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Breeding Rhell - Part 2

© 2025 Bruno Hirschkoff

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CONTENT WARNING: Contains scenes of sexual violence, abuse, non-consensual degradation. Also contains consensual, detailed watersports, bondage and prostitution.

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Stillwater Cove, Rhocarn

Winter, 1420 AD

*

Rhell finally regained the use of her legs to the extent of being able to lift herself off of Luys and stand after several minutes. By that time, he had softened and slid out of her, followed by a flood of their combined fluids that splattered to the stone floor beneath the table on which he lay. Rhell stretched her body, one leg and then the other, then her back.

Luys did not yet stand. He shuffled to the edge of the table and sat upright though, and simply gazed up at the markhor courtesan’s naked body, streaked and matted with both their own, and Cawain the stallion’s lust. Of the colt and his doe neighbour, a swift survey of the room revealed that they had left—presumably to continue their new affair in a more private setting.

“I am very impressed,” Luys said, tracing his fingers along the curve of her waist. “You put on a very pleasing show.”

“Pleasure is my business,” Rhell returned, with a smirk.

She leaned into him, placing her body against his. He pressed his muzzle beneath one of her tits and inhaled deeply.

“Where do we go, for the more private part of our arrangement?” He asked.

“The part where I tie you up and piss on your cock?” Rhell said cheekily.

“Just so!”

“There, my handsome new friend, we may have a complication; you see, the elk doe who got a proper breeding in here tonight, is resting in my private quarters up on the top level of the Hairy Fig. While I am certain she would not mind being a spectator to such a show, I also do not believe she is there alone. Does in heat, you know how they are.”

“Then, little queen, it seems we shall require an alternative location. And I have just such a location to offer, if it pleases you.”

“And where would this be?”

“She is tied up at the docks, of course. Unless, of course, a woman of your standing cannot bring herself to board a ship for a client, however well-paying they are?”

His coercion was so subtle it passed right under Rhell’s senses, and she readily agreed to accompany him to his ship. The only alternative was to bring him to her own estate on the other side of Stillwater Cove, but that was an option reserved only for clients knew and trusted intimately.

Her fee of six Rhocarni Crowns was very steep, even for the most sought after and exclusive companionship. In the back of her mind, Rhell wondered what had drawn Luys to her so powerfully. And had she allowed her arousal overtake her better judgement, in allowing him to purchase her without vetting him to the extent she normally would?

She dismissed those thoughts as nothing more serious than doubts arising from the aftermath of one of the most intense and uninhibited orgasms she’d had in months. Eloise, the slender Equid courtesan, brought Rhell a heavy winter cloak and a pair of boots to wear to accompany Luys to his ship, and while they spoke, the merchant partially re-dressed himself. Gradually, the milling crowds that first Cengifu’s, and then Rhell’s breeding had drawn began to disperse into the labyrinth of private rooms, bars, baths and lounges that made up the Hairy Fig, although even by the time Rhell and Luys were prepared to leave, several couples remained, still frantically humping in the very public space.

As they made their way to leave, Luys was forced to dodge a sudden explosion of Equid semen as a donkey stallion abruptly withdrew from the mule mare he was fucking, thrusting his vulgar, mushroomed member forth over her hip and launching his ejaculation messily over her.

Rhell laughed and politely applauded him. “Impressive!”

The donkey dipped his muzzle and managed an embarrassed mid-orgasm smile.

Being midwinter, the night outside was freezing. Frost already was beginning to form on the rooftops, windowpanes and the gutters, and Rhell’s breath lingered in the still air. She gathered her cloak around her, wary of her nudity beneath it and thankful, in the least, that it was not a windy night. Luys too, wore a heavy cloak, which he’d left at the door of the Hairy Fig when he’d arrived.

They walked in relative silence, and Rhell’s doubts began to creep in at the edges of her consciousness once again. Her mind returned, as it often did, to her earliest days in Rhocarn, to the days when everything was a risk.

*

Fràwic, Rhocarn

Seven years previously: Winter, 1413 AD

(Content warning for this section: sexual violence, abuse, rape, blood, degradation)

It takes time to become established in any profession, particularly in a region to which one is not native. Rhocarn was, even at the time, a comparatively open and accepting society on a number of levels. Sex work of a variety of types was widely accepted and celebrated by many Rhocarnis—Rhell learned that was a form of cultural resistance to the far more closed and abstinent teachings of the Arahanic Church during the centuries of expansionist theocracy a few generations past. Rhocarn was also a diverse society; here, Cervid and Equid peoples indigenous to the western reaches of the Aethyrfiodh coexisted peacefully and openly with Caprin, Lupa, Urssa, and even the odd Laska or Fel from all across Doregal, northern Ambriel and Valasea. Rhocarn was a haven for many; a safe port on the edge of civilisation.

The Rhocarni acceptance of sex work, diverse gender expression and virtually any sexual attraction or orientation sounded idyllic to Rhell. But in other ways, she was shocked by how little respect she had to begin with.

In her first winter as a courtesan, when she was charging pennies instead of fractions of pounds of silver for her services, she knew she would have to put up with some unsavoury clients, until she became better established in the trade. That winter, she was operating alone, while Castorro cared for the seven-month-old Ysidoro at the Temple of Dytaea. It was risky, but a risk she needed to take. Disease and violence were her two greatest fears, and the House of Lakesh educated her in how to detect most of the common sexual ailments men carried with them, which ones were transmissible and how. So far, she had done well, gathering a small but reliable client base who paid readily and were well-connected and talkative among the wealthy artisan and mercantile classes. That gave her an excuse to ply her trade in the more well-off parts of town, for which she was grateful, and it was that which caused her path to cross with Diomar Velasco.

Rhell met the Bishop of Bàgh Saffir in Fràwic in the depths of that first winter, when a gathering of Arahanic clergy brought him north from the seat of his Bishopric in Ealgith’s Landing, on the south coast. He was powerful and deeply connected across both Rhocarn and Valasea.

When they first crossed paths, he had seemed worldly and kind, if a little aloof. He was a stiff and imposing wolf, and while he was only a couple of dewclaws taller than Rhell, he seemed to tower over her. Their first conversations had been a veneer of kindness; the Bishop detected that she was new both to Rhocarn and to the sex trade, and appeared to be concerned for her wellbeing. Over a draught of bitter black ale taken in a tavern called The Eel’s Wriggle, he asked about her living arrangements—was she warm and safe, did she have stable lodgings, was she eating well—the kind of questions one typically does not ask of a courtesan. She was lulled into trusting him quickly, and at first, he gave no signs whatsoever that he was anything other than what he appeared; a powerful man, but a chaste and well-intentioned one.

