Before Lord Barlon’s arrest…Moments after the family left for king’s palace…
Deep within the sprawling stone walls… a cramped, dimly lit chamber.
Before Anya had left for the palace, she had also granted this small space to the servant girl…Little Mouse… along with the gift.
Faded tapestries hung crookedly on the walls, but they were overshadowed by the true obsession…Panties.
Lady Anya's delicate lace, silk and linen undergarments dominated the room like a shrine to illicit lust, pilfered beyond the few she had laid out for the girl.
On the walls, nails driven haphazardly into the plaster held rows of them, silk and cotton dangling like trophies. The bed, a rickety frame piled with crumpled sheets, was buried under a mountain of them, panties strewn across the mattress in a chaotic nest their fabrics soft and inviting smoothed out like relics to be worshipped. The floor was no better, littered with stray pairs that crunched underfoot, forming a path of silky traps that led to the bed..
In the center of this panty drenched haven, the girl lay sprawled on the bed, naked, her feet planted wide apart on the tangled sheets, toes curling into the fabric as she lost herself.
Her fingers worked frantically at her swollen clit, rubbing in tight, urgent circles, her breaths coming in shallow, needy gasps as juices slicked her thighs, the room echoing with the wet sounds of her self-pleasure.
She had found the pair that Lady Anya had worn easily … now on her head, the lace mask perched atop her head and face, pulling deep sniffs every few seconds, the scent of Anya hitting her like a drug, making her eyes roll back in blissful delirium.
"Oh, gods... sniff... so divine," she whispered to herself in a fragmented, breathless monologue, her voice a rapid-fire murmur of vulgar adoration.
Another one, this one of scarlet silk, was wadded in her mouth. She bit down on the fabric, her jaw working, muffling her soft, rhythmic whimpers. The taste of perfume and faint scent bloomed on her tongue. She lifted the 'mask' pulled out the scarlet out slowly, drips of saliva coming out with it.
She'd forgotten all about Anya's letter to take just that morning's pair.
She was lost. Drowning. Her fingers pressed harder, the circles tightening. Her hips began to lift off the bed in a tiny, desperate grind.
Time blurred into a haze of unbridled lust as she surrendered to an entire hour of self-indulgent worship, her body a temple dedicated to Lady Anya… the ethereal goddess whose essence lingered in every thread of fabric surrounding her.
Her breaths came in heavy, worshipful gasps, her mind consumed by Anya's imagined form… flawless, divine, a being whose garments carried the nectar of the gods.
She positioned herself on all fours, her ass high in the air, inhaling deeply as her fingers worked her clit in furious circles.… sniff, gasp… as she pumped fingers inside herself, juices flowing freely down her thighs.
Her fingers hit a perfect rhythm, rubbing her clit with furious speed. Wave after wave erupted from her, a relentless torrent soaking the bed and the garments, her body jerking in pure bliss, eyes rolling back as moans escaped in a continuous stream… ahhhh, ohhh … she screamed to herself in a drawn-out wail, the pleasure overwhelming her senses, sending her into a trance of unending euphoria where time stretched, her cunt pulsing with aftershocks that refused to fade. She writhed on the soaked laces, the flood finally ebbing after what felt like an eternity, leaving her panting and trembling, the room now reeking of her devotion.
By the halfway mark, thirty minutes in, her energy had surged again, flipping to a bizarre spread-eagle position on the floor amid the scattered garments, her body arching like a bow as she fingered herself with both hands now.
She dragged another pair along her folds, the fabric gliding through her wetness, before pressing it firmly against her core, letting it absorb her juices.
"Goddess, your lace drinks my worship," she murmured in a fragmented, adoring rush, her voice breaking into grunts.
By the end of the hour, she was utterly spent but triumphant, having adorned herself with the entire bunch as a final act of devotion. One pair was wedged at her pussy, utterly soaked with her squirt, clinging to her folds like a second skin. Another pair, she was wearing, holding the wedged one in place. Others were wrapped around her thighs, binding them in silky chains. More draped over her breasts, the lace teasing her nipples into hard peaks. Another was in her mouth, the one Anya had worn that morning still on her head like a mask. A pair tied around her neck like a choker, the fabric damp with her sweat and the rest covering her arms, legs… turning her into a living tapestry of Anya's essence.
Outside, the estate's usual hush was shattered by a sudden commotion.
Shouts.
Celebrations? A raid returning? Lord Barlon’s men were always noisy.
She sank back into the haze lost once more in her world of lace.
But then, a muffled shout pierced the air, louder and more distinct the words carrying through the thin walls.
"Lord Barlon has been arrested by the King's order! Lady Anya and Lyssa have been sold to his men!"
Back at the palace…
Theron spun on his heel, his voice booming with fear to the captain.
