“Raaaauuuughhhh!” Jax howled, pushing deep inside her once more.
And he came.
She screamed with ecstasy as his thick, virile seed pumped into her fertile womb, the force of it fairly shooting her off her master’s massive fuck-stick. She screamed as she felt the mark of the eye burn atop her mons, forever marking her as the beast’s breeding slut. She cried out as her own orgasm joined his, as the love she felt for this monster swelled in her chest until she felt fit to burst. She was complete. She was his.
She had been bred.
The realization settled over her like a warm blanket. Peace clouded her mind. At last. It was done. She fell limp beneath the minotaur, his cock still stuffing her cunt, the mark of the eye throbbing above her mons with the power of the Duke’s curse. She looked up into her master’s face and smiled.
“Jax,” she breathed, reaching up.
“Slave,” the minotaur grunted.
Doria giggled. Yes. Yes, she was his slave. And yet, she didn’t feel terribly different. There was no drunken haze. No giggling mindlessness like those of the other brides of the monsters. Those who wouldn’t care if their masters died so long as they were given another cock to satisfy them. She was his. His, just like Mina had become Ghostheart’s. Slaves, yet freed in a more fundamental way. She pulled down Jax’s horned head and kissed him again, relishing the taste of her mate. The sensation of fullness from his cock, her purpose.
Jax picked her up. He pulled his cock from within her, Doria moaning weakly in protest as some of his seed escaped her gaping pussy. But she kissed him harder, rubbing her plush tits against him, pressing her wanton curves against the beast that had claimed her for his own.
“Oh master,” she moaned between kisses. “I love you.”
“No one take you,” Jax said, his voice a heavy growl of dominance. His palm squeezed her soft rump. “You mine.”
Doria nodded, snuggling against his fur. Yet, even in that moment of sated peace, she couldn’t erase the memory of Urgo and his hunger for her. She shivered and lifted her head.
“Master. Now that I’m yours, I’m afraid…”
Jax frowned. “Why afraid?” the minotaur asked, his arm tightening possessively around the pale redhead, her naked skin tickled by his savage fur.
“Urgo, master. It was him that tried to claim me in the slave pen. I don’t think he’ll give me up. He wants me, master. And I’m afraid what he might do to claim me…”
Jax’s frown deepened. A rumbling growl rose from his chest. “Then I mark again.”
“Again?”
Jax released her and rose. He moved towards the bits of metal he had been working on and picked some up. Doria cocked her head at his back as he worked. Then, the minotaur turned about again and held out what he had been working on.
Doria’s eyes widened at the crude brand the minotaur held. The tip was worked to resemble the horned head of a bull. She looked back to Jax and laughed. “Of course!” she giggled. “Master wants to brand his slave with more than just the curse.”
“This not good?” Jax said uncertainly.
“No master. It’s good,” Doria said, smiling as she turned about and on hands and knees pushed out her rump. “Brand me, master. Brand me as your personal slut for all days. Let everyone who sees this slut know that she is Jax’s breeding sow.”
Jax grinned and nodded his horned head. “Me do.”
Doria smiled, watching as the minotaur warmed the piece of metal in the flames. Soon enough he brought forth the glowing tip, and though she shivered in the tense anticipation of pain, she didn’t flinch as Jax loomed behind her. She wanted this, she realized, burying her face in her arms, steeling herself for the pain. She didn’t want the mark of the monster’s curse. But she did want her master’s brand.
But even so, she couldn’t halt a cry of pain as the red hot metal seared her bum. Pain, so fierce she saw white for a moment, claimed her. She whimpered, shuddering as Jax took away the brand. Then, she was in his arms again, pressed against the mintoaur’s chest.
“Mine,” Jax said, nuzzling her damp red hair, soothing her hurts with his touch.
Doria shivered and looked down. Still red from the flame, the minotaur’s mark emblazoned her bottom in sharp relief. Her heart swelled at the sight. At knowing that now, she was truly marked as the minotaur’s brood slut.
