So Say The Seasons – Chapter 1

            The cheers from the crowd erupt like the sound of a great wave clashing slowly against the jagged rocks of a cliff. It begins as a deep, low-frequency buzz broken down by claps but grows and grows into something louder and deeper until it is a roaring rumble that makes the whole theatre vibrate under her feet. Or maybe it is her excitement that has her heart beating so fast that she feels like the ground is moving.    

            Alongside the half a dozen actors who had taken part in the play, she bows deeply from the waist, a gesture as theatrical as the clothes she wears. She’s clad in white, dressed like a bride in refined white laces, and wearing a lovely wig that covers her short dark hair with a long cascading silver blonde. Her whites are stained by fake blood, and the climax of the play had been, no doubt, her aria, singing from the depths of her soul; the stabbed bride, singing her own dirge as she dies in the arms of her loved one. It had been an emotional moment, and by the time she was done, she knew there was not a single dry eye in the audience. Men in their formal attire and women wearing their best opera-attending dresses rise from their seats to join the roaring applause that had started in the proverbial peanut gallery. And a handful of roses are tossed from the audience, landing at the feet of the cast of thespians. While the applause is still going, someone on stage left gives a signal, and the curtains begin to close as the backstage workers pull on ropes. From the orchestra pit begins the first notes of the last song of the evening, the one that will play out to the guests as they leave the magical space of the play and return to their mundane lives.

            Elwen holds her posture in a deep bow while the curtains are closed, waiting until she is fully out of sight of the crowd to get up, and near immediately pulls off her wig and the veil over her face in a gesture that is as theatrical and dramatic as everything else she had done on the play.

            “Good job, lads and lasses,” she says, turning on her heels and walking backwards so she can still face the other actors. “Another night, another success.”

            And without even stopping, she tosses the wig and veil in the air when she knows one of the stage assistants is there to catch it as she walks backstage. The music is still audible, though muffled, as she enters the large hall. Several dressers are lined on each side of the room, side by side along the wall and opposite each other. But between them is a forest of mannequins that are little more than male and female torsos reproduced in wiring and fabric, and rows upon rows of racks of clothing, wooden beams suspended in a frame, from where clothes of all periods and characters dangle. The smell in the room is intoxicating for the actress. Makeup, the dust and the musty scent of long-stored clothes, the smell of perfume and powders and a vague hint of something else that was unique to the building all composed that signature fragrance of her career.

            There are a few people already there waiting for the actors to arrive; their personal assistants, the directors and the occasional friend or family member allowed backstage. The last group was a rare exception conceded only to the thespians deemed important enough to deserve a breach in the unspoken code of theatre magic. And there is no one working at the Prince Victor Royal Opera House who is more important than Elwen, at least according to her. And as such, she is one of those allowed a personal visit backstage.

            She is wearing her military-style jacket, dark blue with golden epaulettes matching the collar that covers most of her neck. She looks bored, sitting on a chair she leans back on, boots on top of Elwen’s dresser as she eats a peach using a knife. Elwen takes a moment to admire those elegant legs, the tight fit of her knee-high boots over the form-hugging white pants that disappear under her uniform. It is enough to give her a fluttering in her stomach, even though that woman is someone she has been together with for years, and seen naked on multiple occasions. Her body still responds to Maronette’s presence with a subtle thrill.

            “You’re still here!” Elwen says, crossing the distance between them and navigating the mazes of racks and hanging clothes to make her way to her desk.

            Maronette slices a piece of peach, taking it into her mouth and chewing slowly before using the tip of a finger to gather a droplet of peach juice running from the corner of her lips and lick her digit clean. Languidly and slow, she takes her feet off the dresser and stands. Despite her calm motions, she’s up exactly as the rushing Elwen reaches her. The clothes across the hall block the view of anyone around, so they share a tight and prolonged hug that they would otherwise not do in public. From what the rest of polite society knows, Maronette is Elwen’s bodyguard and nothing else. And while some tongues full of malice might spread insidious rumours about them, their public presentation is always the epitome of formality and properness.

            Once they break away from the hug, Maronette dips her head, and her smile is very subtle as she says:

            “Of course I am, ma’am.”

            There is a second of silence between them before both girls break into laughter. A brief snicker from Maronette and an audible, mirthful chuckle from Elwen. Being called ‘ma’am’ by her lover is always a little humorous, considering the distance that word implied and how it contrasted with their intimacy.

            “I hope you weren’t too bored. I did warn you such plays run long,” Elwen offers, taking a seat on her chair.

