In the language of the Sotilla Amazons, this place was called "The Pen of Brides". Sun never touched it. It was a domain of warm dusk, where shadows danced around fires in seductive twirls. Many figures moved about, half hidden in the darkness; the Brides, as the Sotilla called them. They could not be clearly seen unless close to a fire, but their outlines were clearly feminine -- petite and lithe, with youthful allure.
Moans filled the air, and sounds of strained breathing, and the subtle perturbations of wet flesh touching wet flesh. The Brides, when not in use by a rutting Amazon, were kept to their own devices; what devices, then, would a creature molded exclusively for sex seek out? They touched each other, kissed each other, explored each other. Loved each other. Their minds were clouded with the overpowering aroma of sardonic incense. They were beautiful, the Brides. Hand-crafted by the Sotilla flesh-melders into an image of slender lust, with only their small, elegant, dysfunctional penises and shapely yet utterly minuscule breasts hinting at their true sex. For the Sotilla, the Brides were to deliver pleasure without consequence. When a Sotilla rut a woman, she gets pregnant. When she ruts a man, he does not. Thus, their wisdom was such: rut a man who looks like a woman, and be greatly pleasured, and do not inflict the fruits of your seed upon the Sotilla before time calls.
Such were the Sotilla. And such were their Brides.
They could not keep their hands from one another, nor were they ever forbidden from doing so. When servitude, food, sleep or bodily function did not distract them, they would perform their main function upon each other. Slender, feminine body upon slender feminine body, thin fingers exploring unspeakable places and tongues performing unspeakable deeds.
There were many Brides in the Pen. When a Sotilla would desire one, the Bride will be called, dressed up in the whoring garments of his masters and offered as a receptacle of inhuman lust. They longed for it daily, during each breathing moment. For every one of them, it was the greatest pleasure: to offer their shapely, soft bodies for ravaging beyond comprehension.
For all except one.
He sat alone, nested among feather pillows and rugs. He drank wine, wincing at the overbearing sweetness of the polkki juice mixed in. To its aphrodisiac effects he has long since grown resistant. He wore almost nothing, as all Brides did; a piece of tohna, cheap silk from further north, to hide his chest, and another thin streak to accentuate his loins. Even among the Brides his beauty was unusual. He was taller than most, though to the seven foot average of the Sotilla he didn't come close. His legs were exceptionally strong and wide-hipped for a Bride, and his face was thin and elegant.
He was very much like the other Brides. He looked like them. He moved like them. He was trained like them. Yet something wasn't quite right. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes: the way it concentrated on a single point instead of looking for the next warm piece of flesh to squeeze. Kirch was his name. The Sotilla called him Gavva, "the one who is tall"; a simple way to describe the specific Bride they wanted to pulverize today. It was considered among those Brides who still cared for such things that to be granted a Sotilla name was a certain honor, a distinction for the most beloved. Kirch didn't see it that way. It was merely a way to accentuate his strangeness.
Time was hard to assess in the darkness of the Pen. Was it day? Or was it night? How long did he sit, alone, uncompelled by the ongoing orgy? Sometimes the bell would ring, and the penmaster would make her way into the chamber, choose one of the Brides and lead him away. Sometimes a slave -- a woman too young to breed or a man too old to be melded into a Bride - would bring in food and drink. Sometimes a Bride would be returned after a finished session -- twitching, hysterical, ass broken agape and dripping with pearly white strings. Brides not currently expected to be called would surround those who returned; they'd care for them, and set them to rest, and offer food and drink, and between that they'd ask a great many questions. Who asked for the Bride? What was the amazon's mood? How great was it, and in which position did she take the Bride? They'd hear the answers, offered usually in shaking, weak voices, still scrambled by ecstasy, and masturbate in preparation for their own chance to perform the dance of Sodom upon a horse-sized pillar of flesh.
Those stories rarely changed. Brides sate the lust when the time of breeding has not yet come. When an amazon fucks a Bride, she aims at the simplest satisfaction. Quick, brutal, devastating and animalistic. But it didn't matter. In the warped mind of a Bride, a story of a brutal fucking repeated one thousand times and experienced three thousand times is still eternally satisfying.