“Yours,” she said adoringly, and kissed him again by the babbling stream and the warm flame of the fire.
Murder
Doria stood, watching the forest with bated breath. She and the other slaves lingered beneath the boughs of the trees, alone. She alone stood, waiting for her master to return.
The days following her branding had gone quickly. Her new role as Jax’s slave was cemented when they returned, her body marked twice with the minotaur’s mastery. Her fear of Urgo seemed unfounded. The monster was gone from the group, fled when Jax had taken her aside. The minotaur spared an afternoon in search of the cur, but he soon gave up. They hadn’t the time to linger.
The week they spent marching was the happiest Doria had ever known. Every night Jax fucked her, his cock soon stretching her quim until she gaped for him, his shaft at long last hilting in her, her plush bottom slapping his hips with every drive of his cock into her. Her breasts ached each morning from the minotaur’s hungry touch and lips.
“You make fine cow,” he’d say, his hand rubbing her stomach.
“Thank you,” she’d moan back, imagining herself swollen like Mina, her breasts heavy with cream for her master’s young.
But they’d at last reached the end of the road. Above the forest rose the snakes of smoke from the enemy camp. Jax had watched it, then set his troops aside. The slaves had been instructed to remain there, their masters would go forth and do the Duke’s wishes.
“We be back soon,” Jax told her.
“I’ll be here, master,” Doria said, kissing the tip of his cock once more. “Show the humans who deserves to be the master of Istanov.”
Jax had grinned and set off with his band.
And now she waited. Two hours past she’d dimly heard the distant sounds of battle. The clamour of arms and shouts of men whispering on the back of the wind.
But stillness now reigned once more.
Doria perked up, rising to her toes as a shape staggered from the forest. “Master!” she cried.
The figure stumbled into the light.
And her heart went cold.
Urgo’s eyes glowed as he beheld the pale redhead, naked but for the marks on her groin and her bottom. The furry monster’s lips split in a savage grin. In his claws he gripped a bloodied knife.
“What wrong?” Urgo grunted, stepping slowly nearer. “Not happy to see master?”
Doria took a trembling step back. “You! You… you’re not my master. Jax is! If you do anything to me, Jax-“
The feral monster threw back his head and howled in mirth. Doria flinched at the sound, staring at Urgo with wonder. “Jax not come back!” the monster said, grinning his fangs with savage glee. He lifted the bloodied knife. “I kill!”
Cold spread through Doria. “Wh-what?”
“They about to attack empress army,” Urgo said, sauntering towards her, his eyes shining brightly with terrible triumph. “They think I leave. But there too many in army. Jax try attack. But when he order, I slip up. And I cut throat!”
He again bared the dagger, still dripping with blood. Urgo howled with laughter at her stunned expression. “Jax fall! And while humans kill monsters, I escape! Monsters fail. Humans win. And now I here to claim what mine. You mine now!”
Doria stared, numb. Senseless. She looked at the knife in his hand, and realized with a terrible certainty that he spoke the truth. Jax was dead. Her master was dead.
“See?” Urgo said, striding up to her, his glowing eyes pulsing with delight. “See? I better than master. I stronger. Smarter! So, you belong to Urgo!”
Doria blinked. Of course. Without Jax, she was ju
st a slave. And a slave belonged to whoever claimed her. As she registered this, more figures emerged from the forest. Other monsters from the warband, their wounds weeping blood, their steps heavy with the exhaustion of their rout. Their task had failed. They’d been beaten.
The empress had won.
“Urgo,” Doria said softly, stepping forward. Feeling the eye marking her womb pulse. “Yes.”
Urgo grinned wider as her breasts pressed against his greasy fur. She took his hands, feeling the shaking of his exertion. Of course. He had just been in a battle and ran all the way back here. He was exhausted, but triumphant. She took his hands and brought them to her breasts. The dagger slipped from his grasp as his claws tightened on her ripe teats.
