Author's Note: This story is dedicated to my best friend Yang, who never got to read it but spent the last eight years inspiring me to make filthy, filthy things. Godspeed, my good man - if there's an afterlife, may it be filled with boba tea shops and people who call you Daddy.
-
Imrahil spends a lot of her time naked, these days. Today it is on her knees beside Lady Aranel's seat on the sofa, dozing with her head in her Lady's lap and her Lady's fingers carding through her soft blonde curls. Lord Calanon and Lady Aranel have taken to treating her as a normal part of their lives now, keeping her at their sides as they go about their daily business in the palace, and thinking about the stability of this new life as their treasured plaything always brings a burst of warmth to her chest.
Stability is, of course, not the only thing warming her up inside. When her Lord and Lady are feeling playful, their fingers spend far more time tugging at the sensitive new rings through her nipples than they do stroking her hair. Her Lord will come up behind her and nibble at the sensitive tips of her long ears, bending her forward over the nearest surface as his hands make short work of her skirts and the buttons on his trousers. She often wakes in the night in the throes of pleasure, her Lady's fingers deep in her pussy and rubbing circles over her clit.
She stumbles away from these encounters dazed and dripping, long ears and pert nipples red and tortured, all too often plugged up tight with their preferred toy. Her Lord and Lady seem nearly obsessed with filling her up and leaving her to squirm and suffer, unable to even take a step without their toys shifting deep inside her, pressing hard in just the right places to make her see stars.
Imrahil forces herself back to wakefulness at the sound of Lord Calanon's voice. He sounds stressed, and Lady Aranel's hands have stilled in her hair. She makes a soft noise of protest, but her Lady does not continue.
"...I believe it is dying," Lord Calanon is saying as he turns on his heel in front of Lady Aranel's chair. "I have been unable to get it to accept any of the alternatives. It came after me like a wounded animal."
Imrahil peers up at Lord Calanon. His dark hair, usually combed smooth down his back, is tangled and frizzy around his shoulders. He paces back and forth across the floor of the sitting room, leaving muddy boot prints on the carpet. Lord Calanon is usually strict about cleanliness, with Lady Aranel not far behind him, but neither one of them says a word about it.
Lady Aranel sighs. "So it needs an elf as a host," she says, brushing strands of silvery hair back out of her face, "And it will die without one. Is there no one who will agree?"
Lord Calanon shakes his head. "I can hardly blame them for saying no," he says. "No amount of gold or glory could ever bring one of our citizens to agree to such a thing."
Imrahil has oft been accused of being a little mouthy. Out of sheer curiosity, she decides to take the plunge anyway. "Are you sacrificing someone?" She asks.
Lord Calanon and Lady Aranel look down at her. Lord Calanon's anxious expression softens, and his lips curl up into something that is almost a smile. "Not quite."
Lady Aranel has a gleam in her eye now, a gleam that Imrahil recognises. It's the look on her face when she's come up with something particularly brutal, some form of torture that will drag Imrahil to the edge with pain and pleasure and leave her desperately, fruitlessly
wanting.
Imrahil shivers. She can't help it. "You know, Calanon," Lady Aranel says, "Imrahil is not one of our people."
Imrahil is well aware that much distinguishes her from the elves of the western shores. Her golden curls and tan skin stand out in a crowd of shiny dark hair and pale faces, but her mannerisms set her apart even more so; she is chatty where they are quiet, and outspoken where they are deferential. She runs with her skirts hitched up and makes no secret of her willingness to get her hands dirty. Perhaps most of all, the Wood-Elves that inhabit the eastern forests are unashamed of their bodies and their love for one another, and Imrahil has always been a proud example of her kind.
She still laughs privately at her Lord and Lady's assumption that they had been sent a virgin. As if!
It had been difficult, at first, living amongst a people so different from her own. Imrahil had expected that Lord Calanon and Lady Aranel would be stuffy and boring, that they would shy away from caring for her needs and leave her to her own devices - it's all she'd ever known about the elves of the West and their lack of proclivities. She knows better now, of course. Lord Calanon's intimidating collection of butt plugs and Lady Aranel's fondness for the paddle had set her straight immediately. Who could have thought that the elves of the West were merely repressed, desperate and burning for one another behind closed doors?
Lord Calanon contemplates Imrahil, gazing down at her with the piercing blue eyes that she so adores. The hunger is clear in his expression, and she feels her face flush red to the tips of her ears.
