whore

GOOD LITTLE THING

Your intended position within the Medarda household was no more and no less than servantry: a mundane yet well-paid routine, full of disinfecting, dusting, washing, drying, scrubbing, serving, and other tedious chores. It was through a list of skillful connections that you managed to acquire this job in the first place—nervous as you were, you were as prepared to face the intimidating master of the household as you possibly could be, considering that you wouldn't be seeing much of her supposing your job was done right.

Which, it was. So impressively well, in fact, had you exceeded your peers in the position, that—moving upward the unspoken yet mutually understood hierarchy of the household—Ambessa herself had recognized you, praised you. . .

And fucked you.

It was a brief, passionate matter. For weeks had you felt it: her eyes burning into you, her hands grazing yours, her quiet, yet ceaseless proximity to you, eager to watch you move, almost like she was entranced. You felt it, and it burned you alive with both shame and invigorance—Ambessa Medarda was an attractive woman, of course, and it was for that reason you hoped you wouldn't much cross paths with her.

Then, on one particularly taskless evening, you'd been called into her quarters. Bemused and anxious, you rushed to oblige, ignorant to the murmurs of the other nursemaids as you were escorted personally into the General’s bedroom. She made quick work of it—beckoning you into the steamy room of which she bathed, assessing whether or not you felt the same as she, and then folding you over the gold-rimmed edge of her elongated tub as she thrust her fingers into you with senseless pleasure.

She tidied you carefully, respectfully afterwards, and sent you on your merry way. You were expected to continue about your chores as though she hadn't wrung two orgasms out of you in one sitting—albeit, you were excused from anything that may arouse curiosity regarding your sudden limp.

She made no effort to even speak to you in the days following. If she was even aware of the overwhelming and irresistible hunger she had awoken in you, she was careless to it—the woman left you in a daze, questioning and wanting, and you roamed the halls of the house for a weeks-worth of days, silently craving more.

You grunted in effort, scrubbing a particularly stubborn-stained piece of cloth against the wet washboard. Your knees ached against the hard floor of the washroom, your knitted brow beginning to twinkle with sweat, your fingers reddened and pruny. Flustered with frustration, you sighed, and briefly dropped the sodden cloth into the soapy basin to stare up at the ceiling, contemplating what life events had led you to such a moment.

Yet, being left alone with your own thoughts proved itself to be a dangerous expenditure, as visions of the General’s naked, muscular body flashed before your eyes hungrily. You clenched your jaw, recalling the vivid sensation of her pressing her fingertips against you, gauging your wetness, then murmuring so huskily in your ear, praising how ready you were—

You jolted at the sound of the door opening, nearly spilling the soiled basin of water your hands rested on as you snapped to the direction of the noise, your face flushed.

In peered a familiar, youthful face—that of a scrawny messenger boy who delivered calls to-and-fro. He pretended not to notice your pitiful state, clearing his throat instead,

“Ms. Medarda has requested you to her chambers,” he said simply.

You gazed once between him, your hands, and your dampened clothes, before swiftly nodding and rising to your feet, attempting to dry off your palms on the linen of your pants. “I’ll be there at once.”

Entering her room, you noticed almost immediately that the air was devoid of the poignant soapy smells of jasmine and eucalyptus, replaced now by something more subtle, more leathery than sweet. The doors fall shut behind you and you hesitate to tread any closer, looking around for any sight of her.

When your observations came up fruitless, you swallowed, clutched your hands, and waited. The decor of her room was no less fearsome as her, painted in stark shades of red and black, only accompanied with the aurelian accents of the Medarda crest and the sharp silver of her weaponry and hung armor. It was also, noticeably, cold—the fireplace sat idle in the corner of her room, unlit and useless.

Conflicted between waiting any longer and returning swiftly, safely to the drab quarters of your own, a commanding voice answered your dilemma for you:

“Start the hearth, would you?” a figure emerged from an offset pair of doors connected to the master bedroom, introducing a waft of sweet scents and oils into the air. “I’ve hardly a chance to do it myself since arriving here.”

Your eyes locked on her immediately—most notably the portion of which she was undressed, clothed only in a silk bathrobe that exposed just enough of her scarred, dark skin to make you clench your fists pale. You bowed your head and scurried to the mount, quick to comply.

While you knelt and stacked logs of drywood into the fireplace, Ambessa glided across the floor to take her seat in the velvet lounge just behind you, much appraising the sight of you on your knees. The all-too-familiar feeling made you clench your thighs and work only with increased haste, bumbling to finish.