“Oooh,” Urgo breathed as he massaged her breasts. “I see why Jax wanted slut. You best in raid.” He leaned over her, panting. “I make good bitch.”
“Urgo,” Doria moaned. “I would rather die.”
Urgo blinked, and then Doria plunged the dagger deep into his belly. Urgo gurgled, stumbling back. Doria ripped the dagger free, and as the monster grasped his stomach she brought around the blade and rammed it deep as she could into his black heart. The monster’s mouth opened wide, his eyes throbbing with their golden light. Then dimmed.
Limply, the monster crumpled to the ground, dead. Doria looked down at the corpse, trembling. She lifted her head and looked at the other monsters.
They looked back without interest. Too stunned by their loss and their terrible wounds. They did nothing, and soon after turned back to their slaves, who crooned or stroked them, attempting to bandage their wounds.
Doria stepped back from Urgo’s corpse. Her hand went to her stomach, feeling the heat of the Duke’s brand. Her master was dead. Dead.
But his seed lived on.
Doria looked at the scattered monsters, then turned and strode away. Jax may have been dead, but she was not. She still carried her master’s legacy. His seed grew in her womb. She was his slave, now, and after. She knew her purpose now. If she stayed with the monsters another would claim her as their own. But she would belong to no other.
She didn’t know where she was going. Not back to the Duke, to be claimed by a monster not worthy of breeding her. Not to the empress, for she was no longer for humans. She had cast her lot in with the monster, and she would not return. But she knew one thing. She was Jax’s slave. And with the dagger still slick with the blood of her mate and his murderer in hand, she left the ruined warband, and towards the uncertain future.
< TABLE OF CONTENTS | NEXT UNCENSORED COVER >
Book Twelve
Courage of the Empress
By Amanda Clover and Jay Aury
@amandasmut
Cover artwork by Deilan12
Map of the Empire of Istanov
Triumphant
The stink of burning fur and monster blood filled the air in a foul medley. Torria Aviera grimaced as the foul stench wafted to her as she made her rounds. Form fitting armour still splattered in the blood and filth of the monsters she’d slain revealed her tall, muscular frame. Her dark hair was bound up in a pony tail, her helmet under her arm and cloak fluttering about her shoulders. The Amazonian duchess of Istanov paused to take in the scene of a number of soldiers hefting another corpse onto the bonfire, the greedy flames licking along the minotaur’s fur. Strangely, it appeared the beast’s neck had been slashed open...
“Commander.”
Torria turned as her second in command approached. He went to his knee before her, his mottled green and brown cloak masking much of his body.
“Ander,” she said. “What did you find?”
“The monsters fled, my lady,” the man said dutifully. “What few survived have scattered into the forest along with their slaves.”
“Any sign of a larger encampment?”
“None, my lady.”
Torria nodded slowly. As she had thought. A probing assault, likely to test their forces before the true battle. The monster horde under the command of the Duke of Ashes hadn’t really attacked their wing of the empress’s army. She again looked over the remains of the battlefield, tapping the hilt of her sword thoughtfully.
“Did you take any captives?”
“None, my lady,” the forester said at once.
“Good.” Torria glared at the still burning corpses. “Have the marshals finish clearing up this mess. We march soon back to the empress’s main forces in Sallowmarsh. She should hear of this.”
“Aye, my lady.”
The scout rose and hurried away, leaving Torria to her thoughts. That they were probed meant the monsters were preparing a large-scale assault, that was for certain. Ever since the battle for the Skull Keep, the monsters had been frantically gathering a second horde, even larger than the first, to attempt to crush the human forces. Sweeping down from the north, they’d burned what few communities had survived their initial offensives, enslaving yet more women, slaughtering the men.
It was a tale told again and again. Fortunately, few communities still braved the front. Those who were smart had long since abandoned their villages and fled back towards Moskov and the towering edifice of Cleaveguard. True, some monsters were bound to lurk within the forests and fields along that route, ambushing the unwary, enslaving or killing the weak. But the rangers and the huntresses of Ctharne who had come to aid Istanov had been doing well in clearing out such creatures.