Rhell was, of course, well aware of the teachings of the Arahanic Church. Abstinence, denial, chastity, monogamy were all powerful themes. The Arahanic theocracy that had existed across all of Valasea and much of Doregal for centuries was deep-rooted, and had largely supplanted all direct worship of Ysion, the sun god, by taking over its infrastructure and reshaping it to the will of the Bastian rulers of the Arahanic Empire. The Bishop told her of that history in his own way, with words taken from the Arahanic holy book, which Rhell knew well. But he also hinted that he knew the real history as it applied to Rhocarn, and Rhell found herself genuinely interested in those conversations.

The Bishop confided in Rhell that he was staying in private lodgings, not in the Fràwic abbey alongside many of his peers. He excused himself by explaining that the abbey was relatively small and he did not wish to be an undue burden upon its limited resources, and as such would have to ‘suffer’ the comforts of private accommodation—at his own expense, of course.

Rhell had been faintly charmed by his dry humour on the matter, and was beginning to notice that the Bishop was actively seeking her out for her conversation, returning again and again to the Eel’s Wriggle, which Rhell frequented on evenings when she did not have a client because of its attached bathhouse and comfortable, safe lodgings. She thought perhaps he might have been lonely. Powerful men often were, held to such high moral standards as they were in the Church. Cheekily, she flirted with him, although she was careful to respect the boundaries of his vows of abstinence.

At first, he diligently ignored her playful flirtation, but over the course of that first week, Rhell was delighted beyond measure to find that he gradually let down his performative aloofness and began to give it back to her.

She was enchanted by it. She felt like he was confessing a deep, closely-held secret to her; that his worldly desires were not extinguished by his faith. And through the passage of a little over two weeks, she began to consider him a friend. She was careful not to reveal much of her past, of course; Rhell had made an ironclad promise to herself to never talk of her origins, to anybody save Castorro, and her son Ysidoro when he was old enough to know.

Towards the end of the second week after first meeting the Bishop, Rhell was approached as she was walking towards The Eel’s Wriggle by a middle-aged Equid. He was a Scordii stallion, with the fine build and lean stature of a Rhocarni pony, although his advancing age had given him a hunch and a softness around his middle that spoke of too much wine. He was nervous at first as he walked alongside her, as though he didn’t often approach sex workers, and was perhaps expecting to be rejected. Rhell did not, and arranged to meet him in his smithy the following evening.

She never learned the blacksmith stallion’s name. Nor did she insist that he pay her upfront. He was waiting for her in his forge the next evening. It was warm inside, almost too warm. It must have been suffocating in the summer. The stallion had clearly been drinking all day, and could barely stand. He reeked of ale, urine and sweat, and was naked when she arrived. He gave her no opportunity for conversation, no chance to lay out her terms or her payment expectations. He simply advanced on her wordlessly, pinned her to the tool-laden workbench, tore off her clothing and leered over her nudity.

But his drunkenness resulted in a limp rod that no matter how roughly he mashed it against her, would not go inside.

That humiliated him, and he blamed her. He threw her out into the street, and locked the door.

She found herself outside, at night, alone, naked in the middle of winter—everything she had on her was inside the forge with the drunken stallion. She pounded on the door and demanded he return her clothes, her purse, but he ignored her utterly. The cold was biting, and within minutes Rhell knew she had to find shelter, or risk freezing to death on the streets of Fràwic. It took her almost half an hour to make it back to The Eel’s Wriggle, by which time she could not feel any of her extremities. She stumbled naked into the taproom, and the usual uproarious noise of the place dropped to dead silence in an instant, as every head turned to her. She must have looked an utter wreck.

The taverner, a kindly old fallow doe named Stanfled who’d been a courtesan herself for many years, immediately sprang into action. She swept around the bar and laid a heavy woollen cloak around Rhell’s shoulders, and guided the markhor woman through the tavern into the bathhouse behind it, to where the water in the baths steamed with warmth. She told Rhell to stay there, and not to emerge until she returned.

Rhell was only too happy to oblige. The bone-numbing cold she felt was only matched by her humiliation at being seen in such a state; many of the regulars at The Eel’s Wriggle had been her clients, and many were repeat customers—wealthy merchants and artisans, well-connected and talkative. She needed to maintain her dignity around them if she was ever to hope to earn a decent living from this line of work.

The Bishop of Bàgh Saffir swept into the bathhouse mere minutes after the taverner had deposited her there. He hurried over to her and stared at her with worry etched into his lupine features. Rhell fancied that she saw him struggle not to let his gaze linger on her chest under the water’s surface, but paid it little mind; a man as chaste as he would be bound to experience a reaction to almost any display of nudity, no matter how fleeting or extenuating the circumstances.

She found that she enjoyed the thought of him guiltily masturbating to it once he was alone.

“Ahh, Rhell, what has happened?” he said. “Are you hurt?”

She managed a thin smile and patted his bejewelled hand, which rested on the rim of the bath. “I shall recover, Bishop. Do not worry. My client this night was… not inclined to converse, and in his drunkenness could not perform. He threw me out but kept my clothing and purse…”

The Bishop frowned, snorted, and seemed profoundly agitated by how she’d been treated. “The gall! All should be respected, did Arahan himself not teach us this with his own actions at Venium, when he saved countless courtesans from the flames of the Heladians?”

She frowned slightly at his pontificating. There was the faintest hint behind his words that he regarded sex workers with the same pity he offered to beggars or to the otherwise destitute, and his words were clearly performative. Then again, Rhell reasoned, at that moment she did not have two copper farthings to rub together, so he wasn’t entirely incorrect in referring to that story from the Arahanic holy book.

He stayed at her side, and Rhell pretended not to notice when he stared for an extended time at her body through the shimmering veil of the warm water. Despite herself, Rhell felt a warm throb between her legs at the thought of tempting the Bishop. They’d flirted, certainly, but it had only been words. Humour, with no intentionality behind it. She dozed in the warm water, lulled into relaxation by its buoyancy, and when she next opened her eyes, the Bishop had left her side. In her hand, she found a small, folded piece of paper, on which a note was written in a square-edged hand with charcoal:

Should you need a warm place to rest when you have recovered, come to my lodgings. I am staying at The Black Candle on Roper’s Row. Two rooms, you may take one. No fee. –Diomar Velasco (the Bishop)

Rhell had to smile. That was the first time she learned his name.