"Assemble our men. Send word to every lord in the realm… tell them to march their men here immediately. To protect their king!"
The captain nodded stiffly, but before he could leave, Malthus shifted uneasily, his voice emerging in a drawn-out, hesitant drawl that grated on Theron's nerves.
"Y-Your Majesty... it would take at least ten hours for all of them to assemble and march in... the distances are vast... and if I am to be honest your grace, I'm not sure any lord would want to march against Barlon..."
Theron's face twisted into a mask of pure fury, his veins bulging.
"You sniveling cunt… They would dare refuse an order from their king! I want them here right now! Bleeding for me!"
"We will all be dead by then! Malthus muttered to himself.
"What did you just say you peasant."
"N.. nothing your grace." Malthus whispered, looking down.
Theron's fury erupted.
"You greedy peasant? Admiring this, are you? He grabbed at his cock, pointing it toward the stunned council man.
"I see it in your eyes... admitting how much you crave this mighty sword, how you want to drop to your knees and slobber like a whore just to taste the power!"
Malthus staggered back, his face ashen and mouth agape, a strangled whimper escaping him... what ?...
The royal captain, seized the moment to bow curtly and turn on his heel. The councilman followed in a hurried shuffle seconds later but not after receiving another round of verbal abuse from the king...
The thick oak door slammed shut behind him and the guards leaving a ringing silence in the king’s opulent chamber.
The only sounds were the crackle of the great fireplace and Theron’s ragged, panicked breathing. He stood in the center of the room, his ring-laden hands clenching and unclenching.
Lady Anya slowly, painfully, pushed herself up from where the guards had forced her down. Every movement sent a jolt through her shoulders and hips. Her fingers trembled as she reached to pull up the half-stripped silk of her under-panties. She smoothed her velvet gown back down over her thighs. She did not look at the king.
“You,” Theron barked, the word echoing off the stone.
“You will send word. You will order those barbarians to halt their march. To lay down their arms and bow to their king. At once.”
Anya finished adjusting her clothes. She lifted her chin, her voice eerily calm.
“And how, would you have me do that?”
He stopped pacing, his body quivering.
“Do not mock me, woman! They cannot march against me! I am the king!”
He was shouting, his face flushed a deep, blotchy red.
“This is insolence! Treason!”
He whirled back to her, his lecherous eyes now wide with a different, more frantic hunger…the hunger of a cornered beast sensing the collapse of its world.
Anya saw the shift. Her body tensed, and she shuffled backwards, instinct screaming of danger.
“My cheeks…” Theron muttered, stumbling a step toward her. His gaze raked over her body, but the usual lust was tangled with a desperate, possessive fury.
“I cannot let them be taken from me. I will not!”
Anya began backing toward the great bed.
“Come here!” he roared.
She staid still.
The man lunged.
His thick arms wrapped around her torso, his momentum carrying them both backward.
“I was going to savor you,” he grunted into her ear, his breath hot and wet. “But now… now I must mark what is mine.”
One of his hands slid down, groping roughly over the generous curve of her hip, seeking the full, rounded swell of her buttock through the velvet. He grabbed a handful, his fingers digging in, kneading the soft flesh with a frantic, needy pressure.
“I don’t want to let them go,” he whined, a shocking, pathetic sound. Tears welled in his eyes.
“They are mine.They belong to me!”
“Get off me!” Anya sai, shoving against his chest. She twisted, but his grip was like iron, his other hand coming around to clutch at the other side of her rear. He was trying to walk her backward, toward the bed.
“No more waiting,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “I will take you now, and the world can burn.”
Anya fought.
Her nails raking across his jaw. With a snarl, he reared back and slapped her, hard across the face.
The world exploded in white light behind her eyes. Her head snapped to the side, a coppery taste flooding her mouth. The force of it stole her balance, her legs buckling. She stumbled, twisting as she fell, and the king shoved her forward, bending her violently over the bed.
Her belly and breasts crushed into the silken coverlet. He was on her in an instant, his heavy weight pressing her down, his knees forcing her legs apart. One hand stroked his cock. The other clamped onto the back of her neck, holding her face down.
“Mine,” he sobbed against her shoulder, his body trembling with a horrible mix of arousal and terror.
“All of you. This… this perfect… it will be my comfort whi…”
Thump.
The sound was dull, solid.
The crushing weight on Anya’s back vanished.
The hand on her neck went slack.
She heard the heavy sound of a body collapsing onto the thick fur rug.
Gasping, Anya rolled off the edge of the bed, scrambling away on her hands and knees.
King Theron lay sprawled on his side on the floor. A deep, ugly gash welled blood just behind his head, dripping in a steady stream onto the thick fur.
In front of her, was a figure holding a blood-smeared stone.
Anya’s gaze traveled from the stone, up the arm, to the face of her unexpected savior. .
“...Little mouse?!”
