Copyright © Keira Michelle Telford 2014
Venatic Press
All Rights Reserved
Cover image copyright
katalinks/Shutterstock.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
www.venaticpress.com
**CONTENT ADVISORY**
This book contains intense sexual themes, of which futanari (females with male genitalia), mild petplay, and D/s are central components. Among other things, there are also scenes of an erotic nature depicting adult breastfeeding.
PROLOGUE
As the sun sets over the horizon, the English countryside descends into shades of blue and gray, the pearly moon rising into the darkening sky. Naked branches of winter-stripped trees stretch their skeletal fingers up toward the emerging stars, trying to capture them in their bony grip, and frost settles on the ground, glistening in the starlight.
In the back of a limo that’s winding its way along a single-lane road between the fields and pastures, cutting through patches of woodland, twenty-eight-year-old Coralie slouches on the leather upholstery, staring at the passing wilderness.
Her long raven curls tumble over her shoulders, silky and smooth, shimmering with a blue hue cast upon her through the limo’s moon-roof. She’s wearing one of her best outfits—an ankle-length red satin skirt with a black lace-up bodice—and as she crosses her legs, the skirt glides over her knee, a side slit baring her slender, stockinged legs. In that moment, the eyes that’d been riveted to the upper swells of her generous breasts for most of the journey drop swiftly to her thighs.
She’s aware of the attention but pretends otherwise. The delicious young woman eyeballing her from the seat opposite is Bink, her aunt Alessa’s life companion, and her gussied-up aunt—also dressed in her finest eveningwear—is right there, watching everything.
Older than Coralie, Alessa is in her early fifties, her once jet black hair now invaded with flecks of silver. Angered by Bink’s wandering interest, she clenches her jaw, her fist tightening around a chain clutched in her hand.
“That’s my niece you’re gawping at!” She finally snaps, slapping Bink across the head. “Show some respect!”
The other end of the chain is clipped to a wide black leather collar buckled around Bink’s neck, and as Bink—a boyish blonde in black jeans, a white shirt, and a charcoal gray waistcoat—cowers in anticipation of further rebuke, Alessa jerks her to the floor of the limo, wrenching her by the chain.
When she’s down on her hands and knees, Alessa snatches a riding crop off the seat and cracks it across her back. Once. Twice. Three times. Bink holds back a shriek of pain and squeezes her eyes shut, her silent tears dripping onto the floor.
“Stop!” Coralie lunges forward and grabs the whip before the fourth strike, wresting it out of Alessa’s grasp. “That’s enough! You’re hurting her!”
“That’s the point.” Alessa slumps back into her seat. “Companions are like dogs: they need to be taught their place. When you finally have one of your own, you’ll understand.”
“I doubt that.” Coralie keeps hold of the whip. “You think the only way to command respect is through pain and punishment? You’re wrong.” She tosses the whip into the back of the limo, far out of Alessa’s reach. “No dog should fear its Mistress.” She watches Bink huddle on the floor, curled into a tight ball. “And no companion should, either.”
Alessa laughs cruelly. “You’re soft.”
“You’re cold,” Coralie retorts. “A companion will do anything for the love of her Mistress, but you’ll never appreciate that. All any creature needs is love, and the bond between a companion and her Mistress should be stronger than any other.”
Alessa snorts. “Love? What do you know about love? You’ll fuck anything with tits and you’ve never loved a thing in your life.”
Coralie bites her tongue, turning away from Alessa as the limo pulls up in the driveway of a large stone manor house: their destination for the weekend. This conversation can wait.
Stepping out of the vehicle, she follows her aunt and Bink into the manor’s grand entrance hall, where a gaggle of other women are already congregated. Introitus: Requiem Aeternum, the first movement in Mozart’s Requiem, plays unobtrusively in the background, its soothing and familiar notes barely audible above all the chatter. The air is heavy. It smells like lilac and primrose, mixed with the faint but discernible odor of burning apple tree bark, and a trace of elecampagne, hung in small sheaves above the doorways.
Attendants of this exclusive monthly event are split into two groups: the Mistresses of the High Council—of which Alessa is one—and junior Mistresses, like Coralie. All the High Council members are accompanied by their silent and uniformly-dressed companions, but the juniors must attend alone. They won’t get to claim companions of their own until they have the privilege of ascending to the High Council.
It’s a coveted bond, yet the loyal young companions are, for the most part, barely acknowledged. They’re made to stand a pace or two behind their hardhearted Mistresses, collared and chained, tethered to them at all times. The highlight of their evening is occasionally being dragged from one place to another to be ignored some more.
They don’t get to drink the complimentary champagne, nor even appreciate their lavish surroundings. And this place is lavish. The curtains are red velvet with saffron-colored tiebacks, gold thread woven throughout, and the stairs are carpeted with the same. Every bit of furniture is antique, in pristine condition, preserved from generation to generation, and the walls are covered with ornately-framed portraits.
In the entrance hall, the portraits are those of former High Council members who were privileged enough to sit at the head of the council table. In the richly decorated front room, a large portrait of Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft, dominates the wall above the fireplace, surrounded by brass reliefs of the Lampades: the torch-bearing nymphs said to accompany the goddess on her travels.
