This story involves extreme sex acts, hermaphrodites, bloodplay, very violent anal sex, and severe painplay in a long-term consensual non-consent relationship. Readers are advised to use the appropriate caution in approaching the subject matter contained within. Similarly, if you dislike stories about elves, switch off now. I recognize that some readers may prefer that content of that nature remain strictly in the SF/Fantasy section, but the predominant theme and purpose of this story is BDSM-centric.
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Humming softly to herself, Hainora rose from the bathtub to dry off, taking the towel offered by her valet and bastard, Lian'thera, and patting herself down for the first few moments before permitting the young woman (almost, but not quite, her spitting image) to take over, raising her arms for her. It wasn't quite what she'd always imagined great wealth to be like, but it was close, and she'd grown to find the bevy of beautiful women bathing her grew surprisingly stale, intrusive, demanding. This, somehow, was better, she noted with a slight sense of bemusement. It didn't quite seem to square, but it was despite all reason.
One muscular leg raised up to the small stool beside the bath, permitting Lian'thera wordlessly to continue as her mistress considered her reflection. She was, truthfully, a gruesome sight naked. It was another of those things that didn't quite make sense. Scars were heroic, scars were celebrated. So why, for all the poet's praise, were they so abysmally ugly? Her body was a patchwork of them. There were burns, old cuts, the particularly grisly sunken mark of a gunshot wound that hadn't quite healed right in her right shoulder. Only a handful were what she'd call handsome, let alone inspirational. But they were there to stay, and tonight, she would have to tolerate being seen naked with them.
Lian'thera paused, glancing up for permission before brushing the towel thoroughly over Hainora's hefty cock and balls. They hung low between her powerfully built thighs, almost crudely large and somewhat at odds with the rest of her body in a way that made her seem like a caricature, like the ancient Highborne insult statues that used a large cock to mock the supposed bestial temperament of those they were made to mock. At least it felt good, she considered, compared to the scars. There was a certain satisfaction to the heft of her cock, if it had to be there, a certain sense of potency.
No. It was not a beautiful body, she thought to herself as Lian'thera moved from her balls to her tautly muscled backside, like those that surrounded her daily. It was not handsome, either. But it was strong, and tough, and it was her's for good or ill. There was no choice but to accept it, to sigh at the wreckage of her reflection and move on. When Lian'thera stepped to the array of perfumes, she raised a hand and shook her head. Not for tonight - it wouldn't do.
Lian'thera dressed her in silence afterwards, sensing her curious mood. It was no doubt less out of any empathy that she kept quiet - Hainora was not certain this particular bastard of her's had any at all - but a wish to avoid being roughly reprimanded and used. Whatever the real reason, she was glad of it. Nights like this came only rarely these days, and they left her in a strange state of agitation. She felt as if a great tiger or lion, stalking its prey, all tension and building anticipation of the kill, so tightly wound she felt as if she might scream. It was always the mark of an excellent evening, but it somehow made the waiting intolerably tense.
As the sun drew low to the horizon, she kissed her wife, Bliss, on the cheek and excused herself, leaving for the older house that lay in the woods behind the veritable palace she had built for her. It was a short walk, not more than ten minutes, but she took the opportunity for a cigarette on the way. Her limp kept her from rushing in any case, and forced her to take the slower path in life, even at moments like this. The last rays of the sun turned the marble and granite of the palatial home she was leaving as red as beaten copper, and gave a bloodied hue to the duck pond. It was appropriate, she thought, as she cast aside the stub of her unfiltered cigarette and ground it out before turning to continue along the rough path.
The old house in the woods was much more of an intimate home than the palace, and she still missed it sometimes. It would have been too cramped by far with the many children, and it already bore the signs of piecemeal construction - materials that didn't quite match, an asymmetrical floorplan, some peculiar angles that had been forced in order to fit an extra room. It was run down compared to the impeccable maintenance of the big house, but no wonder, when its sole permanent occupant had no stomach for most people. There was only a single maid-of-all-work there to attend to it, and visits sometimes from the carpenters to keep up the wood. But it was familiar, home-y, welcoming as she took the path up to it, secure in the knowledge that the maid and the little girl who lived there were gone for the night.
