Tales From Arondell: Temptation

I wish I had real wings to fly. With real wings I could fly to a faraway place, like Wyvern's Peak or Mandible City, where I'm free to be myself and pursue my dreams. Where I'm free to finally find the love, tender care and connection I truly need. But because I'm a woman - my father's property - and he's long since decided to sell me, I'll never have the freedom to leave.

So in my dreams, once my head hits the pillows I take flight, high above the world beyond the Hammerhead.

Tonight, the clean and isolated coastline and small Lowlander communities give way to overcrowding and noise, so much noise. The Burbs. Many homes in the dingy, poorer neighbourhoods stand on top of each other, like crumpled shoe-boxes.

Dirty air choked with factory smoke and exhaust fumes replaces the crisp, salty wind the closer I draw to the Capital. Then it's there: The City of Charnel, a sprawling and filthy island metropolis. The charred, beating heart of the Elkran Empire.

I've seen pictures of the Capital, but I've never been there. Not even to the Burbs. I've never been anywhere other than Kaltore's Beach, and I've been isolated here my entire life: Twenty-four long and lonely years.

The sweeping, island-bound city before me zooms in upon the flat rooftop of a gleaming skyscraper. Huge shards of steel and glass crown the building, and surround the helipad, reflecting the early morning sunlight. But something feels... off.

Why? It's an odd-looking skyscraper in a polluted city. Nothing more.

Ignoring the tight knot in my belly, I zoom in closer until I'm there, standing upon the helipad. Cold, early Spring wind whips at my hair, and a strange, eerie presence prickles the nape of my neck. The fine hairs stir, and stand on end.

What the HELL--?

I spin around in a circle, my gaze sweeping over the wide, open space, seeking out the strange sensation. Is that the presence of a ghost? Or something more?

Maybe it's Magister Blackhammer again? I've had so many horrible dreams about him, ever since he started visiting father six years ago. Some dreams more disturbing and frightening than others.

I shudder, and raise a shaky hand to my pounding heart. Of course, I could be imagining things again. Or I've indulged in too many romance and fantasy novels, and so I've lost touch with reality again. Maybe.

An icy tickle, like a phantom voice, or soft spectral fingers brush down my spine, making me shiver. Someone or something is behind me.

I spin around, my eyes wide and frantic, and my gaze falls upon a small girl, no bigger than a preteen. But something about her face, and her weird eyes tells me she's closer to my age.

She's pale and thin beneath her careworn black hoodie, and plain black dress. Dried mud cakes her scuffed leather shoes, and her long, ratty black hair flaps around her face and shoulders in the wind. But there's no obvious way she could've gotten up here.

I reel away from her with an alarmed cry. But the pale, silent girl regards me with curious colour-shifting eyes and her head cocked to the side.

"W-Who... who ARE you?" I stammer, and wet my dry lips. My fingers curl around my focus-stone: A rough, palm-sized shard of quartz. Although I lack the basic, formal Mage training to wield it properly, touching the cool, clear stone comforts me. "W-What do you want?"

"My name's Lilli." The eerie girl with the strange, colour-shifting eyes says in a soft, girlish voice. "I'm here because I wanted to meet you. Both of you..."

Both of you? There's someone else--?

My heart hammers in my chest as I spin around again, my wide eyes sweeping over my surroundings. I hope she doesn't mean Magister Blackhammer.

I shudder as the disgusting image of him worms into my mind, unbidden: His black and grey robes and basalt skin, his hairless scalp and pearl-white tusks, his revolting leer, and icy green eyes raking over me. But aside from the strange girl, and the dizzying view of the city below, I'm alone up here.

"What are you talking about?" I demand, tightening my grip on my focus-stone. My thundering heart jumps into my throat and my breathing streams from my lips in ragged gasps.

Nothing about this situation adds up. But where I expect to see the strange girl standing on the helipad with me, there's only empty space and a chilly gust of wind.

What the Hell is going on here? Why am I--?

My heart hammers faster and louder, drowning out my troubled thoughts and soon the vision around me ripples and distorts, cracking open upon a great, sprawling library, bigger than the community library of Kaltore's Beach. But it's not the grand interior that draws me. It's the voice.

Deep and rich, and enticingly guttural, the thick Orc accent pulls me in, up to the mezzanine. And that's when I see him, the owner of that voice, alone and muttering to himself, pacing between a massive conference table and huge bookshelves.

Cowled black robes, worn only by an Elkran Oligarch, cloak his sleek muscular frame, and his thick, black braids hang down his wiry shoulders and chest. But the thing that stands out the most is his horrific scarring, stretched taut like a withered lattice across the left side of his bone-white face.