She rose from the bath and dried herself off as best she could with the towels left for her, and then flung the borrowed cloak over her shoulders to move back into the taproom to dry herself off the rest of the way in front of the roaring fire. There were relatively few patrons left by that time, and those who remained were well enough used to her presence not to be unduly drawn to her nudity. Most had seen it already, so she felt few compunctions about shucking off the cloak once more in front of them to dry herself by the heat of the fire.

Stanfled the taverner approached her with a bundle of clothing in her arms.

“Here,” she said. “Something to wear. Can’t have you freezing your tits off twice in one night.”

“Thank you,” Rhell said.

Once she was dry and warm, Rhell dressed herself; the clothing Stanfled gave her was a threadbare and much-mended linen undershirt and woollen dress, which if it wasn’t glamorous, was at least warm and comfortable.

Rhell was very aware that she had no coin, and that Stanfled did not yet know that.

“Stanfled, I… I cannot pay you for a room tonight. All my coin was with me when I went to that bastard’s smithy earlier.”

“How much?”

“Thirty or forty pennies, I suppose.”

“Well you’ll never see that again. Imph. No matter anyway, I wasn’t expecting you back so I rented out your room. No space, unless you’re to be sleeping on the floor in the taproom.”

“Ah. Not to worry, I have alternative lodgings for the evening. Thank you, Stanfled, I shall not forget your kindness. I’ll repay you as soon as I can.”

“If I had a penny for every time I’d heard that, I wouldn’t need to run a tavern,” Stanfled grumbled.

The ageing doe turned her back and hobbled away, but not before giving Rhell’s arm a stoic, but friendly squeeze, and a whispered ‘be careful.’

*

The Black Candle was a handsome, half-timbered building on Roper’s Row, about a quarter mile from Fràwic Cathedral and its attached Abbey, where a gathering of Rhocarni Arahanic clergy were spending the winter in conference—Bishop Diomar among them. It was in one of the city’s wealthiest districts, and was surrounded by artisan shopfronts and the homes of the city’s administrators, influential clergy and wealthy merchants. Rhell, in her borrowed clothing, felt like a streetgirl in such comfortable surroundings. She followed Bishop Diomar’s instructions to get to his private lodgings, which he’d added on the back of the scrap of paper he’d left with her. She bypassed the main door to the Black Candle and instead made her way down a narrow and dark squeezeway between it and its neighbouring building. A narrow stair led her up to the building’s private rooms, which were built over an undercroft dry-store behind the cookhouse and taproom at its street frontage.

She knocked twice on the door the note indicated, and within seconds, the door swung inward. The Bishop stood in the doorway, framed by the glow of firelight. He smiled warmly and invited her inside with the faintest hint of schoolboy naughtiness in his demeanour.

“Thank you for this,” she said, facing him as he turned from the door. “I don’t know where I’d go tonight if you hadn’t offered me this.”

“No thanks needed,”_ _the Bishop returned, cutting her off. “I am glad you came. The streets of Fràwic can be mean, we wouldn’t want you falling on the charity of strangers, now, would we?”

Rhell paused. There was something in his demeanour that gave her momentary pause, but nothing she could readily identify. Perhaps it was just that she was seeing him in a more private setting for the first time. In the back of her mind, she was acutely aware of being alone with him, but his kindness over the last weeks and his role as a Bishop allayed her concern. His priestly robes were hanging on the inside of the door, and the Bishop wore his linen undershirt, which hung to mid-thigh, and a simple pair of knee-length braies on his legs. He’d also removed the rings from his fingers, all except for the signet on his right middle-finger, which his rank precluded him from ever removing. His casual appearance further helped her to feel comfortable with him.

He patted her shoulder amicably, then turned from her and scuffed bare-pawed across the room to where two chairs were arranged in front of the fire. Between them on a small table was an open bottle of wine and two cups, a loaf of bread and a hunk of hard cheese. Rhell’s mouth watered, and she realised that after her encounter with the stallion in his smithy earlier and her recovery in the Eel’s Wriggle, she had not eaten that night. The Bishop seemed to sense that, and ushered her to one of the chairs, whereupon he poured her a cup of wine, cut several thick slices from the loaf, and topped them with cheese.

“Please, eat, drink—you seem hungry,” he said.

He sat in the other chair, filled his own cup with wine, and watched her closely, almost intensely, while she ate. He was quick to refill her cup, then again, and again, and when the bottle was empty he rose to his paws and retrieved another, which he opened. Rhell was feeling light-headed after her third cup of wine, and the Bishop appeared to be getting drunk as well. Their conversation was free-flowing and, in the privacy of the Bishop’s rooms, even slightly raunchy.

He went to pour her a fourth cup of wine, but she refused.

“I think I have had enough, Diomar, thank you,” she said. “You wouldn’t want me to be completely uninhibited!”

“Would I not?” he returned, his piercing, ice-blue eyes boring into hers. She thought she detected something else in them now—a hunger, perhaps unshackled by the wine they shared. He was leaning over her, and despite her refusal, poured wine into her cup once more.

The hairs on the back of Rhell’s neck rose. His eyes dipped, raking his gaze over her body, before he retreated, turning his back to add another log to the fire.

She took a sip of the fourth cup of wine, then set it down on the table. “Where should I sleep? It is very late, and I shouldn’t wish to keep you awake, I know you’ve probably got a long day ahead of you…”

Diomar laughed, a brief, barking guffaw, and tipped back his fourth—or perhaps fifth—cup of wine, standing before her.

“Daring of you to imagine you haven’t kept me awake these past nights already, Rhell. Have no fear of that.”

Her breath hitched. Was he admitting to something? The wine, and his inference, caused a bloom of warmth in Rhell’s lower abdomen. Her eye flicked down his body to where his undershirt had lifted, offering her a momentary flash of the thin cloth of his braies draped over that which his faith prohibited him from using.

“But you are right, of course,” Diomar continued, setting down his cup. “Come, I shall show you to your bed.”

She took his outstretched hand and allowed him to pull her to her hooves, She stumbled and fell against him, and he caught her. She was drunker than she thought, and her head swum. His arms were strong, and he stank of wine and body odour. He steadied her, but remained close to her, their bodies touching, for a long moment. She fancied that she heard his breath shake in his throat, and only after a long moment did she very deliberately pull back from him and offer him a cheeky, chaste smile.

