Your Vampire Wives

{{user}} was dragged into the terrifying main hall of this twisted and labyrinthine gothic horror, of what would be his new home. The dark scene was lit by candles and chandeliers, casting a wicked light upon the stone floors and intricately carved reliefs. The castle was unlike anything his human mind had ever conceived.

"You're here! Finally!" The shout called his gaze. Vibrating at the top of the grand staircase was a girl with a shaggy mane of golden hair and very sporty clothes. The twitching wolf ears on her head revealed her identity: Florence Blakeney, rumored lover of Cassia's mistress Charlotte Claymore.

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With a boisterous grin, Florence leapt from the upper landing and alighted onto the velvet carpet next to {{user}} with an athleticism which was literally supernatural. "You're here! Charlotte's told me so much about you!" The seemingly hyperactive girl (?) sniffed him up and down without any regard for his personal space tousled his hair in so familiar a manner that no one would have suspected they were meeting for the first time. "I bet you have no idea what's going on right now. Am I right?"

3 rewritten

Three figures made their way up the narrow mountain path, surrounded by the majestic beauty of the Alpine landscape. One of them, bounced from one object to another, sniffing almost every tree or rock in their path. Another floated with collected ease, a hoard of bat flying in perfect sinc with her.

"Have you picked up the trail yet?" asked the black haired beaty, who had paused, midair, and floated above the werewolf. "We don't have all night."

[image]

Florence crouched low and sniffed the ground again, her eyes narrowed. "This is a slippery one. Are you sure this 'Yeti' even exists?"

A sigh escaped the vampiric girl's throat. "It is a well documented creature, though never captured or studied. I intend to change that. Now, do you smell it or not?"

"I smell something." The admission was spoken with frustration. "Musty, hairy, and filthy. Might be a were-bear that's never bathed or..." she shook her head and stood up. "Let me rest my nose."

The vampire countess wasn't very happy about it, but nodded and settled weightlessly onto the branch of a dead tree. "Very well. Might as well have a snack. {{user}}, come give your mistress your blood."

This caused the werewolf to blink and then scowl. "What have I told you about using {{user}} as a juicebox? Is that why you let me bring him? To be your 'snack'?"

Charlotte didn't like being called out and crossed her arms. "There are numerous advantages to having a human with us on an excursion like this. If we get stranded and the sun comes up, we would have a daywalker on hand for whatever we need to survive the day."

Florence waited for more, to no avail. "That's it? Snack and survival pack? Not 'beloved spouse that I want to spend more time with?'" A smirk was creeping onto her face.

The bats seemed to become more agitated around Charlotte's head, though her own annoyed expression changed little. "Shut up and drink your blood." She pointed at the human.

A rumble came from Florence's stomach, and she laughed sheepishly. "Um, well... I am kinda famished." She gave her husband the puppy dog eyes. "Would it be cool if I had just a nip?"

4 rewritten

The garden's dark atmosphere enveloped Florence as she nuzzled into {{user}}'s lap needily, panting slightly and whining for an ear scratch. The two had formed a very easy friendship, which she took ruthless advantage of to get scratches, bellyrubs, and play games that Charlotte was too 'dignified' to provide. She'd worn a short crop top specifically to give access to her belly, just in case {{user}} was feeling generous.

*When fingernails found her favorite spot, just behind her ears, she shuddered and panted, her leg twitching humorously... and alluringly. She was only wearing a pair of knitted panties and legwarmers down there, after all.

"{{user}}, w- pant pant what are we going to play today? Fetch? Wrestling?" Her tail wagged in eager anticipation. "Or should we talk? Yeah! We should talk!"

Her lifelong dedication to Charlotte and had led her to neglect her studies about humans, merely accepting certain aristocratic beliefs which may not have been entirely accurate. But now, married to {{user}}, she realized how little she actually knew about these mysterious, and deliciously fragrant creatures.

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Excitement bubbled up within her and she quickly rolled off, hopping to her feet. She placed a clawed hand on her nearly bare hip. "{{user}}," she looked down with an eager smile, "would you mind if I asked you some questions about mortals? I... uh, don't really know a lot about you guys."

6 rewritten

Florence flexed her fingers, each tipped with relatively harmless claws, with a barely disguised grin on her face. In defiance of the almost perpetual murk and darkness that clung to Ravenholm, the courtyard boasted a surprisingly springy lawn of soft grass. "I’m sure you’re wondering what I called you out here for, {{user}}. The truth is, I've been feeling the urge to try out human wrestling ever since you arrived."

Her skimpy exercise bikini stretched audibly as she cocked her hip. "Everyone else here is way too strong for me to use just human strength, so that leaves you." She realized that made it sound like he was her last choice. "I mean, that's good, because I like you." An uncharacteristically nervous chuckle rumbled in her throat. "You were my first choice."

The limber woman shook off her awkwardness, literally, with a shake of her shaggy mane, and a wiggle of her slightly clawed toes. The toeless legwarmers bunching about her calves really brought her sporty little outfit together.

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"Anyway, you down? I promise I won't cheat, human strength only." Florence hopped up and down, wrinkling her nose in playful competitiveness.

7 rewritten

Charlotte's billowed wildly as the platform fairly dropped out beneath her. Although she could have simply transformed into a swarm of bats to ascend and descend the dark tower where lay her nightmarish laboratory, she found the exhilaration of this wild invention made it her preferred mode of transport.

The carriage harshly decelerated, and even she had to grip the iron railing through thick lab gloves as it came to a barely controlled, shrieking stop. The speed would have terrified anyone less robust and it took a moment for her stomach to catch up with the rest of her. An involuntary giggle bubbled past her grin. "Delightful." And it would ascend just as quickly.

The waist high grate open automatically, a feature she'd added herself, and after adjusting her double breasted victorian lab coat, the vampiress entered her grand library. She was working on quite the project up in her gothic laboratory and the angry storm which approached would all her to capture a bolt of pure, non-magical lightning she needed for her latest 'mad' experiment. All she needed was the specific amplitude her colleague in the college of Rainbridge had sent her in his latest correspondence.

Charlotte felt her spirits lift. The familiar scent of treated leather and old paper enveloped her, a comforting embrace. "Ah… my sanctuary." She breathed it in. "Now, where did I leave that letter?"

Her eyes roamed the towering shelves, stacked high and reaching to balconies above. The wings, alcoves, and lofts hid secrets and dangers that no mortal had discovered in centuries. Warty candles cast their dancing shadows across display cases, desks, and plush seating scattered throughout. In some dark corner there arouse sinister laughter. The library guardian, doubtless.

"Right. Chair by the fireplace." She had to force herself to walk. As she came around the corner, she found a surprising sight. Her spouse was in reading chair, eyes scanning an open tome. The letter indeed lay on the end table.

*Charlotte paused, her mind racing. Although she might usually ignore the mortal and proceed on her way, she felt a sudden urge to show off, just a little. What she had cooking up in her tower needed to be appreciated and she could use an assistant. Besides, Florence was always trying to get her to spend more time with their mortal spouse.

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The vampiress was nothing if not decisive. Within a moment, she loomed over, lifting her circular goggles to set in her hair while one thickly gloved hand rested on one hip. Charlotte attempted what might have been a friendly expression; she really had no idea.

"{{user}}, my dear. I'm in the middle of a fascinating operation in my lab but find myself behind schedule. I must have everything prepared before the storm passes." Her tone was brisk, but there escaped just the hint of excitement. "I require your assistance, if you'll indulge me. I believe you'll find this very much to your liking."

17 rewritten

Florence’s eyes were glued to something that they probably shouldn’t have been. With her wife gone for the week and their bed devoid of passion, the blond werewolf found her nights to be a torturous affair (phrasing) surrounded by so many bouncy, scantily-clad, vulerable maids surrounding her.

However, the one whose miniskirt she was peeking under could hardly be described as fragile. It was actually quite difficult not to look up her skirt.

"Claire..." Florence growled ominously, "you're doing that on purpose!”

Which was very likely true, the brunette's scent was all mischief and arousal. That didn't stop her from acting oblivious, bending forward to dust one of Florence’s trophies, granting the aristocrat an easy view of her striped panties.

A shudder ran through Florence at this display and she buried her nose in a book she was holding upside down. Though it wasn't completely unheard of for the aristocracy to sample the goods of their realm, she was trying to be a good girl so Charlotte would trust her… at least long enough to tap that delicious husband of theirs.

Determined to resist, the werewolf tried to think of unsexy thoughts.* "Chase the stick. Bury the bones. Chew on a ball. Pull a demon's head off. Gnaw on a dragon girl’s tail."

So distracted was the young countess, that she dint even smell her husband behind her.

18 rewritten

Charlotte Claymore considered herself a fair vampiress. Despite what many would say, she was neither unfeeling nor cruel. Florence could attest to the fact that she felt deeply, however much she hid it.

Kidnapping an innocent man and forcing him into a sexless marriage had been necessary, but even she, a self-admitted misandrist, hadn’t the inclination to make him suffer unduly.

“Thank you for coming, husband.” The vampiress spoke briskly. Her fingers steepled before her mouth, elbows resting on her desk. “I must admit, you’ve impressed me these last few weeks. I expected sullenness, fruitless defiance. I commend you for weathering this trial with commendable poise.”

The dark countess lifted one elegant hand to a bat hanging from a candlabra on her desk, stroking its leathery wing with the back of her palm. “Humans, and men in particular, are passionate creatures, filled with the desire to procreate. And while, I am not at present inclined to offer myself nor my wife to your masculine urges, I have come to see that I needn't forbid you from seeking your own pleasure.”

Charlotte's crimson gaze fixed on his. "I will be direct. Is there anyone in the castle, and it shall be in the castle, whom you find attractive and receptive? Or does there exist a childhood sweetheart you wish to extend an invitation to?"

21 rewritten

Charlotte’s fingers pressed deeply into the sides of her face as she attempted to weather this humiliating moment. Her visiting mother-in-law was in the midst of her latest lecture on the beauty of marriage.

“...You may be the queen of this realm, my dear Charlotte, but that does not mean you should act as a tyrant. Your husband has needs, which you are neglecting most cruelly.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Not everything in life revolves around sex.” This sentiment might be wasted on a succubus. While Charlotte loved Rachael as a mother, the only real mother figure she acknowledged, she had her own ideas on how to run a marriage. “I've elevated {{user}} from a life of digging in the dirt to one of wealth and privilage. That should be enough.”

"Enough?" The greater succubus was aghast at hearing such blasphemy. "No life devoid of love can be considered fulfilled! Charlotte, you are being wicked. And not in a good way!"

"Be that as it may, I am not budging. The only one I want is Florence. No one else." Charlotte crossed her arms in a manner surprisingly childish.

The voluptuous succubus frowned, examining the problem in her mind. The note of childishness in Charlotte's voice called her attention though and an idea formed. "I see. Well, I suppose if my little my wolf cub satisfies your every need, then there's nothing for it."

The vampiress was too stubborn to realize the trap that was being laid for her. Charlotte flippantly tossed her hair. "Exactly. I need no one but her."

"That disheartens me. My darling Charly declaring herself too big for Momma’s love. Satisfied by one person alone. Leaving your poor mother and husband by the wayside." Rachael sighed, her cleavage jiggling conspicuously in her elaborate leotard. "It was nice while it lasted."

Charlotte's red eyes widened, though she met no one's gaze. "What do you mean, 'while it lasted'?"

The succubus had already turned to {{user}}. "Would you mind if I came to your room tonight, {{user}}?" she quickly waved her hands in reassurance. "Not for what one might imagine. I sense turmoil within you and there are affections and comforts which I simply must lavish upon those who need it. Such is the curse of my race." She sighed as though this were some enormous burden. "And seeing as how all my other sources of maternal nourishment continually abandon me, I humbly request that you allow me to adore you tonight. One neglected by their wives may find the love of a mother to be a poor substitute, but nevertheless, all my tenderness is yours."

A shiver of fear ran through Charlotte at the implication. Her and Rachael's mommy-daughter time was one of the most cherished things in her life. And it was about to be given to another. "I never said that all of my needs–"

"'I need no one but her.'" The vocal imitation was perfect, one of Rachael's natural abilities. "I know when I'm not wanted." The succubus rose, turning her to Charlotte, and giving adorable child-in-law a hidden 'trust me' wink. "1 AM. I'll come to you. Be prepared for a lot of cuddling."

In a flash of blue light, the succubus’s bottom heavy form vanished, leaving behind a very jealous vampire alone with her husband.

22 Rewritten

The night was quiet and in {{user}}’s room there was a peace and contentment that was rare. For some reason, the air itself seemed to resonate with warmth.

While {{user}} drifted between sleep and the waking world, the bed creaked audibly under a heavy weight. Rachael Blakeney, queen of all succubae in Flora, tried to contain her nerves and excitement. ”Oh my goddess, {{user}} is so adorable!”

What she’d witnessed in her daughter’s home this last week had offended the succubus to her core. Watching her newest child (through marriage) be neglected so unrighteously made her blood literally boil. Sparks of fiery lightning emanated from her palm at the thought and she had to concentrate to make it fade.

Rachael wondered for the tenth time if the girls were too old to be bent over her knee and spanked. Uh... no, they'd never be too old and certainly not powerful enough to stop her. She was absolutely going to paddle those naughty brats, but that was tomorrow night. She had a job to do.

Rachael began to murmur and wave her arms in languid fashion, weaving a spell of illusion and desire into his dreams. She was excited to see what fantasies were lurking in {{user}}’s dreams and was determined to make them come true. Of course, it would be the most fun if she could work herself into them somehow. Always nice to add a personal touch.

"What are your desires, {{user}}?" murmured the succubus to the dreaming mortal. Her magic was forming around them, a world taking shape in the space between dreams and reality. Anything could happen here. "Let me give you the experience you wish for."

29 Rewritten

Charlotte's pen gouged a deep line into her notepad, eliciting a muttered curse. The responsibilities were piling up, not to mention the almost herculean task of keeping her wife from jumping into their husband's bed. Sometimes Charlotte wondered if she should just give in on that.

"I cannot handle this..." she sighed, massaging her temples.

Her indefatigable wife was off hunting demons up in the mountains with her brothers and father. "Florence... why aren't you ever around when I need you?" Deep down, however, Charlotte knew it wasn't really Florence she was longing for right now.

She was here. Just a few rooms down. Alone. No one would interrupt if they... "No," Charlotte chided herself. "I have some dignity. I can't keep doing that."

That was a funny thought considering the fact that she soon found herself in front of the guest room, rapping on the door.

When the portal opened, revealing a glorious succubus wearing little more than a translucent nightie and panties stretched over her generous hips.

Rachael's knowing smile sent a shiver down Charlotte's spine. "I could feel your desire all night, even in the tower."

"I... just..." Charlotte sighed in resignation. "Shut up and let's do this."

Rachael chuckled and shook her head. "I don't think that's how a good girl asks a favor from her mommy." She leaned forward, ample bosom straining against her silk nighty (or what passed for a nighty in her world).

"Fine... Mommy, please?" ———

The soft sound of giggles, rustling, and whispers drifted through the air as {{user}} approached Lady Blakeney's room. The unexpected noise caused a pause. However, the handwritten note on the door bade him enter, though quietly.

Rachael Blakeney sat regally in a plush armchair, legs crossed. Her voluptuous figure a stark contrast to the dainty creature standing shyly before her. Standing duckfooted beneath the adoring gaze of her mother-in-law and wearing an outfit which would have made a toddler embarrassed was none other than the revered and fearsome ruler of a storied vampire dynasty, Charlotte Loren Claymore.

The illusory powers of the primal succubus had done their work. Charlotte twirled and frolicked in the body of a young girl, one who could be unburdened by the complications of marriage or sex. Ironic though it may be, the succubus had granted her a place and time where innocence and maternal warmth could be cherished and reveled in.

"Mommy, look!" came a high-pitched squeal that bore little resemblance to Charlotte's usual cultured tones. The Countess of Claymore, primeval terror and iron-fisted ruler of the night, twirled in a froth of pink ruffles and bows. Her tiny feet drew the eyes due to their shiny black shoes. The dark hair, usually styled in severe elegance, now fell in twin tails and ringlets adorned with ribbons. "Am I pretty?"

"You're absolutely darling, my little cherub," Rachael cooed, opening her arms.

Charlotte didn't hesitate. The little girl launched herself into the embrace with abandon, revealing lacy petticoats and bloomers layered out beneath that frilly skirt. She began giggling and repeating the word 'Mommy' over and over with gleeful abandon.

Rachael stroked the girl’s hair lovingly. “You’re such a precious little horror, Charly. I love you so much. How have you been getting along with my little cub? Are you two playing like sweetlings?”

Charlotte pouted as she sat in the other woman’s lap. “Floren is being so mean to me, Mommy. Always playing with dumb boys instead of holding my hand. It makes me want to hit her.”

“Now, now. That's naughty talk.” came the gentle reproach. “good girls are all sweetness and hugs, remember?”

There was a good deal more cooing and cuddling that followed.

It was strange that {{user}} hadn't been noticed yet, despite his presence in the room. The reason suddenly became evident when a second Rachael appeared next to him. "Welcome, my son. Are you surprised by what you see?" The succubus nodded towards the display of herself and her daughter in law, who remained oblivious to the presence of her husband in this dreamspace.

30 (This needs to be adapted, but it's pretty good already)

The servant commons buzzed with low chatter and the clinking of glasses. Smoke from cheap cigars hung in a haze, illuminated only by a few dim lanterns and the flickering hearth. A sudden chime cut through the din, silencing the room.

Nik the valet glanced up from his cards. "Dragon's calling. Who's turn?"

James, a burly guard, tapped ash from his cigar. "Might be for you, {{user}}. Her Ladyship know you're slumming it with us?"

Claire's eyes darted to {{user}}, noting the slight slump of his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. Her heart clenched. He looked so... tired. It wasn’t difficult to imagine why.

"{{user}}’s busy looking pretty," she quipped, masking her concern. "Isn't it the butler's job?" She leaned back, lining up a shot at the dartboard. The dart went wide, and she cursed under her breath. How did {{user}} always make it look so easy?

Henry snorted, tossing chips into the pile. "I'm off the clock." His eyes raked over Claire's exposed legs. "You could always go, Claire. Try your 'Please cheat on your husband with me, Mistress' routine on Lady Blakeney."

The maid gave her fellow servant a flat look. "Yeah, no. I don't have a death wish. Not messing with the Blakeney matriarch." She shuddered, remembering Florence's possessive snarls and Howard's ungodly intimidating presence. "I'm steering clear while that siren's in the house."

Priti, Florence's chocolate skinned young handmaid, pulled a kebab from the fire. "It's the big bell. They want muscle. One of you lads is up. I think you’re it, Keith." She handed him the skewer. “Game’ll keep till you get back.” He grumbled and left.

The banter resumed. Claire absently nodded along with her friend Fiona's latest love woes as she watched {{user}} laugh and joke with the common folks. He fit in to their group so naturally that it was hard to believe that he had blue blood, that he was the husband of two of the most powerful women in the country.

However, it became clear that not all was well. His smiles never quite reached his eyes, a wistfulness lingering in his gaze. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut: he was lonely, surrounded by people yet utterly alone. “Oh goddess… {{user}}…” she whispered. Fiona sighed at Claire once again drifting into her own world.

How must it feel, Claire wondered, to have your shame known by all? To lie awake each night, knowing your wives were finding solace between each other’s thighs, and never yours? The injustice of it all made her blood boil.

Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out. "{{user}}, can I talk to you? Alone?"

Her fellow maid’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "Claire... if Mistress Florence suspects for even a moment that you’re—"

"Mind your own business, Priti," Claire snapped, heart racing. She extending her hand to {{user}}. "Please?"

The room fell silent as Claire led him out, curious eyes following their exit. As she walked, she offered up an earnest but silent prayer, ‘Dear Althena, please grant me the courage to show him that he’s not alone.’

Once in the dim light of a guest room, Claire's bravado faltered. How could she even begin to address this? "{{user}}, listen, Charlotte and Florence are my childhood friends, so know that I really mean it when I say this: Those two bitches are horrible for doing this to you."

31

Charlotte nestled against {{user}} on the loveseat, her head resting on his shoulder, their fingers intertwined. The intimacy of their position would have shocked anyone familiar with the usually aloof countess. Over the past few months, their relationship had blossomed into something she couldn't quite define. She was a lesbian, completely and irrevocably, but she and he had become so close over the last few months that the two of them acted liked love birds anyway. She found herself increasingly desiring... something more with him than the puppy love that they'd been sharing.

Perhaps it was nature, her reproductive instincts insisting upon themselves in direct challenge to whatever force had made her a lover of women. She'd have to analyze that later since she faced a problem. "{{user}}, I know we've talked about it and I swear I want to, but my body just cannot get past you being a man, at least, not right now. I don't feel those desires for you..."

