World of Forbidden Desire

This is a high fantasy novel following the adventures of an Amazon warrior who got stuck with a guy who was summoned from our world. This will be an ongoing story with multiple chapters. I'm not sure if there will be an end. I wanted to create a world that I could just create endless sex adventures whenever one came to mind.

All characters are at least eighteen-years-old. Any resemblance to people places things, or other characters is purely coincidental. Everything is born from my imagination.

*****

Oraya's breasts are the first thing Bobby sees when he opens his eyes. Two enormous, sweat-glazed bronze orbs that dominate his entire visual field, the aureoles a battered riot of bruised plum and old scars, the nipples still straining with the aftershocks of violence and sex. He tries to look away, but his neck won't obey, and the rest of her is sprawled over him, a living slab of muscle, heat, and unyielding weight, pinning him like a butterfly under glass. For a moment, he is convinced he's dead and this is hell, and perhaps it is.

He's supposed to be dreaming. He's supposed to wake up on his crusty mattress, in a room wallpapered with anime girls and the sour funk of Doritos. Instead, there is only the woman's body, crushing and enveloping, her presence so absolute it warps the space around her. She stirs, and the movement brings her crotch, hot and slick and impossibly tight, into fresh contact with his spent cock, which twitches, then begins, with mortifying eagerness, to harden again.

She feels it. Of course she does. The woman, she is Oraya, though Bobby doesn't know her yet, braces herself on her forearms, every flex of her arms and chest making her enormous, battle-scarred tits sway and press together in a display so shameless he can't help but gasp. She's bloodied, scraped, hair tangled and wild, but her eyes are steady, gold and feline, and when she looks at him, the room shrinks to her gaze alone.

"...You're alive," she says, as if this is somehow an insult.

Bobby nods. It isn't clear he's capable of anything else. He tries to cover himself, but there's nothing to cover with. His boxers lie shredded a few feet away like the shed skin of a lesser creature. He's still half-cocked, now smeared with a mixture of her fluids and his, and his face burns with the shame of knowing she's seen the whole show. Worse, felt it.

Oraya rolls off him, her bulk shifting with the grace of a mountain cat, legs splayed, arms stretched overhead. She sits up, and her breasts flop heavily, slapping against her chest with a sound that Bobby will never, ever stop hearing. She surveys the damage. The gore-streaked altar, the puddle of blood and come, the lingering crackle of spent magic in the air, and finally, with a kind of grim humor, herself.

"Get up," she says, and it's an order, not a suggestion. "We're not safe here."

Bobby scrambles to obey. His legs are jelly. His hands scrabble at the glass-and-metal phone on the floor, but it's dead, the screen a spiderweb of cracks and static. He clutches it anyway, his last tether to a universe that had rules and logic and at least a fighting chance of survival.

He watches, dumbfounded, as Oraya picks up the scraps of her leather armor and begins to refasten them, binding her enormous breasts behind a battering-ram of straps and buckles. There is something both obscene and beautiful in the process, the way her hands move with expert haste, the way her nipples disappear behind polished black, the way her muscled arms ripple as she cinches and knots each piece. She finds a blood-soaked red cloak, snaps it over one shoulder, and grabs a sword the length of a snowboard from the floor.

Bobby is still naked. He tries to fashion a loincloth from the remains of his t-shirt, but the fabric is too thin, and he gives up, covering his crotch with his hands as he stares at her, trembling.

She notices. "Clothes," she mutters, and stalks to a wooden chest near the altar. She yanks open the lid, hauls out a bundle of black linen, and tosses it at Bobby's feet. He catches it on reflex, almost drops it, then fumbles to wrap himself in the makeshift tunic and pants. The scent is wrong, dank and herbal and sharply foreign, but at least it covers his dick.

Oraya finishes arming herself and turns to him, appraising, unimpressed. "You need boots," she says. "And a weapon, if you want to last more than five minutes in this place."

She sighs, as if the weight of responsibility is something she's been dreading since birth. "Sit."

He sits. The floor is sticky, and he tries not to think about what with.

She kneels across from him, her face only a handspan away, her gold eyes boring into his with a force that could strip paint. "Listen to me. You're in the world of Aramore, in a region called Malakhar now. There is no going home, not that I know of. You were summoned as part of a binding curse, a spell cast by the Veilbinder, a dark magus, who is now our most implacable enemy. Your life is binded with me, for as long as you can keep breathing."