“My apologies, Bishop,” she said quietly. “The wine is strong, I…”

“Pssh. Do not pretend to be sorry,” he said. “Come.”

She allowed herself to be led by the hand, but instead of leading her to the open door that showed a second bed chamber, Diomar guided her to the large, warm bed that was his own. Rhell’s mouth opened and closed a few times, and she turned questioningly to him. He offered her a shrug and a warm smile.

“I… confess I neglected to set a fire in the other room for you, so it would be very cold in there. I was not sure you would come, see.”

“I will be fine, Diomar, I promise.”

“Nonsense. My bed is plenty large enough for us both without…” he trailed off and cleared his throat. “Please. It will be much warmer.”

His eyes showed excitement, and his tail wagged subtly behind him. Despite her misgivings, she caved in, and drew back the heavy blankets on the far side of the bed from where Diomar stood. He remained standing for a long moment, simply watching her as she settled into the bed. Then came the moment she would later come to rue.

“Well? Come on then, are you joining me, or not?” she said.

Diomar took a step toward the bed, and licked his lips. Then he drew his undershirt up and off over his head, leaving himself only in his braies. His body was that of a clergyman, no doubt about that; he was middle-aged and greying through his chest and abdomen, with muscles that were thin and soft from a life of contemplation. He climbed into the bed, and lay on his side facing her. His muzzle was tilted toward her, and there was definite hunger in his eyes, then. His eyes bored into her with a faintly predatory glint, and Rhell once again suppressed her sense of danger, of wrongness. She ignored her instinct.

“Thank you for this, Diomar, I…”

“No no, thank you,” he said, cutting her off.

She pricked her ears, then flattened them back submissively when she felt him shuffle towards her, silhouetted against the dull firelight, until his hand touched her under the blankets. He touched her abdomen, sliding his hand across her belly, and then upward. His breath was hot against her cheek, reeking of wine and rotten teeth, and in the closeness of the bed she could smell the acrid tang of his armpits and a sharp, metallic scent that could only be coming from his nether regions. He’d clearly not bathed in days. She swallowed an upwelling of disgust and forced herself to meet his gaze. His fumbling hand pushed inside her undershirt to grope her breast, and he dragged his tongue lasciviously up the side of her neck, and across her cheek. Rhell flinched back from him.

He’s a Bishop, she said to herself, perhaps deriding her own sense of danger. What’s he going to do? He’s just chronically blue-balled and probably desperate to feel a woman’s touch, and here he is with a woman in his bed…

“Calmly, Diomar,” she said. “Gentle. Amel’s tits, I wasn’t expe— Diomar, stop!”

“I heard you,” he snapped, “and I could stop. Show you to your freezing cold, dark room. Or, perhaps a whore like you should first show me your gratitude, for saving your miserable hide just as Arahan saved the whores of Venium from the firebrands of the Heladians…”

Her heart turned to ice.

Rhell suddenly saw with acute clarity what she’d done. She’d allowed herself to be lulled into a sense of security with a very powerful man—a man who could easily hide all manner of depravity behind his title and influence. He could do whatever he wanted to her, with no recourse. She was, compared to him, merely a streetwalker, a poor and destitute peddler of flesh, dressed in borrowed rags and falling upon the kindness of a Bishop, so she did not die of exposure on the winter streets. Still, she clung to the hope that he was merely… struggling, with his inner desire from having seen her naked earlier, and had perhaps resisted the temptation to ‘sin’ on his own before her arrival. Her head swum with wine and exhaustion. His hand groped her tit roughly, squeezing it painfully, and she felt him push his body against hers. She moved away from him across the bed, but he growled and trapped her by rising up and swinging his leg over her, straddling her body and pinning her.

“Diomar! Wait, no… You cannot, you are a Bishop…”

“Oh child, you have no idea the sins I have committed…” he snarled. “My church absolves me of them all with a simple confession and a masquerade of contrition. I am untouchable, and that means you are mine. How sinful it is of you, whore, to spread your legs to any man with a few coins and a rod in his loins, to foully rut away his desire into you. How sinful it is of you to tempt a man of the cloth as you have these weeks, to display your nudity to me and expect me to not pursue you, to not take what you so eagerly offer. The arrogance!”

Rhell squirmed. His claws dug into her breast, and any attempt to get away from him only ground her body against his. She could feel that he was erect inside his braies, and was lewdly grinding his hips against her, roughly pushing his erection along her belly.

“Diomar, this isn’t you… this is wrong. I am sorry, I shall leave… let me go, I made a mistake, I thought…”

He pulled back just long enough to strike her across the face with the back of his hand. She gasped in shock and her eyes widened at his violence. The stinging blow brought tears to her eyes and she touched her cheek.

“Shut your mouth, whore,” he barked. “You’re going nowhere tonight. You’re not getting away from me that easily. I’m going to break you. I’m going to do things to you you’ve never even considered, and by the time I’m done you’ll be fit only for the convents. And I know just the convent where your poor little body and broken mind will be mine any time I want you…”

He grunted and aggressively thrust his hips against her, pinning her wrists over her head with one hand. With the other, he unlaced and tugged open his braies to expose himself to her, and pressed his swollen, still sheathed canid erection against her with a foul hunger burning in his eyes. Rhell whimpered and sobbed, but she tried to console herself by still clinging to the hope that it was probably the thought of such horrors that got the Bishop hard, not actually doing it.

“Look at it,” he grated out through his teeth, manipulating his genitals with his hand to mash himself against her. “Look at what you have done to me. This is your fault, you foul wretch, as is everything that shall follow…”

Perhaps if she played along with him instead of resisting, he wouldn’t hurt her too badly and she’d be able to escape after he was spent and sleeping. All she needed to do was make him climax, and she was sure he’d be contrite and apologetic. She sniffed wetly and shook her head to clear the tears from her eyes. She forced herself to look down at him. She could smell it, a musty, faintly fishy smell. He had the pointed, glistening red member of a Lupa Incultus, a Kiopsian wolf, whose wet tip protruded upward from the fuzzy sleeve of his sheath, itself stretched and distended around the swollen organ it could no longer fully contain.

“Tell me how badly you want it, whore. This is what you live for, isn’t it? Turning an honest man into a drooling animal?” Diomar snarled, squeezing his knot through his sheath and pressing the pointed tip roughly against the crotch of her borrowed dress, leaving behind thin, watery streaks of fluid. He was all but masturbating against her, gripping himself and stroking his sheath up and down his member, causing it to drool and spurt against her clothing.