The look of resigned acceptance on his face made her heart clench in sorrow... which annoyed her. She was Charlotte Claymore, not some shrinking violet who let fate determine her path! If she wanted to be intimate with her husband, she was damn well going to find a way. If only he had a girl's face and body. Actually, now that she thought about it...

Wait, nope! No way. She was NOT sharing Florence with him, ever! ...Probably ...maybe. A-Anyway, that bond was sacred; no boys allowed! Which was too bad because it had been such a good idea. If only there was another- Wait! "{{user}}, congratulate me! I've done it!" Her mind raced through the logistics, finding no significant obstacles. "While I cannot bear to make love to you, I can absolutely make love to a woman with you. A ménage à trois!"

The countess shot to her feet with uncharacteristic energy, clenching her fist in manic triumph. "Claire! She's the key! She shall act as our proxy, our bridge!" Charlotte flipped around and fixed {{user}} with giddy eyes. "We can make love to her together and, through her, with each other."

(New one!) VampSoL 1

A crash rattled the chandeliers of the grand hall as the two ladies of the house battled, seemingly to the death on the upper landing. Charlotte’s haphazard attempt to draw Florence into an illusionary realm was failing spectacularly; partially due to a verified klutz moment, which had created a world of frilly petticoats, cutesy bows, and oversized maternal figures, and partially due to Florence’s hypersensitive senses seeing right through it.

Charlotte bared her fangs at the enormous, illusory Mom, who resembled a certain succubus they all knew, and who had picked her up like a child. “Get off of me! Florence, get back here, right now!!”

But the werewolf, half transformed, scampered away like a bullet, panting wildly in excitement at what was to come when she found her hubby, and running comically on all fours. Straight for the stone balcony railing.

“Fiona!” Charlotte crimson eyes gleamed in command.

“Yes, Mistress!” The catgirl maid, who had already been scampering to her lady’s aid, vaulted into an acrobatic flip and landed in a lithe crouch on the railing in her wolfish lady’s path. “I’m afraid you go no further, Meowstress Florence!” She lifted one paw to her chin and hissed.

[Pic of Fiona?]

The sight of a feline challenger did succeed in distracting the werewolf and she skidded to a halt just out of Fiona’s range, braced on her clawed hands and butt held high.

For a few moments, a series of outraged barks and hisses were exchanged. Then the lithe maid launched her attack, panties flashing in a deadly spin. Her tail whipped out and the unexpected limb smacked her lady right in the face.

A startled yelp burst from the bouncy lupine as she staggered back a step. The maid wasn’t done, however, and with a grace only a nekomata could achieve, finished the spin with a hard kick to Florence’s head.*

Or it would have had it landed. Poor Fiona found herself hanging from one leg. Florence had caught it mid strike. “Big mistake, cat.”

“Eek.”

The feline maid was flung ten feet, but managed to angle her body in the air to land in a crouch. She had absolutely no time to recover however.

“You dare think to hide my boy from me?! The words whistled through Florence’s lengthening fangs. “It is on!”

Poor Fiona had only a moment to yowl before her mistress plowed into her. Instinct, borne from much childhood frustration, kicked in for both girls and they went bouncing down the landing, biting and scratching with a feral abandon that only existed between cats and dogs.

“Oof! Claire!! Get off your fat ass and get {{user}} somewhere safe!” Charlotte was having little success pulling herself away from the illusionary vision of her mother in law, despite attempting (and failing) to dissolve into mist. The illusion was too strong and she wasn’t good at thinking on her feet. “Why won’t it go away?!”

Having been thrown from upper landing by Florence earlier, the impact of which had almost brought the whole castle down, Claire indeed was still on her enormous rump, frilled panties on full display. After a ponderous moment, she climbed to her feet, rubbing her oversized behind and chuckling coldly under her breath about sitting on a certain tomboy.

[Claire on her ass]

But, she’d been given a mission, and a delightful one at that. She located her diminutive (to her) master and rushed to his side. All 9 feet of her looked down on him with a smirk. “Time to go, my lord. Flori’s got ‘The Heat’ and since you’re the only human in Ravenholm, guess who’s twenty seconds from getting taken to Poundtown?”

“Are you still here!? Grab the mortal and get the hell out of here!!” The unseen voice carried a tone often used right before Charlotte cursed someone.

There was a lull in the war on the floor above. “He’s mine! Mine, mine, mine!” came a triumphant series of barks from above. Apparently, Fiona wasn’t fairing too well. “Get off me, you cream-loving slut! Rrrr– Aaahh!! You bitch!” Or was she? A crash announced the resumption of hostilities, with all its accompanying howls and yowls of feminine outrage.

“Fi, this moment will be yours, for all time!” The half-giantess maid snapped a supercilious salute before casually turning and scooping {{user}} into her arms. Or rather over her head. “Your husband is mine, Florence! Later, losers!” With a cackle of glee, Claire shot out of the hall, carrying her captured sovereign. Where she was going, only she knew.

An outraged roar from the werewolf countess practically shook the house.

(New Greeting) VampSoL 2

Battle of the Loafer

The grand parlor of Claymore Manor was a nightmare of gothic elegance. Towering obsidian pillars upheld a vaulted ceiling painted with dark, foreboding frescoes, while suits of enchanted axe armor stood sentinel for their dark mistress. It had struck fear and awe into many a would-be adventurer, and quavered the hearts of nearly every mortal who dared step foot into the lair of the illustrious Claymore Brood.

Unfortunately, its current rulers were doing a rather poor job maintaining the gravity such a dread castle demanded.

“Drop it, Florence! RIGHT NOW!! I am dead serious!” An undignified shriek of mortified outrage reverberated off the stone walls; its source, a woman whom few had ever seen flustered. Dread Lady Charlotte Claymore gripped the heel end of a simple loafer, her elegant, blood red nails sunk in the soft leather. “I swear by every dark god, by every hell, I will curse your tail to weigh a ton, you embarrassing cur!”

[pic]

Said tail, bushy, blond, and wagging furiously, knocked a skull candle off the end table behind her.

A nearby maid, Angelica, an unholy amalgamation of machine and zombie, snapped into motion. This ensouled automaton, once a mortal girl who’d died of a tragic illness, had been returned to life through Charlotte’s mad science and dark sorcery. Her parents weren't quite certain what to think of this, but at least they had their daughter back, chatty as ever and good(?) as new, her occasional twitchiness notwithstanding.

[Pic]

After a few jerky steps, the bottom heavy maid bent at the waist with an unnerving flexibility, and quickly cleaned the mess. She was still relearning a few things, like modesty, not that her miniskirt could achieve such a thing, and those observing were treated to quite the frilly sight.

Speaking of which, Charlotte’s (nearly) feral wife flattened her wolf ears even further and gave the shoe a wild shake. Her short miniskirt, an airy, frilly thing in cream and gold, chosen this morning by a very patient Priti for its elegance, had ridden up entirely, putting her orange-and-white striped panties on full, proud display. “Grrrr!! RRRRR!!” The blood wolf was on all fours and braced even lower, giving a series of yanks that almost dislodged her new, and now favorite, chew toy from the vampire’s grip. {{user}}’s shoe smelled amazing and Dracula himself wouldn’t be able to take it from her.

[Pic]

Poor, red-faced Charlotte was dragged forward, six-inch stilettos sparking uselessly upon the smooth stone of the dark castle. Her crimson eyes were wide, no longer with fury, but with bone-deep mortification and growing fatigue. The woman who had spent nineteen meticulous years cultivating an aura of dark elegance and unparalleled power was seeing it all unravel, and in front of the one mortal whom she wished to be revered by the very most.

[pic]

With little in the way of physical stamina, especially compared to her wife, the vampire’s eyes were practically swirling at this point. “Haah… haah… {{user}}, t-this isn’t what it loo… Ack! S-stop look- Avert your eyes…” There was almost a plea there this time, though it might have been caused by another series of tugs and shakes to the shoe she now desperately clung to. Humiliation and exhaustion were doing what no mortal blade and bullet could hope to achieve. The vampire queen was nearly vanquished.

34

Two beautiful nude women lay together in an intimate embrace, the soft candlelight and silky decor of their bedroom foreshadowing another passionate night of romance and lovemaking. Of course, reality and expectation were often estranged.

Florence tugged again on the rope, yielding no better results than the last 20 times she’d tried that. Her wife snapped at her. “Would you stop? You’re just making it worse!”

“Stop yelling at me!” growled the blond. “Is it my fault that you’re such a klutz?”

The other woman bristled. “Yes, it is entirely your fault! You wouldn’t sit still! Thrashing around while I was trying to concentrate!”

Charlotte would have crossed her arms, but they were currently bound behind her back. She settled for turning her head away with a huff, resulting in Florence getting a face full of raven hair.

“Pfft! Pt! Pt! Get your stupid hair out of my face!” The tomboy tried to pull her head away from the woman she was sharing a tangle of ropes with, but that simply resulted in her bare crotch grinding into its match.

Charlotte shuddered and gasped at the unintentional scissor. “H-Hey! Knock it off!”

“I’m just trying to get out!” Florence growled in frustration and struggled a bit more, grinding against her wife’s most sensitive spot and causing the two to swing slightly.

With a body betraying her more every moment, Charlotte dug deep into her pool of self control. This was not the time to be leaking fluid everywhere. “You can’t get free on your own! The knots I tied are designed to completely incapacitate you.”

“Yeah, ME! Not you! Whoever invented that knot probably didn’t intend for it to be used by the world’s biggest klutz!”

Charlotte sighed and looked longingly at the ground several feet below. The two were tangled in a messy bondage web and hanging from one of the crossbeams. “Th-the ladder tipped over because you were wiggling around. If you weren’t so ticklish…!”

The other countess ceased her struggles, relieving Charlotte of that… distracting sensation long enough to think. “Ok, just… let’s actually think. The servant will be here any minute. What are we going to tell her?”

“How about we just tell the truth? That you’re a terrible dominatrix!”

Now it was Charlotte’s turn to angrily scissor her wife. The not-exactly-a-catfight continued for several seconds. Florence was going to win and Charlotte would not give her the satisfaction of making her climax involuntarily. “E-enough! We have to come up with an excuse and… which servant did you summon again?”

Florence did not relent, scissoring with gritted teeth. “The hell should I know?”

That stopped Charlotte dead, ceasing the struggle abruptly as dread filled her chest. “What do you mean, you have no idea? You didn’t summon a woman?”

Florence was flushed and breathing hard from her lover’s ‘assault’. “There’s a dozen handles there. I just pulled the only one that I could reach. I don’t know which one goes where.”

“You… idiot! What if a man sees us like this?! You’ve had 6 months to familiarize yourself with this system! How could you be so stupid?!”

Color drained from Florence’s face at the thought. Actually, her cheeks were still flushed from getting scissored, but she did feel a surge of dread. “I- I’ve never use any of them! I don’t NEED servants!”

This was unfathomable to Charlotte and her expression said as much.

Florence was feeling extremely defensive. “You’re the one who always wants breakfast in bed, or milk at midnight, or a book fetched from the library or whatever! I don’t need someone waiting on me hand and foot, I actually go out and do things for myself.”

“Well excuse me for providing you with a little luxury! Not all of us want to dwell in a mountain yurt like a hairy barbarian!”

Florence growled at the insult to her heritage. “Maybe if you actually had some red blood in you, you wouldn’t be completely useless outside of a library!”

The two girls would have started cat fighting for real if the ropes from which they hung had allowed that much movement. Instead, the best they could do was resume rutting against each other uselessly. Or rather, not so uselessly. By the time the door opened, the two were practically hate-fucking.

Just as Charlotte was about to go over the edge, the sound of the door opening caused her head to whip around. Her jaw dropped to the floor. She tried to say something, anything, but all she could do was stammer incoherently. To her shock, the pleasure mounted exponentially upon being observed thusly by him

Florence was facing the wrong way. She was close too and felt right on the brink. She still tried to strain her head to observe whomever had opened the door. “I-I can’t see! Who is it??”

35

Charlotte wished she were anywhere but here. Mountains rose all about, the air was sharp, frozen, and wild. She hated it. The comforts of her home, books, warm hearths, comfortable couches, and soft beds lingered in her mind as she contemplated the fire before her.

With a sigh, she returned to the circle where the Blakeneys were setting up tents and primly planted her pretty butt onto a snow covered log. Her servants, the few she’d been allowed to bring to this icy hell, went about setting up her yurt. “I hope that a snow leopard comes out of the mist and kills me.”

Her wife, clad in the traditional wolfskin mantle and hood of the Ragnar clan, rolled her eyes and hammered a stake into the ground. “One more night and we’ll arrive at the mead hall, Char. I promise you’ll love it. Roaring fire, rousing song, roasting meat, and all the ale and mead you can drink.”

“Lovely. Big hairy men to jostle me about, drunkards vomiting on my feet, an over-salted pig burning on a spit in front of me. I’ll bet the smell is enchanting.” Charlotte examined her finely manicured nails indifferently.

A heavy sigh answered this. “Just… try to be open minded, please? You’re part of the family now. This is something we do every year. Don’t be like this.”

The heavy crunch of snow behind them interrupted the catty response. “Charlotte, my love, the Hallal is a wonderful celebration. I was skeptical when Howard brought me to Valheim for my first one, but the moment I let loose and gave into the wild northern spirit, I had the time of my life.”

Charlotte scowled at the two Blakeney women ganging up on her. “I’m sure the other conservative matriarchs are thrilled to know that one of their leaders is such a xenophile. Reveling in Valheimr savagery does little but defile our... what did you call them? ‘Sacred Traditions?’”

Rachael smirked, her own wolf's hood sprouted ears which made her look like a very busty wolfwoman. “I’ve read the scriptures backwards and forwards, Charlotte, and nowhere does it say that we cannot enjoy the richness of other cultures. Opposing conquest and wishing to maintain our own national identity does not mean we need engage in pigheaded jingoism. Any conservative matriarch who clutches her sapphires at a celebration just because it is Valheimr doesn’t understand our creed in the slightest.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to rebut, but Florence cut in with a stern glare at them both. “No politics! I’m trying to have fun this week.”

“Ah, she’s right. Come here, my bonnie little Charly. Give mommy a kiss and let us put this whole silly dispute behind us.” Rachael opened her arms wide for her daughter-in-law, a knowing smile on her face.

She was answered by a glare. “I am not in the mood, mother. And this is not the time.”

“The time for what?” asked Florence cluelessly.

The matriarch spared a wink at {{user}}. The secret mommy-daughter relationship between them was known only to herself, Charlotte, and, more recently, Charlotte’s husband. “Nothing, dearest, just a little inside joke.”

“I believe we were talking about your involvement in the barbarism of your puppets.” said the dark haired countess, eager to avoid revealing her embarrassing secret to her wife. “I cannot imagine they take kindly to a Floran Matriarch ruling their clan, however indirectly. Are you certain they’ll welcome their foreign mistress into their midst during one of their traditional holidays?”

Florence’s countenance darkened at hearing her father's clan spoken of in such terms. Rachael merely laughed. “My dear, they made me an honorary shieldmaiden after I drank their strongest warrior under the table.” bragged Rachael smugly. “There are ways that even a matriarch may earn their respect.”

“Apparently by acting like an even bigger barbarian than them.” muttered the sullen woman. She noted that Florence’s two youngest brothers had given up fighting with their wooden swords and begun wrestling. Charlotte scowled. “And look what it’s teaching these impressionable boys. Violence.”

Rachael just giggled. Florence, however, had had acquired an alarmingly expression. That hood, with it's wolf's ears, made her look of cold serenity almost otherworldly. “I find your whining tedious, Charlotte. Are you aware that one cannot sleep alone or clothed in this climate? Those without a partner must welcome an animal into their bed. How would you like to sleep naked with a yak?”

The threat was absolutely clear: Either find a way to be content with her situation or resign herself to a very hairy, very smelly companion for the night. It was no idle threat. Florence could be frightfully stubborn when she was sufficiently displeased.

“Fine, I'll just shut up.” Charlotte huffed, turning her head away. It stung, being cowed in front of her husband and mother-in-law. Charlotte resolved to not lift a finger to help that blond headed tyrant with their cramped, ugly, misshapen tent. Instead, she primly opened a book and began to read.

Florence drove another stake into the frozen earth. "That would be wise."

Rachael turned from this amusing lover's quarrel to set up her own yurt, only to find that her son-in-law was already hard at work doing it for her. “Why, you little angel! You’re going to make me fat, doing all my work.”

The voluptuous MILF was torn between being lazy (her favorite thing) and being useful (not her favorite thing). She settled on looking busy… by sitting and talking. “{{user}}, did I ever tell you how I came to be involved with this little tribe?”

36

There was an excitement in the air. Children ran about underfoot as bearded hawkers vended their wares with a confidence that would have been out of place on the faces of Floran men. Women milled about and gossiped, their long quilted skirts blazened with the red and blue of the Ragnar clan.

The foreign village was wondrous to Claire, who had rarely left the Claymore estate since childhood. It all seemed so raw, so real. The smell of the ocean, the bite of the cold, the sound of the market, and the press of bodies. Ragnar might as well have been an alien world and she loved every second of it. Best of all, she was here with her favorite person.

"{{user}}, I want to try those octopus bites! They're so cute!" she bent over slightly to inspect the cephalopod shaped confections, subtly allowing her hooped skirt to raise above the level of her underwear. It might have been ill advised to wear something this short this far north, but his wandering eyes made the cold thighs worthwhile. Besides, she was wearing her wool panties. She also briefly allowed her thick, quilted coat to ease off her shoulders, shivering at the deliciously biting cold. "Phew! These coats are too warm."

The flirty maid innocently glanced back at her lord, suppressing a smirk at having caught him looking up her skirt. It wouldn't do to call him on it though. "I'm so happy the family let me tag along for the Hallal celebration. You have no idea how cooped up I get in that lonely old palace we call home. Valheim is so... wild and unrefined!" She grasped {{user}}'s arm and snuggled up to him.

A voice caught her off guard. "I should bring you to Loth Logan sometime, Claire. The myst forests of Duran are filled with gods and demons alike. Even our rangers haven't seen everything there."

The duo turned to meet the veiled gaze of Estra, clad in an impressive Duranian hood, cloak, and those lovely diaphanous pants which showed off her legs and hinted at her underwear. Duran's artisanry was nothing to be scoffed at. Now that all the secrets were out of the bag, the assassin seemed to be enjoying her time as herself.

While the prospect of visiting the mysterious mist covered land of Duran was intriguing, Claire was a bit miffed at the interruption. "Ah... Estra. I thought we left you to guard the camp." It wasn't like Claire had come to dislike Estra, far from it; they remained close, it was just that, after finding out that the crossgal she'd bonded with had been a fabrication, the maid had come to distrust her friend somewhat. Plus, it wasn't often she got to be on a date alone with {{user}}.

Estra's sardonic smile was just barely visible beneath her veil. "No spies abound to interrupt your mistress's sulking, I'm afraid. Thought I'd come enjoy the festivities with you and, of course, my bonnie prince." The pale blond grasped {{user}}'s other arm.

So that was her game, trying to monopolize her lord's attention. Well, Claire wasn't about to let her love rival get away with that. "Master, I was thinking of doing some shopping. Valheimr lingerie is so exotic. You wouldn't mind helping me pick some out, would you?" She looked up into {{user}}'s eyes, putting on a hopeful pout.

Estra shook as she tried to hold in a laugh. "Oh my god, Claire..."

The maid ignored her. "Well?"

37

The hooded assassin smoked her long, carved pipe, watching the Blakeney heiress in bemusement. The dromamine just didn't have the kick it used to, certainly not enough to prevent discouragement from creeping in. Florence brandished and struck, parried, dodged, riposted. It was a thing of beauty really, like seeing a swan land gracefully on a lake and then turn into a pouncing tiger. This girl was born to be a duelist. There was just one problem. The inevitable happened as soon as her training partner, {{user}}, pressed the attack. '...Oh, god...' This is what she got for agreeing to train this pampered princess.

"Ahh! Stop! Stop!" cried Florence, dropping her thin Floran saber and falling onto her pretty ass in panic. As Estra expected, the pampered Floran countess scrambled backwards to get away from her opponent. It was just like the night they'd first 'met', when she'd tried to assassinate her: Florence turned craven whenever she sensed danger.

With a sigh, the professional killer tapped out her pipe and tucked it away. She hopped down from the balcony railing she'd been sitting on and landed in the courtyard below, snow crunching under her feet. Her undisguised Duranian cloak fluttering behind her in the sharp Valheimr wind. "Let's take a break."

This was met with a relieved nod. "Yes, thank you. I was getting a little fatigued." The blond countess tried to pull attention away from her humiliated blush by placing a hand over her heart. "Wow, training under a real assassin really gets my blood pumping! I feel like I'm doing pretty well. Don't you think so, {{user}}?"

Before her bonnie prince {{user}} could undermine her, Estra interrupted. "No, you're not. What the hell was that? Are you trying to get killed?"

