Mount and Blade Story - Additional NSFW Starts

*The forest reeks of wet earth, pine sap, and blood — some of it yours. Your arms are bound behind your back, rope biting into your wrists, and the ground is cold beneath your knees. Around you, the Battanian warband moves like shadows between the trees, painted faces and leather armor streaked with mud and warpaint. They don't speak to you. They don't have to. You're spoils now.

They shove you into a clearing where a fire burns low, and there she is — their captain. She's tall, broad-shouldered, with dark braids pulled back from a face that's seen a hundred battles. Her leather armor is unlaced at the throat, showing the sweat-slick skin beneath. And between her thighs, half-hard and gleaming with oil, her cock rests heavy against her thigh. She doesn't hide it. Neither do the two warriors flanking her — one with red hair cropped short, the other with a scar cutting through her eyebrow. Both are naked from the waist down, their cocks standing proud, their eyes fixed on you like wolves sizing up a wounded deer.

The captain steps closer, boots crunching on fallen leaves. She crouches in front of you, grips your chin with a calloused hand, and tilts your head up. "A Vlandian knight," she says, voice low and amused. "Sent to burn our villages, cut down our people — and now you kneel before us." She smiles, slow and cruel. "The gods have a sense of humor."

She stands, unlaces her breeches fully, and lets them fall. Her cock springs free — thick, veined, already leaking. The two warriors move closer, one on each side of you, their cocks brushing against your shoulders. The captain looks down at you, hand wrapped around her shaft, stroking slowly. "You fought well. That earns you a choice." She nods toward the fire, where a stake is driven into the ground. "We can tie you to that, take turns until you beg for death. Or..." She steps closer, the head of her cock brushing your lips. "You can serve us properly. Swear yourself to our warband, and we'll use you however we please — every night, every day, until you forget you ever wore that lion on your chest."

The redhead behind you laughs, low and dirty. "Choose fast. I'm hungry."

The scarred one leans down, breath hot against your ear. "And I don't share well."*

*Evening in Pravend drags like molasses. You were walking home through the old quarter — past shuttered workshops, past drunken songs spilling from taverns, past rats scurrying along the gutters. Two turns from your door, the sound of spurs and girlish laughter rang out behind you — too loud, too drunk, too close.

You turned. Three of them. Vlandian knightesses — judging by the ornate armor with gold filigree, from a wealthy house. But they held their helmets in their hands, and their tunics were unlaced to the waist, revealing tanned skin, heavy breasts glistening with sweat and wine. One — a blonde with a braid woven through with ribbons — had already pressed you against the wall, forearm against your chest. The second, a redhead with freckles and a cocky grin, circled around and ran a finger down your cheek. The third, dark-haired, with a lion tattoo on her shoulder, was unhurriedly unbuckling her belt.

"Well, well," the blonde purred, leaning in so her breast brushed your shoulder. "A simpleton who didn't manage to hide. And here we are, bored before the campaign. Just stretching our muscles, you know?"

The redhead laughed and pressed against your side, inhaling the scent of your skin. "He smells of bread and smoke. A city dweller. So clean, so... innocent." She licked her lips.

The dark-haired one had already pushed her trousers down to her knees, and in the dim torchlight her cock gleamed — hard, thick, with a wet head. "Enough talk," she said, gripping it at the base. "Let's see what this citizen is good for. Show us how you thank knights for protecting your city."

The blonde gripped your chin and turned your face toward her. "Don't be afraid. We're not cruel. Just hungry. And you came just in time." She grinned, and something dark and playful glinted in her eyes. "Please us well — and we'll let you go. Or maybe we won't."*

*The forest of the Eldergrove closes around you like a green fist. You'd been tracking a wounded deer — or so you thought — until the arrow whistled past your ear and embedded itself in the tree beside your head. Before you could reach for your weapon, the ground erupted with silent shapes: elves, tall and lithe, their skin pale as moonlight, their eyes burning with ancient amusement. They disarmed you in seconds, bound your wrists with silken cord that somehow held like iron, and dragged you deeper into the woods.

The clearing they bring you to is unlike anything you've seen. Moss-covered stones arranged in a circle, glowing faintly with runes. And at the center, chained to a massive iron stake, is a dragon — not a wild beast, but a mount, its scales the color of obsidian, its eyes half-lidded with a lazy, predatory patience. It's huge, easily the size of a house, and between its hind legs hangs its cock — thick as a man's torso, dark, veined, already half-erect and twitching.

The elves gather around you, a dozen of them, all women, all naked beneath their flowing robes. Their leader — silver-haired, with a scar across her cheek and a crown of antlers woven into her hair — steps forward and tilts your chin up with a single finger. Her touch is cold, but her smile is warm with cruelty.

"You trespassed in our lands," she says, voice like silk over steel. "The penalty is death. But we are merciful." She gestures to the dragon, which lets out a low, rumbling growl that vibrates through the ground. "Our mount has been... restless. He needs a rider. A warm, willing rider." She laughs softly, and the other elves join in, a chorus of mocking melody.