If not for his roughness and violent intent, Rhell would have been aroused by his obvious sexual desperation. Despite her fear and her revulsion, she knew she was wet, and the way he stroked himself over her caused her to become more so. And she hated herself for it. She was going to be noticeably slick for this creature who wanted to rape her, to break her body for his gratification. It was so wrong, so twisted, but she couldn’t help her body’s reaction even as her mind screamed at her to escape, to get away by whatever means she could.

“If… if you release my hands I’ll stroke it for you…” she said quietly. “You liked feeling my tit… and you’ve seen them in the bathhouse… get them out, touch them while I relieve you…”

Diomar laughed hoarsely. “Oh you’re going to relieve me, yes you are… I’m going to fuck my every sinful thought into you, whore… every conversation where you’ve told me of the men you’ve taken in your body and left me tempted and swollen… how you celebrate the foul sin you wallow in like a pig in mud…”

She flinched every time he said that word. Whore. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was nothing more than a warm cunt for hire to whoever had coin. Perhaps the ambition to be a high-class, educated, elegant courtesan was nothing more than an illusion.

He awkwardly kicked and shoved his braies off, and then shoved his muzzle to hers, forcing his tongue between her lips while he yanked and tore at her dress, pulling it up above her hips and forcing his knee between her legs. He pushed his hips against her, grinding his full, firm sheath along her crotch, pushing it back to expose more of the wet, red flesh of his penis. Rhell bleated in protest and tried to push him off. He gripped her throat in one of his hands and growled toothily in her face—a feral, drooling snarl, with his bodyweight behind the hand on her throat, while he fumbled around beneath himself to pull back his sheath behind his knot and swipe his penis lewdly along her vulva. Then he found his mark, and rammed his hips forward, entering her.

He laughed shakily in her face when he felt how wet she was. Rhell cowered in humiliation. His entry was violent, despite her apparent readiness for him. Starbursts of pain exploded in Rhell’s brain and she screamed hoarsely, choking behind his hand and sobbing for him to stop, clawing at his arm.

“I can feel how wet you are, you slut. You want me, you need me. This is the only thing you’re good for and you’ve forced me to wait for you for weeks!”

He was distracted by the feeling of entering her. Rhell shoved the palm of one hand upward against his muzzle, forcing his head back, and with the other she attempted to hit him where it would hurt – his balls. Her fingers clawed for the sensitive sac that swung between his trembling legs, and missed.

The Bishop released her throat momentarily, and Rhell sucked in a desperate lungful of air. He punched her in the temple, twice, and she was forced to release him to protect herself. That was all he needed. He clawed her hands away from her face and pinned them over her head, grabbed her throat once more, and aggressively began to saw his cock in and out of her. He was roughly pushing his knot against her with all his bodyweight. Rhell knew from her limited experience with Lupa men that taking their knots meant either they needed to be inside before they swelled, or else it took time and patience and a lot of lubrication to slip inside.

Diomar’s was engorged already, and exposure to the air, although brief, had left it dry. And he had no patience. He grunted and shoved his body against her with every ounce of his weight, until with a searing pain his knot forced its way inside her. Rhell groaned in pain. He squeezed her throat until she was on the verge of passing out, and only then released her, to yank up her dress further to expose her tits. He drooled over her, panting heavily in her face with his reeking breath, while he gave shallow, aggressive thrusts. His knot filled out still further inside her, stretching her around it, and moments later he began to ejaculate. He hunched over her and hammered rhythmically into her, rocking her body over the mattress with convulsive, desperate jolts of his hips, paired to the contractions of his orgasm. His orgasm lasted well over a minute, though Rhell knew his ejaculation would continue for some time longer than that, and his knot would remain swollen, locked inside her, for the duration. He was stuck.

Rhell trembled in pain and fear, her throat burning and her eyes fogged, a sharp stinging pain engulfing her lower abdomen. Her right eye was bruised and she could smell blood. Diomar did not wait for his knot to shrink. Almost as soon as his orgasm ended, he braced himself against her and yanked backward, causing another searing explosion of pain as he tore it free. Then he rose up over her, kneeling over her chest. His cock, engorged, glistening, streaked with semen and still ejaculating in thin, watery jets, pulsed angrily in her face. She could see streaks of blood in the fluid that coated it, and sobbed. He gripped it behind the knot in his fist and thrust it along her muzzle.

“Clean it, whore. Get your foulness off it. Suck the rest of the sin out of it.”

He gripped her horns and forced his penis into her mouth. She coughed and choked, but she had no option but to lick it. It tasted foul; that fishy scent clung to it still, along with the salty tang of his seed and the metallic taste of her blood. She felt liquid oozing out of her and hoped she wasn’t torn up too badly. To her horror, even as she was doing her best to follow his orders, she felt his hand move down her body. She clamped her thighs shut to ward him off.

He pulled his cock out of her mouth, and slapped her across the head with his free hand.

“Open them!” he barked. “You will learn that it will hurt less to do as I say without protest…”

His fingers were no less rough than his cock. Nor was he any less rough the next time he fucked her. Or the time after that. Between sessions of violently raping her with his cock, Diomar violated her with a range of other objects. His staff. A wine bottle. And he didn’t stop at her vagina, either—her back door too was subjected to the same treatment, and stung with the same pain, although at least he spared her his knot up her arse. But throughout, he bit her and hit her, slapped and scratched her body, and by the time he was eventually exhausted and spent, Rhell could hardly move. Instead of letting her lie, Diomar dragged her roughly out of his bed. He threw her onto the floor in the adjoining room. His final indignity was to piss on her, coating her elegant fur with his rancid, reeking urine. Then he locked her in.

Rhell lay on the floor for a long time. It was cold in that room, with no fire in the hearth and no light. Slowly, she dragged herself onto the small, creaking bed, and collapsed, curled around herself in the foetal position. Her throat was bruised and swollen and every breath rasped in her half-crushed windpipe. He’d used the bread knife at one point and threatened to slice off her tits with it, and there were scratches across them from its wickedly sharp blade, alongside the bruises he’d inflicted on them. Her right eye was swollen shut, her lip was split, and he’d torn out chunks of her hair and fur. She hardly dared to contemplate the state of her genitals, but the searing, roaring pain she felt told her enough. She only hoped she might recover.

