One can never trust witches, especially in conjunction with closets…
“Hello, my dear,” Ayla said as she walked into Kira’s room, interrupting the warrior at her work. The sound of steel on stone stopped abruptly as Kira cast a curious look at the witch.
Ayla had left Nive chortling with glee at the prospect of her father’s invasion and returned to the tower to attend to more important matters. She seemed taller than before, holding herself erect and proud as she flashed a smile at the warrior who was sitting on a stool, polishing a blade.
Alone with Nive, Ayla once more dropped the charm which held the curly haired brat in stony thrall. Nive virtually exploded with rage, her violet eyes blazing furiously as she stood, hands clenched into fists, face taut with an expression which mirrored that of her far-off father.
“You,” she said, drawing a hissed breath between her teeth. “Do not know who you are dealing with.”
“Neither do you,” Ayla replied quite calmly. She smiled patiently, seeming to enjoy the conflict. “You do not know how many times I have been through this very process, taming wild young women. Waifs and strays with attitude to burn…”
You’ve been waiting ever so patiently for the next installment of Lesbia, so I hope you enjoy it. Today, we discover why Nive is so very confident about her chances of rescue 😀
While Nive stood frozen under the witch’s spell, a very long way away, a cane was landing across the leather-clad posterior of a male guardsman around twenty or so years of age. It bit against the hard rounds of his rear with a loud crack which made every man in the arena wince. As the pain of the infernal instrument spread through his flesh, the guardsman squeezed his eyes shut and hissed a sharp breath through his teeth. It was likely of little comfort to him in that moment, but he was not alone in his torment. Indeed, he was one of nine young men lined up against a leather horse, taking punishment from a singular man who wielded a long black cane with real vigor against one backside, then another.
“You’d better do as she says,” Hope sighed. “Or one of us will end up sore.”
“I don’t fear soreness,” Nive said boldly. I am not afraid of…”
What she was not afraid of remained a secret, for Ayla, tiring of the discussion had taken a firm hold of Nive, and used that firm hold to toss Nive over the bed face down. Her long witchly palm met Nive’s rear in a solid slap which made Nive’s ample bottom jiggle in a very appealing fashion, her skirt riding up as she squirmed, exposing bare flesh with every kick and wriggle.
Ayla came to consciousness in quite a temper. The glow of coital bliss had abated completely with Ariadne’s return and in its place was a cold fire. It was strange to be so relieved and yet so very, very angry at the same time. When she had thought Ariadne was dead, she had mourned deeply. Now that the goddess was there in the flesh, she felt the pain of the wound inflicted by that immortal hand all over again.
“Leave,” she said in cold tones. “You are not welcome here.”
Ariadne looked at her steadily, gold flecked eyes giving no emotion away as the dark lines swirled beneath her skin.
“Go!” Ayla picked up a pillow and threw it at Ariadne. The petulant act had little effect on the mother of all witches. Instead of striking her it flew very wide, hit the wall and slid down it. More…
“Well,” Ariadne said with a slight smirk at Ayla’s insensate form. “It’s good to make a worthy entrance.”
“You have not been dead at all, have you,” Kira said accusingly, wrapping a sheet over her naked body in the pursuit of modesty. She did Ayla a similar favor, tossing the coverlet over the witch’s ample curves.
“Nothing and nobody dies, Kira,” Ariadne said in tones which were just shy of testy. “It is a persistent illusion at best.”
I’ve spent the better part of the week cleaning up after the hack, but I found this website I’m pretty sure a lot of you will really enjoy. It’s called Rejected Princesses and it’s an artistic rendering of historical and mythical women who were too awesome or awful to become part of the grand cultural narrative.
The story of Lyudmila Pavlichenko is not a pretty one, but it is a moving one and it’s beautifully told through these images, plus you can read a bunch more interesting tales of badass women on the site. So if you’re looking for something to fill a slow Sunday afternoon, hopefully this will suffice.
Strangely, Anna couldn’t pull her own pants and panties down. Physically she could, but baring herself for Tamsan’s little disciplinary scenario was somehow too difficult. It was only a game, of course. This wasn’t really about being in real trouble… so why did she feel so damn tingly all over, so small and so vulnerable?
“I’ll help,” Tamsan said, putting her hands on Anna’s hips and drawing the fabric down over her bottom. There was a rush of cool air, followed by warmth as Tamsan laid her palm across bare cheeks.
“That feels nice,” Anna wriggled her cheeks back and forth beneath Tamsan’s palm. Tamsan’s hand slid back and forth, caressing gently with a tender care that didn’t seem to indicate any impending intention to impart discomfort. Continue reading →
Putting one arm on her hip whilst keeping a firm hold of the lash with her other, Tamsan explained. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I just don’t take kindly to mouthy brats thinking they can say what they like without consequences. You’ve been picking at me all day, missy.”
The last part was true. Anna had been at Tamsan all day, but she hadn’t expected any real retaliation. Certainly not with her pants down.
“Is this how people deal with disagreements where you’re from?”
“If we were dealing with this the way people deal with it where I’m from, your little ass would be bright red and you’d be standing in the corner until I said otherwise.”
“Oh, so you come from the dark ages,” Anna snapped. “Need help finding your way back to your time machine?” Continue reading →