“Slowly,” you heard her say, be it warning or guidance you were unsure. Swallowing hard, you carefully arranged the remainder of necessary logs into the firebox before sparking alight a small, dwindling flame. You fanned it gently, continuing until a hum of approval beckoned you to stop.

Placing the iron grate before it, you rose to your feet and spun to look nervously at her, awaiting your next task. To your relief, it came simply, softly: “Come here.”

The thick muscles that were her legs spread, a quiet, yet mutually understood signal of exactly what she wanted, without her having to do so much as blink. When you hesitated just before her, she placed a large, warm hand on the small of your back, guiding you into her lap with another whisper of praise, the scent of her enveloping you.

“What a shy thing you are,” her eyes roamed your face with such a rapt intensity you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand. She caressed you, with a sort of fragile care that you would have expected to be below her. ”What is it you're afraid of, girl? It isn't me, is it?”

You quickly intercepted, “No! Er- no—no, ma’am. It's not you…” you chewed your bottom lip, a hot flush warming your skin. You bowed your head, embarrassed, only for her to lift your chin to meet her square gaze.

“Please,” you were so close to her that you could feel her breath on your lips as she spoke, the sensation shamefully entrancing, making you long to lean in closer and press your lips to hers and let yourself be devoured in that warmth. “Call me Ambessa, child. You're more than a mere servant now, aren't you?”

Your question sputtered from your lips before your sense did to your mind, “I am?”

She peered at you for a moment before a soft, smooth chuckle erupted from her throat, and she slanted closer to you with a smile. “So oblivious…” she crooned. Her eyes flickered to your lips and, in an instant, they were on hers: she kissed you tenderly to start, her lips searching against yours, her head cocking to find the perfect angle in which they aligned. Once your arms slid around her shoulders, she perceived it as an invitation to press further, her tongue entering your mouth.

You moaned quietly, so quietly she would not have heard it if not for the vibrations of your mouth against hers. She responded by tightening her grasp on you, nipping at your plush lower lip.

The air between you two, or lack thereof, thickened in the heat, filled with an endless string of murmured, sinful sound. You made out for an indefinite amount of time, the hearth blazing captively behind you. It surprised you how Ambessa withheld herself—almost as if she was waiting for you to make a move, to prove that you felt as carnally about this as she did.

It was a near hour of tongue-and-tongue, of muttered praise and dryhumping before you realized that you were precisely right. The General was waiting for you, and this discovery dawned on you with an entirely new wave of desire for her.

You pulled away, panting against her spit-shiny lips. “Ambessa,” you rasped, abruptly overwhelmed by just how much you wanted her, and how unbearable the heat between your legs had grown since you first arrived. “I—I need you.”

The other woman gazed upon you with expectant, keen eyes. Her hand smoothed along your cheek, letting your words sit in the air. “You need me?” She repeated, low and velvety, her silk robe already parting against its binding around her waist to expose her collarbone, chest, and some length below. “Tell me what you want, sweet thing.”

The way she pulled back her robe made you bite your lip, suppressing the urge to whimper feebly. She had hardly touched you and you felt utterly ruined already, with her spit still tasteful on your tongue, the sweetness of her engrained in you. “I…” you opened your lips, but hardly anything but a pathetic stammer escaped.

She cocked an eyebrow, looking at you intensely. When you shut your mouth, burning with embarrassment, she took you by the jaw again and caressed your bottom lip with her thumb. “Say it,” she urged you. “I know you can.”

Her other hand slid over your thigh, the heat of her palm registering with a burning passion on your skin, even through the ironed fabric of your pants. Her fingers rested idle just on the cusp of your inner thigh, causing you to shudder, aching with need; you mustered the courage from your core-upwards, your breathing unsteady.

“I.. I want you on me—again,” you panted. Then, remembering her strong preference for proper manners, you added: “Please, Ambessa. Please, touch me…”

You rocked your arms weakly into her still hand, still chewing your lip, your eyes half-lidded and puppyish. A prideful smirk took hold of her lips.

She slanted closer, combing your hair back as to murmur in your ear, her breath warm and tickling your flushed skin. “Good girl,” she crooned, and you could hardly stifle a gasp. She rewarded your good behavior by sliding her large hand completely between your thighs, cupping your clothed cunt, making you grab onto her hurriedly.

She stroked you with two fingers, torturous and teasing. “How polite you are,” she praised. “All well-behaved things deserve a gracious reward…”

You moaned softly against her neck, your hips moving synonymously with her slow strokes, the friction succeeding only in making you wetter. Just as your lips had parted to plead for more, you felt her hands anchor upon your hips to abruptly twist you, laying you supine on the large, cushioned lounge; Ambessa was poised above you, your legs parted to accommodate her.