Her Lord and Lady have something planned, then. Something devastating.
Imrahil cannot
wait
.
Lord Calanon laughs quietly at the look on her face. "Already wanting for it, I see," he says fondly. "You do not even know what it is we have in store, and yet you are half-begging." He reaches down and ruffles her hair, already a little mussed from resting in Lady Aranel's lap. "Perfect slut."
Lady Aranel's fingers brush over Imrahil's lips, and she opens her mouth obediently. Her Lady's thumb presses in, and Imrahil sucks, eyes fluttering shut. Lady Aranel laughs. "Perfect slut indeed. She can take anything we give her, I should think. Even this."
Another shudder runs through Imrahil's body.
Even this
. Her Lord and Lady have put her through so much in their bed... she can hardly imagine what could be
worse
.
And just as they say, no matter what it may be, she
craves
it.
Lord Calanon sits down across from them, and Imrahil opens her eyes all the way to watch him. He smiles at her, ever so fond as always. "There is a rare plant that is originally native to the furthest western edges of our continent. It produces seeds that can be made into the strongest medicine known to our people. It can cure nearly any ill that befalls Elves or Men."
Imrahil watches him with interest. Lord Calanon is a brilliant healer by nature and by trade, and she has seen him perform nothing short of miracles.
Lord Calanon takes a breath. "We ran out of seeds years ago, and this plant... is the last one of its kind. The sea has long since swallowed up most of its natural habitat."
"The plant is dying," Lady Aranel interrupts, as she often does with Lord Calanon's scientific exposition. "It needs to breed, and to breed it will require a host."
Imrahil swallows. "A host?"
Lord Calanon nods. "Aye, a host. An elf."
"We
do
know a
very
slutty elf, do we not, Husband?" Lady Aranel asks sweetly.
Lord Calanon smiles again. "We do. In fact, we own one."
The flush of red spreads down Imrahil's neck and across her chest. Her Lord and Lady do not let her forget that she is their concubine, bought mere months ago from her home far across the mountains. She loves it; she does not want to forget.
"She is no stranger to taking things that should be too large for her," Lady Aranel says, "and holding them." Her fingers trace down Imrahil's chest and across her stomach, over the bulge from the plug that shifts inside Imrahil with each moment. Imrahil gasps and squirms as Lady Aranel presses down, which does nothing to relieve the pressure. It is too much and not enough all at once, like everything they give her.
"Yes, my Lord, yes, my Lady," she whispers, voice hitching. "I am yours, to do with as you please."
Lord Calanon rises, and takes Imrahil's leash from where it loops over the arm of the sofa. "That you are. It is settled, then."
The shift of the plug inside Imrahil as she stands is nearly unbearable, and she cries out. Lord Calanon and Lady Aranel merely watch as she clings to the arm of the sofa, offering no help. They have trained Imrahil well, stretched her ass wider than she ever could have imagined, but moving with something inside her may always be too much.
One step at a time takes her into the garden, Lord Calanon tugging on the lead each time she falters. The soft grass under her feet and the warm breeze of summer on her skin cannot compare to the stretch of the plug, and she focuses on breathing through the jolts of pain and pleasure that run through her body.
"Do you suppose we should tell her what will happen?" Lady Aranel says thoughtfully, falling into step alongside Imrahil and reaching out to tug at one nipple ring.
Imrahil has to dip her head to gasp at the sensation, but she can hear the smile in Lord Calanon's voice. "No. She likes not knowing. She likes to be forced."
Imrahil does like to be forced. She
does
. "Yes," she says breathlessly, "Yes, Milord, I
do
."
Lord Calanon pauses, then, and then he's tilting her chin up and claiming her lips in a deep, hungry kiss. She whimpers into the kiss as the plug inside her presses against his thigh, and tears fill the corners of her eyes by the time he pulls back. "Good girl," he says, dragging his thumb over her lip, "
our
good girl."
Lady Aranel's fingers trail down between Imrahil's legs, grazing teasingly over her clit before dipping into the folds of her pussy, and Imrahil cries out. "Please!" She's
so
wet,
so
ready to be fucked. Whatever they have in store for it, she
needs
it, and she couldn't care less about the details. Lady Aranel pulls her fingers back after only a moment, and Imrahil nearly sobs with desperation. "Please,