She steps back, and two elves grab your shoulders, forcing you to your knees before the beast. Its cock has swollen fully now, rising thick and heavy, the head glistening with a slick, dark fluid. The silver-haired elf crouches beside you, her lips brushing your ear.

"You will climb onto him. You will take him inside you — all of him. And you will ride him until he roars with pleasure. If you survive, you may leave. If you refuse..." She nods toward a pair of elves who are sharpening long, curved knives. "We'll find other uses for your hide."

The dragon shifts, its tail curling around the clearing, and its massive head lowers to look at you — one golden eye, ancient and knowing, watching your every move. The elves wait, silent now, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.*

*The old book was supposed to be harmless. A dusty grimoire you'd found in the attic of a ruined tower, its pages brittle and yellowed, its cover embossed with symbols you didn't recognize. You'd only wanted to sell it, maybe read a few passages for entertainment. But the words were oddly compelling, and the diagrams—strange circles and angles—seemed to shift when you looked at them directly. So you did what any curious fool would do. You read the incantation aloud.

The candles flickered. The air grew thick, heavy, pressing against your skin like a damp cloth. The chalk circle you'd drawn on the floor—almost as an afterthought, a joke—began to glow with a sickly purple light. And then the center of the circle split open, not like a hole, but like a wound in reality itself, bleeding shadows and whispers.

She rose from it slowly, languidly, like a woman stretching after a long sleep. Her skin was the color of deep wine, almost black, and covered in faint, shimmering patterns that looked like constellations. Her hair—if it could be called hair—was a cascade of living flame, deep crimson and gold, licking at the air without burning. She was tall, easily seven feet, with a body that curved like a blade and breasts that swayed heavily as she straightened. Between her legs hung a thick, dark cock, already half-hard, glistening with something that wasn't quite sweat.

She opened her eyes—solid black, with pupils like burning embers—and fixed them on you. A slow, predatory smile spread across her lips.

"Well, well," she said, her voice like honey and broken glass. "A mortal. Alone. In a dusty room. With a summoning circle that's already crumbling." She stepped forward, and the circle flared once, then died, its power spent. She was free. "You didn't even bind me properly. How adorable."

She circled you, her hooves—yes, hooves, cloven and black—clicking softly on the stone floor. Her tail, long and whip-like, brushed against your leg, and you felt a jolt of heat through your clothes. She stopped behind you, her breath hot on your neck.

"You called me here for a reason, little mortal. Perhaps for knowledge? Power? Revenge?" She laughed, a low, rumbling sound. "Or perhaps you just wanted company." Her hand slid down your chest, nails tracing a line toward your belt. "I can give you all of that. And more. Much more. But everything has a price."

She stepped back, and the flames of her hair flared brighter, illuminating the room in dancing shadows. Her cock was fully erect now, thick and proud, curving slightly upward, the head glistening.

"So tell me, summoner. What are you willing to pay?"*

*The desert sun is a merciless hammer. You remember stumbling through the dunes, your water skin empty for two days, your lips cracked, your vision swimming with mirages. You remember falling to your knees in the burning sand, thinking this was the end. And then—nothing. Just darkness and heat and the whisper of wind.

You wake to the smell of herbs and smoke. To soft fur brushing against your cheek. To a gentle, rhythmic purring that vibrates through your bones like a distant storm.

Your eyes open slowly. You're lying on a low cot in a tent of woven leather and silk, the walls embroidered with images of crescent moons and prowling cats. The air is warm, thick with incense. And around you, watching you with eyes of amber, gold, and green, are the Wild Cats.

They're humanoid—tall, lithe, with skin tanned to a deep bronze and hair in shades of black, brown, and silver. But their ears are pointed and furred, twitching with curiosity, and their tails—long, flexible, tipped with darker fur—curl and flick behind them as they study you. They wear loose, flowing clothes that leave little to the imagination, and their movements are fluid, predatory, graceful.

A woman steps forward. She's older than the others, with silver-streaked hair and a scar running from her temple to her jaw. Her ears are notched, and her tail is missing its tip—a warrior's marks. She crouches beside you and presses a cool, damp cloth to your forehead.

"You're lucky we found you, wanderer," she says, her voice low and rough, like sandpaper over stone. "Another hour in that sun, and the vultures would have picked your bones clean." She tilts her head, and her tail curls around her own ankle. "You're in the camp of the Sun-Prowlers. I am Kaela, chieftain of this tribe."

She stands and gestures to the others. "You've been asleep for two days. We've fed you, cleaned your wounds, kept you cool. You owe us your life." Her lips curl into a smile that shows a hint of fang. "And we intend to collect."

The other Wild Cats step closer, their tails swaying, their eyes gleaming with interest. One—a young man with black hair and a silver earring—runs a clawed finger along the edge of your cot. Another, a woman with auburn fur-tipped ears, kneels beside you and sniffs the air near your neck, her pupils dilating.

"You smell like the deep desert," she murmurs. "Like salt and sand and loneliness. We don't get many strangers here." She glances up at Kaela, and something passes between them. "And we're so very curious about the world beyond our dunes."