Bobby's mouth opens, closes. He tries to speak, but the English gets stuck halfway up his throat, jammed by terror and confusion. "I don't--I mean, I--what happened? Why--"

She cuts him off with a brutal hand on his shoulder. Her grip is iron, but not cruel. "You won't fully understand everything this instant, but in time you will. For now, understand that we're joined. I don't know the shape of the curse, nor the true nature. I only know it binds my soul to yours, somehow. When the curse burns, it seems, you're the only one who can quell it. That seems to be how Nereza designed it, the spiteful kretch."

Bobby's head goes light, and he sways. "Are you saying--"

She stands, tall like the stories of amazon warriors, looming over him, and even in full armor she is an absolute pornographic vision of hentai, all muscle and cleavage and untamed curtains of hair down over one shoulder. "Yes," she says. "Exactly that."

He feels his cock stir again, even in such a circumstance. This has to be a dream.

Oraya yanks him to his feet with a single, effortless motion. "But if we are cursed to copulate, then we'll need to seek help to cease it. There's someone who can help us. She's a sage, a chronicler. She'll know what to do."

The blood is still rushing in Bobby's ears, his heart a jackhammer of dread and wild, animal excitement. He stumbles after Oraya, through corridors black as pitch, down stairwells where the air is heavy with incense and the walls are lined with bones. She is ahead of him, every stride a lesson in physical dominance, her ass, round and perfect, barely contained by leather, bouncing with each step.

He memorizes it against his will. It's all he has left of the world he knew, a world where women like Oraya only existed behind paywalls and in impossible daydreams.

They burst out into the night, the shriek of wind and starless sky above, and Oraya leads him at a dead run across the temple's shattered courtyard, past the corpses of monks, the group cleaning up everything and shouting their gratitude, and the smoking wreckage of spells gone wrong. Bobby barely keeps up, his lungs raw, his feet slapping against the uneven stone. He wants to cry, but the tears won't come.

The city beyond is a stark dichotomy of towers and bridges, some built of black stone and lit with fire, others luminous and crystalline, glowing gently in the night. A thousand different species of horror and grace move through the streets--people with horns, animal faces, fangs and claws, elven figures with serene eyes and flowing hair, sages and scholars with etherial eyes, and seemingly every single one of them surveys Bobby as though they know he's not from their world.

Oraya never lets him lag. She drags him onward, up winding stairs, across suspended walkways, through back alleys where the only light is phosphorescent moss and the flicker of distant screams. She moves with purpose, tireless, never once looking back.

At last, they duck into a narrow tavern, a den so thick with smoke and candlelight that Bobby can't see his own hands. Oraya slaps a coin onto the bar, then shoves him into a booth at the back, where the table is sticky and the benches are covered in ancient grease.

She sits across from him, and for a moment, neither speaks. The air between them is thick with everything that just happened, and everything that will.

Finally, she says, "Rest for now, catch your bearings. Tell me about your world." It is not a request.

Bobby tries to remember where he came from, but all he can think about is the woman across from him, her mouth bruised but strangely beautiful, her hands still trembling with the aftermath of violence and magic and need.

He begins to talk. She listens.

Bobby speaks. At first, the words stick, a viscous paste of shock and embarrassment and something like awe, but he forces them out. He tells her his name, Bobby Bennett, and where he's from. Seattle, Washington, America, which means nothing to her, so he tries Earth, and then "the not-magic world." He is eighteen, a high school senior who's supposed to graduate in a couple months and go off to a university, and even as he says it, the number rings hollow, childish, laughable next to her. He tells her about his mother, a nurse, anxious and overworked. About the father who left young, about the internet, reality TV, and how everything in his world is lit by a half-assed fluorescent sun. He tries to explain "cell phones," "anime," "gaming," but the words only make his new reality more absurd, and soon he is rambling, voice rising until he's half-hysterical and half-mocking himself.

He can't look at her while he does this. It feels like the world's cruelest joke, being forced to live out his most lurid adolescent fantasies with a woman who could crush his windpipe with her little finger, a woman who moves like she's already memorized every possible way to kill him, and kill him again. Bobby's humiliated, not just by the memory of her body, or the memory of what she made him do, but by how much he wants to see her smile. He has never wanted anything as badly as he wants that smile. He just wants to feel that she's on his side, that he's not alone in this strange world.