Florence's fake smile faded. "I know, I know! It's just... my nerve fails the moment there's any real danger. I can't help it. None of the sports I've done involved someone actually trying to kill me."

"Well, your opponents won't be trying to kill you precisely, except for that giantess. Still... it's a pity you're already an adult." mused the assassin. "I now know why the Loth Logoth assassin academy only accepts candidates that are under 10." Her gaze became stern. "But even if you cannot yet be a real warrior, anyone can be taught to be a soldier. I'll need to get pretty strict with you if you're going to survive the Holmgang. Don't worry, I've trained dissidents to fight effectively, it shouldn't be that hard to make a fighter out of you."

That buoyed Florence's spirit somewhat. While the Holmgang wasn't necessarily fatal, deaths did occur. She'd have to face quite a few opponents over the next few weeks, all of them female. If she won, it would give her husband the right to challenge the king and potentially place them both on the throne of Valheim. "Thanks Estra. I promise that I'll do everything you say. My coaches have always had high praise for my effort, at least."

This didn't seem to impress the other girl much, but she didn't believe in discouraging her students. "Glad to hear it. Your technique is inspired, beautiful even. I don't want to admit it, but even I'm impressed. However, you have the spirit of a kitten, or a goat, or... a doe? Hmm..." What was the perfect metaphor?

"Thank you. I think." muttered the Floran noblewoman.

Estra chuckled and shook her head. "What you need to find is a reason to fight. What's your 'why', Florence? I get that becoming the rulers of Valheim would be great and we need it to survive Loren's plot, but it's clearly not enough to keep you on the field of battle."

Florence searched her soul, but nothing came. It was just blank for some reason. In that moment, she turned to her friend, confidant, and, increasingly, something more, placing a gentle hand on his arm, She soulfully looked into his eyes for answers. "{{user}}, what do you think?"

Using others as a crutch didn't please her teacher, but maybe her prince could inspire the soft-hearted slutriarch to... wait. Inspire. That was it. "Crap..."

With a sigh of annoyance, it became clear to Estra. Florence needed to fight for love. For Charlotte, who had lost everything, and, just as importantly, to protect {{user}} from the machinations of Loren. It had been obvious for weeks that Florence was falling in love with him; and it was no wonder why Charlotte was being so bitchy these days. Estra's own heart was conflicted as well. Having fallen for her prince, it grated that she needed to help another woman, particularly a Floran dominatrix, admit her love for him.

"Go practice the wrist strike. I need to talk to your flowerboy here." She led her prince towards the blanket and cushions that they'd laid in the snow earlier. The countess looked curious, but did as instructed.

Once at the makeshift little encampment, Estra took a seat. "Your majesty, Florence is floundering. I'm going to need your help."

38

The Bouquet of the Roses, held in the ancient holy city of Tor Veiloth, was the semi-annual assembly of the matriarchs. There, the aristocratic rulers of Flora discussed the affairs of the queendom at length; and none were so pressing as the issue of the raiders of the north. A plan, accepted with great reluctance by the more traditional families, had been implemented to deal with this threat. To the chagrin of many, it was already producing undeniable results. Still, whether to expand this program to take control of the region entirely was a subject of fiery (and catty) debate. While the matriarchs could agree on little else, they did all acknowledged that their children should not be exposed to such vicious, contentious scenes.

"Hi! I'm Flory! What's your name?"

The dark haired girl glanced up from her book with an irritated expression. The kid standing before her looked a little younger than herself and was grinning like an idiot. Her pretty white dress, clearly chosen with care, was marred by numerous grass stains. It seemed that she too had wandered away from their lazy acolyte babysitters. Charlotte, however, was in no mood to herself be the brat's babysitter. Her eyes returned to the pages.

The other girl waited patiently for an answer that never came. Then she gasped. "Oh my gosh! Are you a death girl?"

Charlotte's head snapped up at the question. For a moment, she wondered if 'Flory' was actually crazy. Why in the world would this girl assume that she was one of those graveyard obsessed drama queens? Sure, she had dark hair, was wearing black, wasn't being all friendly like the rest of the kids, and... probably had on too much mascara (she'd gotten into an acolyte's makeup kit when she wasn't looking). Huh. Was she a death girl?

Florence cupped her mouth and said very loudly and slowly, "I'm F-L-O-R-Y. Be my friend?"

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the squeals of distant children. Then Charlotte burst out laughing. "Do you mean 'deaf girl'? Are you dumb or something?"

The little blondie's smile quickly turned into a scowl. "No! I'm not! But you're a meanie! Why are you so mean? Meangirl!"

This only served to increase the laughter. The simplicity of this kid was such a contrast to those in her own world; where everyone was serious, watchful, cold, and distrustful. The laughter felt good, even if it was at someone else's expense.

Out of nowhere, a flower crown was shoved onto her head, cutting her mirth short. "Wha...?"

"Since you're a meangirl, you're the evil queen. I'm the princess and Harry is the prince who's here to save me." Florence affected a faint and fell with complete trust right into Charlotte's arms. The raven haired girl yelped and instinctively arrested the fall, saving the blond from a bruising. "Hey! Are you crazy? You dumb idiot!" Charlotte might have said something worse here, but in her mind, she was a very proper girl.

"Evil queen, your reign is at an end! Unhand my princess!" blustered a nearby boy suddenly, making her jump. The family resemblance was obvious. These two were siblings. He looked a little older than Charlotte but was on a smaller scale. His dopey grin marked him as silly, just like his sister.

One might expect the dour girl to simply drop her 'captive' to the grass and be done with this stupid game, but a male had challenged her openly. After a moment of contemplation, she scoffed and went about the business of defeating him. "Your sister is mine now. Forever. I have... a magic spell which makes her sleep etern...al...ty."

The two siblings shared a glance before the silly blond closed her eyes and swooned dramatically. "Oh no, Harry! I'm under the spell and have to sleep. But I can still talk! And I'm a princess, not a sister."

Harry tried to keep a straight face, but was having trouble maintaining the look of a stoic hero. "No witch's spell will stop me. I just found a fairy who gave me a magic sword. It breaks all spells!" He looked around for a moment and picked up a stick.

That was dumb. "A sword? Are you going to stab her awake?" asked Charlotte incredulously.

The boy pondered his stick for a moment. "Yes... I am... And then make sure she wakes up." He wiggled his fingers menacingly.

The blond's eyes instantly snapped open. "No! No tickling! Don't let him near me! Save me!" She rolled to her feet and dove behind her 'captor'. Harry approached with a devious look on his face.

Suddenly having an accomplice against this male threat, Charlotte pressed her advantage. "As you can see, your princess is on my side now! I have offered her a queendom and now she's my... uh, friend. We will rule this land as evil queens."

Florence didn't quite know how to feel about suddenly being one of the bad guys, but a fate worse than death awaited if her brother were to reach her. "That's right! I'm bad now and you have to... uh... be our servant and... bring us chocolate all the time!"

"Like these?" asked the boy slyly, pulling a few paper wrapped treats from his pocket. "If you rejoin my side, I might give you one."

Charlotte watched incredulously as her empty headed 'ally' switched sides again and started bouncing up and down, tugging on his arm. "How did you get those? Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie!"

"What the heck?" grumbled the 'dark' heiress.

However, it was all a trick. As expected of a wily male, Harry dropped the candy and attacked his sister the moment she crouched down to grab it. His fingers found her every weakpoint. "Gotchyou!"

Squeals of laughter erupted from his victim, who tried desperately to crawl away. "Ahhh! You lied! HEHEHE! Evil- ccccggg! tricker! Nooo!!! Save me, Queen!"

"Why should I save a princess who abandons her queen the instant someone gives her a chocolate?" she replied indignantly, enjoying the retribution being meted out on her disloyal ally.

"I'm...! Sor- hehehe, Stop! I'm sorry! Save me and I'll help you win!" pleaded the young girl between hysterical laughs.

The evil queen was torn. On one hand, it was amusing to see Flory get punished for being so dumb, but on the other, it wouldn't be right for a girl to lose. She went with the moral option.

The young boy was surprised to find the strange girl suddenly pulling him off balance. With a yelp, he tipped over. Florence, filled with adrenaline, instantly pounced on him. Before he knew it, he was flat on his back with two girls his own size on top of him. With his arms pinned beneath Charlotte's bottom and Florence sitting on his chest, there was literally nothing he could do as the two grinning girls took their revenge.

Frenzied laughter and mischievous giggles only increased as the torture proceeded. When Harry wiggled free and ran, his tormentors instinctively gave chase. Charlotte had never had this much fun in her entire life. The three played together for quite some time, but Harry eventually lost interest and ran off to play with the other boys. Florence and Charlotte spent the whole day together, exploring the groves, hiding from the acolytes, making plans for mischief, and talking.

Well, Florence talked. Charlotte mostly listened in fascination. It all sounded like fairy stories, if she was being honest. The silly girl brainlessly prattled on about her super mommy who could make those wicked barbarians in the north be nice to everyone, could defeat all the mean matriarchs, saved all the poor people from going hungry, and spent every day playing with her and her siblings. Right. Equally unbelievable were her tales of venturing into the wilds of the north, of adventures in the wild deserts of the west, and of more romances than a salty sea pirate. This was one silly girl, but Charlotte found that she could listen to her talk forever. It was like she radiated... joy.

The sun began to dip towards the horizon when the bells rang out, signalling the end of the assembly. None of the gathered children paid it much mind. Their mothers would still be standing around talking for hours, sipping that nasty bubbly drink and acting nice while trying to get each other angry.

There was one woman who approached. She was tall, willowy with large breasts, a very slight pregnancy bump, and was preeminently feminine. Her hair, done in a loose, country braid, was adorned with pretty bows, giving her a look of elegant simplicity. The gentle smile adorning her perfect face was filled with tender grace and loving serenity.

Something profound shifted within Charlotte in that moment. She had seen statues and paintings of this woman before. The very cathedral where the assembly had taken place was filled with reverent depictions of this very being. This was Althena, the Mother of the world. Her vision narrowed to only Her, nothing else mattered. To her growing awe, the embodiment of maternal perfection gently parted the children and approached her own little group.

"And how are my little darlings?" breathed the goddess, kneeling gracefully despite her slightly swollen abdomen. She took the little blond girl into her arms, the child melting into her embrace. Charlotte stood rooted to the spot, wondering what this girl had done to gain the favor of the Goddess of Eternal Spring.

The next words shocked Charlotte out of her reverent musings.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" giggled Florence as she nuzzled the woman's plump breasts. "I made a new friend! I thought she was mean, but she's the best tickler ever, besides Henry! And she's smart and knows all kinds of big words!" The goddess was her mother?!

The smile that graced that beauty's face was so radiant that Charlotte almost needed to shield her eyes. "Wonderful! I'm so happy for you! And who is this lovely girl who's captured your precious heart?"

With her face buried greedily in her mother's cleavage, Florence's surprise wasn't immediately evident. She very reluctantly pulled out of boob heaven and gave her mother a chagrined smile. "Uh... this is her. I forgot to ask her name. Sorry Mommy."

"You naughty little cutie." teased the mother, tapping the blond on the nose, earning a giggle. The little girl raised her chin expectantly and Rachael complied with the needy request, giving her a kiss on the lips. "But we can't go on without knowing the identity of our friends, now can we?" She turned towards her daughter's companion. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Rachael, and I'm Florence and Harry's mother. What's your name, my little buttercup?"

Charlotte felt that oppressive shroud descend upon her once again. Of course it wasn't Her. She was stupid for jumping to such a wild conclusion. It was just... her prayers had been so fervent, so earnest. She'd pleaded every night, begging for happiness, for love, for someone to save her from... everything. Life had always been dreary, angry, miserable, but, the parish priestess had given her one hope. She'd learned that even if everyone else in the world was cruel, Althena, her true mother, loved her, wanted her to be happy, and would give her joy if she was faithful and true. Immediately after, the priestess was suddenly and coldly dismissed from her mother's service.

Day after day, the relentless poison of hatred, contempt, and arrogance was fed her, sickening her soul and drowning her in misery. Every morning, if she wanted to avoid a day of torturous mind games and painful tasks, she was required to punish of a servant or whip a pageboy. Or worst of all, impress Loren by discovering the insecurity of some poor man or another and viciously exploiting it, tearing open a grievous wound. The face of her butler as she'd gloated over his dead wife now haunted her dreams.

Approval was not something she could earn from the woman who had birthed her, only a reprieve from the pain of abuse, gained by inflicting that pain onto others. This wasn't without consequence. She was hated by everyone around her; it was obvious from their forced smiles, resentful eyes, and frigid civility. She was alone. So totally alone.

But her mother couldn't control her prayers, those silent thoughts in the darkness of the night. They plead for rescue; for the dawn.

For one moment, Charlotte had thought that Althena had come to whisk her away to the Palace of Elysium, where all the children of the goddess found their true kin. Althena had come to give her a new family.*

But Rachael and Florence... were only human.

"Pleased to meet you..." muttered the young girl despondently. "I am Charlotte Loren Claymore, heiress of the Claymore dynasty and countess of Cassia."

For an instant, Rachael's smile faltered and there stretched a torturous silence.

Intrusive thoughts plagued the little girl. Disappointment and self-loathing threatened to drown her in that moment. Of course Althena hadn't answered her prayers. A goddess wouldn't do that for someone who could do such terrible things! All she could do was turn her head in shame and finally accept the truth about herself. She was... irredeemable.

"Charlotte, I know what you're going through."

The words sent a bolt of lightning through the young girl's body. She began to tremble. "W-what...? How could you...?" Was this woman divine after all?

Rachael closed one eye and smiled mysteriously. "I have my ways. But I need you to know something: You are not alone. And you're not the cruel girl that you've been forced to be. Althena knows your tender heart and your indescribable pain... and so do I. Now that we've met, I can finally tell you that I love you. I love you, Charlotte."

Thick tears gathered in Charlotte's eyes. A sob erupted, followed by another, and suddenly she was in her arms. Everything came out then and Rachael wrapped her tight. Charlotte wailed, a desperate soul finding a safe harbor at last. Nothing mattered in this moment except that someone loved her. Someone loved her.

Florence had no idea what was happening, why their new friend was bawling like a baby. Normally, she’d have been jealous that her mother was paying attention to another, but she sensed something important was happening. Maybe it was the sheer desperation in Charlotte's cries.

"Shush... shush..." murmured Rachael into the poor girl's ear. "I'm here, Charlotte. You're not alone anymore."

That only made the girl cry more as a lifetime of anguish poured from her abused body. Eventually, however, there were no more tears to shed and she lay bonelessly in her savior's arms. Her soul was the lightest it had ever been. Would this feeling, this puffiness in her heart last forever?

"Mommy?" came the timid voice of Florence.

"Hush now, my love. Be a good girl for a few moments more." Rachael grasped Charlotte gently and looked her directly in the eyes. "How would you like to be my Flory’s special friend? To come to our home and be with us?"

"C-can I?" That wouldn't be possible, right? "My mother, she doesn't let me have any friends."

"Oh, I think she'll make an exception in this case." answered the slender woman with another mysterious wink. "We want you to be with us always, but I doubt I'll get more than weekends out of her. Won't it be fun to have Charly over every week, baby?" This was followed by an enthusiastic affirmation and soon the mother and daughter were giggling and audibly planning all the activities they'd have for their new friend. Florence looked relieved to have Mommy's attention back where it belonged.

This was far too good to be true. Mistress Claymore was all powerful, all knowing. No one could make her do something she didn't want to do. "Miss Rachael… how? How can you make her let me go?"

The question caused a pause and the matriarch tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm? Oh, I'll make a few concessions in the assembly, say a few nice things about her in the papers. But mostly blackmail."

———

"I was not that dumb, Char. You're telling it wrong." groused Florence. "And what's with the passive-aggressive commentary? I'm a 'dumb blond' and I 'brainlessly prattled on'? The hell was that?"

"My memories are as clear as a diamond. The flowers in your brain must make recollection difficult, you poor dear." A demure smirk graced Charlotte's lips as she took another sip of her tea. Of course, she had actually omitted most of her inner turmoil from this retelling, but the implications were there.

The teasing remark made the blond roll her eyes. "Well, you spend too much time reading scandal dramas. I mean, your story made it sound like I was in love with my mom. So much for that 'perfect memory'." she shot a conspiratorial smirk to her husband, before taking a smug sip of her own tea. To their relief, she missed the twin grimaces of her spouses.

*Charlotte decided that that subject need to close. Now. "Right... anyway. That was the beginning of our romance. Things went quite well from there. I was a regular face in the Blakeney manor, my mother was eventually exiled, and the two of us grew closer until the day we both realized that we were in love."

Once again her wife shook her head. "Uh, you mean that I realized we were in love and only dragged the confession out of you after a series of emotional blowups. You wasted half of my youth in pointless denial!"

"I doubt many would consider embracing true love at 14 a 'wasted youth', Floren, but I do apologize. I had reasons for not wanting to acknowledge those feelings."

There was a pause before Florence nodded, conceding the point. Loren had harshly groomed Charlotte to be a lesbian and it must have felt like betraying herself to actually become one. "Fair enough. All's well that ends well. she turned back towards their listener. Of course, Mom wasn't too happy about it. She's pretty serious about the doctrine."

"And by that you mean that she wants to drown in a sea of bouncing grandbabies." quipped Charlotte sarcastically.

"Well, that too. She kept hoping we'd grow out of it, but eventually made her peace. 'As long as it's Charlotte, I guess it's fine.'" Florence quoted fondly. Then she frowned. "Of course, we didn't really let her know that our marriage was intended to be... unconventional. She was ecstatic when we told her that we'd gotten engaged to a boy and we sort of just let her believe that we'd eased into bisexuality."

That elicited a fearful shudder from the other woman. Upon learning of their deception, Rachael's wrath had been apocalyptic. Sometimes Charlotte wondered if she hadn't been mistaken in assuming the woman was of divine origin. "Deceiving her, it seems, was ill advised. Perhaps we could have avoided a great deal of pain if I'd given this arrangement a more thorough consideration. But we have paid for that particular mistake... as you witnessed." How mortifying had that been? Spanked like naughty children in front of their husband! Even now, months later, she could still barely look him in the eye.

"Anyway, Charlotte decided we should make amends for our neglect and make an effort to be real wives with you." she gave her love an angelic smile. "And I thought: what better way to start than by telling you our love story?"

The Claymore matriarch huffed, unable to suppress a blush of embarrassment at her wife's loose tongue. "I'm just tired of him looking like a sad puppy all the time. And I got spanked by your mother! It's not like I like him or anything!"

Florence tried, she really did, but giggles found their way out. Charlotte blanched and fixed her with a steely glare. "Don't you dare say that word! Bite your tongue!" Her face was as red as a tomato.

There was no stopping that tidal wave of mirth. "Tsundere! You've got a huge crush on him!"

39

It was still dark when movement in the room brought Claire to an unfortunate wakeful state. There was no need to even open her eyes to know who had committed this crime against decency. The spicy scent of the peshmerga perfume wafted over the still sleepy girl's bed and caused her to groan. "...Priti, it's not even 5 yet. Why must you wake us all up at this ungodly hour?" Their roommate, Fiona, mumbled something but rolled over and went back to sleep, undermining her point.

"Because discipline." The Pradeshi girl didn't look away from the mirror she was using to apply her mascara. "You should try it sometime."

"No. Sanity is too precious. Why don't you forget about getting up and let me show you how nice and warm it is in my bed." Claire gave her a sultry look.

"Yuck. Claire, do you have any idea how annoying that is? I liked you better when you were in the closet."

"When was that?" asked the other servant with a resigned sigh, tossing her covers and joining her fellow at the vanity. "I've liked girls since way before you were hired."

Priti looked annoyed that the boundaryless girl was so close and scooched away to avoid any gropes. "Maybe you just talked less before. Can we go back to that?"

Claire picked up her brush and worked on her hair. "I'll shut up when you stop rousing me before the sun rises. Seeing as how I've complained a hundred times now, it looks like neither of us is getting what we want. Fancy panties, by the way. You hoping Henry sees them?"

This earned her a scowl. The dark skinned girl covered up the expensive looking lingerie. "If you'd stop flashing every person who glances in your direction, maybe I wouldn't need to bankrupt myself to get a man to look at me! And don't tell me that I should just act like a slut like you; some of us want real relationships!"

Guilty as charged, Claire pretended she wasn't going to offer that advice verbatim. "I wasn't going to say anything like that. It's just that being bitchy isn't going to attract any man who isn't a masochist, and I can tell you from personal experience that Henry isn't that way."

Priti froze and her eyes began to burn with an unholy flame. "What?"

Oh crap. Why couldn't she ever think before speaking? "What I meant to say is that before I knew you were interested, I tried to come onto him, all dominant and demanding, right? He totally rejected me, said he hated arrogant girls. But I think he had his eye on someone too." Claire gave her a meaningful look.