            “It would’ve been best to watch from the audience, but I’ve got myself a penny dreadful to read while I waited.”

            Maronette tosses the cheap, thin book on the dresser, and Elwen scans the title as she opens one of her drawers to reach for her makeup-removing rag. ‘The Dark Tales of Crimson Charlotte’ is announced in bold letters, and below, a pale woman with jet-black hair, sharp fangs, and a dress that accentuates the large curve of her bosom has her arms open, hovering threateningly over a blonde-haired beauty sleeping peacefully in her bed. Elwen’s attention returns to the mirror. Her face is far too white, and her cheeks far too red. Good makeup for theatre so it could be seen from afar, but it isn’t something she’d ever wear on the streets. As she dabs the rag in a bowl of water and ether mix nearby and rubs it on her face to remove the overt colours, she says:

            “I don’t know why you’re so interested in those things… They are so…”

            “Queer?” Maronette offers.

            Elwen looks forth to the central part of the trifold mirror of her dresser and into the reflection of Maronette’s eye, as the other was concealed by a black eyepatch. She is sure she saw the subtle hint of a smirk on the corner of the otherwise very stern woman’s lips.

            “Queer,” Elwen agrees as she continues taking off her makeup.

            “They are entertaining. I’d rather read ten of these than one highbrow tome that would take just as much of my time,” Maronette says and shrugs.

            “What I do is highbrow, some would suggest. Would you rather watch ten street plays than see me performing, Maron?”

            Elwen puts on the performance of an offended pout and watches with some amusement as Maronette’s cheeks turn slightly pink. She looks aside for a moment. She maintains that stiff poise but struggles to find the words.

            “Of course not, I would always watch you perform, it’s just… What I meant to say is that… You see, the plays are not…”

            And then Maronette, as she struggles to find a sentence to explain herself, spots the curl on the edge of Elwen’s lips and immediately realises what’s happening. Elwen shrugs, caught in her game of pretending to misunderstand and be offended, only to see her stern paramour fluster. Or the closest thing Maronette ever came to being flustered.

            “Well played,” Maronette says, deadpan, as she tosses the finished peach in the nearest trash and folds her arms behind her back like she is on official duty.

            “Why, thank you,” Elwen says mirthfully and sincerely, smiling at her lover’s reflection before pushing her whole face against the wet rag and giving it a generous scrub.

            By the time she emerges from it, the exaggerated makeup is gone. Without the wig and the makeup, she studies her own features in the mirror, wiggling her eyebrows for a moment. Someone once told her she had very expressive eyes, and she liked to think they were right. And then she notices she’s still wearing the bloodied wedding dress from the play. Well, that would need to wait. Her hands move to turn the penny dreadful on the dresser and study the illustration a little closer.

            “So, tell me about this tawdry literature of yours,” Elwen asks.

            “There isn’t much to tell. It’s about a vampire, it’s a series. This one is about a girl whose carriage breaks near her castle, and she and her father take shelter in it for the night. You can guess the rest.”

            “She bites the girl’s neck while she’s asleep?” Elwen assumes, considering the illustration on the very cover.

            “There’s more to it, but in essence, yes,” Maronette says stiffly.

            “One ought to wonder how she did not wake up with teeth sunk in her neck.”

            “She did,” Maronette says, again deadpan, “but you see, the bite of Crimson Charlotte actually feels good after the pain. So, her victims don’t always…”

            Elwen has an ever-growing smirk on her face as she looks at Maronette’s reflection, watching her explain her books, except the bodyguard seems to eventually catch that expression and suddenly stops talking, wondering what her lover is finding so amusing, and blushing slightly, self-conscious that she might be getting teased again and just failing to realise how.

            “What? What is it?” Maronette asks bluntly, nearly sighing.

            “Nothing. I just like the story.”

            “You have that face… You’re finding this funny for some reason.”

            “Well, isn’t it interesting that you like a story where a woman visits another in the middle of the night, puts her mouth to her neck, and they both seem to enjoy it?”

            Maronette blushes deeply as Elwen paints the erotic undertones and subtly sapphic theme inherent to that particular type of vampire media. And Elwen just seems very amused that her lover is enjoying the story without, at least consciously, making the jump that seems so obvious. But she decides to disarm her lover’s tension and break from the teasing to ask, sincerely:

            “May I borrow this later? I would much like to read it next.”

            “I thought you found those rather queer.”

            “Yes, darling. But we are rather queer ourselves, in our own way.”

