The Pillaging of an Empire

by Amanda Clover

“Oooooh!” Lysa moaned, shuddering in delight. “Oh. Oh f-fuuuuck!” she wailed as she came with him, the power of the mark upon her body sending her over the edge. Even as she quaked with orgasm Targi didn’t stop. Didn’t soften. He kept plunging into her, leaning forward, grasping a swaying tit and capturing the budding nipple between his hungry lips.

  “Nnnn! Oh m-master! Ah… ah! Yes! Fuck! Suck on my… nnn… my tit. Oh fuck. Fuck! Can’t wait… ah… can’t wait to be filled with milk. Be milked by master. Milked and… and… fuuuuuucked!”

  Her cry rose, a crescendo of a second orgasm as Targi claimed her yet again. Pumping into her clutching pussy with all the devotion of the obsessed. And he was. Enthralled by the buxom curves he’d never imagined he might possess. A fertile sorceress so eager for his cum. To be his breeding slut. His bitch.

  Again and again he plunged his shank into that warm cunny, engulfed in the joy of true mating. Fucking the sorceress until she collapsed on the floor, panting, her tits heaving with laboured breath, exhausted. Targi pulled his cock free from her cunt, unleashing a flood of her juices and his oily cum.

  “Mmm…” Lysa moaned softly, grabbing him and pulling him tight into the pillow of her tits. The now familiar location hardly bothered the gertling, and happily he snuggled up against her. Sated and eased with post coital bliss. Targi felt his heart throb with a strange tenderness for his wife. His breeding slut. Gently, he took her cloak and tucked it around her to keep her warm.

  “Good night, my king,” Lysa crooned.

  “Night, witch,” Targi said, yawning before burying his face between those plush mounds and falling into a deep sleep.

  The Raid

  The caravan wound through the foothills like a train of misery and suffering. Ogres, thick and brutish, pulled the two cages behind them. Nearly a dozen of the heavy brutes. Yet heavy as they were, Targi knew too well that the creatures were all muscle.

  The wheels of the carts rattled and bounced over the rocky terrain as they moved among the towering cliffs. From his vantage point on the lip of a crag Targi watched them closely. The brutes were at ease, laughing. After all, what had they to fear? There were no men left to challenge them. No monster would dare fight so many of their kind. They were right on both counts, of course. No man would challenge them.

  But it was not a man who stood in the path ahead.

  Alia had put on her orcish guise and stood directly in the path of the ogre’s carts, her blade held before her, point in the earth. The ogres slowed at the sight and one, the chief to judge by his bulk and bent metal helmet, moved forward.

  “What orc want?” the ogre said, scratching himself as he glared down at the black orc.

  “Those cages, and the women in them.”

  The ogre belted out a laugh that shook among the cliffs. “You want cage? Not for you. These for Gorus!”

  “Gorus won’t have them.”

  The ogre smirked, but there was a dangerous glint in those eyes now. He lazily reached back and pulled out a club. “You move, or me move you.”

  “You can try.”

  Mirth vanished from the ogre’s face. With a bellow he swung up his club and brought it down onto the orc.

  Who was no longer there.

  The ogre blinked as his club smashed into rock, then howled as Alia’s blade sliced through his hamstring. The ogre’s legs gave in beneath him, sending the brute to his hands and knees, his head bouncing with the impact, leaving the back of his neck exposed. An opportunity Alia didn’t squander. Her blade sliced down, through the exposed neck cleanly. The ogre’s head bounced onto the dusty path.

  The other ogres stared, their minds struggling to comprehend the sudden events. Then, one howled with fury, and as one they rushed forward. Alia retreated; sword raised as the ogres surged towards her in a howling mass. Even had they not been blinded by their rage, it was unlikely they would have seen the chalk markings which framed the path. As it was, they rushed past them, never noticing how the runes flared.

  The twin explosions rocked the hills. Pieces of ogres flew hither and yon. Howling, confused, bleeding and wounded, the survivors stumbled about in the rubble. They slipped and slid in the gory mess on the ground.

  One saw Lysa, her cloak flapping in the wind as she stepped up beside Targi on the ledge and raised her arms. Magic spun about her palms in discs of rune written light, growing into swirling flame. She cast it down, the sorcerous strike washing in a wave of fire through the surviving ogres.