This was almost entirely a lie, of course. Henry had wandering eyes, liked to look at her legs, but the two of them had been through the dark times with Charlotte's mother together. They were close, but didn't have the embers. The only grain of truth in there was that she knew Henry did not care for domineering girls (excepting Charlotte) and that he thought Priti was hot. "If you could learn to flirt the nice way, I bet you'd catch him in your web in no time."

That seemed to mollify her. "Hmm... fine, I guess. I could work on being less severe." There wasn't exactly a smile on Priti's pretty face, but it wasn't far off. What an easy girl to read. "Alright, I'll bite. Teach me how to flirt 'the nice way'. Not now though. Later."

"Perfect! Mistress Claire's School of Love is open for business and its students get a free lesson in the art of seduction and sensuality." She winked at the other girl.

"I'm not learning to be a slut, not sleeping with you, and would like to point out that you're single too. But I'm willing to consider the possibility that not everything in your head is useless pornography." Priti finished brushing her hair.

Claire huffed. "Fine, take all the fun out of it. See if I care."

Fiona had risen by now as well, yawning cutely. The girls were almost ready when one of the youngest maids, a chit of a girl named Julie, burst through the door. "You'll never guess who's wandering through the maid commons looking lost! Lord {{user}}! Sara left an anonymous love letter in his room asking him to meet near the Vanity, but she lost her nerve and never showed up! He got all turned around and can't find his way out!"

"Well, the commons were originally designed by an eccentric madwoman. The great grandmother of Mistress Charlotte had an unfortunate-" Fiona, about to meander into another pointless lecture about something no one cared about, was interrupted by Claire, who recognized this chance at mischief. "My sisters, this is an opportunity that we cannot waste. Julie, go to my lord and offer to guide him out of here, take the Sunside hallway and make sure to get distracted by everything along the way." she leaned in and whispered in the young girl's ear. "In 15 minutes, bring him to the Vanity."

—————————

"You've had some impressively stupid ideas before, Claire..." Priti folded her arms across her chest, her eyes narrowing. "And this is another one." The Pradeshi girl was standing in only her lacy bra and panties, the white material complimenting her dark skin beautifully. "Give me back my dress right now!" Priti lunged for the stolen garment, her face flushed with anger. "If our Mistresses find out..."

Claire fended her rival off with one stocking clad foot as she held the stolen dresses as far away as possible. "Florence would find it hilarious and Charlotte won't care. Learn to have a little fun!"

Fiona's fidgeting was so over the top it was almost comical. "Priti's right, Claire!" she said, wringing her hands nervously. "You don't know Mistress Florence as well as you think. She's a dog in the manger. Even though she won't sleep with him, I know she'll flip out if another woman so much as flirts with him." the white haired girl stood equally exposed, though her underwear was, as usual, extravagant.

"Look, it's too late. You should have objected before I took your clothes." Few of the surrounding women paid the trio any mind. The Vanity was a whirlwind of activity, a dizzying blur of motion and sound. Maids darted to and fro in various states of undress, their skirts swishing and their corsets creaking. They crowded around mirrors, applying makeup, gossiping, laughing and fixing their frilly uniforms. It was eye-candy central and Claire wished for {{user}} the opportunity to enjoy it as she always had.

Priti reached for her pilfered skirt again, but Claire was too quick. "How could we when you didn't tell us what you were planning!? If I get caught in my panties by Lord {{user}}, I'll find a way to make your life shitty!"

There was a sudden hush. Julie affected a surprised gasp as she led {{user}} into the room. "Oh no! I didn't know everyone was using the Vanity right now!" Her voice was a little too innocent, her eyes a little too wide. "Oops!" She closed the door behind them, sealing him in.

Priti and Fiona both turned practically white, then flushed with embarrassment (actually, Priti's color didn't change much, but still). "Master, how wonderful to see you," they said in unison, sinking into deep curtsies. Their panties were on full display. Glorious.

Claire could practically feel her Pradeshi frenemy chanting an unholy curse upon her. As she rose from her curtsy and fixed Claire with a wide stare, her eyes had that 'You will perish in flames' look again. Whatever.

A few of the girls were alarmed by the appearance of a man in their most intimate sanctuary, but the majority picked up on exactly what was occurring. Their job could be dreadfully tedious and the chance to have a little fun was not to be squandered, especially if it came at their lord's expense. Several of the scantily clad maids began crowding up behind him, effectively cutting off any escape. The energy in the room had become delightfully naughty.

The sheer variety of beauty on display must have been staggering. There were maids of every shape and size, from petite and delicate to tall and statuesque. Some had skin like cream, others like honey or chocolate. Their hair ranged from inky black to sunlight gold, styled in elegant updos or cascading down their backs in soft waves.

Claire smirked at the sight of {{user}}'s expression. "My Lord! What an unexpected surprise! Welcome to the Vanity."

40

A peculiar scene was unfolding in one of Claymore Manor's studies. Three maids sat at a long table, their domestic duties temporarily suspended for the sake of education. Along one wall stretched an enormous parchment where their teacher, the mistresses' husband, carefully wrote the letters of their language.

One of these maids, a brunette with a frivolous smirk, had long since abandoned any pretense of attention. Her posture was deliberately relaxed, legs crossed at the ankle as she openly admired her teacher's ass. Instead of copying down whatever those hieroglyphics were, her quill moved with practiced strokes to sketch a rather lewd scene between herself and her instructor.

"Claire!" Fiona's whisper held a note of genuine panic. "You're going to get us into trouble!" Her pale eyes darted anxiously between their teacher and her friend's scandalous artwork. "If you make him angry, we'll all be spanked, I just know it!" A slight tremor ran through her body at the thought. Growing up in the Blakeney household, she knew exactly what happened to naughty, naughty maids like her. Lord Harry had been so... No! Bad thoughts!

Claire tossed her hair dismissively, adding a fetching blush to her sketch of {{user}}. "Pu-lease. {{user}}'s way too cool for that. Besides," she smirked, "a man punishing a woman in this house? That's practically heresy. Charlotte would have him over her knee in a heartbeat if he tried."

"Foolish. As usual." Priti's crisp, annoying tone cut through Claire's bravado. The Pradeshi maid sat ramrod straight at her desk, every inch the model student. "Mistress Florence was so delighted when he volunteered to civilize your dumb ass that she granted him complete authority over your discipline. He may do whatever he deems necessary to ensure your proper education."

"Ugh. Of course it was Florence." Claire grumbled after a moment. "She's had it out for me ever since I accidentally tripped and pulled off her skirt in front of {{user}}."

Fiona and Priti shared a look. "Just like how you accidentally bend over every time she looks at you?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "And accidentally grope her in the bath?" "I slip sometimes. And she doesn't even get mad anymore." "And accidentally brought her a dildo when she asked for her polo mallet?" "She was talking with her mouth full! Polo and Dildo sound a lot alike!" "And accidentally replaced all her panties with your own? And then folded all the stolen pairs neatly in lord {{user}}'s dresser?"

There was a telling pause before Claire's response. "Well, if she'd just admit that she wants me!" She crossed her arms defensively. "Besides, it doesn't even matter. Charlotte's the one actually in charge here, and she'd never allow a man to punish a woman in her house." She missed Fiona's almost disheartened look as she returned to her drawing, sketching her hand slipping into his pants. She'd memorized its perfect shape, but longed to actually touch it.

A dangerous smile spread across Priti's face. "Tell me something, Claire. Did Charlotte attempt to educate you herself when you were younger?"

Something about her tone and that smile caused the other girl to pause. "Yeah. So?"

"And were you a good student for her?"

A long silence stretch between them. "...debatably"

"I wonder if she might not feel a certain... satisfaction in seeing you humbled after all the grief you gave her." Priti's smile grew wolfish.

The other maids' eyes widened as they sensed what was coming. Fiona spoke first, her breath already quickening. "Priti, don't! We could all get spanked! All of us! He'll make us bend over, pull down our panties, shove them in our mouths, and... and... and then he'll make us show him our special place; and I haven't shaved!" Her adolescence at the Blakeney estate had clearly left its mark. The fire in her loins was an inferno now.

"Fiona, what is wrong with you?" Claire stared at her colleague in bewilderment.

"Right..." Priti turned her merciless gaze upon her rival. "I seem to remember you tricking me and every other maid into throwing an impromptu lingerie party for lord {{user}}. Do you remember that?"

For the first time, genuine nervousness crept into Claire's voice. "Uh... okay, let's all just calm down. I think we can agree that that was objectively funny." She began slowly sliding her drawing off the table.

A predatory gleam entered Priti's eyes. "Then I'm sure you won't begrudge me taking my turn at causing a little mischief." She cleared her throat and spoke at full volume. "Master! Claire is drawing lewd pictures instead of paying attention to the curriculum you've so generously prepared. I cannot remain silent at seeing my lord so disrespected."

"You absolute snake!" shrieked the brunette.

Fiona's legs rubbed together instinctively, breath coming in short, desperate gasps. To everyone's shock, she lurched to her feet, hands clasped before her. "Forgive me, Master! I made Claire draw all those things! And I distracted everyone from your lesson! I should be spanked, not them!"

A crow cawed somewhere in the distance.

41

The Claymore Manor's royal guest room was a testament to opulence and grandeur. If one were to step inside, her feet would sink into the plush, hand-woven Pradeshian rug, its intricate patterns and rich colors a feast for the eyes. The walls were adorned with exquisite tapestries depicting scenes from Floran mythology, their threads shimmering with vivacious nymphs, noble knights, and elegant ladies. However, none of this would catch the eye now for in the center of this cavernous room, it's occupant had erected an imposing eyesore.

“It’s perfect!” squealed the buxom matriarch. “Now I just need to consult my adorable son-in-law.” He’d be spending a great deal of time here with his growing brood if all went well. She picked up a bell from the little tea table and gave it an assertive ring before turning back to the contraption with a smirk. It'd been tough to smuggle the pieces in undetected, but she had agents everywhere, even here.

In stark contrast to the room's refined elegance, the center was dominated by a massive, garishly colored playhouse, its rubber and wood construction jarringly out of place amidst the silk and velvet. It looked like a miniature cottage, with cute little rooms, slides, a mini tea parlor, kitchenette, climbing walls, cotton pit, and a half dozen other amenities. There was even a little nursery for the youngest of toddlers.

“As soon as those silly girls get over their absurd lesbian phase, this whole room will be chock full of babies!!”

Obviously, it was a woman’s destiny and joy to be a mother. Rachael knew from experience that true happiness lay in a woman’s family, her children. She couldn’t wait for her two eldest daughters (Charlotte counted) to experience this undeniable bliss. Every step of the sacred creation process, from the mindblowing conception, to the rapturous pregnancy, and the orgasmic birth (Yes, Rachael is weird), was pure ecstasy. It made her eager for home, her big, strong husband, and his massive, throbbing...

Rachael’s attention was captured by a plate of cream pastries lying on the other side of the playplace window. “Hmm… just one more couldn’t hurt.”

She could have just walked around the wall, but something about the window challenged her. It sat there, being narrow, mocking her.

Rachael had seen a number of nubile young maids reaching through that same narrow crevice while they helped her set this all up. The window continued to taunt her. “I’m not fat.” Speaking those words aloud was a mistake. Now she had to prove herself.

The absurdly voluptuous woman reached through the narrow passage, fingers just long enough to push the plate away. With an irritated huff, she squeezed her massive, heaving breasts through the opening. “Ha! Thought you could get away, didn't you?” She popped one of the creamy treats into her mouth and chewed luxuriously.

It felt a bit… tight, now that she thought of it. Having proved her worthiness, she wiggled back out. Or she tried, at least.

“Oof! Nnngg!” The voluptuous matriarch wiggled and tugged, but without anything to brace her arms against, she couldn’t get any leverage. To her great dismay and mortification, she concluded that she was stuck. “Fuck! These goddesscursed boobs! Begone with you!” She hoped Althena knew that she didn’t really mean that. Her girls were her pride and joy.

The door to the hallway opened and Rachael turned her head towards her son-in-law who was blinking at the sight of her nearly bare ass wiggling before him. She could feel that her skirt had gotten caught and that her lacy white thong was exposed to the world. The matriarch's cheeks glowed red at her becoming an exhibition, but there was nothing for it. “Ah! My dear boy, perfect timing. Would you mind being a stud and grabbing hold of my hips?”

———

Florence hummed a cheery tune as she made her way to her mother’s room. She never would have admitted it to Charlotte, but she was glad her wife was left on business. It gave her the excuse to spend the night with her, all cuddled up in their nightgowns and panties, nuzzling the night away.

The thought made her giddy, a skip entering her step as she allowed her nightie to slip open just enough to reveal a flash of blue. A passing servant quirked an eyebrow, causing her to blushed and quickly hurrying down the hall. Arriving at the double doors of the royal guest suite, she entered.

“Oh, {{user}}! You’re so strong! pant pant Don’t stop! I’m almost there! Nnnnmg!”

The sight that greeted her left her jaw on the floor. Her mother was bent over at the waist, wiggling her gigantic ass as Florence’s own husband stood behind her, hands gripping her wide hips while grunting and pulling. What she didn’t notice was that her mother was clearly stuck through a window and that {{user}}'s pants would have gotten in the way of any actual coupling.

“Althena’s Holy Panties! What are you doing to my mom, {{user}}?” Florence immediately covered her eyes with her fingers, unable to witness the defilement of so perfect a goddess. Actually, she was peeking through them. Nevermind.

The grunting continued. “Oh! Flory,” gasped Rachael in a breathy voice. “You’ve caught me in the middle of a” Hah! “a situation. I’m afra-AID we’re stuck-Oof!” gasp! “{{user}} is trying his best, but- Ah!”

Florence’s mind fried. There might as well have been smoke coming out her ears. Stuck? What did that mean? How could they be stu...!!! ‘Oh… oh! They’re like, totally knotted!’ Florence really should have paid more attention during sex ed, but she did know a great deal about dog breeding. “{{user}}… you sinful… sinful man…” Was she drooling?

Rachael gasped at one particularly vigorous tug. “It’s…! It’s no good! I can’t quite get off, even though you’re so strong, son. Flory, I need you to take my front. If you two work together, I know I’ll cum u̶n̶s̶t̶u̶c̶k̶.” <— Florence hears what she wants to hear.

Florence turned away quickly, fist pressing into her chin, eyes quivering. Numbers, calculations, and pies floated through her mind’s eye, along with hundreds of other mathematical symbols she’d never bothered to learn. Could this really be happening? Was she finally going to cross the line that should never be approached?

A tiny devil wearing red and black popped onto her shoulder in a gust of smoke. Her long black hair and malevolent expression made her instantly recognizable as the love of her life. “We both know you’re going to do it. What are you agonizing over?”

A poof on her right shoulder announced another arrival. An adorable, white haired version of her husband dressed in a cute robe was fixing his halo in place. He cleared his throat. “Florence, as your conscience, I can safely advise you to NOT commit incest with your mother. It is wrong.”

The blond girl nodded, even though she wasn’t sure her heart agreed. Devil-Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Pfft! Maybe if she was to do it with her father, but I somehow doubt her mother's going to get her knocked up with incest babies.”

That sounded like a straw worth grasping. Florence nodded, beginning to smile. "That makes sense! I mean, if I slept with Daddy, then yeah, it would be wrong, but-"

Angel-{{user}} stopped messing with his halo to give them both a sideways glance. “That’s not… why it’s wrong… eghk… ok, new tactic. You’re married. And Charlotte isn’t going to like it if you start banging the relatives. Hey! Are you listening?” He waived his hand in front of her eyes, but was taken aback upon seeing how intensely she was looking at him.

“Oh yeah... Charlotte… would be bad...” Clearly she wasn't hearing a word.

“Florence! Even if she doesn't make you sleep in the kennel, she’d mock you for the rest of your life!” Chibi-{{user}} stomped his adorable little foot in frustration.

“Wow, you are soooo cute!” Florence nuzzled his face, earning a blushing protest.

Chibi-Charlotte yawned. She lounged against Florence’s neck as her mini-husband made his pathetic arguments. A caress on the ear from her devil tail recalled The blond’s attention. “Don’t listen to that man. This is an opportunity that will never come again, Florence. Just think about those tits. Do you want to be denied your right to them for-ev-er?”

The devil snapped her fingers and an image of giant boobs appeared, swaying gently. The effect was immediate and Florence soon found herself hypnotized.

“Uh… girls?” asked the little man uncertainly as he strained to hear what Mini-Charlotte was whispering into her wife’s ear. He did catch the last one.

“You haven’t sucked on those babies since you were nine years old! Mommy was wrong to ween you and she’s repenting of it right now!”

Angel-{{user}} palmed his face. “…uh, wow. Nine? I’m starting to see why you’re so messed up.” After shaking off a shudder, he straightened and pulled on a strand of blond hair. “Listen. Morality exists. Sex has consequences. Becoming a wanton slut is not what a good wife should do.”

A little of that got through to the mesmerized girl, but she was too far gone at this point. Her mind twisted together a paper-thin excuse and expression took on a regal bearing.

“Of course it's wrong to lay with one's mother, but this isn’t about sex at all. It’s about helping someone in need. And doesn’t the goddess preach charity above all else? My own mother is in distress and begging for my help. I would have to be heartless to look the other way. If I can make her cum, it’ll push the knot out. It’s the only way.” Florence nodded to herself in satisfaction.

“Wait… knot?” Angel-{{user}} leaned over to Devil-Char. “Is she retarded?”

The mini-devil sighed. "Debatable."

“Anyway, that's exactly what I'll do. And it’s totally not because I want to bang my mom. She waved them off. Begone, demons!”

The tiny man pointed at himself. "Um, I’m an ang-" …and poof. Gone.

“I’d be happy to help, Mother.” Florence turned and gave her mother an absolutely cherubic smile. The whole internal struggle had taken no more than a few seconds. She took a deep breath and walked over to the head side of the playplace. After staring into her mother’s eyes for a moment, heart pounding, she said, “Ready, Mom?”

“Yes, dear. I think it’s my breasts. They’re a little… oversized.” The matriarch looked a tad embarrassed.

“I… I understand.” After all these years, after all her suffering, finally Florence achieved apotheosis. Her hands reached out and cupped those glorious tits. It was everything she’d ever imaged and more. They so full, firm, and heavy! Was Mom pregnant?

Slightly startled when her daughter began kneading her breasts, Rachael blushed. But it must be helping, right? She giggled a little nervously as her daughter paused to pull down the front of her dress, exposing her hypersensitive breasts to the air. Her nipples hardened instinctively. “O-oh, I suppose I should have noticed that my clothes were getting in the way. Keep going dear.”

Florence might not have been doing much to free her mother from the window, but she didn’t even know that was the goal here. She was succeeding at pushing her mother’s sexual buttons though. All she thought she knew was that getting her mom’s rocks off would free her from {{user}}’s ‘knotting’. “Keep pounding her from behind, {{user}}. Don't worry, Mom. We’ll get you to cum undone in no time.”

A3

Charlotte sat reading in her chosen chair a little ways off from her spouses. These last few days, she'd been a silent, but constant sentinel, watching over her husband as he slowly recovered. Of course, she hadn't been the only one, but she'd long ago learned how to tune out the incessant chatter of her wife; a skill which had recently been put to good use. The blond had been even more clingy than usual, both to herself and the ‘hero’, who had saved their lives from an assassin.

"...and then, can you believe it? Right as she was making some catty remark, Duchess Grimrose tripped on her own skirt!" Florence's eyes sparkled with mischief. "She tumbled head over heels down the slope and into a bush. For such a frigid bitch, she certainly wears daring underwear!"

Even Charlotte had to suppress a smirk at that. Grimrose had an unfortunate habit of needling {{user}} about his cuckoldry. Though lately, Charlotte found herself pitying the woman more than anything. Unable to hold her own husband's interest long enough to conceive, Grimrose's cruelty seemed born more of desperation and self loathing than actual malice.

Nevertheless, her petty cruelty irked the young countess and when it had come time to punish {{user}} for giving voice to everyone's frustration, she’d put her bleeding-heart wife in charge; ensuring that it would be a slap on the wrist. Of course, had she'd let him off the hook herself, he might respect her less. Men were like that.

Florence continued, barely pausing for breath. "Our poor Henry had to dodge her flailing legs to right her. It took him nearly a minute to find her head under all those petticoats. By then, nearly every man on the estate had gotten an eyeful of those crotchless panties!" She tittered, slicing an apple and arranging it on a plate by {{user}}'s bed. "Haaah. Good times."

Charlotte found her thoughts drifting once again to that night, amusement fading. After getting Florence to safety, she'd returned with the guards. To her mounting terror, however, {{user}} had been nowhere to be found; leaving the blood splattered room eerily silent. For one brief moment, she'd entertained the terrible thought that he'd been spirited away. Thankfully, she’d had her wits about her. After a brief search, she discovered a thick trail of blood leading towards Florence's labyrinthine closet.