And yet, there were always more.
Sometimes, Torria wondered at that. She had been a captain of Istanov’s scattered military forces all her life. She had led her troops in the defence of her lands and its communities’ countless times. She had always believed in the monsters. Though back in eastern Istanov before the wars, many in the cities doubted such creatures could even exist anymore. Sure, they heard of orcish war bands and the odd terror that lurked about scattered villages, but such things were rarely accorded much attention beyond what could be dragged to the gladiator pits.
And yet, not even Torria could have guessed the hordes that had boiled from the forests and fields. That had swept from the darkness of the west and surged across the lands. How had they achieved such numbers in such secrecy? She wasn’t sure. Though she suspected that, though word of women seized as breeding stock was now well known, such efforts may have been going on long before they were reported. She wondered how many of Istanov’s daughters had been taken before the empire knew it. Dragged into the darkness, mated by monsters and brutes, used to breed the generation of horrors that now assailed their mother’s lands.
Torria was not a woman to fear the future. She set forth with the certainty that her empress knew the right path. She had joined Damera during the earliest days, when her brother had seemed unstoppable in his rule. She had known her cousins, and so was sure Damera was the future of their empire. No. The future of man itself in Istanov. Yet even Torria wondered at how humanity might recover from the horrors inflicted upon it by the monster hordes. More than half their realm devoured in darkness. Their men slaughtered, their women carted off for breeding stock for orcs, wulfen, gertlings and worse. So much lost.
Torria shook her head. No sense lamenting what had happened. She hitched up her sword belt and moved to join a group of assembling knights. She swung herself into the saddle of her warhorse, looking over her troops as they gathered into ranks.
“March!” she commanded, wheeling her horse about and nudging it forward.
Behind her, her forces fell into step. A winding snake of men and women marching through bonfires of their inhuman foes, going forth to the next battlefield. And if they won, again to the next.
Company
Damera Istanova rested her knuckles on the map, leaning forward and scrutinizing it grimly.
Beyond the thin walls of the tent was the city Sallowmarsh, its walls heavy and strong. But she had refused the offer of the lord of the city to share his palace. Better she stay with her troops so they would know she led them from the front. Besides, Sallo
wmarsh had a grim reputation, and more than a few residents had the look of monster in their distant bloodline. She had little doubt the city had been infiltrated by the Duke’s minions or their thralls, and she had no intention of falling prey to traitors from within. She would not let history repeat itself. Too well she recalled the last time she had taken residence in a lord’s keep on the eve of battle. A succubus had infiltrated the city, taking on the shape of a maid. The demonic seductress had nearly managed to devour Damera’s soul before it was killed, and Damera would be a fool not to learn from her mistakes.
She could hear the now familiar sounds of the camp and the army. The murmur of the soldiery, the crackle of the flames of campfires and the odd clash of steel from smithies and training. She wondered, idly, if she would ever know another sound? If this war against the Duke of Ashes would ever end. Or if this was her destiny. And endless cycle of battle and campaign, ending only once she was dead, the mantle to be taken up by her heir.
She sighed, shaking her head, long blonde hair swishing around her. She’d shed her armour for the night, though kept a sword close at hand. As she had ever since that fateful night in the bath. Her breasts and curvy rump pressed against a silky sleeping robe; the front just slightly undone to reveal the valley of her large breasts.
She sighed and pushed back from the table, picking up a goblet of wine and sipping it. She grimaced. Bitter.
There was a knock at the taut fabric of the tent. She turned and smiled as a hooded figure slipped through the entrance.
Damera smiled warmly. “Your majesty,” she said.
The man pulled back his hood, revealing a head whose hair and beard were salted with white. Despite his age, Janus Corven, the king of Heimsvak was an impressive specimen, with broad shoulders and a deep, powerful chest. The image of a true king, unlike Damera’s venal brother holed up in Moskov.
The Pillaging of an Empire Page 55