminescence beyond comparison.

Looping her arms around the girl’s narrow waist, Antilorwe pulled the ever-willing girl towards her private chambers, but not before beaming a mischievous hot-as-you-like smirk at Urganza.

--

Cyrene’s face blushed a deep crimson when Antilorwe led her to her private solar. Seating herself on a plump soft cushions, she admired the ceiling above her head. The rich magnificence of Antilorwe’s very private chamber left her speechless. Ever since the Lady of the Manor ushered her with soft giggles, she let herself dazed by the decadent display of lascivious luxury. The quarters offered not only a spacious private room but was conveniently tucked away from the prying eyes of innocent guests. With ornate ceiling lamps and brightly coloured soft fabrics all around, Cyrene felt herself being absorbed by a very inviting velvet nest that suddenly sprung without warning. Looking up, she found Antilorwe swaying along the intricate room divider to a nearby smaller door.

With a mischievous grin, the Lady of the Manor opened the door, letting her maid saunter in with carefully measured steps.

“My Lady,” almost purred the maid, “let us get you out of those clothes.”

Her words staggered Cyrene. But not as much as Antilorwe’s current disposition. Her breathing nearly arrested from the suggestion as she softly asked, “Disrobe?”

Filled with discomfort and embarrassment, Cyrene could only sign her confusion by frowning.

So Antilorwe continued, gently pulling the embarrassed girl closer to a full-length ornate mirror with gilded edges. The girl reflected in the mirror was engulfed in deep shades of blush. Cyrene could barely believe what her own verdant eyes saw.

“Sugarplum, what do you see in the mirror?” purred Antilorwe.

“I..... I ....” Cyrene struggled.

“What do you see in the mirror, Little Lady?” Despite the rich timbre of the Elf Maiden’s voice, the utterance carried the edge of sharpened steel. A subtle dominant hue laced with those words.

“....” Silence.

With one languid gesture, Antilorwe sent Cyrene a wicked grin. Undaunted and without any preamble, Antilorwe removed the purple shawl from Cyrene and passed it nonchalantly to her maid to disappear.

“I see a gorgeous girl. Your....Skin.....Is.....Magnificient. Absolute. Without any blemish. It is a sin to hide these tantalizing gifts from the eyes of others,” purred Antilorwe.

Every single utterance of the elven diplomat waged a war inside Cyrene. Every word spoken seemed to echo inside the girl’s head, intensifying a host of emotions. She felt her will subsequently crumbling.

The Lady of the Manor, slowly let the back of her fingers move up the girl’s exposed arm, letting sweet whispers flow along the caress. Every fine hair in the body of the mage responded, bristling to the quivering anticipation. Antilorwe still feigned nonchalance, as her elven fingers reached towards the knots of Cyrene’s frock.

Cyrene’s breathing became erratic. Despite what the logical part of her brain screamed, she found the touch of Antilorwe robbing her of the willpower to deny.

Suddenly, a pool of clear water welled in those vivid verdant eyes.

“I cannot,” gasped the girl, “I mean, I can change myself.”

Her protests were only a tiny whimper that escaped her lips, wishing only for a miracle to deliver her.

But Antilorwe did not consolidate her position by acceding to demands. She earned her place by alleviating unspoken fears and facilitating middle ground. With one flash of caring attention in the depth of her eyes, Antilorwe addressed the mage’s weak protests.

“Sugarplum, do you know why women’s blouses have buttons on the opposite side?”

“Because,” struggled Cyrene with the unexpected question. She was caught off guard. The incandescent beads of sweat forming on her temples did little to help her in formulating a suitable answer.

“Girls are..... We are differently connected in the head,” answered Cyrene while her face turned a deeper shade of scarlet.

“Silly girl,” admonished Antilorwe with a peal of laughter escaping her peachy plump lips.

Confused, Cyrene felt a wave of blush wash over her. One moment she was surrounded by a dark ashen cloud of apprehension and then felt this. The girl stared bewildered at the elf, unsure if anything she felt was even true.

“It is because you are supposed to let the maid dress you up. So young Lady here is your first lesson. Do not be modest in front of the maid,” replied Antilorwe playfully.