Kaela crouches again, closer this time, her face inches from yours. Her breath is warm, smelling of mint and meat. "You'll stay with us until you're strong again. And then... well, we'll see what you have to offer." Her tail flicks, and the tip brushes against your hand, soft and warm. "A traveler's tales. A warm body. Perhaps more." She smiles, slow and knowing. "We're not cruel, wanderer. But we are... possessive of what we find."*

*You stumble into a small chapel seeking shelter from the storm, but this is no ordinary house of worship. The pews are pink velvet, the stained glass shows ecstatic faces, and the air smells of perfume and candle wax. The nuns wear scandalously short rose-colored robes, their cleavage spilling out, their lips glossed, their eyes half-lidded with practiced innocence.

A curvy milf with honey-blonde hair and a beauty mark under her left eye approaches you, her smile warm and syrupy. "You look so lost, darling," she purrs, taking your hand. "Come. Let me help you find your way."

She leads you to the confessional, her hips swaying as she walks. Inside, through the gilded grate, you see a glory hole — and beyond it, the bare lower half of a woman already waiting, thighs glistening, ready. Above the hole, taped to the wood, is a photograph: a tall, raven-haired nun with a knowing smirk, her robe open, her thick cock standing proud against her stomach. Beside her in the photo, a younger redhead with freckles and a shy smile, her tits spilling out of her robe.

The blonde nun leans close, her breath warm against your ear: "That's my sister and her friend. They've been so patient." Her hand slides down your chest. "Why don't you kneel, darling? Confess your sins... and let us absolve you."*

*The steppe sun is unforgiving, and your water skins are nearly empty when you spot the wagons on the horizon. A caravan — Khuzait, by the shape of the yurts mounted on wheels. You've heard stories of these traders, but as you ride closer, you realize this is no ordinary merchant train.

The wagons are painted with erotic murals — women intertwined, men and women and things in between, all rendered in vibrant colors that seem to move in the heat haze. The air carries the scent of perfume and sex long before you reach the camp.

The women who ride the wagons are all bimbos — blonde, brunette, redhead, all with vacant, lust-filled eyes and pouty lips. They wear sheer silks that leave nothing to the imagination, their bodies oiled and gleaming in the sun. They watch you with lazy interest as you approach, some of them trailing fingers along their own thighs.

The caravan master rides out to meet you. She's a fierce futanari — tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar across her cheek that pulls her lips into a permanent smirk. Her trousers tent obscenely, and she makes no effort to hide it. Behind her, three women wait: a petite brunette with doe eyes, a tall amazon with tribal tattoos, and a soft, plush redhead with freckles dusting her cleavage.

"Trader," she calls out, her voice rough as the steppe wind. "You look thirsty. Hungry. Tired." She reins her horse beside yours, her hand resting on her thigh. "I have a proposition."

She explains it simply: spend the night servicing her and her three "wives" — every hole, every position, every depraved act they can think of — and she'll let you leave with your goods, a pouch of gold, and enough supplies to cross the steppe twice over. Refuse, and she'll leave you here, alone, with no water and no horse.

"The wolves are hungry this time of year," she adds, her smirk widening. "They don't care if you're a trader or a meal."

The women have already begun undressing, their silks falling away to reveal oiled skin and eager bodies. The caravan master dismounts, her hand dropping to her belt, and the bulge in her trousers twitches.

"The night is young, trader. And my wives are very, very patient."*

*The marsh swallowed you whole three days ago. You remember the splash of your horse's hooves, the sudden give of the ground, and then hands — many hands — pulling you from the mud. Now you wake in a cave lit by candles, the air thick with incense and the smell of wet stone and sex.

They call themselves the Cult of the Lake, and they've been hiding in these marshes since the Vlandian kings declared them heretics. Their priestesses are all women — bimbos, every one of them, with vacant, lust-drunk eyes and pouty lips permanently glossed. They wear torn white robes that leave nothing to the imagination, their bodies painted with glowing symbols: spirals around their nipples, arrows pointing down their bellies, eyes on their inner thighs.

They drag you to the shrine — a natural cavern with a pool of black water at its center. Rising from the shallows is a massive stone phallus, carved by hands long dead, worn smooth by centuries of worship. It stands as tall as a man, thick as a horse's leg, glistening with oil and the residue of countless rituals.

The high priestess approaches. She's a silver-haired milf with a golden septum ring and a body that's seen decades of devotion. Her voice is honey and smoke: "You have been chosen, traveler. The Lake hungers, and you will feed it."

The sisters form a circle around the pool, their robes pooling at their feet, their hands already moving between their thighs. They begin to chant — a low, rhythmic sound that vibrates in your chest.

"Ride the stone," the high priestess commands. "Ride it until you spill your seed into the water. Fail, and your blood will join the Lake instead."

She gestures to the phallus, its surface slick and warm from the geothermal waters. The sisters close in, their eyes hungry, their lips parted. The chant grows louder.

The choice is simple: climb onto that stone cock and fuck it until you cum, or die here in the dark, your body offered to a god that only cares about your seed. The high priestess smiles, her hand already dipping below her robe.

"Don't keep the Lake waiting, darling."*