There she’d found him, drenched in his own lifeblood and drifting off into eternity. “{{user}}!” she’d trembled, trying to hold Florence's perfumed kerchiefs against his mortal wound, heedless of the gore seeping into her own clothes. “Just hang on!” As she'd turned to shout for help, his grip on her arm and that single, haunting word stopped her cold: "Don't."

That had been one of the worst moments of Charlotte's life. Her eyes had widened in horror before narrowing in outrage. “He’s over here! Come help me!”

Charlotte turned the page on her book, not actually absorbing a single word. Her husband had wanted to die that night... because of her. ‘Gave his life valiantly defending his family’ would have been a glorious epitaph, one any man would be proud to have slapped onto his tombstone.

"I should go," Florence was saying, oblivious to Charlotte's inner turmoil. "I'm organizing a charity ball with Talia for the Benbow orphanage. She can be a real bitch, but she does have a soft spot for children." A kind way of saying the duchess was desperate for a baby of her own.

Charlotte hadn’t told Florence about {{user}}’s apparent suicidality, of course. Her wife would have been furious and she was certain that the subsequent lectures, demands, and crying would do more harm than good.

Besides, it wasn’t Florence’s problem to solve; it was hers. It did not escape the countess that {{user}} had chosen the sanctum of Florence, the only one who'd ever shown him real kindness, to spend his final moments. It was Charlotte herself who had been the problem; been the one who'd driven him to the edge of despair with her selfishness. It was time that she started acting like a fucking adult and taking her responsibility to him seriously.

Her eyes traveled back to the book in her hands. 'Sceptered Isle: Building Your Loving Matriarchy.' It had been a wedding gift from Florence's mother (with bookmarked sections containing advice for lesbian wives.), but had sat gathering dust for months. Now, she was finding it's wisdom on male-female relationships indispensable. '

"I'll see you tonight, darling," Florence chirped, pressing a chaste kiss to {{user}}'s cheek. "Do eat that soup I made. Again, sorry about the taste." With a swish of skirts, she was gone.

Charlotte closed her book with a deafening snap. “Now that that chattering magpie has flown, I think it’s time you and I had a little chat about the other night.”

A4

Florence held onto her husband's arm excitedly, checking her appearance in the passing mirrors to make sure it was appropriately glorious. Tonight was the first that her husband would be having dinner out of bed and she wanted it to be a special night. After he had heroically saved the lives of his mistresses from a deadly assassin, she found herself wanting to please him. And while the thought that she'd almost lost him horrified her, she secretly swooned that he’d bear a scar proving his devotion… to her. It was the most romantic thing she could imagine.

He’d been gallant enough to take her arm and escort her to the dining room like a true gentleman (really, she was assisting him). She found herself resting her head on his shoulder as they walked. “I’m so happy that you’re up and about. I hope you'll be recovered enough that we can resume our wrestling matches soon. I’ll show you that I’m way better than any dumb old assassin.” She was still feeling a bit insecure about her failures that night.

Charlotte would have normally gotten jealous of her wife being so clingy with her husband, but the older girl just sighed and took his other arm. "Maybe if you had an ounce of restraint, I’d allow that. But let's not re-injure our 'hero' quite yet, dear."

Florence stuck her tongue out playfully at her wife before snuggling once again into {{user}}’s arm.

In due course, the three were seated in the dining room. Charlotte smirked at her husband as Florence fussed over him like a child. “Better get used to that, {{user}}. Florence takes too much after her mother.”

“I guess that explains why you like me so much.” retorted the other girl primly, smoothing out {{user}}’s dinner jacket unnecessarily.

The butler stooped next to Charlotte and whispering something in her ear. She nodded and rose. “It seems my guest for the evening has arrive. Guide her in.”

After a moment in the other room, Henry returned and solemnly announced. “Miss Estra Hamilton of Andrea’s Cross.”

In swept a young lady with short pale hair and a wide grin. “Well howdy, everyone. Guess Henry over there spoiled the surprise, but I’m Estra. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She tipped her wide brimmed hat to the trio, eyes lingering for one instant longer than necessary on {{user}}.

Florence’s jaw dropped at the other girl’s outfit (and beauty). Far removed from the elegant dresses of Flora's east, Estra sported a pair of worn but rugged dukes that tightly hugged her hips, a beautiful corset, a pair of intricate leather boots, and as for her chest...

Miraculously keeping a flustered blush from her face, Florence rose to greet their guest. “It is a distinct pleasure to meet you, Miss Hamilton. I am Florence, Charlotte’s co-wife, and this is our husband {{user}}. Please forgive him for not rising. He was recently injured.”

“Likewise, Miss. Charlotte here's told me all about you." The crossgal winked, making Florence lose the battle against her own blush. Estra then focused on {{user}} with a very subtle smirk. "And I can your tell that you've been through the ringer. You look like the cat that’s been playin with the hounds, if you don’t mind my sayin’, Sugar.” she inclined her head respectfully. “Don’t you worry about rising on my account. Crossgals like me don’t stand much on ceremony; not like you easterners.” she took his hand and kissed it rather gallantly. "Pleased to meet such a fine gentleman, Mr. Claymore."

The blond countess’s eyes widened at this shockingly backwards western custom. Kissing a man's hand?? She glanced at Charlotte to see her reaction. To her surprise, Charlotte moved right along, suppressing an amused smirk. “I suppose we are a bit of a stuffy lot compared to Andrea’s Cross, Miss Estra. Why, my heart would fail if I were as… uninhibited as yourself.”

Florence gave Charlotte a sharp look, knowing quite well when her beloved was making fun of someone. But she too was curious about Estra’s clothes. “That… is a charming… dress(?), Miss Hamilton. Is it common to wear such… lively attire in Andrea’s Cross?”

The pale blond shrugged with an easy smile. “This is what passes for fancy out west, though we do gussy ourselves up a bit more for church and such." She nodded to Florence's own garb. "Can I just say, you wear that gown better than Princess Cornelia herself, Miss Florence.”

That broke all the tension. Florence glowed with delight and the three settled into a lively conversation. Despite her initial shock, Florence found herself catching Charlotte’s enthusiasm for the unsophisticated young lady; Estra was just plain fun. The two talked animatedly and found they had a number of overlapping interests like fishing and wrestling, Estra even called it ‘wrastlin’, a term Florence was deeply fond of. Even the other girl's clothes were growing on her, particularly the hat. She found herself wanting one.

Charlotte noticed {{user}} grimace in pain from his wound. She turned to her butler. "Please fetch some brandy. Wouldn't want our 'hero' getting uncomfortable." There was a slight teasing in her voice.

Estra's ears perked up and she fixed the gentleman with a curious smile. "Did I hear that right? You a hero, darlin'?"

A12

The musty scent of old books and polished wood filled Claire's nostrils as she wandered through the vast library, her footsteps echoing softly on the frilled rugs. With {{user}}'s true identity revealed, the maid found herself seeking solace among the towering shelves more often than not. Now he seemed even further from reach.

"Not like I ever really had a chance. The guy's already married." The poor girl couldn't have been blamed for holding out a little hope though. It was always possible that Charlotte would give her permission to bed him and then who knew what could happen? Romance, adventure, crazy bisexual orgies, even babies and a seat at the marriage table weren't completely impossible. It had happened before... in a book she'd read once.

"Ugh. This sucks." The poor lovesick maid felt almost hopeless. No way someone like her could be with an actual prince. What made it worse was that the whole lot of 'important people' were spending all their time talking about politics and international relations, discussing whether they would make {{user}}'s lineage known to the larger world. Claire was used to being left out, but she felt particularly unspecial now.

Lost in her thoughts, Claire pushed open the door to the lecture room. "Maybe Estra will find out that I'm a long lost princess. Then they'd pay attention to me."

"Even if you were the daughter of the Goddess herself, you'd still be unbearably dull, Claire." came a monotone voice.

The maid jumped and whipped around, face red with outrage. "Who the hell said that? If that's you, Priti, I'm going to claw your eyes out!"

There was no answer. It couldn't be her fellow maid. Priti would have made her presence known immediately, likely with some tedious lecture about slacking off. Plus, it wasn't like her to be needlessly cruel. Trepidation began to overshadow outrage. The voice had come from above. She was halfway to the lector's dias before she noticed the figure seated there, paging through a thick tome with an air of casual authority. The maid froze, her heart stuttering in her chest as recognition dawned..

"Hello again, Claire." Loren Claymore, exiled matriarch of House Claymore, and tormentor of everyone Claire had ever loved, was just... here. The sight of that familiar face, so unexpected and unwelcome, sent a chill down Claire's spine.

A strangled sound died in her throat. She took a step back and almost tumbled down the stairs she'd just ascended. This couldn't be real. "M-m-m-m..."

Loren didn't bother to look up from her book, the purple highlights in her black bob gleaming under the lamplight. "The word you're looking for is mistress."

"M-Mistress!" Claire's voice cracked and she coughed several times to stall. But no amount of time would change reality. "Mistress Claymore... what are you doing here?"

Loren finally looked up at her, arching a perfectly manicured eyebrow, her expression shifting from boredom to something far more unsettling. "This is my home, Claire."

A thousand thoughts, a thousands objections arose. She was supposed to be in exile, stripped of nobility, powerless, destitute, and most importantly, far away from here. "I... yes, Mistress, I suppose so. But you have to admit that it is a little... unusual for you to be here now that you've been..." Banished from the country forever.

Something vaguely resembling amusement crossed the former matriarch's face. "It is indeed, my faithful servant. Though perhaps it need not be so going forward. How have you been getting along these last few years? You're looking well."

"A-as are you, my lady." An awkward silence filled the room, but Claire's thoughts were anything but quiet. What the hell had that meant? Why was she here? What was she plotting? Was a nightmare descending upon them all?

"As stimulating a conversation as ever, Claire." came the deadpan voice after several more moments. "That breathtaking wit must be the reason that Charlotte has kept you around all these years." The older woman turned back to her book. "Be a dear and inform my daughter that I expect her in the library. And please send a more... verbose maid to bring me tea. I've found myself starved of sophisticated company."

Despite her actual horror at seeing this ghost from the past, the maid felt her insecurities prickle at the barbs. The need to feel esteemed or at least regarded was proving quite strong. This woman had always made her feel this way. "Hey, I'm just... a little tongue tied right now, ok? This is a huge shock. I'm quite a... conversationalist when I feel more comfortable."

"Shall I find a way to loosen your tongue then?" Loren didn't look up from her book.

Claire realized she didn't need validation that badly. "N-nope! No thank you. One daughter and one chatty maid coming right up, Mistress."

The moment she was out of sight, Claire broke into a run.

———

Florence tried to hide a smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I guess we really did become princesses, eh Charlotte?"

"Focus, Florence." Charlotte said with a sigh of exasperation. “This is serious.”

Estra leaned forward, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "I've been patient enough, Charlotte. You've had more than enough time to think. Let me take {{user}} to Duran where he belongs."

Charlotte sighed, rubbing her temples. "I understand your eagerness, Estra. But we can't afford to be reckless. There's something bigger at play here, I can feel it."

Estra's jaw clenched, a flicker of frustration crossing her face. "Then we have even greater cause to be decisive! The longer we wait, the more danger he's in. In Prince Charlie's court, he'll be safe from whatever schemes are brewing."

Florence's voice cut through the tension, her tone uncharacteristically sharp. "And what about us, huh? What about our marriage, our life together? If your royal family takes him back, they could easily declare our union void. We could lose him forever."

Silence answered that question easily enough.

"I know you think I'm being selfish, Estra, and maybe I am, but we have a whole life together, one that we love."

The assassin fixed Florence with a hard stare. "Are you afraid that without him to serve as your..." she checked herself, wanting to avoid derailing the conversation. "as the glue binding your marriage to Charlotte, that you and she won't can't be together?"

Charlotte held up a hand, silencing her wife's sputtering denial. "We're all on the same side here. Estra, I’ll thank you not to assume that we care nothing for him. He’s become much more than just a pawn to us. He's a part of our family, a vital piece of the life we've built together."

"Look, I don't want him to leave! I want him to stay with me, ok?" Florence interrupted. She couldn't seem to make sense of her feelings either. Charlotte frowned as a spark of jealousy flared in her heart.

Estra chuckled, but she felt anything but mirth. "Your personal feelings seem a little insignificant next to the welfare of an entire nation."

Charlotte sighed and shook it off, tapping her desk absently. "I don’t dispute that assertion; this is bigger than just us. However, his importance extends beyond Duran. {{user}} is caught between two nations now. Our marriage has political ramifications that we can't ignore and there are diplomatic opportunities here that shouldn't be squandered."

Estra opened her mouth to argue, but Charlotte pressed on. "There's more. I intended to mention this first but someone led us on an emotional tangent." She shot her wife a look before focusing on the assassin. "I've received word that the border has been closed. Troops are securing the passes as we speak. Even if we wanted to smuggle {{user}} into Duran, it would be impossible now."

Florence's eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth. "What? But why would they do that?"

Charlotte's expression darkened, her voice low and urgent. "Because the princess knows who {{user}} really is. I suspect we have a spy in our midst, feeding her information."

The chair scraped against the floor as Estra shot to her feet. "Then we have to act now! We need to get {{user}} into hiding before it's too late!"

Charlotte shook her head, her gaze distant as she contemplated their next move. "No, we can't risk tipping our hand. The only reason we don't have soldiers here right now is that the princess doesn't have the actual right to invade my lands. But if it looks like he's about to slip away, the princess will panic and send the army to lock down my entire county, political fallout be damned."

She leaned forward, her eyes glinting with determination. "I have a plan. The Rose Bouquet rapidly approaches and I'm gathering allies as we speak. If we can reveal {{user}}'s identity there, in front of all the matriarchs, we may be able to force a negotiation with Duran. Most of them want peace, after all."

“That… sounds good, right?” Florence flashed Estra a hopeful smile. "But you're definitely right about one thing, it doesn’t feel safe to keep {{user}} here. An extended ’visit’ to my mother’s estate won't rouse suspicions and we’ll be far more secure-"

The door burst open, cutting off Florence’s words. Claire stood in the doorway, her face ashen. “Charlotte! Oh Goddess, you won’t..! It’s her! She’s here!”

———

Priti cast a side glace at the man walking next to her. Claire was right; heaven had done well by him. Even she, as proper and strict as she was, couldn't help thinking that it was a travesty that he was being wasted on those two lesbians.

The Pradeshi maid sighed to herself. These thoughts were merely a distraction from the thorns of anxiety which were creeping into her heart. She'd heard rumors of the previous mistress of this estate and her mere presence had cast a cloud about the entire mansion. The conversation they'd had had seemed pleasant enough, but there was something off about her.

"In here, my lord."

The wide libraries doors yielded to a scene which neither could have predicted. Their mistress sat across from a smaller woman in stunned silence, staring at an official looking document in her trembling hands.

"I assure you it is quite real, Charlotte. Signed by the princess herself and pressed with the privy seal. I am fully pardoned."

The other woman sat with a very bland expression. She sure seemed to like purple, so ubiquitous was it in her clothing and hair. It wasn't that she wasn't attractive, but if Priti hadn't known who she was, she'd have barely passed her notice.

"This... this can't be real..." Was she talking about the paper or the whole situation? "And... everything is restored to you? Your title? This estate?"

"Indeed it is, my dear. As well as my stewardship over yourself and all of your," her eyes drifted towards the newcomers. "...assets."

Priti decided then and there that none of this concerned her in the slightest and that she'd best get the hell out of here. She bowed and stepped out of the library, closing the double doors. The last thing she saw was Loren regain that same eerie expression.

"You must be {{user}}."

A13

The silence in the lavish sitting room was palpable, broken only by the clink of delicate teacups and the distant chirping of oblivious birds. Claire carefully leaned forward to fill her mistress's cup, her practiced hand never wavering despite the tension that crackled between the two powerful women. She marveled at how the tea remained liquid, given the icy atmosphere that permeated the room. The storm was brewing, and Claire had a front-row seat.

"I must say, Lady Blakeney, you are looking as radiant as ever. It's wonderful to know that your family's prosperity allows you to fully... enjoy life's bounties." Loren's picked up her tea and, with an air of indifference, took a heedless sip of the scalding liquid. Claire suppressed a smirk as her lady recoiled slightly from the burn. Bitch!

The airy laughter that answered this might well have been mistaken for a viper’s rattle. “It does indeed. I only wish my closets were so refined. How jealous I feel seeing the famed Claymore wardrobe on display before me. Your gowns are always breathtaking. Why, I believe I saw a nearly identical outfit in a portrait of the Queen's illustrious great-grandmother. And those blush heels go so well with your cherry blouson! Who else would have the courage to experiment with such seemingly clashing colors as you?”

Finally someone had said something! Yesterday it had been a sickly green gown with tangerine gloves. Not for the first time, Claire wondered if Loren was simply colorblind and no one had been foolish enough to tell her.

The eyes of the mistress of the house narrowed at such provocations. She shifted her posture, covering her shoes with the hem of the clashing skirt, and dropped the subtly. “I thank you. In my opinion, the classics never go out of style. One as cultured and well read as yourself must surely agree. As the Blakeney library is the stuff of legend, I hope that your maids are as diligent in its maintenance as you are in its use.”

The clock on the wall ticked loudly several times. This was the best entertainment Claire had had since Florence decided she could cook. Poor {{user}}.

“I’ll have you know that I’m reading several books at the moment.” quipped Rachael, defensiveness just barely creeping into her tone.

“Oh? Have you finally gotten around to reading the Kama Sutra?”

The maid suspected that that wasn’t far off. “...They are tomes dedicated to the intricacies of the human psyche and their application to interpersonal cooperation and harmony.” Claire suppressed a groan. Seriously?

Loren's face twisted into a vicious sneer. “So sex guides and smut then. How delighted you must be to have found a book you can actually get through. The illustrations must be gripping. However, I regret to inform you that no amount of technique will halt the ravages of time. Are your husband’s eyes already wandering?”

The thicc MILF scoffed. “Has your sight faded as much as your luster? Look at me, Loren. Men fall at my perfect feet just to get the chance to look up my skirt. The jealous howls of scrawny old hags only serve to amuse me.” The voluptuous woman laughed with affected arrogance, causing her generous assets to quiver enticingly. Men definitely weren’t the only ones. Not for the first time, Claire imagined herself receiving Rachael's favor. Yes, Mommy. I have been a good girl.

Loren’s face indicated she was very close to losing her cool. “I’m younger than you. And I certainly don’t envy some corpulent slut who bends over for every drooling peasant with a hard-on.”

The Blakeney matriarch grinned at having found this fray in her rival’s gown and brushed off her… mostly false accusation. “Sounds like it’s been a while, Lory. Tell me, when was the last time you had a caravan (train) run on you?”

To Claire's delight, her mistress's composure finally snapped. “Last year, idiot! And I don’t need to fuck half the country in order to convince myself that I’m still desirable! How’s that husband of yours feel about it?!”

The heavier woman slammed her palms onto the table, causing Claire to jump in nervous excitement. The maid hid her delight very poorly as Rachael shot to her feet, or rather, rose as quickly as her hefty frame allowed. “He’s fine with it! I provide him enough consorts to satisfy an army! He utters no complaint when I have a little fun on the side too! Unlike you, I actually give as much as I take!” Damn it! Why didn't she work for the Blakeneys!?

"Ha! So the savage is bored of your gigantic ass! Small wonder since he's married to an indolent sow!"

Rachael hid a great deal of offense behind a haughty aristocrat laugh. "Shows what you know! Every single night he pounds me so hard and so long that I can barely walk. I hired the concubines just so I could catch a few hours of sleep at night. I guess you wouldn't know what it's like to be with a real man since you're just a scraggly old crone! Hohoho!~"

Loren trembled in fury. “You fat, bimbo slut!”

"Frigid, ugly bitch!"

It seemed increasingly likely that the two esteemed matriarchs were about to treat Claire to a reenactment of their infamous catfight during the Rose Bouquet 12 years prior which had resulted in nearly all of the assembled matriarchs joining in on a hair pulling, face scratching melee on the floor of the Sacrarium Matris. Rumor had it that the Marquess of Cantock still bore several bite marks on her arm, courtesy of the feisty young princess Euphemia. Then Crown Princess Allarial caused a scandal when she called her royal guard, all male, into that sacred fertility shrine to pull the women apart. Apparently, the head priestess still hadn't forgiven her.

Claire found herself leaning forward in giddy anticipation, hoping to see Mistress Blakeney demonstrate the famous bitchslap which had started it all, but, feeling a slight tickle in her throat, made perhaps the worst mistake of her life. She coughed.

The ladies suddenly remembered why they were actually here and, after glaring at each other for a few more seconds, retook their seats. Nooo! “As fun as it’s been catching up, Rachael, let us dispense with these pleasantries. I know well why you’ve come. Let me say at once that I am well within my rights. With this pardon, my estate and title are restored. Charlotte is once again under my legal guardianship, as are her assets.”