“Must I?” asked the girl shyly, finding her voice again. The hidden meaning behind those two words, evident to any who knew her past.

“Of course sugarplum. My maid here is handpicked. I assure you she is professional in her capacity. No judgements. Besides, it is only us girls here. Nothing will ever leave this room,” coaxed Antilorwe, reaching out to pinch the girl’s nose. She then proceeded to pull Cyrene forward by her waistline, squeezing her body against hers.

As Cyrene’s blood heated up, she wondered if her mother ever taught her that just because a Lady invited another girl into her room, does not mean they could do whatever they wanted. As that thought, Cyrene added a single surprised giggle -- for a multitude of reasons.

Antilorwe pulled the starry-eyed girl closer, much closer and said, “There is an old elven spell to calm anxious little girls. Would you like me to cast it on you?”

Only a feeble affirmation lodged itself in Cyrene’s throat. Her mind ravaged by unknown emotions ached for the comforting presence radiating from Antilorwe. She dared not to refuse the offer of the High-Elf enchantress. Rather she craved the warmth promised.

Antilorwe slowly raised her arms, the tips of her index- and middle- fingers sensuously massaging Cyrene’s temples.

A chill ran down Cyrene’s spine as her back arched. Their shoulders pressed together. Cyrene found the familiar curve of the tall willowy Elf Maiden’s cleavage comforting.

“Close your eyes, sugarplum,” instructed Antilorwe.

Cyrene could not resist those words. No simple request but rather a command forcing its way into her consciousness. Forcing her to submit to the magical creature.

As soon as she closed her eyelids, she felt the tender warmth of Antilorwe’s lips on hers. The Lady of the Manor has stolen a kiss from her. A small peck. Too light to be a kiss. Too playful to be an innocent peck.

Catching Antilorwe’s playful gaze, waves of blush washed over Cyrene as she said, “There was no magic. Was there even a spell?”

“The cute and surprised expression on your face was the real magic,” flirted Antilorwe with a gentle sibilant whisper.

Though initially just a fleeting fancy, the Elf Maiden’s voice did not belie the nature of her fascination with the girl. Nor was the Lady of the Manor oblivious to the lust rising inside Cyrene when their steamy breaths mingled. Trying to contain her own rising amusement, Antilorwe smiled wistfully, as she noticed the wide eyes of her maid studying Cyrene’s virgin flesh.

Antilorwe began undoing the fastenings of the girl’s frock. Encouraged by the action of her Mistress, the maid needed no invitation. With two pairs of hands brimming with enthusiasm, they gently guided Cyrene’s frock apart. Both Lady and maid continued, gingerly pulling the folds of the frock away from the trembling girl, slowly unveiling her pearly white skin. Careful with every movement of her hands, the maid ensured that the enchanting moment would stay imprinted in her memory for later.

Four hands slowly traced curves on Cyrene’s naked skin, as they slid the fabric off her. A trail of goosebumps tickled the surface of Cyrene’s creamy white skin. She writhed under the lingering touch of both the Mistress and the Maid. Playful fingertips danced lightly across the flesh of her throat and shoulders, extracting enticing gasps from her. In her state of sublimated arousal, she found it hard to maintain control, to stifle the tiny whimpers escaping her coral lips.

“Let’s keep going,” encouraged Antilorwe, while pushing the falling ebony locks from the girl’s face and locking contact with her lush verdant green eyes. Cyrene felt her own frame trembling, robbed of all strength, she locked hands with Antilorwe. The Lady of the Manor’s voice, both soothing and commanding. Cyrene found her own will sapped and another unexplainable emotion taking root in its place.

Reaching beneath the cotton fabric, the maid undid the final strap holding the fabric. In a lightning instant, the maid caught the hem of the frock, allowing them to slide down Cyrene’s narrow hips, caressing both her cheeks. Another frustrating moment later, her garments disappeared into nothingness, leaving Cyrene clad only in her strophium and subligaculum to protect her modesty.

Despite the encouraging gaze of Antilorwe and the non-judgemental demeanour of the maid, Cyrene felt vulnerable and desperately wanted the touch of something heavy against her body. Her virginity held so much value to her heart, and now she needed to hold onto something else that mattered more, the secret she guarded. She stared at Antilorwe, eyes filled with pain.