A figure moved closer to Kirch, in the dark. Slowly, on all fours, it swayed with each movement. He did not regard it much. He knew who it was.
"Kirch..." - a sweet voice called to him. - "Can I lie beside you? Will you hug me?"
"Come, Teer. I have some wine." - Kirch responded, and shifted the elegant shape of his body aside, freeing up a comfortable spot for the arriving Bride. He soon felt the warmth of naked flesh. Teer laid his head on Kirch's lap, and smiled with content.
"You're so beautiful, Kirch. You're like a doll. Why don't you ever join us in play?" - Teer cooed.
"I'm not as sturdy as I look. If I tire myself in play and then displease a Mistress with my lack of energy, you know what awaits me, Teer."
"He-he. Nothing. You're too pretty. Even your voice is elegant, like sweet wine served on ice. They'll just call for another Bride and make you whisper sweetly in their ear while the ravage."
Kirch let his hand slip into Teer's hair, long, dark and braided, and played with the strands absent-mindedly.
"Maybe. Not many call for me anyway, Teer. You like me more than any Mistress."
"That's not true! That pair... you know them! They call for you all the time. The spear-woman and her melder companion!" - Teer exclaimed, at the same time rubbing himself against the Kirch's palm.
"Patella and Sunder? I don't... I don't think they like me as a Bride. They like me for my strangeness."
Teer shifted his weight and laid partly on his side. For a few seconds he held his gaze upon Kirch, then smiled. Something sly was in this smile.
"Does it matter? You know, they called for me some time ago, and while they had me, they talked about you." - Teer murmured, extending his arm to gently stroke Kirch's cheek.
Kirch's face was unchanged, yet he angled his head to meet the mellow touch.
"Did they, now."
"They said you're unique. That Bono might be prettier than you, but he's too far gone. Too much semen, too many poundings. His mind will soon dissolve into Bliss. But you, they say, you're special. The Bliss doesn't touch you."
For a flash, a grimace twisted Kirch's face. It was too dark to see it, but Teer felt it with his fingers.
"I wish it did, Teer. It would be easier this way."
"They say that even your Melding didn't go as it should. That your body took strangely to it. They said something very interesting after that, Kirch."
Kirch sounded distant. - "What could it be?"
"That your dick still works. The only one among all Brides, including Bono. Can I suck it for you, Kirch? I'd offer you my asshole, but it's far too loose. But my mouth..."
The mouth of Teer was soon shut by a deep kiss. Kirch held his companion by the chin and locked lips with sudden strength; seconds later he retreated, He kept his face close. His gaze was intense.
"Don't talk of this to anyone, Teer. Not even to me. I am a Bride. My body is as it should be; by the words of melders it was shaped and given form according to my task. You and I are equal and the same; we serve our Mistresses with mouth and asshole. That is the extent of it."
Teer was breathing heavily, a line of saliva extending from the corner of his mouth.
"Kirch..." - he called, voice shaking. - "Kirch... have me, please. I love you. I won't tell anyone... I'll do anything you say..."
"Save your energy for the Mistresses, Teer. Your love is not real. The air is filled with sardonic incense, and the wine we drink is spiked with polkki. You'll love anything as long as it excites you. We are Brides. Our love is only of the flesh.". - Kirch whispered. His voice wasn't harsh. It was mellow, and most of all, sad.
Teer righted himself, sat aside, brushing his fingers against his still-wet lips. His eyes were half-closed; in the darkness, the expression of his face could not be read.
"Kirch, do you know who I was before I was taken?" - his voice had a strange intonation. He was hurt, Kirch could tell. - "I was the son of farmers in Brekka, in the north, where the soil freezes over each winter and has to be rekindled with fires in the spring. If the soil freezes too much, if the seeds wouldn't take, we starved. If the fish didn't come far enough up the river, we starved. If wolves would drive the deer too far east or north, we starved. My life was starvation and fear. I was imprisoned under a free sky. Here..."
Teer went silent, for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
"Here, I am loved, and I love. Perhaps only my flesh is loved, and I only love flesh. But this is more than I ever had."
Kirch didn't respond. He searched for the right words, but couldn't find them in time. The bell rang, and, as the Pen's gate was swung open, the penmistress called his name.