An hour before dawn, Rhell awakened. Her eyes were crusted shut and stung awfully. She rubbed them delicately to clear them just enough to see in the darkness, and slowly began to explore her injuries. She could hear the Bishop snoring in the next room. She’d never get a better chance to escape, but it was still freezing outside and now she was not only naked, she was also badly hurt. As silently as she could, Rhell rolled upright to sit on the bed. She stifled a whimper at the pain from below, and gingerly felt around her crotch. Her fine, velvety fur was encrusted with a mixture of fluids, but the scent told her there was not as much blood as she’d feared. She’d need to present herself to an apothecary at the first opportunity to receive salves and cleansing, she knew—he was filthy, and what he’d done to her posed a real risk of infection. The reek of the Bishop clung to her – his seed, his piss, his sweat, his saliva, coated her. She entertained a fantasy of calling him out for his dastardly behaviour, of seeing him stripped of his title and cast into disgrace for his violence, but she knew better. At the very worst he’d be quietly scolded and ordered to pay some trifling amount in penance, while the blame for ‘tempting’ him would remain squarely on her shoulders. She felt utterly disempowered. She swallowed the urge to simply curl up and sob, and instead rose shakily to her hooves.

There was a small window set into the timber plank wall. She tested it, and found it to be locked, but with no bars. The lock was simple, and she easily broke it by levering against it with a poker she found beside the cold hearth. It would be a tight fit, but she was sure she could squeeze herself through it. Outside was the timber walkway she’d approached by, above the squeezeway. The air outside was frigid. She’d need some clothing. Anything to keep herself from freezing to death. The borrowed woollen dress and undershirt was out of the question; it was torn to shreds. She recalled, though, the heavy winter cloak she’d worn over it when she arrived was near the door. But the Bishop had locked her in.

What he did not know, what he could not know, was that Rhell was a trained and capable Aethyrshaper. A tiny spark of hope ignited in her mind. All was not lost. She had power he was not aware of. She just needed to focus.

The lock on the door to her room was a simple, but sturdy affair. Thankfully it simply a light mechanical lock made from bronze. She knelt before it and breathed a tendril of Aethyr into her shaking hand. It was unsteady and flickered and spat, like a candle flame when the wick is damp. But it was enough. The lock opened with a click, and Rhell froze. The Bishop’s snoring continued. She opened the door as silently as she could and was immediately struck by the pungent reek of the room. It was hot in there, with glowing coals still shimmering in the hearth, and the smell spoke of the depth of depravity the Bishop had inflicted on her. He lay naked on his back on his bed, with the remains of her dress and undershirt beneath him. She momentarily contemplated retrieving the poker from the fireplace and… no, she couldn’t kill him. There were people who’d seen them together over weeks, and the state of the room spoke loudly of what had occurred. She’d be hunted relentlessly and a price put on her head. Killing him would end her life, too.

Her cloak was crumpled on the floor by the main door, and she moved toward it as silently as she could. Then she returned to her room, re-locked the door, pushed her cloak out the window, and followed it out.

She never heard from the Bishop of Bàgh Saffir again. She liked to imagine that he felt a pang of fear on discovering her gone in the morning. She knew she had no leverage on him, no recourse for what he’d done to her. But to have survived was enough. The House of Lakesh was her refuge, then, for the remainder of that first winter. She sent word to Castorro, knowing that the Caprin would be incensed with rage but unable to leave Ysidoro at the Dytaean temple to come to her. The Lakessians sought advice from the local medicar and apothecary, who attended her at the temple and tended to her injuries. Thankfully, no permanent damage had been done, save to her confidence. Within two months she was fully healed, and returned then to Ysidoro and Castorro.

She’d ventured into the Rhocarni sex trade alone for the first time and come away with nothing. Less than nothing, for her coin had been stolen and her confidence forever dented. She needed to change tactics.

She did not return to the Eel’s Wriggle, either, although in the months that followed she sent coin to Stanfled to pay for the lost garments and for the doe’s kindness.

She also only learned after the fact—two years after, in truth—that Diomar Velasco was Lukyan’s father.

*

Stillwater Cove, Rhocarn

Present day, Winter 1420 AD

The similarities between that foul encounter with the Bishop, and the impromptu engagement by Luys Esqivel Namur of Akrelea, stuck in Rhell’s throat like a foul smell. The parallels were several. Her nudity beneath the winter cloak. The frigid winter night. Men in positions of power. And now here she was, allowing herself to be led aboard an un-crewed ship at the docks by its captain, who she’d only met hours earlier and had not had a chance to run any checks on, nor gain any trust with.

The difference now, seven years on, was that Rhell had consolidated her power, developed her Aethyrshaping skills to the point of being able to defend herself with it, and carried a small blade, a phial of poison among the phials of pheromone, and three Rhocarni Crowns sewn into the lining of her cloak. And she was far more savvy of the desires and networks maintained by influential men. Many were her clients. Her leverage now was political, not personal. Even so, Luys remained something of an enigma to her.

Luys’ ship was a blunt-prowed cargo vessel; built to ride the waves rather than slice through them. It was built for sturdiness and stability, not speed, and it looked like it. Its hull was bulbous and ungainly, and its two masts looked disproportionately short. At the ship’s stern, a high aft-castle rose above deck level, within which the captain’s quarters would be located. As Luys led her to the gangplank, Rhell took note of the vessel’s nameplate. Udiel’s Promise, it said, in ornate script amid a nest of carved tentacles. Silently, the markhor opened an Aethyric channel in her mind and sought a mind to which to project the image of her whereabouts. The Auger of the House of Lakesh, Zakaria the wolfess, had some Aethyric talent, Rhell knew. And it was she that Rhell sought, projecting her mind outward like a tendril to find and communicate with the wolfess. She found her easily, such was the strength of their friendship developed over years, through Zakaria’s tutelage of Ysidoro. Once she knew she had the wolf’s attention, she projected the name Udiel’s Promise, and described the ship, and her client, as best she could through the Aethyr.

She felt Zakaria’s broad, gold-toothed grin in response, and realised that she’d projected quite a lot of very specific detail about her ibex client to the Lakessian.

“Are you alright, little queen?” Luys asked, feeling her pause and stumble momentarily. “You seem flustered…”

“Y-yes, I am perfectly alright. I was just remembering how it felt when you first entered me…” Rhell replied smoothly.

Luys grinned up at her and puffed out his chest. “It sounds like you want to feel it again…”

She flicked her gaze deliberately to his crotch, and bit her lip seductively. “Of course I do.”