He can't stop looking at her breasts. They are a physical constant, like gravity, and every time she shifts or gestures, her armor strains and gaps, threatening to birth a new law of nature. She notices, of course, but doesn't care, even seems nonchalant about it as she preen slightly, shoulders rolling back so that the straps and plates frame her chest like a living trophy. It's normal to her, maybe normal in this world, something that's always been done, therefore no one is phased by it.

Oraya listens. She drinks the words the way she'd once drunk the blood of her slain enemies, unflinching, and with a kind of brutal curiosity. She thinks about what it means to admit weakness, to speak weakness aloud, and wonders if she's ever met a man who could do such a thing. In her world, men postured, puffed up with bravado like fighting cocks, all strut and spurs and no real meat beneath the feather. Even her own mentor, a champion of the Ember Vow, had never once said "I am afraid." She decides, for the first time, that Bobby Bennett of Nowhere is, in some small and peculiar way, the bravest boy she's ever met.

She wonders what to do with this knowledge. Oraya is not a nurturer. She is the knife at the throat, not the hand that heals it. She has mentored girls, girls who wanted to be warriors, girls who would rather die than be mothers. She's taught them to run farther on broken legs and to fight through the agony of a gut wound. She has never had to comfort a child who wept for home. She has never had to wish, on some strange new level, that she could make the world gentler for someone. She almost laughs, thinking this must be another trick of Nereza's dark magic, this sudden wish for kindness.

But she knows that, for Bobby, the rules have to be different. Her world would swallow him in a night. He needs armor, and not just for his skin.

When he finally runs out of words, she sits back in the waxy darkness, arms folded, muscle straining against leather, and tells him her name.

"Oraya Emberheart," she says, and the name is a weapon, a dare, and a promise all in one. "Second emberwrought of the Ember Vow. Slayer of the frostwyrm, veteran of the Stygian Rebellions, consort to the Lady of Kolmorath, and the only person in this world who gives a evrex if you live or die." She smirks with the last remark.

He laughs, hoarse and shocked, and she lets her smile linger, just for him, and it's like sunlight through a break in the thunderheads.

"I won't lie to you," she continues, voice low and even. "This place is death for the weak. Nereza's curse has bound us, and I don't know what that means, not yet. But if you can keep up, if you can make yourself useful, I will keep you alive. And if you want answers, ask them, but don't expect me to answer them all."

Bobby tries to ask about magic, about Nereza, about the Veilbinder's plan, a hundred other questions, but Oraya slaps the table with a palm so loud the whole bar freezes. "Questions can wait. We've rested enough. We need to move. This curse of ours needs answered before your other questions."

Oraya tells him of a sage, Amara, who sometimes dwells in the library at the center of the shrine. "She's not old as the wisest of scholars and sages, but just as clever, just as powerful, maybe more so. If anyone can uncoil the curse, it's her. She'll know what Nereza's really after, too." Oraya rises, her full height a rebuke to the cramped booth and Bobby's own cowering posture. She wipes a smear of blood, hers? someone else's, from her chin and gestures him to follow.

***

They make their way through the battered nave of the shrine, past cindered tapestries and walls. Oraya's pace is unhurried, but every footfall is decisive, a living contrast to Bobby's shuffling, wide-eyed backward glances. The further they get from the altar, the more the world shifts from the surreal into the simply improbable. Monks limping, their wounds patched with resin, priestesses whispering frantic prayers over the dead, infernal creatures in shackles being frog-marched by acolytes wielding knotwork whips. No one spares them more than a glance, as if the sight of a woman in piecemeal war-gear and a half-dressed, bloodstained boy trailing behind is the least remarkable thing to happen that night.

Oraya pushes open the enormous double doors at the end of the transept, and suddenly the world is books. Endless shelves of them, stacked like ribs up the walls of the shrine's library, the air thick with the musky perfume of vellum and lamp oil. The chamber is lit only by pillars of blue flame, casting everything in a haze of moonlit monochrome. The tables are planked with ash-wood, scarred by centuries of scholars, and scattered with scrolls and ink-stained bones.