The Elf Maiden took a step closer and asked, “Do you trust me, my sweet Cyrene? Because before me stands a beautiful creature, precious and hurt. Trust me and I will transform you into the most elegant woman in the land.”

Staring into the mirror, Cyrene only saw a malformed being. No trace of the elegant woman that Antilorwe spoke off. Shoulders not narrow enough, hips not wide enough, jawline too broad, a mauled forehead..... Cyrene could only bite her lips, drawing warm blood, to prevent herself from screaming. Her strophium barely held anything to serve its purpose and her subligaculum. Her carefully worn subligaculum. Despite her meticulous attempts, that unsightly swell behind her subligaculum, a deep festering cancerous tissue, forced her to confront its presence.

Sweat cascaded down her features. The elegant room, twisted in a swirl, soon reduced to a maelstrom of odium. The terrible beast inside roared. Craved. Tormenting her with unwavering savagery. The traitorous fiend crushed her already deflating resolve. Cyrene wanted to escape the flesh cage that held her fragile physical self. Being doused in the flames of abyss, to be eternally marred would have been better than to face the ignominious form in the mirror.

Cyrene wanted to flee, to let go of the stunning Elf Maiden. Move further away. To wail endlessly in silence. Just like how she bore it all for years, bearing vile insults until one day it became impossible to continue existing under such torturous conditions. It happened at dusk, dawn, twilight, day or night, the devious torment within, ravaging her in its worst and deadliest form. The maddening beast mangled her from within, sapping her vigour, slowly devouring her mind.

Only the gentle hold of Antilorwe, eased Cyrene’s pain. The High-Elf diplomat placed a tender kiss on the cheek of the battered girl, letting her warmth flow through that fair complexion. The look in Antilorwe’s eyes spoke volumes to Cyrene.

The girl felt empowered by her action. A perverse thrill passed through her veins as she felt Antilorwe lift her chin and made her confront the mirror. Gone was the self-loathing festering inside her, replaced by shame. Not the sheer unadulterated shame but shame laced graciously with something else. Something that made her heart pump vigorously, pumping boiling blood through her veins, forcing the deep slumbering organ tucked behind her subligaculum to stir.

Biting her lip, and in the grasp of sheer panic, she whispered, “This cannot be. Karlienne promised that this would never happen.”

But Antilorwe’s attention was directed at her maid, who carried a green lasciviously cut dress in her hands. The shimmering glow of the satin evening gown along with its gossamer-thin fabric left very little to the imagination of those who gaze upon her figure. The implication made Cyrene blush even more. The deep-cut vesture, hugging, revealing every delightful curve of her supple body. The wide cut in the gauzy material, running up, till the hips, leaving tantalizing hints, half glimpses of her firm silken ass. Atop the waistline, embroidered with delicate golden threads; were six small silk tassels, tied in a knot, intended to sway to the rhythm of her hips, further increasing her allure.

“The cut is too low. You cannot wear a strophium with this evening gown, my Lady,” said the maid, before tossing the gown at Antilorwe’s extended hand.

The Lady of the Manor, brushed gently along Cyrene’s slim figure, as she moved around the girl with swift gracefulness to hold the delicate piece of fabric close to the girl’s bare shoulders. A mischievous twinkle gleamed in her hazel eyes as she witnessed the ever-raging struggle in Cyrene’s loin.

“Remove her brassiere,” ordered Antilorwe to her willing maid.

Cyrene recoiled at those words. Beauty. Magnificence. Manners. Charm. Elegance. Yet, these are not what earned Antilorwe, her reputation. Cyrene realised it was the subtle aura of dominance residing in her, only revealing when the situation demands.

Without a word, the woman loosened the knots of Cyrene’s strophium. Cyrene blushed in shame, as bare pink nipples peaking out from her tiny rosebud like breasts. There is something about the sight that made Cyrene ache more. She felt a strange feeling creep inside her bones. To wallow in shame at the ironclad command of the Elf Maiden, while staring at her own nature’s curse. One of the simplest pleasure and the realisation of her disgrace.