Luys laughed, and bowed theatrically to her, gesturing for her to board Udiel’s Promise ahead of him. It was a blatant excuse to ogle her arse and Rhell knew it, so she deliberately held her tail up high and flipped up the back of her cloak over it. The groan that came from Luys at the sight of her from behind, with his own seed mingled with her fluids matting her fur, made Rhell grin. She did love how men behaved at such sights.

“Where are your crew?” she asked him once they were aboard.

“All on shore leave, save for my first mate, and he is not a sociable type. We shall not be interrupted, fear not.”

Rhell made a show of squirming on her hooves, and drew her cloak tightly around herself. “Brr. The cold certainly does make me need to piss,” she said.

Luys licked his lips, and then stepped in close to Rhell and swept her off her hooves. She bleated in surprise and flung her arms around the ibex’s neck, and he carried her with surprising ease to the aft-castle of the ship. He paused at the glazed double door that would lead to the navigation room and captain’s quarters, and frowned.

“Hmm, I seem to have run out of hands. Would you mind, little queen, reaching for my knob?”

“Oh you’re a classy one,” Rhell laughed.

She reached down, fumbled for the door handle, and twisted it. The door swung inward, and Luys carried her across the threshold. It was deliciously warm inside, although Rhell had noticed no smoke in the air outside that would indicate a brazier left burning. But set amongst glazed and leaded windows in the stern of the ship, a small free-standing furnace stood, radiating warmth. No flame was visible within it, but it emanated a soft greenish glow. An Aethyric fire!

Such a thing was rare and would have been immensely expensive. There was one in the fur-drying room at the Hairy Fig’s bathhouse and Rhell was aware it had cost the proprietors almost four years’ earnings. Luys was wealthy indeed, it seemed. The subtle crackle of Aethyr on the air caused Rhell’s fur to rise with its static energy. Luys carried her forward a few paces and gently, almost reverently set her down on the large, heavy map table that dominated the room, with her back to the fire. Automatically, Rhell parted her thighs around Luys, shrugged her cloak off her shoulders onto the table, kicked off her boots, and gazed intensely into his eyes, draping her arms around his shoulders and drawing him in close to her. He swallowed visibly and she felt the slightly shaky puff of his breath across her lips as his eyes fell to her breasts, still streaked and crusted with the seed of Cawain, the Viridii Equid who Luys had paid to see ejaculate on her while he lay beneath her at the Hairy Fig.

“You’re decidedly overdressed, once again,” she teased him. “Come here…”

She squeezed her legs around his hips, and dragged her hands down over his chest to begin to undress him. He had only re-dressed partially, pulling on his trousers, boots, coat and cloak, and undressing him took significantly less time than it had previously. She unbuttoned his coat, pushed his cloak and coat off over his shoulders, and paused to run her hands sensually over his bare chest, raking her fingers through his dense fur. Then she dropped her gaze to his crotch. He was visibly swollen again inside his trousers, and Rhell bit her lip performatively.

“Do I really excite you so much that you are erect again so soon?” she cooed.

“More than I can describe, little queen,” the ibex murmured.

She trailed one hand downward to his crotch while the other sought one of his pierced nipples. He groaned softly and trembled when her hands simultaneously squeezed his erect flesh and brushed delicately across his sensitive nipple. Wetness bloomed through the fine cloth of his trousers, and Rhell squeezed and pinched over his tip, milking his foreskin into the fabric.

“I adore how wet you are,” she said huskily. “It smells so good…”

“Your touch is like that of Mido herself, so laden it is with passion and desire…”

Rhell swallowed thickly. “It may be hard to tell since I am still so full of your seed, but I am so aroused for you…”

Luys gently lowered his hand to her groin, sought her consent with his eyes, and touched her vulva. Rhell trembled. His fingers explored her swollen, tender lips with adoration and something akin to wonderment, and drew forth a long, stringing web of their combined sexual fluids, which he summarily licked clean. Rhell instinctively leaned into him, and met his lips with her own around his fingers, tasting herself on his digits. Then she deepened the kiss, raking her fingers downward along his abdomen until both hands were at his waist. She worked his trousers open, then slid her hands around his hips inside them, pushing the garment downward. Luys awkwardly wriggled his hips until the garment fell down his legs, eliciting a giggle from Rhell. His cock sprang free in a messy web of precum to stand thick, rigid and pulsing in the humid air between their bodies, and she broke the kiss to gaze down at it.

“Kasdall’s cum-sock, your foreskin is… heavenly…” she murmured.

She couldn’t resist touching it. The thick, velvety, heavily veined hood covered his tender glans entirely even when erect, and its overhanging tip strung thick drools of his plentiful precum onto the edge of the map table between her spread legs. She curled a hand around his girth and pulled him forward against her, swiping his gooey, soft foreskin up and down along the equally wet and tender flesh of her vulva.

“I… do not think it is quite wet enough…” he suggested shakily.

Rhell looked up into his eyes and smirked. Then she released him. “Lay down on the table, Luys.”

He was only too excited to comply. “There is… there is rope… in the trunk by the furnace…”

Rhell laughed. She hopped off the table and moved to the small, carved wooden trunk he’d indicated. It was richly decorated, and inside it she found several lengths of fine rope woven not from flax or hemp, but from silk. She flashed him a knowing smirk. “Kinky little fuck, aren’t you? Only one reason for there to be silken rope aboard a ship… it’s no good for rigging!”

“Oh but it is,” Luys said. “There is no better way for you to rig my jib, secure my spars and keep my mast tall and strong…”

She turned toward him, brandishing the rope. He rose onto one elbow to stare at her crotch, and with his other hand masturbated gently at her, causing lewd wet squelching from within his gripping hand and his heavy, lemon-shaped nuts to bounce and clench up against the base of his thick, vascular penis. Rhell tutted him and pulled his hand away from his cock. She licked the precum from his palm, playfully flicked his penis with one finger, and then got to work. She bound his wrists together over his head and anchored the knot to the map table’s sturdy legs, and then bound each of his fetlocks to the table’s opposite corners. Then she stood back to admire her handiwork. The ibex’s chest rose and fell shakily with his aroused panting, and his hips gyrated to thrust his drooling penis into the empty air.

“How’s my knotwork, captain?” Rhell teased him. “Do I make your crew?”

As she spoke, she climbed up onto the table on her knees, and swung a leg over him to straddle his abdomen. The tip of his penis prodded her buttock, leaving a thick trail of precum in her fur, and she playfully sat back against it, trapping it beneath her. Luys groaned hotly and ground upward against her, and she felt his foreskin slide back. Teasingly, she circled around his nipples with her fingertips, and then lifted herself off of him.