The cold air whipped Lyssa’s face as she and Mila edged along the high, narrow walk.
"Keep going," Lyssa hissed through gritted teeth, grabbing the girl’s wrist to steady her. "Don't look down."
The girl whimpered, her eyes wide and darting between the deadly drop and the men aiming to kill.
A sharp thwack echoed against the wall, followed immediately by the vibration of an arrow shaft embedding itself in the stone just inches from Lyssa’s face. Stone dust sprayed into her eyes, blinding her for a split second. She blinked it away, forcing her body to respond, to slide along the ledge despite the screaming protest of her muscles.
One archer, a grizzled veteran with a leer etched onto his face, rose his bow slightly, adjusting his aim with deliberate slowness.
The shaft struck with terrifying precision, slamming into the stone wall directly between the girl’s thighs. The broadhead didn't hit flesh, but the force of the impact and the jagged stone shards tore viciously at the fabric of her shift. The material, ripped apart, the arrow acting as a wedge that split the cloth right up the center.
Mila shrieked, a sound of pure terror. She stopped dead. The girl stared down, seeing the arrow vibrating violently between her legs, the fletching brushing against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
“We’re going to die!”
“Don’t stop!” Lyssa screamed.
"I can't... it's too..."
"Yes, you can!" Lyssa said. "Look at me. If you stay there, you're dead. They're going to put the next one right through your cunt. Do you want that?"
Another volley of arrows sang through the air. One hissed past Lyssa’s ear, close enough that she felt the displacement of air against her scalp.
The archers were finding their range.
"Move!" Lyssa shouted.
Mila forced her legs to work. She stumbled on, the torn shift flapping uselessly around her thighs.
"Shoot the slits! Bring them down!" the commander roared from below.
Arrows clattered against the stone around them, a deadly rain of steel and wood. One struck the sheet wrapped around Lyssa, skimming off her hip and tearing the linen, but failing to bite deep. Lyssa gritted her teeth, ignoring the stinging sensation.
The ledge was beginning to curve, the wall angling inward.
"Don't look down! Keep moving! Lyssa panted, her lungs burning with the cold air.
If they could get around that bend, the archers wouldn't have a line of sight. It was only a few feet away, but it might as well have been a mile.
"Just a little more!"
They tumbled around the corner together, pressing their backs against the cold stone as the lethal rain of arrows ceased abruptly.
“You incompetent whoresons! A pair of naked cunts on a wall and you missed every shot!”
“You!” the commander bellowed, pointing to one of the archers trembling in his leathers.
“You missed every shot. You owe me your asshole!”
“C.. Commander…I…they were far...the wind..”
“C…C….I… Kneel!”
The archer hesitated, his eyes wide with dawning horror. In an instant his head toppled, bouncing once before rolling onto the ground. The headless body stood for a second, then collapsed in a gush of blood.
The other archers stood paralyzed.
The commander turned holding his massive sword, his gaze settling on the next man in line.
The next archer, his face a mask of terror, fumbled at the buckles of his boiled leather jerkin and breeches. In moments, he was on his knees, armor cast aside, his bare backside exposed to the cold and the gaze of his comrades.
The commander unlaced his own breeches. His cock sprang free, already thick and rigid, a brutal tool of dominance. He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and positioned the swollen head against the kneeling man’s tight, clenched entrance.
“This,” he grunted, “is how you shoot and don't miss.” He shoved forward, not with a thrust, but with a steady, relentless, sinking pressure.
The archer cried out, a sharp, agonized yelp as his body was breached. The commander buried himself to the hilt in one long, brutal push, sheathing his entire length in the man’s unprepared anus.
He paused, letting the man feel the full, stretching, splitting intrusion.
On the other side, Lyssa and the girl heard the sounds…. the pained whimpers. It was a stark, vile reminder of the world they were trapped in.
Lyssa gasped for air, her chest heaving, the thin sheet wrapped around her torso clinging to the sweat slicking her body. Beside her, the girl clutched the hem of Lyssa’s sheet with white-knuckled desperation.
They were out of sight. For the moment, they were alive.
“There’s nowhere to go,” Mila whispered, her voice hollow. The ledge there offered no ladder, no vines, only a longer drop to certain death.
“Psst! Down here!”
The whisper came from directly below them.
A single royal guard stood there, his face upturned, a hand beckoning urgently.
“Jump!” he hissed. “I’ll catch you!”
The girls shrank back, hearts beating fast.
"Trust me."
“You can stay there and die when they turn the corner!” the guard argued, his voice strained with urgency. “You can also choose to freeze to death naked up there! Or you can jump! I am your only chance! Trust me!”
An eternity of hesitation passed, measured in the hammering of their hearts.
Shouts from around the corner grew, distinct words forming.