            Maronette curls her lips in a small hint of a smile and dips her head.

            “Sure. You can even have it as a gift. I finished this one, and the next edition should only be out by the month’s end.”

            “Fascinating,” Elwen says before dramatically adding, “and speaking of literature…”

            Elwen pulls her chair back to make some more space between herself and the dresser, plucking a key she has kept hidden in her cleavage to unlock the central drawer of the dresser and open it to produce a tome. A black cover with metallic ornaments in bronze, highly detailed in geometric patterns, and in the centre of which there is an amethyst stone, perfectly cut octagonally. There is no title visible, and again, through the reflection, she meets eyes with a very confused Maronette.

            “Do you perchance remember a conversation we had not long ago about starting a family together? If memory doesn’t fail me, we were both naked, and you had your head on my chest…”

            Maronette nervously looks over her shoulder, but if there are still people backstage, they are not visible and likely out of earshot. She still leans forward to whisper in an alert:

            “Should be more careful on how and where you mention this.” But after she cautions her lover, she dips her head. “I remember that talk. It was a fanciful fantasy.”

            “Perhaps then it was. But your paramour is nothing if not resourceful. And smart… And it doesn’t hurt to have some spare gold coins and a few contacts…”

            “May we skip through your self-praise and take a shortcut to the point?”

            “Oh, but the scenic route is so much more fun!” Elwen laments playfully. “Very well… This tome here holds the answer to how we can make that a reality.”

            “What are you saying, Elwen?”

            Elwen decides that the dramatic set-up is sufficient, and it is time for the climatic revelation she has been building up. She opens the thick pages of the tome and flicks through the pages. She does it slowly so that Maronette has time to catch glimpses of the illustrations done in black ink over its pink-tinted parchment pages. One of the pages shows a woman with small breasts, looking down on them in front of a mirror, who reflects the same woman but with much more voluptuous breasts. Another image depicts simply a realistic close-up of a manhood, with what seems to be a ring covered in runes constricting tightly around the base. Naked women, vines with suspiciously suggestive appendages at the end, girls kissing and doing much more adorn several of the pages until Elwen finally arrives where she wants. In the image, stylised, a woman sits upon a pillar, head tossed back, hair in the wind, and a visibly erect member rising from between her legs and pointing heavenwards.

            “What’s this, Elwen?”

            “Well, my love and my light, my dear Maron… This is a book of spells written by a witch and compiled by a young mage apprentice that contains many spells. A number of them were deemed too… Indecent for the sensibilities of the Arcane Academia, and for the sake of properness, all copies of this tome were destroyed, except those kept in the most well-guarded vaults of the Arcane College.”

            “…And what does this have to do with forming a family?”

            “Oh, are you playing the ingénue now? How delightful,” Elwen says, pointing unambiguously with her finger to the erect penis rising from between the illustrated woman’s legs. “This spell here shall grant one of us a complete and functional manhood – shall we even call it manhood in this circumstance? A curious thing we should ask a linguist later – for a few hours.”

            “You mean you can give one of us a prick?”

            “Ah, if you want to be so crass about it.” Elwen rolls her eyes, though she isn’t factually annoyed. She gets up and tosses her arms around her paramour’s shoulders. “That’s exactly what I am saying.”

            And then she presses her lips against Maronette’s, sealing them into a passionate kiss. At first, the bodyguard stiffens, still preoccupied with how public the setting is and fearful of the possibility of them being discovered. But as seconds pass, she relaxes, parting her mouth and her tongue coming out to dance gently with Elwen’s. Soon, her posture loses its stiffening, and her hands grasp the actress’ waist firmly, nearly possessively. A tightening of her fingers and then a daring, unusual slide down to cup a cheek of Elwen’s ass as their mouths are still pressed together. Elwen moans into the kiss, and when they finally break their lips apart, their bodies are still enlaced and pressed together.

            “So, tell me… Do you want to try it?”

            “The prick thing?”

            Elwen rolls her eyes again.

            “Yes, the prick thing,” she says in mock impatience.

            “Hrm…” Maronette ponders for a moment. “Yes.”

            “Then, let’s.”

            Elwen breaks from their enlace to grab the book with one hand and Maronette’s wrist with the other, pulling her across the labyrinth of cloth racks and mannequins, narrowly avoiding running into a fellow thespian.

            “What? Now? Here?”

            “Yes! Of course now… Why, do you have another appointment soon?”