  The stench of burned meat filled the air. It was no longer a fight. It wasn’t even a slaughter. It was butchery as Alia walked among the destruction, her sword glistening for the bloody work.

  Lysa let her arms fall, exhaling heavily. “There we are,” she said, surveying the scorched battlefield below. “Shall we, my king?”

  Targi realized his mouth was hanging open. He snapped it shut and scrambled back to his feet. “Y-yes. We go.”

  Smiling down at him, Lysa took his hand, walking the gertling down the hills and to the path below. By the time they reached the scorched ground Alia had finished, the last of the moaning bulks of what had once been ogres put out of their misery. She glanced their way and nodded to the cages, touching her ring and dispelling her illusion. “Let’s get this done.”

  Targi rubbed his hands together eagerly as Lysa walked to the first cart and put her hand on the lock. Magic flashed and the heavy metal clicked open. She pulled the door wide and beamed at the women within. “Come on out. You’re safe now.”

  Targi grinned in eager anticipation as his new wives were led out of the cart, their eyes dim and confused. Most were naked or wearing little more than the tattered remnants of clothes, but all had the brand of the eye above their mons. The second cage drew out more of the same, and soon enough Targi looked out over a collection of curvy women, their minds lost to the curse.

  “Do you think it will work?” Lysa asked the gertling.

  “Me find out,” Targi grinned.

  It wasn’t hard to pick out a warrior among the assembled. Little surprise. Only those able to fight could have survived so long without falling to the clutches of monsters, and the toned muscles of a red head among the group drew the gertling’s attention. He raised his hand. “You. Come.”

  The red head stared dimly at the gertling, until Lysa took her hand and drew the addled slut towards him. Targi felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for the woman. To be reduced to little more than a mindless slave. A breeding tool. Arousing, to be sure. But was it much different from what the orcs had sought to inflict on him? Little more than a slave of labour, to be disposed of when he was too weak to work?

  The redhead seemed to grow more aware as she neared him. A feverish flush bloomed in her cheeks when she saw the gertling, and she suddenly fell to her hands and knees. “Master,” the woman moaned, crawling towards him, tits swaying beneath her, marked with the rough scrapes and touch of brutish masters.

  Targi grimaced, even as his cock stiffened, pushing against his loincloth. He touched the woman’s head as she drew near, holding her back. “No. On back.”

  “Yes,” she panted, shuffling back, leaning against the grey stone of the cliff. She parted her legs, baring her cunt, the mark of the curse pulsing above her slick folds as she reached down and parted them. “Yes. Please. Fuck. Fucka. Fuck me. Fuck slut.”

  Targi rolled his eyes. He walked between the woman’s quivering thighs, and then dropped to his hands and knees. The redhead stared, uncomprehending, and then Targi leaned in, and let his tongue slide against her slit.

  “Oh!” the redhead gasped, starting in a shock of pleasure. Then her lashes fluttered, her voice falling to a groaning moan as his tongue slid up and down her hot snatch, teasing her tender folds. “Ooooooh…”

  Gentle hands touched the redhead’s shoulders. Drew her from the hard surface of the rock and into a soft lap and pillowy breasts. “Isn’t that nice?” Lysa murmured, her arms looping around the slave’s body, cradling her against generous cu
rves and a tender embrace. “Doesn’t that feel good?”

  “Ooooh,” the redhead moaned, her hips trembling to stay open. “Gooood…”

  “I know it does. Because Targi is such a good lover. Such a wonderful husband. And he so wants his brides to be themselves. To be clever and smart and eager, shuddering lovers.”

  “Mmmhmmm!” the redhead whimpered.

  Targi wasn’t a hundred percent sure about what Lysa was saying, but then, he had trouble expressing what he wanted too. And it did sound about right.

  And gods but the woman’s pussy tasted wonderful. A flavour that danced on his tongue and urged him to lick more. More. Deeper. Hearing the soft mewls and whimpers from his new bride driving him to please her more.

  “Such strong arms,” Lysa murmured, stroking the woman’s shaking limbs. “I bet you were a mighty warrior. Weren’t you?”

  “Ah… hah… nnnn…”

  “A knight?”

  “I… I dunno… I… I’m slut… slut… slut for master…”

  “But you weren’t always. What were you? What was your name?”

  The redhead whimpered, locked in the tender embrace of the other woman, her pussy being licked and toyed with by the gertling between her legs. Her head was spinning, spinning, spinning. The storm of the red fog which had consumed her those many nights ago, when the wulfen had claimed her cunt, battering her thoughts.