At the central table sits a woman, or something adjacent enough: long, glassy white hair in a braid down her spine to the small of her back with parted snow curtains draping the sides of her face to her chin, violet eyes that catch and refract the torchlight like a prism, and skin so luminous it seems to drink in the darkness and return it as opal. Her robe is a gradient of midnight and dove gray, cinched tight at the waist by a belt of sapphire beads, and the opening at her chest plunges deep enough to promise the reader at least several volumes' worth of cleavage. She is not, strictly speaking, beautiful in the conventional sense, her face is all angles and wit, the brow marked by a diamond of tattooed blue, her eyes, nose, and lips ordinary, but she is safe, comfortable, peaceful, magnetic, and nothing about her seems designed to repel.

She does not look up from her scroll until the two are at her table. Then, with the faintest curve of her lips, she sets the stylus aside and focuses on Oraya.

"Ah," she says, voice as cool as a cave's reflection, "the prodigal has returned. And with a souvenir, no less."

Oraya does not bow. She never bows. She plants a fist on the table, the force enough to rattle the inkpots and make the other scholar at the table, a pale, mummified man-bird in clerical robes, nearly leap out of his feathers.

"Amara," Oraya says, "you're needed."

The sage's eyes flick past Oraya to Bobby, who is trying with increasing futility to shrink behind her. Amara's gaze lingers on his face, then drops--without pretense--to his crotch, where the unfamiliar black pants have failed to fully disguise the evidence of his earlier violation. A single eyebrow arches, and she makes a soft, knowing noise.

"Oraya, you never disappoint."

"Shut it."

Amara smiles, and the room seems to warm three degrees. "You stopped the Veilbinder at the altar. I had my doubts. The Circle did as well. They'll be eating crow for a decade."

"She got away. And she left me with...this." Oraya jerks her thumb at Bobby, as if he is a piece of defective merchandise.

Amara stands, stretching with a languid, liquid grace that makes the robe slip to expose one milk-white shoulder and the silken slope of a breast. She gestures, and the man-bird scholar scuttles away, gathering his scrolls as if they are his children.

Amara's attention returns to Bobby. Her pupils are huge, fathomless, the kind that see through time and lies. "He's not of this world," she says, matter-of-fact.

"No," Oraya says. "The magus wove him into the circle. Then bound me to him."

Amara glides around the table, approaching Bobby with the casual menace of a cat wondering what a new toy can do. She doesn't touch him, but circles once, head cocked, as if searching for a seam or flaw. "And what," she purrs, "does the curse demand?"

Oraya's jaw flexes, the muscle twitching. "It makes me--" She stops, then starts again, voice flat. "It makes me aroused. An arousal so intense my body burns as though I'm drowning in fire, and my body responds and acts of its own accord, copulating with him."

Amara's lips part in a rapt little O of surprise, and a dimple appears at the edge of her mouth. "Only when you desire to harm him, or always?"

"Whenever the spell is hungry," Oraya says. "And it's always hungry. For now, I can endure it. However, at that time, the hunger of the curse was far too intense, and it overwhelmed me like nothing ever has before, compelling my body to act without my will."

Bobby's ears burn. He wants to vanish, to evaporate and re-condense in the far corner of the universe, but he's meshed in the gaze of these two women and there is no place to hide.

Amara leans in, so close Bobby can smell her breath, faintly sweet, like candied violets, shockingly innocent for the rest of her presentation. "What about you?" she murmurs. "Does the curse make you want her as well? Or is it only compulsion on her side?" For the first time, a note of genuine curiosity enters the sage's voice. "Do you enjoy it?"

He tries to answer, but the words catch in his throat. Oraya's presence, so overwhelming in those first moments, is suddenly fragile at the edges, as if she dreads what he'll say.

"I...don't know," Bobby says, voice cracking. "It feels good, but I don't want to--" He gestures vaguely, imploring the universe to fill in the blank.

Amara regards him for a moment, then laughs, low and bright. "That's the trick of any good hex," she says. "It makes you want the thing that hurts you."

She turns back to Oraya, voice sharp again. "Describe the moment. The instant the binding completed."

Oraya answers with the precision of a soldier. "We were grappling. She was chanting, and I tried to break her concentration. She spat something into my mouth, taste of honey and rot, whispered words that echoed down my throat. Then the world turned inside out. When it righted, this boy was in the circle, and I--" She hesitates, the memory a fresh wound. "I couldn't control myself."