WHAT--What the Hell happened to him--?

The disturbing image before me shifts and distorts, and slips away again. I fall into darkness...

... "AAAAAH--" I awaken with a start and sit upright in bed. Sweat clings to my forehead and plasters my short black hair to my scalp. My heart pounds and my breasts heave with short, ragged breaths.

What the Hell was that all about? Who WAS that girl? Who was that man? I've never seen anyone like them before. And what did she mean by 'I'm here to meet both of you'? Was she referring to him...?

I shake my head and stare at the dark ceiling, waiting until my heart slows and my breathing returns to normal. It takes some time, but I untangle myself from my old bedding. Hand-sewn patches cover the old flannel sheets, like my comforter, so I have to be careful, or else I might tear them again. And I'll get into trouble for damaging something my parents were 'kind enough' to give me.

My movements dislodge the plastic spatula and rumpled magazine from the covers and dump them on the thin grey carpet.

Umm, I'd better put those away.

My face reddens as I scramble out of bed and snap up the embarrassing object. I cringe as my fingers connect with the dried traces of my fluids upon the slim and smooth handle, and stuff it under my pillow. As for the magazine, I leave it where it fell and stare at it in silence.

My second-storey bedroom window, facing west toward the beach hangs open, as it does most nights regardless of the time of year. The old lace curtains drift in the salty, predawn breeze, allowing a pale shaft of moonlight to fall across the magazine. I swallow hard, my cheeks hot as I sink onto my bed and clutch the careworn comforter to my breasts.

By an ironic twist of fate, the perverse publication, from an ongoing series,Daddy's Little Whorefell open at the centrefold. An obscene set of images, titled 'Daddy Knows Best' stares back at me.

It vividly depicts an ugly Elkran Warlock, a robust and burly man hunkering over a pale and chubby Human woman. She's barely older than me, while he, with his long, steel-grey braids and craggy face, looks old enough to be her father.

Clad from head to toe in the black robes of an Oligarch, the older Orc stands out like a pale blue shadow against her plump, milky nakedness. A bright green emerald dangles from her silver collar, drawing my gaze to the large hickeys on her neck. Her small hands clench the satin sheets, also a rich deep green. Something I never noticed, until now.

My fingers tighten within the warm folds of my blanket. A strange twinge of envy tugs at my belly, even as the dirty imagery makes me hot and wet between my legs.

I shouldn't be looking at that filth. It's disgusting and wrong. But, I can't help myself.

The voluptuous young woman, on all fours like an animal, pushes back against her Daddy-Dom, and clutches the bulky, blue fingers stroking her between her legs. Her fair and pretty face softens with exquisite joy, pain and complete surrender as he guides her onto his hefty cock. Traces of her virgin's blood and creamy fluids streak his fat, ribbed shaft.

From what I've seen online, in more smutty movies than I can count, Orc men, whether Elkran or Olkran are huge compared to Humans. Bold ridge-like bands of flesh encircle their cocks, setting them apart from other men, and genital piercings seem to be the norm in their culture.

I don't know how that young woman, or others like her can take a dick that big, especially a virgin. But she does, and she's enjoying it too as he eagerly impales her, stretching her dainty inner lips and wet opening wide around him.

I'll never know what that feels like, will I? That fullness, that completion. At least, not in any way I truly need.

My fingers shake as I wrestle with the urge to stuff that disgusting magazine under my pillows, where it belongs, and my weird compulsion to keep staring, indulging my curiosity.

I drop my blanket then, my traitorous fingers sliding down over my pussy, feeling how hot and damp I am through my pyjamas. But I don't stop there. I push my hand into my flannel pants and cotton knickers, quickly discovering the soaked state of my underwear and pubic hair.

Solarus, help me, why am I enjoying this? It's WRONG. He's Elkran: A cruel and disgusting barbarian. I shouldn't ever want someone like him.

I bite my lip, holding back my whimper as I brush my fingers over my clit, and push them into my sodden slit. I've always wondered what it would feel like, to be kissed and touched, and fucked for the first time. But no young man in his right mind, in a Mage-fearing community will ever want me, or look at me twice. Because of what I am, and the misery women like me bring to a terrified, backwater town.

And even if any of the men here wanted me, father wouldn't allow it. Once I turned eighteen, he decided to sell me off to any rich Mage who'd have me, and he's kept me under strict lock and key ever since. Especially during a Quarterly Collection week. For that reason, and because it's only a matter of time before the Collection Agents discover me, I masturbate every night, so that first violation won't hurt so much.