            “No, I don’t, I just…”

            Maronette never quite finishes her objection before they arrive at the changing rooms at the far end of the backstage. Wooden divisions sealed from the outside world by heavy curtains. Elwen tosses one of the patterned bordeaux-coloured curtains open, gesturing for Maronette to move inside before entering after her and closing the curtains after them.

            “This is very risky, Elwen.”

            “Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of risk?”

            “Longer, for one,” Maronette says deadpan.

            Elwen laughs as if that was a joke and moves into another kiss. But this time, Maronette doesn’t passively receive it. As she’s kissed, she takes on Elwen’s wrists and pushes her back against the wooden division, placing her hands above her head and kissing her deeply. At times, she withdraws from it, away from Elwen’s mouth to make her chase her and kiss the air, and just as she’s frustratingly sighing, she presses back on those lips again, toying and teasing her. What Maronette sometimes struggles to do with words and spar in the affectionate verbal back and forth with her lover, she is more than apt to do in the bedroom. Teasing her, playing with her, and getting a reaction.

            The tome has fallen to the ground as the two kiss for a long time and remains forgotten as kissing turns into a desperate race to undo the buttons on Maronette’s military uniform and the lacings on the back of Elwen’s costume as the bloodied bribe. At least the bodyguard has made no comment about how ghastly it must be, even if the blood is fake, to make out with someone who seemed to have suffered a deadly injury. Their clothes fall, coat first, then the vest Maronette wears under her coat. The bridal dress gives more of a fight, and perhaps Maronette loses some of her focus as her mouth is suddenly busy nuzzling and kissing across Elwen’s neck to trace its way to her ear and gently nibble at her lobe. Even the softest of bites brings the actress to moan in bliss, and through the thin undershirt Maronette is still wearing, she digs nails into her lover’s back.

            “They all think you’re so pretty,” Maronette whispers with some anger mixing with passion in her lover’s ear. “But you’re mine. Just mine…”

            The possessiveness of the words only turns Elwen on further. She feels the warmth spreading down across her thighs as her unmentionables grow damp with her nectar. Her dress is finally tugged down off her shoulders and arms, hanging at waist level and exposing her tear-drop-shaped breasts, sitting loosely inside her own lace and silk undershirt. Then Elwen presses forward to push Maronette away from her and falls to her knees. Maronette falls seated on one of the benches within the dressing room, and the whole thing wobbles with the impact, as it isn’t the sturdiest of constructions. Elwen’s hands pull off one of Maronette’s boots, and then as she reaches for the other, her lover playfully pushes her away with her now bare foot before allowing her closer again. All just to see her hiss. Boots off, and Elwen begins to work on the lacings of the high waist riding breeches that are standard issued for many officers’ uniforms.

            With a naughty smirk, Elwen tugs the pants down, aided by Maronette lifting her hips to allow them to slide and reveal the small bloomers she wears underneath. And then, as the two look into each other’s eyes, Elwen kneeling in front of her lover, who is seated with legs spread open and a hand laced behind her head, Maronette asks:

            “So… How are we going to use it… Have it?”

            Elwen is surprised. She has been so eager to start a family with Maronette, and excited to begin since she found the answer that she actually has not made up her mind on that fundamental issue. On the one hand, her legs shake at the notion of being inside her bodyguard and feeling what it would be like to spill her seed inside her like a man. But then again, the thought of Maronette pushing her down and filling her insides with her own throbbing member is just as enticing.

            “I… I don’t know… Perhaps I should?” the actress proposes hesitantly.

            But even as they talk, she doesn’t hesitate to pull down Maronette’s bloomers, exposing her petals framed by dark, short-trimmed hair. The dewy glisten of her lover’s folds causes her to bite her lip as she inhales her rich, feminine scent exhaling from between her legs. How many times had she dived between them and tasted her until a screaming climax?

            “Why should you have all the fun?” Maronette protests the idea.

            “Oh, I don’t think it would be all the fun… Why, do you want to have it?”

            Maronette bites her own lips and seems coy to respond, but her expression tells Elwen everything she needs to know. Her lover is not ready to admit her curiosity and desire, but she doesn’t have to for Elwen to read it clearly. She remains kneeling as she pulls the book to the right page, and with a hand over it and the other hovering over Maronette’s thighs, she performs the invocation. She is as talented a magician as she is an actress, and even the complex spell is something she could perform perfectly on her first try. Or so she confidently believes. A purple wisp of energy flows from Elwen’s hands to the pink button above Maronette’s slit. And Maronette moans as if Elwen had just plunged her tongue inside her. She squirms and closes her legs, but by the time they open again, that sensitive nub is engorging, growing and taking on a new colour and shape. The glans form as it expands, and a few veins are drawn against the shaft until Maronette’s newly formed cock springs to life, dripping clear fluid from the tip and running down the shaft into the still-present folds of her sex.