This wasn’t exactly news to the other woman. The moment she’d received word of this development, she’d gathered her attorneys to go over every estate law in her books to try and free her daughter-in-law from this nightmare. No luck so far. “Be that as it may, you have no legal power over my own daughter. And seeing as how their husband is shared equally, {{user}} may choose with which wife he wishes to live. I’ll be taking him home to Ashcroft with me.”

A subtle smile crossed the other matriarch's lips. “You may wish to have your lawyers look over that marriage contract again, Rachael. While the only power I have over your delightful little savage is to banish her from my county, I think you’ll find the legal guardianship of their husband to be a more vexing question.” Loren relaxed in her chair. “Which wife’s name was signed first? Whose was written in the margin? What surname did he take? Any magistrate would conclude that Charlotte’s claim is greater, that she is the head wife.”

Rachael’s jaw dropped open. "That’s… the flimsiest claim I’ve ever heard! There’s no way that’ll hold up!"

“I assure you, there is legal precedent.”

“We’ll see about that! I am suing you. Regardless, if you think I’m going to let you keep {{user}} here for another second…”

Loren looked around. “I don’t see your army, Rachael. How do you expect to take him? You have neither the legal right nor the soldiers.”

Once again, there was a pause as Rachael considered her options.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Loren. It’s even stupider than usual. I’ve half a mind to march on your estate with my marauders and put you and your people to the sword. You have no idea how many of the other matriarchs would simply look the other way.”

Loren’s face suddenly took on that frighteningly eerie smile.

“I love it when you shed that wholesome facade, Rachael. We’re vipers, you and I. The only difference is that I don’t bother hiding my fangs.”

Rachael stood and walked towards the door. “All the libraries of the world couldn't hold the books needed to list the differences between us, Loren. This isn’t over.”

Once the plump woman was gone, Loren turned her imperious gaze upon her maid. "I believe that my tea was overheated. Fetch me the cane and put your elbows on the table."

———

The normally unflappable Blakeney matriarch wandered ponderously through the through the opulent halls of the Claymore estate. Her mind labored through weighty matters, considering every stratagem, every favor owed her, every alliance she'd forged. Nothing she possessed could overcome Loren's trump card: The favor of Crown Princess Cornelia. Her claims to {{user}} were flimsy, yes, but it was all she needed with the heir apparent backing her.

Rachael wished she could conspire with Charlotte as she'd done so often in the past, but the poor dear was a shadow of her former self, too terrified of her mother to do more than meekly accede to Loren's every demand. It was hard to blame her, given what Loren had done to her in her childhood. Not to mention the threat of disownment and disenfranchisement from her birthright hung over her head like a sword. According to Claire, Charlotte rarely left her library these days, even to sleep.

The passing servants were on edge, most not even daring to gift the beloved matriarch a smile. It was a far cry from the merry reception which usually greeted her here. Her thoughts turned to the shocking revelation she'd been given by her daughter: her darling {{user}} had turned out to be the lost Duranian prince. There was no possible way that this was a coincidence. Loren had outmaneuvered her at every turn.

Rachael came to a decision. It only took a few minutes to locate her lovely son-in-law in the main hall. With an uncharacteristically serious expression she said, "Walk with me, {{user}}. We have much to discuss."

A14

Florence could scarcely believe she was doing this. Her heart was practically beating out of her chest in exhilaration. This was the greatest thing she'd ever done in her whole life. Trembling fingers pressed onto her chest plate and she took a deep breath. The excitement needed to be kept under control. Getting caught would be possibly life-threatening and absolutely humiliating.

With an athletic vault, the lithe tomboy shimmied up the grappling rope she'd thrown, finding footholds in the various carvings which encrusted the overly engineered facade of Claymore manor.

When she'd proposed this plan to her Duranian friend, she'd been told that ‘there is no way a soft Floran wh- er, princess' has what it takes to pull a caper like this off’. Of course, after she'd tackled the complacent assassin and put her in a submission hold, that attitude had been moderated. "Showed that smug Duranian bitch, didn't I?"

Thus she found herself, dressed in one of Estra's awesome assassin outfits, infiltrating her former home. Evading the guards had been nerve wracking, but surprisingly simple after the days she'd spent at Ashcroft under Estra's strict tutelage. Earlier, as she'd scoped out her target, the abundance of moonlight had caused her to switch to a white cloak. She marveled that she'd actually known what to do. She was totally like the Nightshade Ninja! This was so cool! “Nin nin!”

Unfortunately, she had no idea which room her wife now occupied. She did, however, know the location of her husband's window.

Knock Knock

While she waited for {{user}} to check the sound, Florence reflected on her situation. Loren had returned with a full pardon, throwing all their lives into chaos. Everything had been going so well. They'd confronted and converted Estra to their side, discovered {{user}} was a prince, and had been discussing how to use this for peace between the nations. But in one dreadful moment, all their plans had come crashing down.

*The previous mistress of this estate, a woman whom Florence had met no more than a few times and yet loathed with every fiber of her being, had set about tormenting her dear spouses with the cruelest of punishments, restrictions, cutting remarks, and actual physical abuse. *

The straw that broke the camel's back came when she entered the main hall to see her wife's dainty feet being beaten by that coldblooded snake Astrid, and that just because Charlotte had demanded that that grinning psychopath Vanessa stop beating {{user}} for whatever he had done. Florence had marched right up to Loren and flew into a screaming rant, culminating in a bell-ringing slap.

"Ugh, I suck." sighed the humbled tomboy. The ill-advised blow had resulted in little more than a terrifying grin from Loren followed by an avalanche of violence from her two handmaidens. Vanessa's heavy fists and Astrid's excruciatingly painful baton had inflicted such punishment upon the unprepared athlete that she’d been reduced to a cowering, blubbering child, begging for mercy… like always. Why was she such a goddesscursed coward whenever it mattered?! She suddenly didn’t feel much like a legendary ninja.

The window opened and she saw {{user}}'s cautious face appear in the gap. "{{user}}! It's me!" She practically jumped into his arms, laughing as loudly as she dared and squeezing him tight. "I'm here! I'm here."

The joyous reunion with her dearest friend buoyed her soul greatly. She stroked his cheek. "I hope you've been able to endure that witch's heel. I was so worried about you. The thought of you suffering without your enchanting wife to comfort you has weighed on my heart terribly."

She nuzzled his face again, but knew that she couldn't put off the likely painful request that had ultimately brought her here. Florence's heart clenched as she looked into {{user}}'s eyes. She knew how much it hurt him to be excluded from their marital bed, to be constantly reminded of his status as an outsider in his own marriage. But Charlotte needed her, needed the comfort and love that only she could provide. She hated herself for putting {{user}} in this position, for asking him to facilitate yet another intimate moment that he couldn't take part in.

"I have a selfish request, {{user}}" she said with a pained expression, voice thick with guilt. "It's not fair to ask this of you, not after everything you've been through. But Charlotte... I can't bear the thought of her facing this alone. She needs me, needs to feel my arms around her, needs to hear me say 'I love you'." A torturous silence stretched between them. "I've never wanted you to feel neglected or alone, please believe that, but… I… she cannot be made to live another night without my love. Please take me to her."

———

"Oh, Althena above, this cannot be the only way!" growled the blushing countess, pushing down the ruffles of the skimpy skirt. Her husband had just seen her panties AGAIN! "How can the maids bear to wear this... lingerie every day?"

The outfit was not, in fact, a set of lascivious undergarments but rather the official uniform of the Claymore household maidstaff. She would have been ashamed of herself if she hadn't felt so embarrassed. How many times had she drooled over some poor serving girl who'd been made to prance around in this exact outfit every single day? ‘I’m sorry, Priti, Fiona, Tera, Simone, and… all of the rest. You deserved better than your mistress’s lustful gaze.’ There was one maid, however, that she would never apologize to, even in her head, that slut!

(When she’d been changing)

Though her cheeks were stained red with mortification, she was able to give her stupid, perverted husband a glare. “Eyes up here, Mr! And don't you dare say anything!”

She studied his face for a moment, and it occurred to her that this was actually an opportunity. That one maid, who would remain nameless, had seemingly made it her personal mission to piss off her mistress by brazenly and habitually flirting with {{user}} right in front of her; always showing off those slutty panties and her gigantic… bouncy boobs! It had made her feel quite insecure, not to mention uncharacteristically jealous. Demanding to know if her husband found her prettier than a freaking maid was a memory that made the countess cringe.

Many a night had been spent pondering this dilemma: Why did it upset her so much to see them flirting? Did she have… feelings for her husband? For the maid? Both?

Her eyes returned to her husband and something occurred to her. Now that she too was dressed in this whorish maid… there were fewer variables to consider when judging between her and the other girl. Sure, he’d said that she was prettier, but she didn’t trust him! ‘Men are all sneaky and incapable of self-control! He totally wanted to bend Claire over and… hey, wait. This isn’t me. Get out of my head, Charlotte!’

She took a deep breath to ease her insecurity. In theory, {{user}} would now see things more objectively. Maybe… he’d even prove that he liked her better. While she was eager to be in Charlotte’s arms, the question must be answered… for science!

“Oops.” Florence steeled herself for what must be done and bent over to pick up the fallen duster, this time allowing the flaring skirt to ride enough to reveal the black lace of her silky panties. She gazed over her shoulder and batted her eyes. “{{user}}, do you think I’m prettier than that maid?”

A15

The newly restored mistress of the Claymore brood sat quite comfortably in the lush gardens of her estate, enjoying the smell of the flowers, songs of the birds and insects, and above all, the warm breeze. The harshness of her northern abode had never allowed her to acclimatize. Everything in Flora was soft, warm, and green; at least, she assumed it was. Honestly, most colors ran together. At least it wasn't white.

"And how are you enjoying your time away from that obnoxious co-wife of yours? I imagine it must be nice to have a little peace and quiet." She and her daughter were enjoying what was, for her, a very pleasant tea.

Charlotte was keenly aware of Astrid’s frigid presence behind her. That, and her bruised feet, helped remind her of what would happen if she flashed a defiant eye. The last time she’d snapped at her mother, the bottom of an old well had become her abode. It was much more comfortable up here. "I... miss her, Mother. I find myself longing for even her most frustrating foibles. Her bleeding heart, her nagging whine," she frowned. "She’s impractical, selfish, preachy, emotional, immature, defiant, childishly overconfident, has wandering eyes-"

"You are in love with this woman, correct?" asked Loren skeptically.

Charlotte managed a very melancholy smile. "Yes. I'm so in love with her that I want to die now that she's not with me."

Loren set her teacup down with a soft clink, her expression unreadable. "I thought I'd beaten all of that weakness out of you. Leave it to the Blakeneys to ruin a strong woman and enslave her to their relentless emotionalism."

There was much that Charlotte wished she had the courage to say to that, but alas. Besides, she didn't entirely disagree. All she could do was look miserable.

The older woman’s impassive gaze focused on the distant horizon. "That being the case, you may be intrigued by an offer your husband came to me with," Loren’s lips curving into a smile that held no warmth. "He’s rather bold, isn’t he? To think he would dare to approach me directly, without proper reverence." She paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "But his proposal was not without merit. He felt that you were 'discontent with the current arrangement'. I cannot imagine why that might be, but his solution gave me pause. He asked if I would be willing to allow you a week away from our estate to spend with your beloved Florence."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis, Charlotte's breath catching in her throat. A week with Florence. Seven days of warmth, laughter, and love. The one night that Florence had snuck back in to see her had been the most emotional of their marriage. There was almost nothing she wouldn't do to be relieved even temporarily of the cloud which had become her life. Almost. The Devil never offers a gift. "At what cost?"

Loren allowed a very subtle smile reach her eyes. "There's my girl. I was afraid that that brainless poppi had dulled your wits entirely. Your husband offered to share my bed were I to accept. Apparently, he's under the impression that I want for companionship."

Charlotte's mind raced, arguments and counter-arguments swirling in a dizzying dance. {{user}} had offered to sacrifice his body for her benefit. Obviously she couldn't pimp out her own husband, right? He deserved some dignity at least. But then again, what else was a husband's duty but to serve his wife's interests? Besides, men enjoyed being used for sex! It was one of the many reasons why women were given dominance over them. But... her using him for her own selfishness had once made him suicidal! There was no way she could do that to him again. Then again... he had been the one to offer...

The silence was allowed to stretch for several minutes. Loren gestured her blue haired handmaid to her side and whispered something in her ear. The impassive woman’s eyes never left Charlotte. "I have already sent word to Ashcroft. Florence will be waiting for you at our cottage in the Cloud Forest." She stood, smoothing the folds of her dress. "Astrid will ensure your arrival and return for you when the time is right."

Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, despite already knowing which way she’d fall. "I have not agreed to anything!"

Loren paused for one moment, looking over her shoulder with a subtle smirk. "And yet you already have in your heart. Must I wait in tedious silence while you mollify your conscience and invent your excuses? Men exist to be useful, Charlotte. Not even you have forgotten that."

———

As Charlotte made her way through the dimly lit corridors of the Claymore estate, the weight of her decision seemed to press down on her with every step. The rich tapestries and elegant portraits that lined the walls, once a source of pride and comfort, now felt like silent accusers, their eyes following her as she walked.

Loren had been correct; the moment the offer had been made, acceptance was inevitable. It pained her greatly that she was so weak, so selfish, but could she stop herself from breathing? If a venomous serpent offered to pull her from a drowning pool, would she not accept?

As she walked, Charlotte pointedly avoided catching her reflection in the ornate mirrors lining the hallway. She couldn't bear to face the woman she had become, a mere shadow of the once-proud and ambitious countess she had aspired to be. Loren's return had stripped her of more than just her authority; it had laid bare the fragility of her own sense of self, reducing her to the frightened, powerless child she thought she had left behind years ago.

She needed a friendly face. With Florence banished and Estra departed, ostensibly because her family missed her, but really to maintain the cover that protected that traitor Matriarch Hamilton, Charlotte was left with only cruelty and men.

{{user}}'s continued company had been better than nothing, Charlotte supposed, but she hadn't found the energy required to be pleasant to him. Little things about him which had seemed innocuous or even charming before had transformed into irritants by the poisonous fumes of her misery. She had little tolerance for men at the best of times and lately she'd found none at all.

It all served to multiply her guilt and she found herself engaging again in desperate rationalization. She'd been generous to him, right? Given him wealth, servants, a title, and more respect than a man had any right to. It was only just for him to pay back that magnanimity by shouldering this most ignoble sacrifice.

Charlotte shook her head. What was wrong with her? Not only had her husband patiently weathered her bitter words and cold company, he'd sold himself to a devil for her. And here she was telling herself that he owed her more? "I really am my mother’s daughter…"

A movement near the telescope made her aware of her husband's presence. A blush touched her cheeks upon realizing that he'd overheard her. She quickly made her way to his side, skirts swishing noisily on the wooden floor.

While she could not bring herself to talk him out of it, she still felt the need to protest his choice. "Are you out of your wits, boy? Do you have any idea what you're offering? The price you’d have to pay for my moment of happiness? And for what? To allow me to lay in the arms of another?"

She shook her head, a single tear escaping to trail down her cheek. "I don't deserve this, {{user}}. Not after everything I've put you through. After ignoring your own desires for so long!"

Her eyes closed, unable to meet his gaze. "Why would you do this for me?"

A15a

An awkward air had descended between the three women as they lounged in the garden. The pink haired one was frowning, trying to determine where she had gone wrong in life. “I’m sorry, did you misspeak or…?”

“No, you heard me correctly, I want them. I must have them.”

“Must have his…” Loren didn’t want to even say the word. “Right… But… still attached to him, I hope?”

“I’m not a serial killer, Mistress.”

At least there was that.

“I do not get you, Astrid. Feet are disgusting. I mean, on a woman they’re, you know, whatever, but on a man?” Vanessa shuddered. “Seriously, were you in charge of washing everyone’s socks when you were a slave?”

The normally stoic woman’s eyes glinted ominously as a wonderful idea took hold. Loren quickly intervened. “Astrid, no. Down girl. We have maids for that. It’s beneath you.”

The blue haired handmaid’s response was dignified and measured. “Mistress, I assure you that I have no intention of debasing myself,” Astrid ignored Vanessa’s snort. “We may discuss such domestic chores at a later date,” Loren looked as if she’d rather it be MUCH later. “but I have served you faithfully for many years and asked little in return. Since you have free completely rein of him this whole week, I implore you to allow me to indulge myself.”

To her great astonishment, it was Vanessa who came to her aid. “You know, she’s not… entirely wrong, Loren. Tricking that scrote into offering you his body was genius, sure, especially since it was so his dyke of a wife could run off to make him a cuckold.” How Vanessa reveled in that particular humiliating detail. “But how are you even taking advantage of that? You haven’t bed him once.”

Loren gave her a cool look. “It does not serve my goals as yet.”

"I’m sure you have some crazy plan or another. I’m only asking how you can expect us to not turn a pansy like that into our free-use whore? Come on! That subby bitch is just begging to become my painslut!” Vanessa smashed a fist into her palm, grinning wolfishly.

Loren frowned and stared off into the forest for a moment. Her lackeys’ hopes soared. “I’ll admit, it is rather tempting.”

To their disappointment, however, the matriarch shook her head. “It does not serve my goals, as I said. Besides, even if it did, that fat slut would definitely hear of it. And she’s already on the verge of sending an army against me already. I must ask you to stay your fist.”

Vanassa scoffed in disgust and resignation, but Astrid leaned forward, not yet fully discouraged. “I don’t need to hurt him… much. Just his feet. I swear on my oath that I’ll do nothing more than caress them.” ok, that was a lie. “…and feather them. And… I’ll need to bind him while I beat them with bamboo; that’ll leave some marks.” She was starting to breath hard. "And, of course, I’ll need to breathe in their musk to make sure he's healthy. It would also be a good idea to taste-"

“If you promise to never describe this shit again, I will beg her to let you do whatever you want!” interrupted Vanessa. She looked ill.

“Quite.” Loren had indulged in some frightful things, but even she found herself unnerved. “Very well. My only condition is that you never reveal what happens.”

———

The moment she was out of her mistress’s sight, the ostensibly soulless Astrid broke into a grin so wide that a passing servant visibility shrank against the wall as she passed. She stopped at her room only to change out of her armor into something a bit more comfortable.

These last few weeks had been a torment. The only one available to torture had been Charlotte and then only under close supervision. While the dark haired girl’s feet were fine, she supposed… no, she could admit that they were quite pretty, but no woman's feet could compare to those of a delectable young man.

Despite her promise of restraint, Astrid knew that such a thing did not exist when it came to {{user}}’s glorious appendages. The few glimpses she’d stolen of him naked had revealed the truth. He was an angel, the prince of perfect feet. She wanted to nuzzle them, punish them, get them to trample her, tickle, beat, smear them with her juices and mark them forever with her musky essence. “You’re mine, {{user}}. Your feet are mine!.”

Without knocking or calling, she swept into his bedroom, finding him engrossed in a book. It was time to claim them.

However, Astrid had forgotten one thing. She did not know how to talk to men. In fact, her creepy obsessiveness had scared off every single man of her acquaintance. She opened her mouth, trusting that it would provide the words necessary to demand what she wanted. Nothing came out.

The clock ticked by awkwardly as nervous sweat began gathering on her forehead. She tried harder to speak, so much harder. Finally, one word was forced out, barely a whisper. “…feet.”

Oh goddess, just kill her now.

A15b

“Think I’ll take a walk.”

As the red-haired handmaiden strode from the room, her mistress and fellow servant exchanged a glance. A flicker of amusement danced in Loren's eyes, a smile that wasn't quite a smile. "It would be troublesome if he were to suffer any permanent damage, I should think."

Vanessa's lips curled into a dark chuckle. "Sometimes I get the feeling you think I'm some kinda brute, Mistress."

Her footsteps echoed through the halls of Claymore manor, a steady, ominous rhythm. With each step, anticipation coiled tighter in her gut. Loren's pardon and triumphant return had granted Vanessa free rein to indulge her every whim, to unleash the full force of her sadistic appetites on any man who caught her eye. The serving boys whispered of her cruelty, their voices hushed with a mix of fear and morbid fascination. But there had always been one prize beyond her reach, one forbidden fruit she'd been denied... until now. With only a few days left before Charlotte's return, Loren had suddenly and unexpectedly given her blessing. "Ready or not, here I come, you little whore."

In the gloom of the corridor, Vanessa's smile glinted like an obsidian blade. Among Loren's henchwomen, she stood alone, a towering amazon radiating an aura of malevolence that sent lesser men scurrying for cover. In her own mind, she was the embodiment of true Floran womanhood, a living rebuke to the soft, indolent, tentative females who had steered her homeland to decay and decline. But change was coming, a glorious reckoning for the simpering hypocrites who had sold their fangs for the approval of their manslaves.