Elsewhere, more chthonic deities are given wall space: Persephone, Queen of the underworld; Nyx, the goddess of night; Melinoë, the goddess of ghosts; and Macaria, the goddess of blessed death.
Coralie swipes a glass of champagne off a table at the center of the room and makes a halfhearted effort to mingle with the other members of her coven. All the while, Bink steals surreptitious glances at her, trying to be discreet, but failing to hide a blush as certain aspects of her anatomy respond all too readily to Coralie’s womanly form.
And Coralie can’t help but be aroused by the interest. She once saw Bink naked, straight out of a hot bath, her snowy skin pink and glowing. She ought to have looked away, but Bink’s body was entrancing. Her surprisingly full breasts jutted out proudly from her chest, ornamented with hardened ruby tips. How she wanted to wrap her lips around those swollen nipples … but that would’ve been a gross violation of coven law.
No Mistress can enjoy another’s companion without express consent, and Alessa’s never been the sharing type. Working her way through the room, Coralie sidles up behind Bink, taking care to stay out of her austere aunt’s sightline.
“Are you all right, my lovely?” she whispers in Bink’s ear. “I hope Mistress Alessa didn’t hurt you too badly when she punished you for ogling me in the car.”
Bink cannot speak without direct permission from her Mistress, so she says nothing, shivering as Coralie runs a hand down her whip-lashed back, making her flesh tingle. They may not be permitted to touch intimately, but Coralie is an expert at skirting the thin line of propriety.
“Next time, ma
ke sure you don’t get caught.” She pats Bink on the bum, downs the rest of her champagne, and moves away, her attention drawn to one of the other junior Mistresses.
Eighteen-year-old Liora is the youngest, newest member of the coven, and Coralie wasted no time introducing herself to the freckled redhead at the last gathering. Traditionally, freshly initiated junior Mistresses give the first of themselves to one of the many unbonded companions in the coterie: a private room at the back of the manor where all the available playmates are kept for their exclusive pleasure. But Liora never got the chance for that. Coralie seduced her, and had the first of her on the High Council’s dining room table.
“Good evening, my darling.” Coralie sweeps a hand around Liora’s slender waist and maneuvers her into a quiet corner, shoving her against the wall and pinning her there. “Shall we retire to the coterie and have some fun together?”
Liora giggles, weak to Coralie’s sexual force. “You’ve only been here five minutes.”
“That’s five arduous minutes I’ve endured without tasting your sweet cunt.” Coralie takes her by the hand and drags her out of the front room. “Let’s not waste any more.”
Honestly, there’s little else for them to do. In a few minutes, the High Council members will sequester themselves in their private chamber for hours on end, while the junior Mistresses are excluded from the proceedings on account of their inferior status.
As they breeze into the hallway, several other junior Mistresses follow in their wake. The door to the coterie is at the end of the hall, and along the way, they pass the open door to the High Council’s private dining room, the sight of it stirring a flicker of envy in Coralie’s chest.
The table is set for dinner, an assortment of black and red candles arranged in the centerpieces, ready to be lit. Open fires are burning at either end of the room, the logs crackling and hissing. Around the table, twenty-two chairs are spaced wide enough to accommodate large red velvet cushions on the floor beside each, providing a place for the companions to sit at their Mistresses’ feet.
Coralie couldn’t care less about the food they’re going to serve, but she wants a seat at the table. She’s hungry for it. She wants influence over the coven, she wants a companion of her own, and more than anything, she wants a child. Only members of the High Council are allowed to conceive, and she can feel her best child-bearing years slipping away.
“Stop drooling,” Liora teases, too young to truly understand her desperation.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Coralie grumbles, sweeping a hand across her abdomen. “I’m twenty-eight years old already. How much longer am I expected to wait? I’m fertile and I want to bear children.”
“You’re next in line.” Liora tries to brighten her suddenly soured mood. “Your aunt sits on the Council and she’s past breeding age. Maybe she’ll relinquish her position?”
“As if.” Coralie sighs. “They’re all too enamored with the prestige of running the coven. The only way to ascend these days is when one of them dies, and those old crones live forever.”
Subdued by her impatience, but determined to make the best of what she has, she takes a deep, restorative breath and strides into the coterie, inhaling the familiar aroma of sex and scented lubricants.
The long room is lined with alcoves, each one just big enough to snugly accommodate a double bed. If privacy is required, a net curtain can be pulled across the alcove, somewhat obscuring it from prying eyes—not that Coralie’s ever been bothered by an audience. Behind three of these closed curtains, a handful of junior Mistresses are already partaking in the abundant delights of the many playmates, but there’s plenty more to go around.
Outside each unoccupied alcove, a playmate sits tethered to the wall, waiting to please. Naked except for the leather collars around their necks, they exist only to provide physical pleasure to the junior Mistresses as and when required.
Selected for their agreeable features and fine figures, they’re perfect examples of the female form in every way. At least, they were until they were initiated into the coterie. Now, they all have a certain physical enhancement, and Coralie’s focus is diverted from Liora as a well-proportioned blonde waiting patiently to be of use rises onto all fours and dips her head, bowing reverently as she presents herself for the choosing, her nipples stiff, her big cock—her priapus—swinging between her legs.