            “Oh… Curses, that felt good, Elwen,” Maronette says, out of breath, and her member twitches as it throbs fully hard.

            Elwen bites her lips for a moment before reaching out for it, and she can’t help herself but comment:

            “It is… A little small, isn’t it?”

            Maronette seems shocked at her lover’s first response, looking indignantly down and trying to decide if she should or should not feel slighted over the size of her magically fabricated phallus:

            “It’s not small,” she protests before adding without much certainty, “is it?”

            Elwen takes the member in her hand, curling fingers around the base, and a single one of her small, delicate hands is enough to conceal most of the shaft’s length, leaving only the vaguely strawberry-shaped, pink head out.

            “It’s quite small,” Elwen says before she begins stroking the newly grown member. “But I like it. It’s cute.”

            “Hmpft...” Maronette scoffs. “Then it’s your magic that lacks pot-… P-potency…”

            She’s cut short from her half-hearted defence of her newly grown member as it twitches and, very suddenly, engorges and then contracts, squirting a thin rope of seed that splatters over Elwen’s shoulder and breasts. The surprisingly quick reaction and hair-trigger cause Maronette to grow a deeper shade of red.

            “It’s fine… I mean, it’s literally your first time with it,” Elwen says, uncaring about the mess and using a sleeve of her dress to wipe it off while still gently holding her lover’s throbbing phallus.

            “I… It was just really intense, really fast,” Maronette explains.

            But unlike Elwen’s expectations, and unlike how a man normally would react, Maronette remains just as hard after finishing the hair-triggering orgasm. It is intriguing, and she leans forward to kiss the very tip, tasting the salty flavour of seed left over there before the sweet taste of her lover’s flesh. It is a little richer and saltier there than if she was licking her folds, but it is familiar nonetheless.

            “Oh, curses… That feels good.”

            Elwen is encouraged by those words to take the small twitching cock into her mouth, having no trouble taking it whole and then sucking to seal her lips around it and bobbing her head. Maronette’s hands perch on Elwen’s hair. For a moment, she gently caresses it in a tender playfulness, but very soon, her fingers lock with strands, and she roughly, firmly guides Elwen’s head up and down, giving her pace. Elwen relaxes her neck and allows herself to be guided, letting Maronette enjoy the new sensations to the full extent she wants. And if she is honest, she does enjoy a bit of roughness and hairpulling herself. Considering the first time she had climaxed with it was after just a handful of strokes with Elwen’s hand, she lasted a little longer within her mouth. But soon, Maronette’s hips buck again, and the throbbing flesh pulses harder and unleashes another thin rope of seed. This one, Elwen swallows proudly. Delightfully. Its salty taste is no deterrent as she feels a shudder at the thought of her lover’s pearly fluid running down her throat and being inside her.

            In the wake of Maronette’s climax, her head is freed, and Elwen lifts it to find a panting, delighted soldier smiling from ear to ear.

            “Well… Seems like you’re having fun with it,” Elwen teases, wiping her lips on the back of her hand.

            “Quite… A lot… Of fun…” Maronette admits between pants.

            Elwen glances down, surprised that the cute and small, yet surprisingly resilient, member is still just as hard, aching for more. And she is just too happy to indulge it.

            “Well, I’m glad, love. And tasting you is something I could do all night, but… This is not how we make a baby.”

            Maronette blushes and nods slowly. She is just wearing her loose undershirt, and as she stands, the hem ends up held by her hardened cock as she helps Elwen up from her knees. Maronette suddenly gains a bit of a mischievous grin.

            “What?” Elwen asks.

            Maronette’s only response is to lunge forward and grab her by the neck, to pull her into an aggressive kiss. And as Elwen is still stunned by surprise, she’s turned around and forced chest first onto the wooden wall of the dressing room. Again the whole thing wobbles, but Maronette places herself behind her lover, pulling Elwen’s hips backwards and forcing her to bend slightly. Hands diving between her legs, lifting her costume bridal dress until her panties are exposed. And the delicate lacings stand no chance as Maronette rips them off her. Elwen moans at the aggressiveness and at the anticipation of what is to come. With her fingers, the bodyguard finds her lover’s slit and grinds them against her, up and down along the dewy opening, and finds the pink little button at the end to tease it by pinching it between two fingers. Elwen has to bite her lips so as not to scream.