Then, another thought resurfaced. One that made her shake her head in disbelief.

To be paraded on a leash -- held by the stunning Antilorwe. Cyrene laying prone upon soft velvet bed, lying straight on her back. Her wrists and ankles, shackled by soft silken cuffs, smooth yet restraining. At a single authoritative command from the Lady of the Manor, the maid pulling the silken cord through a contraption, forcing her arms and legs apart. Antilorwe’s peachy lips, swirling, dancing upon her tender rosebud nipples, ignoring her own plea. Kisses pressing harder, insistent and endless. With carmine red nails, Antilorwe scratching her smooth torso, adoring her creamy thighs, pinching her deliciously tight tummy and rubbing her swollen rosy flesh with skilled fingers.

Antilorwe pinching her nipples, just tender enough to elicit a painful moan of pleasure from her lips. The tall willowy Elf Maiden clad only in a tight corset and knee-high boots, her smooth alluring ass and lush pink folds exposed, rubbing her dripping juices that drooled from her slit all over the restrained Cyrene, while the curious maid, stood watching the exchange. The presence of the maid, barely a hindrance, only accentuated the thrill of the forbidden and shameful pleasure for Cyrene.

On a whim, the Lady of the Manor whipping her skin with those same silken cords that constricted her limbs. Brushing upon the budded flesh of her tits, making her shudder at every pass. The occasional pinch would sting, leaving her silent cries vibrating through her flesh. Antilorwe’s velvet-gloved hand, slapping on her pain-seeking ass. The thunderous echo of her tenderly cruel act reverberating through the walls of the bedchamber.

Bending the poor girl’s back, exposing her flesh to her will, to her desire. Running her nails over Cyrene’s sensitive flesh, teasingly bruising, milking the flow of thick honey from her slit, staining the fine pristine skin with traces of her leaking nectar. An arcing leather whip cracking and piercing on her white skin, producing a light pink gash.

Moaning and sobbing, Cyrene with her arms twisted by silken cords extended from above, turned around by those gentle hands of Antilorwe. The Elf Maiden adjusting the straps around her hips, placing the tail end of the fake organ into the crack of her ass. The soft tender voice of Antilorwe enticing Cyrene to surrender the pain for a sensual pleasure, while delicately probing her, as if placing the last jewel in an intricate costume. Thrusting the head of her toy further into the fleshy folds of her cheeks, lifting Cyrene up, reaching, bending forward to grab. Cyrene thrusting her receptive hole backwards to eagerly accommodate more of Antilorwe’s tender administrations.

The powerful uninvited mental image shattered. Like a million pieces of a single mirror, each one clear and vivid, yet filled with a different image. Varied perspectives. Each tantalizing and stimulating the addled mind of Cyrene further.

In some, Antilorwe with her crafted shafted, fitting itself snuggly against the edge of her gape, taking her other entrance to depths unknown to a virgin maiden. Swivelling her hips, hitting just the right spot, sending the fake shaft plunging deep with Cyrene. Her tone, heavy with lust. Her warm hazel eyes, focussing intensely on the girl writhing beneath her dominant care.

In another, Cyrene lowering her head, submissive under Antilorwe’s possessive grasp. Sudden sharp stabbing pain coupled with the sinking teeth of Antilorwe on her shoulders. The slender fingers of the Elf Maiden rubbing Cyrene’s pink slit so soothingly, until Antilorwe slipped a finger inside her wet cunt. Moving deeper and deeper with each passing moment, before the lustful drinking eyes of the maid. Sinking further, till the fingertips reaching the depth of Cyrene’s slit, gripping her entrance with painful pressure. Slowly pushing the tip of her digit into her womb. Cyrene grasping, unable to speak, crying out in ecstasy while twisting, attempting to give herself to the soothing invading presence of Antilorwe’s magical invasion.

Scenes shifting, Cyrene still held thrall by a dominant Antilorwe, penetrated by the Lady of the Manor’s artificial ministrations. But Antilorwe’s fingers now grasped her shaft. Slowly peeling back the foreskin, while whispering soft crooning words in her ears. Excitement writhed within her heart, swirling in inner sanctum, as Antilorwe continued to stroke her organ with gentle care. Her psyche, filled with sensuous delectations. With every thrust, making her growing need to release, undeniable; engulfing her in infernal flames of carnal nature.