“Fawn.” Coralie smiles at the subservient playmate. “I’ve missed you.”
Though she’d find the distinctly male organ utterly repulsive if it were attached to a hard, masculine body, seeing it protruding from Fawn’s nethers has a profoundly different effect. Aching to be touched, she releases Fawn from the tether, flops onto the bed, and parts her legs, promising Liora a tongue-lashing as soon as her more imminent needs are sated.
“Have you missed me, darling?” She flips her skirt to the side, unveiling her naked sex.
Fawn nods, kissing her ankle, purring softly.
“Then show me.” Coralie spreads her legs wider, inviting Fawn to devour her.
Dutifully, the playmate responds to her need and edges forward, working kisses upward to her deprived core and eliciting a voluptuous moan when she engages mouth and fingers simultaneously, slipping two digits inside while sucking on Coralie’s swollen clit.
“That’s it,” Coralie whimpers. “I need you.”
Without fail, the sex between them is passionate, lustful, and energetic, but while relationships in the coterie are often intense, they’re far from exclusive. Fawn will tend to other junior Mistresses upon their request, and Coralie will not limit her pleasure. Indeed, Coralie has been known to take five or six playmates at once, making thorough good use of each one as well as several other junior Mistresses. Even those who only lick and suck are rendered limp and exhausted by the time she’s done with them.
Of course, it’s the ultimate desire of all playmates to one day become the bonded companion of a Mistress of the High Council. For that reason, most use their time in the coterie to attach themselves to a particular junior Mistress, hoping that she’ll reward their eagerness by choosing to form a permanent bond with them when she finally ascends.
In this pursuit, Fawn is no exception. She’s been trying to ingratiate herself with Coralie for years, and while she’s clearly the forerunner in Coralie’s affections, and would dearly love to have a monopoly on providing her sexual gratification, she’s unable to voice any complaint when the prurient Mistress spies two other playmates creeping toward the alcove and invites them to join in.
“Darlings.” She welcomes them onto the bed.
They work together to unlace her bodice, taking one breast each, and she lets out another deep moan. The attention of Fawn’s mouth and fingers coupled with their tender ministrations soon has her on the cusp of a volcanic orgasm, and she cries out as her paroxysm begins to crest, her whole body quivering, her cunt pulsing and throbbing. In the wake of it, she peers down, staring at Fawn’s fully engorged augmentation.
“My dearest Fawn.” She groans, admiring her favorite playmate’s virility. “I wish we could enjoy that beautiful body of yours to its full potential.” She strokes her fingers over Fawn’s flushed cheeks. “You’d give me a baby, wouldn’t you? If only my aunt weren’t in the way.”
Fawn nuzzles Coralie’s flat belly, more than willing to lay claim on her reproductive future.
“I know you would.” Coralie weaves her fingers through Fawn’s golden mane. “In the meantime, fuck me well.”
Without hesitation, Fawn slides her hands around Coralie’s rump, raises her off the bed, and drives all the way into her, filling her on the first plunge. Using all her strength, she pulls Coralie down to meet every thrust, slamming into her over and over again. Trained well, she won’t reach her peak until Coralie asks for it, no matter how long she’s made to wait.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Twenty.
Then …
“Come for me, Fawn,” Coralie
mewls, visualizing Fawn’s potent libation erupting into her womb, longing for the day when she’ll finally be able to conceive.
CHAPTER ONE
One month later …
The first time Coralie steps inside the grand dining room reserved exclusively for the High Council, she feels a swell of pride. She’s been prepared for this moment her whole adult life, and it’s been far too long in coming.
For her introduction, she’s brought in alongside the current head of the council, Mistress Diana, who rose to her place at the top simply by bearing the most offspring. Though her fertile years are now well behind her, no Mistress at the table has yet surpassed her, so her position remains unchallenged.
As the other Mistresses take their seats, Diana presents Coralie to them with a thin-lipped smile, her silvery ball gown matching the color of her shoulder-length hair and the diamonds around her neck.
“Tonight, ladies, we welcome a new High Council member to the table.” She initiates a small round of applause. “Mistress Coralie replaces our good friend Mistress Alessa, who unfortunately is no longer with us.”
“So sorry about your aunt, dear.” One of the Mistresses near the head of the table shakes her head despondently, mourning the loss of a colleague. “Such a terrible, unfortunate thing to have fallen down all those stairs at the last gathering.”
“Yes, it was a tragic accident,” Coralie concurs dispassionately.
Waiting for no further invitation, she takes it upon herself to sit in the only vacant chair, opposite a Mistress several years her senior. With yellowy-gray hair and a few lines on her face, Mistress Isabelle is nudging up against fifty years of age. A heavy drinker with a short temper and a penchant for sadism, Coralie knows of her via coterie gossip, though they’ve never officially met.
As she settles into her seat, she’s watched intently by a brunette sitting on the floor to Mistress Isabelle’s left. Noting the interest from the young companion, and welcoming it, Coralie flashes her a smile.
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