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.