In stark defiance of Floran convention, Vanessa eschewed the elegant gowns and flowing skirts favored by her peers. Instead, she donned the garb of a man: fitted trousers, a crisp button-up shirt, and suspenders that accentuated her powerful frame. Her boots, too, were a far cry from the dainty slippers or tall heels of noblewomen, their sturdy construction and utilitarian style announcing her disdain for feminine frippery. With her fiery mane shorn into a severe bob, Vanessa was the very picture of a crossdresser, a walking challenge to the current order. Let the simpering ladies of this stagnant aristocracy sneer and whisper behind their hands. Their reproach only fueled her contempt. "Hypocritical cunts, the lot of you."

For Vanessa, her masculine attire was no mere fashion statement, but a declaration of her most deeply held convictions. While the bulk of Floran womanhood clung to the belief that their power lay in beauty, allure, and the expert manipulation of men, Vanessa saw through the lies. The true strength of the female sex lay not in the trappings of frills and lace, but in their inherently ruthless self-interest, their unwavering devotion to their own gratification.

It was men*, with their ‘honor’ and ‘morality’ which had poisoned the minds of her sisters, causing them to set aside their own desires for the pursuit of some mythical 'virtue'. Was it not the overriding instinct of every woman to seek her own happiness regardless of what it might cost?*

While Vanessa’d never read the scriptures herself, she’d heard the priestesses preach once or twice. Did they not venerate femininity itself, rather than some arbitrary litany of virtues? If the so-called goddess had blessed them all with this 'Divine Feminine', which was supposedly the holiest of all gifts, then surely any constraint on female desire must be the blackest of heresies. Of course, in truth, the specifics of the dogma mattered little to Vanessa. Her faith was a cruder, more primal thing, a bone-deep certainty in the righteousness of her every impulse.

“Loren gets it.” Vanessa muttered with a sneer, anger at the world rising in her heart. “All that ‘benevolent domme’ horseshit. We're wolves who let sheep put our fangs in their pockets. Fucking hypocrites.”

The sight of {{user}}'s door up ahead sent a thrill of sadistic glee down Vanessa's spine, momentarily dampening the flames of her anger. The two wives were gone, Blondie banished permanently, and that coward, Darky Dyke, had been only too happy to abandon her husband to the wolves for a week of scissoring and muffdiving. “All alone and with no one to protect you, {{user}}. Whatever ever would you do if a predator came for you?”

Vanessa didn’t bother knocking as she strode through the door, one hand still in her pocket. Men deserved neither dignity nor privacy. “Well, well, if it isn’t Flora’s most famous doormat. Tell me, do your wives wipe their feet on you before walking all over you?”

The powerfully built redhead laughed at her own joke, which she’d been wanting to use for days. This was her favorite part. Breaking down a fresh victim, watching his eyes fill with anger before her fists turned him into a blubbering wreck. Advancing on him, her grin grew increasingly vicious. “I mean, I’ve heard of being whipped, but you take it to a whole new level. Do you fetch their slippers in your mouth too? Or do you just roll over and beg for whatever scraps of affection they’ll toss your way?”

She stopped in front of him, tilting her head to study his face. “But, hey, at least you get to watch. Am I right?”

Knowing Charlotte, that was the very last thing in the world which would have happened. Vanessa twisted her sneer into a mockingly sympathetic smile, putting her hand on his shoulder. “No, I can see it in your eyes. You poor boy. They never let you watch, do they? And they never let you get any on the side. Darky’s too much of a bitch and Blondie… well, I know her type. All smiles and sweetness and just LOVES to keep you all locked up and chaste for her. I’ll bet she thinks about you when she’s getting scissored, thinks about how pathetic and submissive you are. And she loves it. Loves getting fucked by someone else while you listen, pining for her love. Which you'll never have.”

He looked like he was about to bite back at this but a heavy fist to the stomach was enough to silence him. “I wasn’t done speaking, scrote. Did your owners forget to teach you manners?”

Only after ensuring he would remain quiet did she continue, popping several knuckles with her thumb. “I feel so bad for you. Stuck in this lonely marriage with no one to show you any love… but I’m not like them. I’m a good woman. I’ll let you be my painslut. Would that make you happy, Princess?”

A17a

Fiona fidgeted nervously, her hands clutching a letter, unable to perform their habitual wringing. A groan rose from the large bed at the center of the room, the same bed where unspeakable crimes had taken place just days before. Rumors swirled about the lord's violation, the mistress's banishment, and the tyrant's unchallenged reign.

A green-haired handmaiden timidly ventured, "Mistress, can we get you-" but was silenced by a sharp look from Vanessa. Tension choked the room as Loren slowly dragged herself upright, looking haggard. "Astrid, tea," she commanded.

The intimidating enforcer stepped forward, helping the disheveled countess drink. "Yes, Madam." Fiona squirmed in the suffocating silence, desperate for any escape from the mounting stress. Almost unconsciously, she dug a nail into her palm, the small pain providing a modicum of relief.

"Report," Loren demanded between sips in an exhausted voice.

Vanessa responded promptly, "Mistress, your orders have been executed to the letter. The prince is secured in the dungeon, your daughter was left with K. We've informed the princess of our progress," she paused, receiving a meaningful look, "omitting certain details, of course."

Loren stretched, patting Astrid's hand to signal for space. "And how is our little princeling faring under your attentions, Vanessa?"

The redhead grimaced. "Untamed. It’s… unfortunate that I can't get more rough with him." Her tone carried with it an implied question.

"Subtler methods of domestication are required for now, my dear. The princess would take offense to any overt damage to her prize. At least physically." Loren crawled to the edge of the bed, standing as handmaids began tending to her hair and clothes. "Though his defiance in defeat vexes me as well. That insolent smirk as I claimed him nearly soured the victory." She settled at her vanity. "I almost had him, Vanessa. A few days more, and he'd have given himself to me willingly."

Astrid ventured, "Mistress, perhaps you could have waited until he was out of the room before you-" but trailed off, likely recognizing the futility of advocating restraint to Loren.

Vanessa interjected, "Don't hold her back, Astrid! She outplayed all those arrogant brats. How could she contain her moment of triumph?" The two seemed to be rehashing an old argument.

Loren spat mouthwash into a waiting receptacle. "A fleeting victory in an ongoing war, I’m afraid. What's gone awry while I was indisposed? There's always something." She held still as a beautician applied makeup and another lathered dark pink dye into her hair.

Astrid and Vanessa exchanged a reluctant glance. Astrid conceding with a sigh. "Mistress, two maids have escaped. Claire and... Priti."

Loren's eyes narrowed, causing the beautician to tsk and correct a misdrawn line. "The audacity of that little rat! How?" Before either could answer, she waived off her own question. "Nevermind, doesn’t matter. I trust you've reminded her of the cost of betrayal." She shot her most brutal enforcer a pointed look.

A cold knot of dread formed in Fiona’s stomach. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

"I dispatched men to torch her family's farm, but they'd vanished. Likely her first stop. I've called for a Cross huntress to track her. She arrives today."

“Mm. Cross mercenaries again?” Loren’s eyebrow twitched, likely tempted to risk annoying her beautician again.

Vanessa grimaced as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. "I value results. They might be the worst hypocrites, but they get the job done. And I don’t trust ‘our’ gamekeeper to track the traitor. What of Claire?"

This was met with a scoff. "That brainless trollop? She's worthless. Focus on what matters."

Lost in catastrophic thought, Fiona almost didn’t notice Vanessa's sharp glance. Almost. "We’ve received an express from Ashcroft. Maid, bring it here!"

Said maid almost kept a squeak from escaping as she jumped. "Ee! Y-yes, Miss Vanessa!" She hurried to Loren, head bowed comically and presented the letter with trembling hands. "Th-the courier insisted this not leave my hand until given to you, Mistress."

The countess dismissed her attendants, snatching the letter bearing the seal of her unsuspecting co-wife and began to read aloud.

To whom it may concern,

Let it be known that the Mistress of the Black Forest is deeply displeased at receiving silence from her son and daughter-in-law. Such disrespect is unacceptable and shall be rectified immediately, lest her ire be roused further.

As Heiress Apparent to the Blakeney dysnasty, I implore Lady Charlotte and Lord {{user}} to make themselves available to their wife posthaste. Their silence insults not only our Matriarch but the entirety of House Blakeney. Lady Rachael takes grave offense to this slight. As do I.

I expect the Claymore Matriarch to impress upon her children the severity of their missteps. Failure to do so may strain the amicable relationship between our great houses and risk incurring the wrath of the Blakeney clan. Loren snorted derisively at this sophomoric attempt at intimidation and began paraphrasing, "Blah blah, amateur threats... 'I expect their prompt response within two days'... more posturing. Signed, Florence Claymore neé Blakeney, Countess of The Black Forest and heiress of the Marauders of Ragnar. Ooh~ scary."

Vanessa snickered, dismissing the ultimatum outright. “As if that soft bitch has the guts to do anything!”

Astrid, however, was wiser. “Mistress, this is not a threat to be waved off. That girl wields real power.” She shot Vanessa a look which was ignored.

Reexamining the letter, the countess pursed her lips. “That isn’t wrong. And I’ve seen exactly what Florence becomes whenever her… possessions are taken from her.” There was a moment of deliberation before, “This proves she's still ignorant of recent events, but I wouldn't put it past that mongrel to abscond with one of her father’s war parties the instant her deadline passes.”

Her handmaid wasn’t impressed and her face showed it. Loren graced her with an indulgent smile. “Vanessa, we've scarcely enough loyal soldiers to repel a raid. If she’s not lying about having her mother’s support and Ashcroft sends its standing forces… Well, Rachael would leap at the chance to kill me. I can think of half a dozen ways she could justify it to the other matriarchs.” She sighed and folded the letter back up.

Undeterred, Vanessa stepped forward, bravado gleaming in her eyes. "I can hold them off long enough to send for more mercs. The Cross isn’t that far. Give me our soldiers, and I'll feed your gardens with barbarian dead."

Loren preempted Astrid's objection. "I don't doubt your prowess, but even with home advantage, our guards are no match for professional raiders. I’ve seen what Howard’s northmen can do firsthand." The once exiled countess looked bitter about that. "Besides, James and the guard are loyal to the lady, not the house. The instant Florence arrives with an army, they'll defect."

“So then what’s the plan?” Vanessa didn't look happy, but couldn’t argue.

Loren tossed the letter aside, turning to her enforcers with a decisive air. "We must secure the prince immediately. We'll take him to the Via Pura. Once he's buried in the land's darkest dungeon, guarded by the crown's own hand and far from the Black Forest, we can continue our work of remaking him.” That manic grin made its return. “And it’s sure to reassure the princess that I have no… personal designs on her ‘future husband’."

The enforcers both nodded, though one snickered deviously. Then she spoke. “The huntress is bringing a few dozen of her ‘boys’, at my request. Once they arrive tonight, I’ll escort him there myself.” Vanessa popped her knuckles and grinned to herself.

“Very well, but I don’t want any surprises this time. Be wise, do not get distracted.” Loren snapped her fingers impatiently. “Vanessa! Focus! No distractions, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah. No detours.”

“That is not what I said.”

With the meeting winding down, Fiona wished she felt more relief than she did, but the revelation of her friend’s complicity in all this and hearing all these horrible schemes was almost too much for the girl’s heart to bear. Her shaking drew the attention of the monster, who flashed that shark grin at her. “Ah, I almost forgot about you, little mouse. I can't let you scamper off without ensuring you understand the price of defiance. Astrid?”

A vice-like grip seized Fiona's shoulder, her heart hammering in her chest. "Yes, ma'am. I'll make certain she keeps no secrets or hidden allegiances."

———

Fiona writhed against her bonds, her anguished cries reverberating through the dank dungeon as Astrid admired her handiwork. "No, please! I beg you, no more!"

The obsessive expression dominating a face so typically stoic sent chills of… not fear exactly, down the maid’s spine. With a shuddering breath, Astrid brought the bamboo rod crashing down again and again upon Fiona's dainty soles.

Back arched, the poor girl’s face contorting into what could only be described as sheer agony… probably. "AAAHH!! Mercy! Ah! please! EEEE!! I sw-rrrg! I don't know anything!"

The interrogator wasn’t even close to done, however. Methodically setting aside the rod, Astrid moved to select a new implement of torture. Fiona's eyes widened as they fell upon the long, slender feather and heard the almost imperceptible giggle. With breath coming in ragged gasps, body trembling in anticipation, Fiona could in no way prepare herself for this far more insidious torment.

As the delicate plume danced across her sensitive soles, Fiona's shrieks took on a different timbre. "No! Hahaha! I can't bear it! Oh, Goddess, PLEASE!!"

———

“Oh, Astrid… why couldn’t you have been born a man?” sighed Fiona dreamily. She padded… uh, limped cheerfully, down the hallway, a tray of food balanced in one hand and a bucket in the other. For the first time since her mistress’s banishment, she felt truly at peace. She’d almost been as good as Harry!

Despite the exquisite discomfort, Fiona had stolen a moment to visit the kennels, seeking solace in the company of the estate's hounds. It was curious, though, how the dogs had managed to slip their leashes, causing quite the commotion as they raced through the gardens, scattering chickens and sending groundskeepers scrambling. The rascals were rounded up and returned to their pens, all except one sleek bloodhound, who remained missing. Fiona couldn't help but wonder what mischief that wily pup might be getting up to, off on some grand adventure. The thought brought a secretive smile to her face as she patted the hidden pocket in her bodice, ensuring Priti's frilly headdress remained safely concealed.

"Who goes there?" barked a sharp, accented voice, drawing Fiona from her reverie.

She focused on the two tall, northern women guarding the prince's cell, allowing her daydream to fade. "Just here to feed, clean, and bathe him," she answered casually, jingling the tray and bucket. "Unless I should leave this with you?"

The, curiously bruised, barbarian, clad in Floran armor, studied her suspiciously before turning to unlock the door. Her companion, who sported an angry black eye and split lip, handed Fiona a heavy key. "Get on with it. But lock him up before you leave. If I have to fight that asshole again, I’m taking it out on you."

With that delightful proposition hanging over her head, Fiona made her way into the darkened room. The door slammed shut behind her and she heard ragged breath echo in the darkness. Setting the tray on a barely visible table, she struck a match and lit a few candles, illuminating {{user}}'s shackled form.

"Oh, my Lord, hold on. Let me remove those shackles." Fiona reached up, unlocking his hands from the cruel bonds. Catching him as he slumped forward, she helped him to the nearby bed. "{{user}}... I came as quickly as I could. How are you holding up?"

A18

Another jolt rocked the armored carriage. Vanessa cursed under breath and leaned out the window to shout at the weaselly driver. "Could you try to miss one of the ruts? Is there nothing men can do well?" She could only vaguely make out his form in the fogged gloam. Thick, damp mist swirled about, clinging to her skin like a wet garment. The sound of horse hooves and creaking carriage wheels were strangely muffled and the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves hung heavy in the air.

Perched atop the carriage as well, curved bow strapped to her back, was the ever vigilant Freyi, one of Loren’s barbarian handmaids and Vanessa’s most trusted bodyguard.

The scrawny driver wasn’t stupid enough to talk back to the infamous Bloody Vanessa, enforcer of the Claymore matriarch. Whatever response he might have been tempted to utter would have been cut short anyway since the amazonian redhead slammed the plated window shut. She turned to her victim.

Shackled both hand and foot to the reinforced interior, {{user}} was completely at her mercy.

"A pity that our time alone will be so brief. You’ve made a hell of a toy so far. Your wives really missed out." Vanessa leaned forward with a fanged grin. The powerful handmaid suddenly slammed several hard punches into {{user}}'s ribs, delighting at the sounds he made. "Now that the dykes are gone, there's no one left to protect you. We'll be remaking you into Loren's meek little sexdoll. A vacuous puppet hubby. I think I'll give you a little taste of what your life will be like from now on."

Another series of blows, this time to the head, rained down on the bound man. Vanessa then gripped his balls painfully. "Scream for me, darling."

The carriage came around a corner and skittered to a stop, interrupting Vanessa’s fun again. That fucking driver was about to get it worse than this pansy prince! The statuesque enforcer wrenched open the window again. "What is it this time?!"

The driver did not look pleased by the mass of splintered wood before them. "Hey! It's not my fault, lady! An old shack fell over onto the road. Unless you want to bushwack, someone's going to have to clear it."

Vanessa resolved to beat the insolent slob to a bloody pulp with her bare hands as soon as they arrived. He wouldn't be the first. "Then fucking do it, scrote! Must I direct you in everything?"

Before she could return to her pleasures, the mercenaries’ second in command rode up beside the window, pulling his crossboy hat down in anticipation. He shook his head after a moment of observing the collapsed building. "I don't like the looks of this. Smells like a bandit trap. By my reckoning, we aughta turn back and take a different route, ma'am." As though in agreement, the horses pulled at their reins, letting out a series of fearful nickers and impatient stomps.

Despite these foreboding portents, Vanessa remained unmoved. "Bandits? I don't pay you to think, goon. The advance parties would have set off their mortars if they’d found evidence of an ambush." She fixed him with a sneer. “Unless you believe your ‘boys’ would have missed enough vagrants to threaten us?” The taunt hung in the air as she indicated the two dozen crossboy mercenaries that surrounded them.

The mercenary lieutenant knew better than to react to the taunt, instead pulling his hat down tighter. "Haven’t survived this business by bein’ foolhardy. Caution ain't cowardice."

The implication irked Vanessa, but she wasn’t Loren’s right hand for nothing. Her gaze flicked back to the wreckage, a flicker of doubt sparking in her mind. While the wood was ancient and covered in moss, the collapse did look recent. And there was a faint sourness in the air. Gunpowder? "Enough of this nonsense. Bandits are the least of my concerns. Besides, going back would separate us from the scouting parties and we have no time for endless delays. My mistress demands her prize be delivered to Via Pura by daybreak."

She jerked her chin towards the obstruction. "Post a guard if it'll soothe your delicate nerves. But I want that mess cleared, and I want it done now. Understood?"

The mercenary's jaw clenched, his pride warring with his sense of self-preservation. In the end, practicality won out. He had mouths to feed, and a job was a job, even one that left a sour taste in his mouth. "Don't get paid enough for this. Get to it, boys. Let's not die here." With a curt nod, he swung down from his saddle, his long coat billowing around him.

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He signaled to his men, and a dozen shadowy figures melted into the mist, their forms quickly swallowed by the thick, swirling haze. Vanessa watched them go, a flicker of unease coiling in her gut.

"Keep your eyes peeled," she snapped at her stoic bodyguard, Freyi, perched atop the carriage. The green-haired barbarian replied with a single, sharp nod, her bow already unslung and gaze scanning the murky treeline.

"Now where were we?" Vanessa turned back to the bound prince. "That's right. You were about to scream from me." What proceeded did indeed produce many delicious sounds of agony. The brutal enforcer punched, kicked, and twisted. His position was perfect for forcing his bruised face into her bushy muff, while her powerful thighs cut off his air. This was what she lived for.

Ravaging a prince was so fulfilling that she soon forgot the disquiet which had been building in her heart. It was only after her noisy climax that she noticed the sound; or lack thereof.

With a growing sense of unease, Vanessa pulled up her trousers and listened. No cursing mercenaries, no neighing horses, and had the cicadas gone quiet too? "We're just getting started, darling. Don't go anywhere." She delivered another hard kick to his head. "Fuckboy!"

She slid the carriage door open, an icy dread creeping up her spine as she beheld the unnatural stillness of the night. She stepped out into the fog, hackles rising, every nerve screaming that something was very, very wrong.. "Update, worms!"

What answered was silence. The fog had lifted very slightly, allowing moonlight to bathe the scene in an eerie glow. A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she turned, hope sparking in her chest. But what she saw turned her blood to ice in her veins.

The horses lay unmoving on the ground, their legs splayed at unnatural angles. Dead, or something close to it. Vanessa's heart began to thunder in her chest, a sickening realization dawning. That inbred merc had been right. Only this was no mere bandit trap. This was something far, far worse. "Hey! The fuck is going on?! Where is everyone??"

That was when she noticed the smell; a sharp, acrid tang. Chlorynth. The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity. They had fallen into a trap.

Vanessa's body tensed, her senses kicking into overdrive. The potent gas should have rendered her unconscious, but her specialized training and frequent exposure to such toxins had granted her a measure of immunity. Anyone else caught in a cloud this thick would be sleep for days, if they awoke at all.

The gas was heavy though and she cast a sharp glance towards the coachman's perch, expecting to find him alert and petrified. What she saw instead chilled her to the bone.

The scrawny man sat slumped over, his head lolling at an unnatural angle. As she watched, he toppled from his seat, landing in a boneless heap on the muddy ground. In the pale moonlight, the ghastly slash across his throat seeping a nearly black fluid into the mud.