            And Maronette leans forward, biting into her ear again, this time the top part, as she whispers, in a playfully vengeful tone:

            “So, you think I’m small, hm?”

            Elwen nods, knowing the further taunt would just drive her lover to be more aggressive, and she craves it. Maronette doesn’t hesitate, and using her hands to spread Elwen open, she pushes her hips forward, entering her warm and wet folds. Small or not, for Elwen’s sex used only to Maronette’s fingers, the throbbing presence feels tight and fitting, filling her better than a pair of fingers would. And then, Maronette’s hand brushes Elwen’s hair behind her ear, deceptively tender, before grasping it to pull her head back and begin to pump with her own hips.

            She might never have had a throbbing phallus before, but Maronette seems to be a natural as she quickly finds rhythm to her thrusts and goes from a rapid and clumsy motion to a slow and deliberate pace, which grows faster and faster until it reaches a staccato, which is echoed in Elwen’s desperate and pleasurable moans. Her breasts wiggle, and her hands seek support in the wobbly changing room.

            “Y-yes… More… I want you to… Finish inside me…”

            “That’s the… Plan…” Maronette says, without giving any quarter with her hips.

            “Impregnate me… Fill me with your seed…”

            Maronette’s cock twitches noticeably at those words, and even if Maronette herself would never be that crass, it is clear that her body, her mind, responds to that language. She shifts to a more aggressive pace even, and Elwen rolls her eyes in pleasure. But she craves more. She needs more and has a good hunch on how to get it.

            “Y-yes… Pump me full of your seed… I want it to take root inside me… I want you to breed me…”

            The last words send Maronette over the edge. She shudders and delivers a final harsh thrust that comes accompanied by another gush of seed, spraying Elwen’s insides, and that is enough to cause Elwen’s thighs to shake, contract, and her sex to squeeze around Maronette’s cock in reaction. The two remain there, with Maronette still inside her, and to the surprise of both of them, still just as hard as after the first. It seems as if the spell, although gifting her with a member, doesn’t impose on her the same limitations men share regarding recovery time.

            “It feels so good… Your seed inside m-“

            “Shush.”

            Maronette urges silence, and Elwen is initially offended until they hear footsteps coming from close to the dressing room. A pair of boots appear under the golden fringes at the bottom of the bordeaux curtains.

            “Miss Elwen, is that you?”

            Elwen recognises the voice of Allen, or Al, one of the theatre night guards. Likely doing the rounds before locking the place.

            “Yes, I’m here, Al. Just finishing undressing.”

            Elwen speaks even with Maronette inside of her. Maronette’s cock twitches and Elwen senses that the obscene idea of talking to someone while inside her lover is turning her on. Slowly, she begins to move her hips back and forth. Fucking herself ever gently against her lover. Maronette covers her own mouth to avoid moaning.

            “Alright… I’m locking down the place. I’ll leave the back door open, though.”

            “Thanks, Al…” Elwen speaks, pushing herself harder and deeper against Maronette, as much as she can still without moaning herself. “You’re a dear. I’ll lock it on my way out… I have a key.”

            “Alright. Have a good one, Miss Elwen.”

            “You t-too, Al…” Elwen’s voice breaks as Maronette begins to pump back. “G-good night.”

            And then the night watch slowly steps away, and Maronette growls in anger once she feels it’s safe, but her hips are still moving.

            “That was reckless!” she protests.

            “It was,” Elwen coos, softly and throaty. “So punish me…”

            Maronette’s cock twitches again. She speeds her thrusts and Elwen smirks.

            “Come on… Breed me,” she demands, and the utterly filthy term causes Maronette to shudder and thrust deeper and harder, a single time, before resuming her rhythm. “Breed me like a stallion.”

            Perhaps the excessive build-up of tension and teasing finally breaks her, or perhaps Elwen has just unlocked something deep and secret in Maronette’s mind that the bodyguard herself didn’t know was there. But whatever the reason is, with that last sentence, Maronette resumes the same harsh and eager pace she had before, clinging even tighter to Elwen’s hair and leaning forward to whisper possessively and passionately:

            “Mine,” she declares, with a voice wet with lust.

            And Elwen says the only words her mind can form as her brain begins to fog in the wake of a quickly approaching climax:

            “Yours.”

            And for many hours across that night, the dressing rooms in the back of Prince Victor Royal Opera House wobble and tremble. And two voices call out in pleasure, echoing through the empty backstage.