She ran her hands along the sides of your crumpled shirt before latching onto the buttons, swiftly undoing them. You could only squirm in aid, your chest rising and falling with haste, your heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears. She peeled your shirt off of your body, just as she had all those days ago, and came at your belt next—she stripped you down bare, until you were shivering beneath her, both at the newfound exposure to hair and her eyes devouring you from above. Your skin prickled where she lay her hands, caressing you, massaging your breasts tenderly.

Her hands drifted up your neck, cupping your jaw. “Do you trust me, child?”

You nodded quickly, then added, ”Yes—yes, I do.”

Ambessa hummed in thought, her fingers suddenly gracing the length of your arms before she gathered your wrists and pinned them above your head. You flushed deeply in realization, watching her eyes rove over the sight with great pleasure.

She retrieved your wrinkled shirt to bind your hands above your hand, knotting your long-sleeves together. The bond was hardly restrictive, but it hardly mattered—you had no intent on removing them, anyway. You were more than pliable beneath her.

“So patient,” she grasped the silky fabric of her robe and, at last, slid the thing over the bulk of her shoulders, letting it drape from her naked body. You felt yourself salivate. “I won't keep you waiting much longer.”

Robe aside, she asserted her naked body between yours: your legs intermingled in such a way that your cunts were against one another, equally dripping, equally wanting. One hand bared your thigh up and the other was planted on your lower stomach, maintaining the balance as she slowly, steadily, began to grind her wetness against yours, making your back arch off of the couch.

You wiggled helplessly to meet her pace, gasping quietly, unable to resist the sight of her chest moving with her. She caught your eye as you stared—“Not to worry, you'll have plenty of time with them later, if you so wish.”

When her pace started to quicken, overpowering you in needy, noisy thrusts, you could no longer resist the noises that came from your mouth. You whimpered and groaned, voice trembling in the air as you whispered her name, whispered please and more, more, so blissfully greedy.

She knelt her body over yours, chests touching, her swollen clit brushing against yours in a way that made your toes curl. You threw your leg over her hip, helplessly swaying as she fucked against you. Your stomach coiled intensely, stinging you with need. “Ambessa…” you whimpered.

“That’s it, girl,” she grunted in your ear. “Tell me how good it feels, mm?”

When you felt yourself nearing the edge—squirming and moaning helplessly into your mouth—her hips suddenly slowed, a jarring loss of pace, evoking a pained cry out of you at your waning orgasm. Ambessa merely clicked her tongue and hushed you in low, soothing tones, listening to you whimper.

“Hush,” her arms slid around your waist, enveloping you in her entirely. “I’ll let you come this time, for being so good. Stay still.”

She squeezed you gently, reassuringly, building you up all over again while her lips suckled bruises and other marks akin upon you. You began to mutter incessantly, begging as your climax came again, despite her promises to let you finish. With a gentle huff, she diverted a hand from your back to place her thumb in your mouth, watching you suck on it compliantly with a fire alit in her eyes.

She tested you carefully, prodding her thumb deeper into the bounds of your mouth, feeling your tongue swirling around her skin. You were almost gagging, tears beginning to sting your eyes, but so devout to her pleasure were you that you continued to suckle, your noises muffled against her.

She waited until the first tear dripped down your cheek to remove her hand, wiping it away with a soft brush of her lips. She kissed you then, carding her fingers into your sweat-sodden hair, the feel of it notably tender.

Her orgasm leered just as yours did, and your combined grinding grew sloppier, wetter, desperate for it. Her hand tightened in your hair and your leg clung to her hip, hands balled above your head. She caught your lips fiercely just as you both came, your hips stuttering, her hips incessant despite the flow of slick slippery between both of your thighs. You threw your head back and shut your watery eyes.

At last, she slowed, your body prickling with overstimulation—hot and cold at the same time, your head clouded and spinning, unable to register a single thought besides that of the look on her panting face, of which was something you were yet to see, even during your first time you fucked. Her hand stroked your back gently, your intertwined legs finally still.

”There you are,” her eyes met yours, and you blinked away the dwindling remainder of tears. A calloused hand came and caressed your cheek. “I was hoping I hadn't run you dry already… what a mess you've made.”

Your face burned as Ambessa readjusted, giving you space to peer at the wet mix of cum and arousal, both yours and hers, dripping down your thighs. You opened your mouth, but she intercepted you, reading you easily: “No need to apologize.”

Instead, she heaved both of your legs up, bending you nearly in half. You let your head loll back against the arm of the lounge, closing your eyes, allowing yourself a moment of rest while she rustled below you.

That was, until, you felt her hot tongue against the surface of your abused cunt, lapping up the very fruits of her labor.