Yet, in another image, Cyrene has been branded. Penetrated by a crude tool wielded by Antilorwe. Used as a fucking doll to pound her sore young cunt against the hard cell walls. All it took was one flick of Antilorwe’s wrist to allow the strange contraption at the other end of the tool, to allow the laden bulb to spring free, spewing hot jets of squirt inside her tender maiden quim.

Each mental invasion, overwhelming her until her senses failed to distinguish. From the glistening, demanding pearl to the stiff shaft, these mental images fueled her desires, propelling them towards an ascending cliff of ultimate sensation. Urging her to submit, to open her thighs wider and wider, accepting Antilorwe’s dominant care with willing submission. As the images assaulted her repeatedly, mangling her sense of self, splintering and fracturing any sanity she possessed. She drowned under the torrential onslaught of images and sensation. Her will snapped. Her body trembled with exquisite ecstasy while she lingered on the precipice of orgasmic bliss. Pulsating ripples, pouring through her flesh, while glowing sparks exploded within her, shattering her senses with a searing climax.

A wave of tiredness accompanied by a warm pungent fluid discharge in the loins -- staining her subligaculum -- made Cyrene acutely aware of her trouble as she recoiled from the after effect.

“I will bring some washcloth to clean,” offered the maid without any callous judgement. Reaching the door with haste, she turned and added as an afterthought, “I will bring some fresh string-tied undergarment. None of our will fit her slender form.”

Cyrene watched her retreating form, while her thoughts still swirled around the fresh mental stimulation. The mage paled. A dark cloud of apprehension mingled with a generous quantity of guilt and shame marred her facial features. No longer could she stand upright. Feeling sick and convulsing at the traitorous act of her own body, she sagged, only to find the comforting hold of Antilorwe supporting her. The girl wanted to curl up in a fetal position and cry. Trembling, broken, inarticulate with her own feelings, frustration, embarrassment and shame. Any attempt at defending herself would only ensure her ignominy further.

“Sugarplum, what happened was something natural. Perfectly normal,” cooed Antilorwe with nurturing warmth.

“It was powerful,” stammered between sobs, “I.....could....not anticipate.”

Antilorwe slowly pulled Cyrene closer, brushing her long lustrous flowing hair to let the cleansing moonlight spread over her adorable flourishing feminine features. The Elf Maiden added, “If it is any consolation, my maid had to clean my blood-stained undergarments and bedcovers. It could not get worse.”

Sensing the pale girl still unresponsive to her mesmerizing comfort, Antilorwe steeled her resolve not to abandon her.

“Would it bring a smile to your face, if I let you in on a secret? I have had similar accidents too,” winked Antilorwe, her cheeks sparkling. Tender caresses wiped the tears flowing down Cyrene’s creases, on her otherwise smooth skin.

Laying the back of her hand against Cyrene’s forehead, the Lady of the Manor added, “My precious Cyrene, powerful orgasms start not in the body but in the head.”

With gentle strokes smoothing the long shinning locks, making no effort to mask her wicked delight she added, “Now all we need is to find someone to fuck you senseless.”

Cyrene’s little coral lips parted in shock and denial. The twice-shocked girl could barely believe that the graceful and elegant High-Elven diplomat had it in her to utter something so uncouth and direct.

“Makes me wonder, what powerful image did push you over the edge? Was it a picture of frolicking with Urganza under a sheet? Or, did you fantasize about performing the Urganza and you performing the two-backed beast? With you in control?” Antilorwe continued with hushed delight.

The deep shade of blush returned to the mage’s face as the High-elf diplomat spoke. Each conjecture was more vivid and detailed than the previous.

Adjusting the folds of the green evening gown on the feminine frame of Cyrene, Antilorwe added, “Perhaps over a glass of wine in one of the evenings, you could tell me all about that fantasy.”

Cyrene dared not to. In fact, she terribly wished to forget those images festering deep inside her mind.