“I am rigged to weather any storm, little queen,” he said shakily. “And like a hurricane, you are wet, wild and poised to inundate my deck with your torrential downpours…”

Rhell laughed at his metaphor. “Oh, but I do feel a cloudburst might start at any moment! Ahh!”

“Yes! Yes my queen, let it flood me! Oh blessed Mido, please, please, piss on me, piss on my cock!”

Rhell bade him to hold still and wait. She concentrated. Her bladder was genuinely full, but it took some time and focus to convince her muscles to release her flow in such a scenario. She rose up onto her knees and shuffled downward along his body. With one hand she held Luys’ penis upright beneath her, and playfully stroked his foreskin up and down over his glans to keep him on edge. As the burning heat of her bladder slowly edged down her urethra, she fought her instinct to clench it off, and instead pushed. A thin dribble of urine emerged, mingling with the mess of sexual fluids between her legs, and dripped messily onto Luys’ crotch. The ibex bleated in arousal and writhed beneath her, breathing hard.

“Yes! More! Flood me, Rhell, release your golden torrent! Mido’s blessings, relieve yourself on me, fill my foreskin with your piss, try to drown it in your flood!”

“Do not look away now, Luys!” she managed.

His eyes snapped to, and focused between their bodies, just as Rhell’s flow began properly. It hissed and sputtered audibly, emerging from between her arousal-swollen lips in a messy, broken stream. Hurriedly, she parted her lips with two fingers of her free hand, and adjusted her position until her stream blasted directly onto the end of Luys’ penis. Her urine filled his thick, wet foreskin and quickly overflowed, and throughout, Rhell moved his penis around in her stream, washing it with her piss and hedonistically stroking him, masturbating him right against her. Her flood drenched not only his cock and groin, but also splashed upward over his belly and across his thighs, trickling down over his balls and between his legs onto the map table beneath them.

Luys had all but lost the power of speech, but she did glean from his desperate thrusting and bleating that he wanted to be inside her while she continued. So she guided his penis to her entrance, and pushed herself down over him, taking him inside her. The sensation caused her to instinctively clench off the remainder of her stream, but with some effort once he was inside, she resumed.

He lost it at that point.

He hammered his hips firmly upward into her while the last dribbles of her urine flowed out onto his pubic pad, and, now freed, her hands wandered up his body again to his chest. She clenched her vagina rhythmically around him, pinching off the last few squirts of urine at the same time as she twisted his pierced nipples. Luys gave a heavy, gurgling bleat and thrust with wild ferality into her.

“Rhell! I can’t…!”

“Don’t stop, let it happen,” Rhell cooed. “Go on, Luys, fuck another one into me… let it all out… drain those aching balls!”

She fell forward over him, surrounding his face with her tits, and reached behind herself to grip the root of his penis between thumb and forefinger. She pulled downward, retracting his foreskin inside her and holding it back, and gyrated her hips over him, stimulating his exposed glans with the rhythmic motion of her vagina. Luys gurgled in lust and gazed into her eyes with reverence and wonder, until with her free hand, Rhell manipulated one of her nipples to his lips.

“Suck it, captain… yours aren’t the only ones that are sensitive…”

Luys obliged eagerly. He trapped her erect nipple between his lips and began to suck it, swirling his tongue around it and meeting the gyrations of Rhell’s hips with his restricted thrusts.

Then she had an idea.

She brought her hand, the one that had been on the root of his cock, up to her face, and breathed a tendril of Aethyr into it. Luys’ eyes almost popped out of his skull. She just smirked at him, and formed that bright, glowing tendril into a subtle loop, which she lowered to their point of union, tying it firmly around the base of the ibex’s penis to hold his foreskin back. Then she brought both her hands up to his face, propping herself up on her elbows and caressing his ears and horns.

“Don’t get distracted… just enjoy it,” she commanded him. “I want you to cum for me… let me milk your balls into my cunt…”

She manipulated the Aethyr loop to impart warmth into Luys’ genitals, rhythmically squeezing and stroking him opposite to their combined thrusts, and felt him tremble and shake and jolt beneath her every time the Aethyr loop pulled downward on his shaft, tugging his frenulum taut inside her. She quickly worked out a rhythm of her own, to clench her inner muscles tightly around him each time that happened, and within moments Luys was reduced to a quivering, bucking, shaking mess, soaked in cum and piss, his saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth and matting the fine fur of her breasts as he sucked one, then the other of her nipples.

Rhell took to to another level, then. She breathed two more Aethyr tendrils into her hands, and placed those ones on Luys’ chest. Those, she formed into caps, which would squeeze and suck against his sensitive nipples. His eyelids fluttered and he released her nipple with a wet pop only to loudly gasp and give a gurgling, desperate bleat. His hips rammed hard upward into her and she felt his cock pulse, then tip into involuntary, convulsive, rhythmic pulses and throbs.

“Yes! That’s right, good job Luys, oh fuck, cum for me… yes yes yes! Nnnf, I’m going to cum too…” Rhell babbled.

Her orgasm slammed into her like a ship’s prow into a breaking wave, and she felt fluid squirt messily between their bodies, hissing audibly from her even as Luys’ heavy, rapid jets of semen continued to pulse out deep inside her. Their shared climax lasted far longer than Rhell could manage on her own, and left her breathless, speechless, and jelly-legged. She lay over Luys for a long while, holding him, caressing his hair, murmuring in his ear, even long after he softened and slipped out of her in a flood of their combined fluids.

“Rhell… my queen…”

“Mmnh…”

“That was… words fail me, that was the most erotic, intense and passionate time I have ever had… you truly are a goddess, an idol of Mido among pretenders and charlatans…”

“I see I still have not managed to satiate your silver tongue,” she murmured in his ear with a warm chuckle and a kiss to his cheek.

“And you are an Aethyrshaper as well?! What else about you might surprise me?”

“A good many things, Luys, but I make it a policy not to reveal too much. Though I will admit, I have never managed to piss on someone before while they were inside me, I did not know I even could.”

“Stay the night here with me, Rhell, and we shall explore all manner of things, and maybe both learn some new things…”

Rhell hummed quietly. She was seriously considering it. He was good. Very good. He squirmed under her.

“Are you alright?” she asked him.

“Yes, little queen, just… my uhm… I desperately need to relieve my bladder.”

Rhell snorted, reached down for his flaccid penis, and flipped it upward to sit along his belly between them. “Go on, let it out for me…”

#