She went around the back, to the old door by the kitchen, and found it unlocked, as she expected. Inside, there were the lingering smells of a thousand old meals, mixed with the fresher scent of the simple meal waiting for them to eat later, stewing away. She took just a moment to enjoy it, to reminisce, before she raised her eyes from the old kitchen table with its burn scars and cut marks and scratches to the almost silent padding of bare feet along the hallway.
The elf who entered the kitchen was nude, her body lithe and richly tanned in a way that showed she spent most of her time that way. Her shock of coppery hair was smooth and neat for a change, carefully brushed for the night, and the thick leather collar around her throat had been polished for it. Like Hainora, she was covered in scars, though her's were small, the reminders of scrapes and bites in the wild and not the marks of a soldier. She was much shorter, more feminine even with so little fat on her frame, and when she padded closer with a delicate smile on her feline features, it made her heart soften for a moment.
But that wasn't how this worked, not with this feral elf who spent her time living like an animal. They didn't sit down to dinner after a night at the theatre for date night like she did with Bliss, or laugh and get stoned like their daughter and her wife. Hainora greeted the elf not with a kiss or an embrace, but a sudden punch to the belly as she neared, knocking the wind from her lungs and doubling her over. She knew it was wrong, that this wasn't how marriage was supposed to work - she had enough lingering bad memories from seeing her father beat her mother to feel disgust at herself - but her cock twitched all the same in her leather pants, began to swell. It only got harder as she followed up with a fist in that beautiful, silky copper hair and hauled the toned elf up on to the table, forcing her to bend over it, ass in the air.
No. This was how they worked. Explosively, violently, wretchedly. The elf struggled against her grip, even managed to push herself up off the tabletop for a moment until Hainora slammed her other fist into her back. It was a careful blow, just far enough above her kidney to keep from inflicting real injury, but it made the elf scream and spasm before going limp all the same, and then Hainora began. She seized the bottle of olive oil from the counter behind her and fished her cock from her trousers, working the last dregs into her rapidly stiffening erection, and as the elf panted and began to recover, entered her hard and fast, driving into her asshole without a chance for her to relax or open. Her screams bounced off the walls, shrill and painful to both their sensitive ears, and it only made her harder.
She bent forward, hunching over the smaller elf, and yanked her head back to whisper in her ear. "Happy anniversary, Sonsine." This was how they worked now, after decades together. It was a distant memory, the way they'd played when they were first together - the light spankings, the careful sodomy. Over the years, they'd fed each other's worst impulses, pushed the other to go harder and harder until now this was them, until it was unthinkable to go back to how it once was. Until a punch to the solar plexus was as good as a kiss, and a stiff behemoth of a cock up the ass without lube as sweet as an 'I love you'.
Beneath her, Sonsine whispered an agonized 'happy anniversary' back while her nails dug into the scratched wood of the table. There was a ring around the center of it of small crescents, all roughly the same distance in - the natural spot her arms fell whenever this happened, whenever she was used this way. Hainora reached down between them, feeling at the mix. It was sticky now. There was blood. She didn't stop - she thrust, hard and fast, into her wife, her pet, her masochistic treasure. Each hard stroke was met with a scream of pain as she battered the redhead's insides, and each grew a little easier as Sonsine opened up. Each scream eased off a little, until they dropped to pained cries and grunts, and she began to rock back into the forceful use.
Hainora didn't need to check. Between her legs, Sonsine was sopping wet. She craved the pain, desperately needed it, and when it began to die away, so would her pleasure. They were in the sweet spot, but it would fade soon if she did nothing. She paused in her thrusts, panting from the effort, and looked about the kitchen. The oven was too hot to use, even for them. But there - the sink. Wrapping her arms around Sonsine's shoulders and locking her hands together behind her back, she lifted her with a groan of effort, keeping her stuck on her cock, and staggered to the sink, releasing her against the wooden counter only to force her head under the water.