Lyssa stared down at his face. The distance was dizzying. It was a leap for survival, a gamble that the man below was truly an ally and not just another man waiting to kill them or worse.
“Hey?” Mila grabbed her arm.
“What choice do we have?” Lyssa said.
“And if it’s a trap… I think the two of us can handle one man.” It was a weak joke, but it steadied her.
“We need to get off this wall.”
She shuffled across the edge. The wind gusted, catching the loose fold of linen wrapped around her chest. She hadn't tied it securely after the scramble out the window. The knot was weak, slipping. She looked down at the guard. He was braced, eyes locked on her.
"Close your eyes!" Lyssa screamed, her voice cracking.
"I cannot!" he roared back. "I have to see to catch you!"
She squeezed her eyes shut and pushed off the stone.
Gravity took her instantly, a violent yank in her stomach. The wind tore at her body, and with a sharp snap, the knot at her breast gave way. The sheet whipped away from her skin, tangling in the air currents like a ghost fleeing a corpse, and vanished over the parapet. She was naked, plummeting toward the man.
The impact was jarring, harder than she expected, but not with the ground. Strong arms encircled her, metal gauntlets biting into her soft waist and thighs. The guard grunted with the exertion, absorbing her momentum with a stumble, his boots skidding on the cobblestones.
He held her firm, his grip unyielding.
"Got you," he muttered, his voice rumbling through his chestplate. His eyes were closed.
Lyssa scrambled out of his grip, her feet hitting the ground. She ducked behind him.
“Thankyou.”
“Now you!” the guard hissed up to the girl.
Mila looked from Lyssa to the guard, then back at the curve. A fresh shout from the far side of the other side of the wall decided it. She clambered up, closed her eyes, and jumped.
Her shift, ripped, became a flag in the wind. It billowed up over her waist as she fell.
The guard stepped forward, adjusting his stance. He caught her easily, one arm hooking under her knees, the other behind her back, sweeping her up in a bridal carry.
He held her for a moment longer. The girl shivered in his grasp, her skin pebbling with gooseflesh, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts against his neck.
Slowly, he lowered her to her feet.
The dungeon corridor echoed with the wet crunch of splintering bone and the choked gurgles of dying men.
A mountain of fur and iron moved with the terrible, inevitable momentum of a glacier. His giant axe was on his back, a promise not yet needed. His shield, a slab of oak and steel, hung behind him.
The Royal guards, their polished breastplates gleaming in the torchlight, lowered their spears.
“Halt! By order of the King!”
The man’s fist, caught the first guard under the chin. The man’s head snapped back with a sound like a rotten branch breaking. A second lunged. The man caught the spear shaft mid-thrust, yanked the guard forward, and drove his forehead into the bridge of the man’s nose. Blood painted the air in a fine mist. He let the body drop, stepping over it without breaking stride.
Three more came around the corner, swords drawn. They saw the carnage, saw the giant advancing, and their courage wavered for a single, fatal heartbeat.
The man moved forward, his massive fist catching the lead guard square in the metal chest. Ribs collapsed like a wicker basket. He grabbed the second by the head, twisted, and threw him head-first into the damp stone wall with a sickening, final thud.
The third guard screamed, a high-pitched sound of pure terror, and swung his blade wildly. The man caught the sword arm at the wrist. He squeezed. The bones in the man’s forearm ground together, then gave way with a series of muffled pops. The sword clattered to the floor. The man looked into the guard’s wide, pain-glazed eyes for a moment before shoving him aside into a bloody heap.
He didn’t slow. He didn’t look back. The sounds behind him… the moaning, the weeping, the desperate rasps for air… were just the fading echoes of his passage. His boots, thick-soled and heavy, left dark prints on the flagstones. The air grew colder, damper. The torches became fewer, their light casting long, dancing shadows that looked like grasping hands.
Finally, the thick oak door to the dungeon proper stood before him, banded with iron.
He placed a palm on the rough wood and pushed.
Ten of the royal guards lay in a broken circle.
Their bodies were not simply slain, they were unmade. One was folded backwards over a barrel, spine snapped. Another.. face dotted with pimples… was missing an arm, the socket a ragged mess of torn meat and linen. A third’s head was turned completely around, his sharp face a mask of frozen surprise staring at his own back.
And in the center sat on a barrel…
Lord Barlon . Wider. Thicker.
His great hands were still manacled, the chains having been ripped from the ground, the iron rings embedded in the stone free. His chest, a landscape of coarse hair and old wounds, rose and fell with deep, steady breaths.
At his feet, was a girl fumbling with a set of keys on the chain.
She was young, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, with tangled dark hair and wide, dark eyes that were red-rimmed from recent tears. She flinched as the man entered, pressing herself closer to Barlon’s legs.
“Father!”
Barlon turned his head fully. A slow, grim smile touched his lips.
“Son.”