A little whimper escapes my lips as I rub and tease my clit, and awkwardly push one, then two fingers inside my pussy. My hot juices soak my slim, probing fingers.

Fuck... that feels good...

I bite my lip again, silencing my little moans. I don't want to. Vocalising my enjoyment always brings me greater pleasure, but I'm almost never alone in the house. I need to be quiet, for my own safety, or else my parents will catch me masturbating again. And they'll punish me, or call me horrible names, just for indulging in one of the few pleasures that gives me any real happiness in this wretched household.

Pushing my fingers in deeper, as far as I can reach, I pump them back and forth, withdrawing my soaked digits to stroke between my sodden petals, and twirl around my clit.

My little pearl tingles in response to my touch, but it's never enough. I need a man to touch me. No, I need an Orc - any Orc - to touch me and claim me as his. I'm sure his bigger, stronger fingers and huge cock will feel incredible deep inside me. Beyond my wildest imaginings.

Assuming he'd even fit inside me.

I shove the thought aside and continue stroking myself. Over, and over again, making my clit and pussy flutter as my excitement rises, pushing me toward my peak: A delicious, throbbing pleasure I crave more and more of every night. My breathing quickens and my need thrums beneath my fingertips, my hips swaying as I frantically rub my hard, slippery pearl. But I manage to bite back my moaning.

I'm close, so close. Just a few more strokes--

A sudden gust of ocean wind snaps the lace curtains against the security screen and weathered sash window. The magazine's glossy pages stir, and flick to a random spread.

What the Hell...?

My hand freezes in my wet knickers, my fingers still pushing down upon my clit. Only now I'm aching with unspent need as I stare, wide-eyed at the filthy images.

It features the same chubby, collared young woman, but this time she squats over her Orc Daddy, a muscular, basalt-skinned man in his middle years. He grips her round hips and thick thighs, supporting her as she rides his fat dick. Her mouth hangs open in a wide 'o' of ecstasy, mirroring the raw pleasure and need in her eyes.

I gawk at the glossy pages, but something about that Olkran man seems... familiar. He's the spitting image of Magister Blackhammer: A vile man who's been visiting father for six years now, whether it's during a Quarterly Collection or not. And the lech always leers at me whenever I see him.

A cold shiver crawls down my spine. Honestly, if not for the porn-star's deep green, almost black braids, he could be the same man. Maybe he is?

Good Gods, no.

I yank my hand out of my knickers with a horrified squawk and snatch up the magazine. My wet fingers shake as I tear away the offending pages, drag my backpack from under my bed, and stuff the filthy imagery into the deepest part of my bag. Between the battered pages of my notebook, where no one will ever find it. Except for me.

Fuck, I didn't need to see that. I should've torn those pages out ages ago.

Ignoring my quickening breath, racing pulse and the wet needy ache between my legs, I clamber off my bed. My hands shake again as I throw off my sweaty pyjamas and soaked panties, and change into some clean clothes. I don't like my chances of getting back to sleep tonight. Not after that strange dream, and the jump-scare from that magazine.

I know, it's foolish of me to put too much faith into things like this. Coincidences happen all the time and don't mean anything, and knowing me, I'm overthinking again. But when that filthy creep consistently haunts my dreams, and sometimes my dreams come true, I'm not taking any chances.

Only the Gods know what he and father discuss whenever he makes his unpleasant, surprise visits.

Now is as good a time as any to leave, girl. You might not get another chance.

I slip on my sneakers, grab my backpack, and ease my bedroom door open, and glance out into the dark, empty hallway. Father's obnoxious snores, and mother's irritating muttering breaks the predawn silence.

Good. They're asleep.

I let out a slow, shaky breath. My heart skips a few beats, but I take a cautious step into the hallway when the pattern of the flabby old bastard's snoring changes. The bed groans beneath his ponderous weight, like he's getting up.

Oh SHIT.

Muffling my squeak, I duck back into my bedroom, easing the door shut, and clutch my makeshift focus-stone in my trembling palm. I hold my breath and count to ten, and press my ear against the door. Father waddles down the carpeted hallway, toward the bathroom, the floorboards creaking beneath his heavy, shuffling steps.

Shit, shit. SHIIIIT. Okay, maybe today ISN'T the day.

I wait until my heart slows, and the moment father closes the bathroom door, I creep back to bed. I lie down upon the rumpled bedding, shoes and all, clasp my hands beneath my head and the pillow, and stare at the cool rays of moonlight shining upon the window. Hopefully it won't take long for sleep to claim me. And hopefully, no more strange or frightful images will haunt my dreams.