  But a word peeked through. A thought. A name that held something more to it.

  “B-Bertia!” she gasped.

  “Bertia,” Lysa purred, her hands gently capturing the woman’s breasts, tenderly massaging those plush orbs, eliciting whimpers and gasps as Bertia was consumed in a haze of lust. “I bet you were so strong before. So powerful. A warrior that fought for your sisters. For your kingdom. For your king.”

  “Mnnnn!” Bertia whimpered, thrusting out her chest into those playful hands, her hips quivering as Targi eagerly licked her. “I... I waaaas!” she moaned.

  Lysa’s brow flicked up as she saw a tear slide down Bertia’s cheek, her whimpering moan taking on a note of tragedy.

  “That’s good,” Lysa said, kissing Bertia’s neck gently. “That’s very good. Because your new master wants that back. Targi wants you strong. Wants you back to who you were. The knight. The warrior. The champion. Do you want to go back to it?”

  “Yes!” Bertia whimpered. “Yes!”

  Lysa glanced down to Targi, who caught her eye and lifted his mouth from Bertia’s cunt. The redhead whimpered until Targi shuffled forward, grasping her thighs and teasing her slick cunny with the head of his warty cock.

  “Then be her again,” Lysa murmured in her ear. “For your king.”

  Targi thrust.

  “Ahhhhhh!” Bertia moaned as the gertling’s cock stuffed her tender pussy. Spacious as her cunt was, having taken beasts that dwarfed Targi in every way, her inner walls nonetheless clamped down on the warty intruder, rippling around his cock as Targi began to eagerly fuck her.

  “OOoooh!” the gertling moaned.

  “Yessss!” Bertia screamed. “Oh gods! Yes! Fuuuuck!”

  “Will you be his? Will you be his knight, Bertia?”

  “Oh gods yessss! Yesss! My king! My gertling king! Yessssss! Nnnnaaaaa!”

  Her cry rang among the cliffs as she came, cunt shuddering around the gertling’s cock, squeezing him so eagerly the stunted male couldn’t help but cum within her, Targi’s voice rising in a squeal of pure pleasure as his oily cum spurted into Bertia’s cunt. The mark above her mons flashed with red light, and Bertia screamed again as a second orgasm followed on the heels of the first.

  Targi panted as he came down from that first height, then squeaked as Bertia suddenly grabbed him, pulling him into her tits. “Oh my king!” the redhead sobbed, clutching him to herself. “My king… thank you, Targi. Thank you so much…”

  “Mmmph!” Targi said, then gave in and simply enjoyed the familiar sensation of being smothered between a pair of impressive tits.

  Lysa giggled. “Now now, don’t be greedy, Bertia. After all, Targi has a lot of work to do.”

  Bertia glanced over her shoulder to the sorceress. “He does?”

  “Oh yes,” Lysa said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “After all, every one of these lovely ladies need to rediscover themselves, and learn how wonderful it will be to serve their mighty king as his warrior brides.”

  Targi blinked. He looked back to the cages and the nearly two dozen women freed from them. All of whom were staring at the trio, drawn by the sounds of pleasure and moans of delight.

  “Eep,” Targi said.

  Night’s Embrace

  That first night was the heaviest, but certainly the most rewarding.

  It almost seemed a dream to the gertling, looking back on those heady days. Recovering those women. Helping them along, their minds broken by the cruelty of the curse and the savage lusts that had inflicted it. But Targi was patient, and Lysa was tireless in drawing those women back to the real world. Back to their minds and their skills with spells and arms once forgotten, now reclaimed.

  And with it, a fire to bring about their mate’s vision.

  It wasn’t long before word slithered through the midnight forests of Istanov. Word of women warriors who raided camps and caravans. Who stole the slaves and left naught but destruction in their wake. Of monsters bested, defeated. Of a gertling lord who led these brides of war. Of his eager harem who served his whims and pleasures.

  Targi.

  The name was whispered in the ear of Gorus, who snarled and brooded in his crumbling keep at this challenge to his rule. The name made monsters shiver and clutch their captive breeding slaves to themselves in fear.

  Targi knew this. Heard it as he reclined in his cave in the mountains, the air warmed by the arcane bonfires, a table set before his makeshift throne, loaded high with fine foods. And he smiled with pleasure as he feasted freely on the spoils of his harem’s efforts.

  It was well known a gertling was only as powerful as his gut. Gertlings were thin for they were weak, subsisting on scraps and meager gains. But a gertling of size meant might. Meant that he no longer needed to struggle to survive and feed. It meant that he was a ruler. A chief. The bigger the mightier.

  Targi was pleased with his growth. In time, he would become so fat he wouldn’t even be able to get up, a fact which was assisted by the rich roast he was currently stuffing his face with, the thick grease dancing on his tongue with spices and delight. The gertling moaned as he smacked his lips, tearing the last of the flesh from the bone.

  “Is it good, my king?” Tabitha asked.

  Targi glanced at the young woman. A former baker and cook, captured when her town was conquered by the Duke. The years as a slave of a minotaur had divested her of the fat she’d earned in her job, but left her a curvy plumpness that Targi appreciated greatly. She was dressed in nothing but an apron, looking up at her portly master with the worship of the devoted. Targi nodded.

  “It good. Me like.”

  Tabitha blushed. “Oh thank you, my lord! And ah… might I take my reward?”

  Targi laughed, his gut jiggling with delight. “Yes. You take reward now.”

  Eagerly the cook moved between his thighs, pushing aside his bulk to reveal his warty cock. Targi moaned happily as her tongue slid up his warty shaft, swelling him to his full, meager length. Tabitha moaned, her lashes fluttering as she lapped at that turgid length, her lips engulfing his cock and adoringly sucking.

  “Mmmm,” Targi moaned as the beauty worshipped his cock. The gertling thrust eagerly into her hungry mouth, quivering with delight. Ohhhh it was so good!

  “Mmmmnnnnaaaaa!” Targi gasped, his cock twitching as he came, pumping his oily seed into Tabitha’s mouth. The young woman moaned, lashes fluttering as she eagerly swallowed his load.

  When the last dribble was gone, she lifted her lips from his cock, her eyes shining with adoration. “Thank you, my king,” she said, her tongue licking the corner of
her mouth.

  Targi grinned. “You welcome.”

  He raised his head abruptly as he saw a glow move through the entrance to his cave. Instantly, his smile grew on his lipless mouth as Lysa entered the room.

  She had changed during the time since they had begun their great quest. Her breasts had grown heavier, her hips more ample, and her stomach now swelled with the evidence of her obedience to her chief. Targi felt a thrill as his pregnant bride swayed into the room, her smirk smoky, her eyes lidded with desire and amusement.

  “Hello, my king,” Lysa purred, leaning against him, kissing him lovingly. Targi returned the affection eagerly, feeling her heavy breasts press against his gut. He reached up, stroking her gravid belly eagerly, Lysa moaning softly at his touch through the straining fabric of her leotard.

  “Pups grow good,” Targi grinned.

  “Mmm. So very good, my chief. Why, I doubt I’ll even be able to take your cock until I have your young.”

  Targi pouted but nodded. “Then, me have other wives.”

  She giggled. “You do have quite the collection, my chief. So many wives so eager for their chief’s cock.”

  Targi squeaked as her hand drifted down to his lap, her fingers wrapping about his cock and giving it a teasing stroke. “My mighty chief has so many warrior wives with him. He’s so powerful and brave and strong.”

  “Yes,” Targi moaned. “But, only chief.”

  Lysa quirked a brow. “Oh?” she said, touching the dark cloth that garbed her, the fabric parting, allowing her heavy, milky breasts to pop free, bouncing on her chest. “Is my chief dissatisfied with things.”

  “Me not dis… diss… Me like things,” Targi said as he hefted one of her heavy breasts, Lysa gasping with delight as his thick fingers admired that torrid tit. “Me like brides and power. Me happy. But me want be king.”

  “Are you… nn… Not already?” Lysa panted.

  “No,” Targi said. “King have castle.”

  “Oooooh!” Lysa moaned as the gertling’s lips took her budding nipple and began to suck. She grasped the corners of his chair, panting as his hands massaged that ample orb. Milking her with a skill that amazed her even as she felt her head spin and body heat with desperate desire for this fat monster. “Ooooh T-Targi! I… mmm… Th-then my chief… ah, I mean, my… mnnn… king shall have a… a castle! He will have one in which he will reign long. With his… ah… his brides at his sides. Would my king like that? Would he… nnn… adore that?”