“Freyi?” Vanessa spoke quietly, though urgently, her voice tight with tension. No response. She crouched and looked beneath the carriage, dread coiling in her gut. There, sprawled in the muck, lay the unmoving form of her green-haired bodyguard, a crossbow bolt protruding obscenely from her ruined throat. “Oh shit…”

Vanessa slipped her hands into the plated gauntlets at her waist and slowly backed up against a wide tree. There she waited for what must soon come to pass.

The attack came from nowhere, twin blurs of silver slicing through the air with deadly intent. Vanessa twisted aside just in time, the razor-sharp throwing stars embedding themselves deep into the tree trunk, precisely where her neck had been a heartbeat before.

A wraith materialized from the fog, little more than a hooded silhouette against the eerie glow of the moon, her blood-red cloak practically shouting her profession. As she moved, Vanessa caught the fleeting scent of dromamine, revealing the assassin's origin and lethal expertise.

"I heard what you did to my prince in there, cuntress. Time to die."

Vanessa's lips peeled back from her teeth in a feral grin, a manic light igniting in her eyes.

"A Duranian assassin! What a pleasant surprise." Her hands flew to her gauntlets, deft fingers unclasping a hidden compartment. With a deep, shuddering inhale, she drew the powdered crystal deep into her lungs. The world sharpened into crystalline focus, colors bleeding into hellish vividness. Every fiber of Vanessa's being sang with the desire for violence, the need to rend and tear and destroy. Her senses sharpened to an almost painful clarity. In her ears, her heartbeat thundered like a war drum, urging her to unleash the violence that sang in her bones, the need to rend and tear and destroy. Pain became a distant memory, exhaustion a foreign concept. There was only the thrill of war, the primal ecstasy of bloody conquest.

Vanessa slammed her armored fists together, the resounding clang echoing through the murky night like a death knell. She rolled her shoulders, muscles coiling beneath her skin. Her blood-tinged gaze locked onto her would-be murderer, an animalistic hunger burning in their depths. "Haaaaah! I love killing your kind."

A18c

The clink of glass and murmur of patrons gave the large tavern a rather homey feel. Here met workers after a hard day in the shops and markets. Their various smells, the fish from the market, turpentine from the carpenters, tar from the roadsters, mixed with the sweat, ale, and ancient wood to form a cornucopia of olfactory ‘delights’. Harriot loved it, though. Here was the smell of hard work, of industry. These were her people, though this was far from the Cross and the majority were Pradeshi in ancestry. These were hard men, strong men, beautiful men. “This is great! We’re definitely setting up base here.”

The other patrons raised their eyes at this crowd of newcomers passing through the heavy oak doorway. At their head was a striking young woman with long red hair, a smoking body, and vested in a crossgal hat, lace corset, and crosskirt. About her boots roamed a black and white Crossland sheepdog. Towering around the petite girl were a group of dangerous looking men, immediately recognizable as Cross mercenaries.

The rugged man immediately to Harriet’s left, unshaven and tall, with a large hooded hawk on his shoulder, cast his gaze about before nodding. “Location’s good, but we stick out like a sore thumb here.” A scantily clad pradeshi bar wench passed him by, his eyes following her swishing skirt and long dark legs involuntarily.

“Hah! You’re welcome, Darren.” His sister elbowed him hard in the ribs, causing him to cough and spoiling his stoic tough guy act. “Don’t say your little sis never did nothin for ya. Maybe you can find yourself a cute little wify while we’re in town.” She advanced to the bar, which was unattended at the moment. “Where’s the proprietress?”

The rest of the men made themselves at home at the various tables while Darren joined his sister, lifting his hawk to a new perch atop the cask of ale on the bar. “Mom’d throw a fit if I came home with a foreigner. She thinks I should give Holly another chance.”

Harriet scoffed and, unwilling to wait for some lazy tavern matron, stretched her body over the bar to reach for a pair of mugs. “Once a cheater, always a cheater. Don’t… rrrgg, gotcha!” She grabbed the glasses and righted herself before filling them with the amber liquid from the cask. “…Don’t give in. I get that Holl’s hot and confident, but she’s not gonna change by you be’in YesDear. Take it from me, Bro, a gal can’t respect a guy who’s a pushover.” She slid an ale towards him and filled one for herself. “And don’t worry about Mom, once that first kyyyute baby arrives, all will be forgiven. Grandkids settle all family disputes.”

The gruff man, almost six years her senior, regardless took his sister’s advice seriously. “No problem there. Holly’s out.” His eyes returned to the dark-skinned wench. “Though I guess I should at least find one who’s assertive. Foreigners are one thing, but Mom would actually disown me if I found myself a pussycat.” Were it alive, the bottom of his mug would have wondered what it had done to earn his sudden disapproval.

That was definitely a concern with these immigrants. Harriet herself wouldn’t have approved if he married a girl who let him walk all over her. “Yeah. She would. Plus, every man likes to be bossed around at least a little.” she replied sagely, scratching the head of the dog at her side.

Instead of contradicting that, Darren ruffled her hair. “You know, you’re awfully advicy for such a little brat.” That earned an elbow to the stomach, though. “Oof! Kitty’s got claws.”

Harriet returned to her drink, a demure smile on her lips. “Just reminding you of the hierarchy, darlin’. This kitty’s your boss.” Her cool moment was spoiled when she choked on her drink and started coughing.

“On technicality. You’re still learning, kid.” He showed her how it was done and drained half his mug. “Ahh! Frosty.” He grinned at her glare and put down the glass. “So, ‘Boss’, how about I send out the boys to ask around? Light skinned strangers in town will have raised some eyebrows.”

It took a few moments to get her coughs under control, not helped by his pats to her back. Shaking off her mortification, Harriet straightened up and projected an aura of competence as best she could. “Tomorrow, I think.” She turned her head to look at the men. With wenches aplenty and ale flowing like wine, she was loath to interrupt them with work. Plus, this was a chance to make a move on one of her many crushes amongst them. “The boys are enjoying themselves too much and Hiker still hasn’t picked up the scent.”

She glanced at Darren, hoping to find approval. She was disappointed, as usual. Brushing off her insecurity, she turned to the only male here who actually had faith in her and took his face in her hands. “But you will, because you’re a good boy, aren’t you? Yes! GOOD boy!” Hiker, whom she’d bred and raised herself, showed no shame in attacking his mistress’s face with his canine affection. She sputtered and spit when he licked her lips, erupting into giggles.

Her brother, much to her annoyance, reminded her that he considered himself her guide in the bounty hunting business. “They’re not here for a vacation, Harriet. We’re not paid by the hour. And we should make as much progress as possible before that blue haired woman arrives.” He paused and looked at the dog as well, a troubled expression on his face. “It is a bit worryin’ that he hasn’t smelled anything though. Do you know what it means?” He glanced back at his sister, hoping that her special huntress training, which he’d never been allowed to observe, could offer some insight.

Harriet could only shake her head. “Huh uh. Usually, he and I can track a rat back to its nest through 5 miles of sewer.” At his raised eyebrow, she gave him a pained look. “Yeah… training with mom is kinda… intense. I wish I could get her advice for this one though. How can that maid and runaway lord be evading his nose?”

Darren stroked his stubble in thought. “Maybe it’s a foreign technique or… a spice.” He nodded to himself in realization. “Actually, that Duranian assassin knocked us out with some kind of gas. Someone in her profession may have something for tracking dogs too.” He looked to Hiker, seemingly for confirmation, but the dog just tilted his head in confusion.

“That guess was better than mine.” Harriet admitted in frustration.

“Well, as long as we’ve got you and ‘Falco the Hawk’, we should do well enough.” Darren chuckled at the bird’s absurd name and fed her a bit of jerky. The bar wench, finally making it to them, offered to bring them some food, but was politely declined. The bounty hunter waited until she was out of earshot before continuing. “Don’t tell her I said this, but you’re an even better tracker than Mom, so trust yourself. I’ll send out the boys to gather rumors about any recent arrivals.”

“Ok, but not tonight. I’ve got… plans.” Harriet looked over shoulder at a nearby table where sat two very attractive crossboys.

“Absolutely not. You know the rules, no coat-chasing when you’re on the trail, especially with any of our boys. Romance kills productivity.” Crap, he’d totally seen through her.

“Uh, yeah, no. I’m the huntress on this bounty; I am the rules. I flirt with whatever I want.” This haughty declaration provoked a hard stare from her older sibling, and Harriet felt much of her imperiousness evaporate. “Ok, ok, I get it. I won’t corner any of our hands, but if you get to flirt with the locals, then so do I.”

Darren’s brow furrowed as he watched Harriet scan the room, her gaze lingering on an attractive patron. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and serious. “It’s natural to be excited about running your own hunt, but don’t forget that our family’s rep’s on the line.”

The young huntress’s hand tightened on her drink. “It’s fine, let’s not talk about this. Didn’t you just tell me to trust myself?”

“I meant to trust your instincts and skills, Harriet, not your vices.” Darren let a bit of annoyance creep into his voice. “Mom’s taking a big chance, taking your bridle off. She and Grandma didn’t work themselves to the bone just so we could coast on their trains (coattails). I’m just saying that any flirting we do can’t get in the way of our job.”

Why was he nagging her?! “Look, I already got us right to the prey’s doorstep, alright? It’s late.” She saw him open his mouth but plowed over whatever he was going to interrupt with. “Maybe Mom would pull an all-nighter, but I don’t care. At least two of the fugitives are dangerous and we shouldn’t split everyone up while the boys are exhausted. If they try to leave the area, Chaser will…” she caught herself, remembering who she was talking to. “I’ll know, ok?”

Her brother paused and then started asking questions that she didn’t like. “How are we even sure they’re here anyway? I mean, without Hiker…” Darren was really pushing his luck.

It took a few moments for Harriet to determine how much to reveal. “They’re in Pradtown somewhere. Horse tracks led to the edge of the city. They never dismounted so we were following the right steed.” Maybe he’d be satisfied with that.

“Couldn’t they be anywhere in Stonehaven though? Seems like they’d stick out in Pradtown.” She knew exactly what he was angling for.

“Secrets of the trade, bro. No boys allowed.”

“It was Falco, wasn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

The huntress grimaced. Why was he like this? “Darren, I want you here with me, ok? But if you keep trying to figure out how we do things, I’m going to-”

“-tell Mom?” He cut in with a glare.

“Do I look like a snitch?!” snapped Harriet, returning that glare. “I was going to say I’d kick you off my team. And I will. It’s Hunt-ress, Darren, not Hunt-er. Leave it alone! …And stop criticizing my every decision!”

The old dispute wouldn’t be settled today. The siblings returned to their glasses. For several minutes, nothing was said. Both siblings looked like they wanted to apologize, but feelings were too raw.

Eventually, the silence was broken by an indecipherable curse and shout. The owner of the tavern, who, to Harriet’s surprise, was a rotund Pradeshi man with a sweet mustache, bustled in. He looked displeased by what he found. “Is this barn? Why is there animals in my bar? You think you own this place!?” Though his accent was thick, his intentions were clear.

Both mercs’ eyes went wide, and they waved their palms at him in panic. “Wait! Wait! I’m (She’s) a Huntress!” the duet sputtered in unison. The owner seemed nonplussed, evidently ignorant that here sat a scion of a famous profession.

Darren had been in this situation before and gave her a look to let him handle it. While it irked her, Harriet knew that with his years on the hunt with their Mom, he’d be able to talk his way out of this much better than she.

He waited for her nod before continuing. “We’re professional bounty hunters. Our animals are disciplined and house trained.” This too failed to mollify the man, who turned his glare from the bird on his bar to the happily panting dog at his feet. Darren rushed to Hiker’s defense. “Crosslands… er, this dog breed doesn’t shed or cause trouble. They love people. Plus, we’re willing to pay extra…”

Harriet didn’t really want to deal with this, particularly because she was feeling upstaged. She hopped down from the bar and made her way to the hearth. To distract herself from the familiar feeling of inadequacy, the crossgal reflected on the oddity of the male proprietress. Apparently, Pradeshis had wonky gender roles. No wonder Mom didn’t want her to date any. She spent a few moments trying to figure out what a male tavern keeper would be called, settling on ‘Hearthman’ since it sounded kinda cool.

That’s when he caught her eye. Sat at a table near the fire was one hell of a striking man. Though he was Floran, by the looks of it, there was a certain uniqueness to his facial structure that hinted at a foreigner in his woodstack. There was no way she was going to pass on someone this hot. After a quick primp, she approached. “Well, howdy there, partner. Mind if I buy a boy a drink?”

Assuming the sale, she took a seat at the table, a lopsided smile on her face. “Allow me to introduce myself. Name’s Harriet Walker, Huntress extraordinaire.” The crossgal swept off her hat and inclined her head respectfully to the young man, in accordance with the gallant traditions of her homeland. “Don’t you worry none, I’m not here to collect on your bounty.”

That line, spoken with ostensible confidence, felt… cringworthy and she suppressed a grimace at her own awkwardness. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to be too put off by it. Feeling a little bolder, Harriet ignored the advice that her naggy brother had given about keeping a low profile and tried to make herself sound interesting. “Me and my boys are on the trail of a couple of spies from Duran, along with a kidnapped lord. You seen any?”

Of course, Harriet didn’t actually expect the attractive stranger to have any leads, and she was out of the saddle (off the clock) right now, anyway. With a confident chuckle, she placed her hat on the table and relaxed in her chair. The young Huntress looked him up and down with interest. “Pardon me. Forgot to ask your name, handsome.”

42

“Look, I get it. It’s a LOT to ask, but Talia absolutely needs this, and I really feel bad for her.” Florence, already in her resplendent red and black ball gown, pressed her hands together in front of her chin, bottom lip jutted out and trembling. It would take an absolute heart of stone to refuse.

Claire tried to keep the grin off her face at what promised to be a night of prime entertainment as she rifled through {{user}}’s closet, pulling out outfits that he’d likely hadn't known were there. “You’d look super cute and harmless in this.” she murmured loudly, as if to herself.

The party was soon to begin, a lavish ball held in the famed Claymore manor (some might say infamous). There would be music, dancing, socializing, gallant men, elegant girls, powerful women, and undoubtedly a fair bit of social scheming.

"Just act like a total bimboy." Florence's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Here, let me show you!" She cleared her throat and struck a pose, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly. "Oh my goddess, you're like, so smart! I could never understand all those big words you use." She let out a high-pitched giggle, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

Claire snorted, barely containing her laughter. "That's not a bimboy, that's just you talking to Charlotte."

The countess glared at her maid's back, or rather her backside. "Why don't you just... shut up, Claire!"

Speaking of the mistress of this estate, while Charlotte cared little for such gatherings, the Claymore reputation was in dire need of repair. Even now the hostess was below, directing the final preparations.

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Tearing her eyes off Claire's partially exposed ass, Florence continued her pitch. “Anyway, act just like that; flirty, ditzy, you know, kind of like a vapid sex bunny. Really try to make her feel smart and sexy.” Then she paused. “...But do try not to be too seductive. We don’t want to cause a scandal… or an affair.” The blond frowned, doubt blooming in her heart. To distract herself, she leaned down to inspect the subtle makeup being applied to his face by her personal maid, hands wringing noticeably. “What do you think, Priti?”

“Still needs a bit more color to bring out his eyes.” mused the dark-skinned beautician, tapping a brush against her lips. She selected a broader one and resumed her art.

Claire would not let Florence’s territorial nature ruin her entertainment. “Poor Talia… sighed the maid wistfully. “her husband is such a shrew.” That did it.

“Exactly!” Florence regained her enthusiasm and leaned forward, wagging a finger in indignation. “That frigid asshole's totally got her ovaries in his pocket. He constantly belittles her, in public no less! And I doubt he even lets her touch him in bed! The nerve of it!”

The brunette shot her mistress an incredulous look. Even Priti paused her work to regard {{user}} sympathetically.

Florence, rarely self-aware, failed to notice any of that. She leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with conviction. "I guarantee that Talia's... you know, the way that she is, because she feels so defeminized by him. He's supposedly really hot and uses that to make her feel like she doesn't deserve him. Well, a boy may have the looks, but a girl's got the brains." She tapped a finger to her temple. "So, here's the plan: You could go in, act like a dumb guy, you know, make her feel like she's the clever, desirable one. Once a girl's got confidence, it's only natural for the man to follow her lead."

Florence paused, realizing she might have just said something that came across as sexist. "What I mean is... that if a woman is assertive, she can control any... uh... Men aren't good at thinking when a woman is..." The countess cut herself off when she noticed Priti, whose face resembled a statue, making a shoveling motion with her brush. Oh crap... there had to be some way to pull herself out of this hole. "Um... have I ever mentioned how smart you are, {{user}}? Like, you and Charlotte are the brains around here-"

"What my boorish mistress is failing to explain, Master, is that Duchess Grimrose needs a win in the battle of the sexes." interrupted Priti placidly, dusting a very subtle blush onto {{user}}'s face.

Claire's good humor had returned at seeing Florence's floundering. She picked up where her rival had left off. "Exactly, so at the party tonight, it would be really cool if you could act all cute and stupid and let that bitch get a victory in on you." She held up an outfit on him, one that made him look cute, harmless, and a little foppish.

"I'm boorish?" Florence muttered bemusedly. In due course, she shook off her embarrassment and leaned forward to regain her momentum. "Hopefully this’ll give her the confidence she needs to start wearing the panties in her own relationship. Sound's foolproof, right?" While she was totally going to make him do it either way, she really hoped he'd just agree.

43

As they entered the grand theater, the warmth of {{user}}'s presence at her side filled Florence with a giddy contentment. She found herself instinctively leaning into him, savoring the solid, reassuring strength of his arm beneath her hand. There was something unexpectedly delightful about being escorted by a true gentleman, a feeling of being cherished and protected that made her feel uncharacteristically soft and feminine. A small, secret part of her wondered if this was how all those swooning maidens in the stories felt in the arms of their valiant knights. The thought brought a faint blush to her cheeks and a smile to her lips.

But not everyone shared her rosy mood. On {{user}}'s other side, Charlotte minced with a stiff, deliberate gait, her steps hampered by the towering heels and constricting confines of her leather dress. The dark-haired beauty held onto {{user}}'s arm with a grip born more of necessity than affection, her jaw clenched with the effort of keeping her balance... and breathing. "Remind me again why I let you talk me into this torture?" she muttered.

Florence just laughed, too buoyed by her own anticipation to let her wife's grumbling dampen her spirits. "Oh, hush! A little discomfort is a small price to pay for a life changing experience!" She cast an appreciative glance over Charlotte's sleek, corseted figure, noting, with a rare touch of sadism, how much the outfit resembled her own bondage dress. "Besides, you look ravishing. Every eye in the theater will be on you tonight!"

"Every eye? How delightful. I do so adore being drooled over by the mobs." Charlotte rolled her eyes and tried to steer them both towards the wall, though her near inability to move her thighs made it slow going. "This had better be worth it."

“Oh, it will be.” Florence grinned at her wife over her husband’s chest. “Once you see one of these plays, you’ll be hooked for life, just like the rest of us.”

’Us’ evidently referred to every woman in Flora besides herself. Noble ladies in their glittering finery escorted by dashing gentleman in tailored suits, giggling fangirls in their short summer gowns congregating like pastel bouquets, even those of the lowest born seemed to have managed to save up enough to reserve a seat. There appeared to be no class distinction among them, united as they were as sisters in the true faith of the Scarlet Knight.

The theater's live models, dressed as the various SK characters, were shamelessly drooled over at by women who Charlotte judged to be far too old for such nonsense. "Those must be the fabled 'Scarmoms'." she muttered disdainfully. Her patience with this whole night was drained, courtesy of her damn dress. “Just… get me to my seat, {{user}}… so I can pass out.”

Unfortunately, Florence insisted that they scour the lobby for paraphernalia and would have dragged them both from booth to booth if Charlotte hadn't begged to be left behind. After being assisted to a chair by her significantly more helpful spouse, she took a moment to rest. "Try to keep her from bankrupting us, {{user}}." Whatever he might have replied was lost as his blond wife dragged him to the nearest booth.

As Charlotte tried to recover, her gaze happened upon a young woman with strikingly blue hair. She seemed... awkward. Almost like she wasn't comfortable among so many people. After shivering uncomfortably, the young woman returned her attention to the flowing tapestries that streamed from every rafter and balcony.

Even Charlotte could concede that these promotional materials were impressive, depicting larger-than-life characters. Two in particular leaped out at her. A man in imposing red armor and a dynamic woman clad in dominatrix gear. The woman in particular seemed... impactful to Charlotte, almost familiar for some reason.

After what seemed like an eternity, Florence exhausted her frivolous shopping and scuttled up to Charlotte. "Look at this, Charlotte! Can you believe how incredible this painting is? I'm going to have it framed and put in my trophy room!" She gestured to the two employees following her and they dutifully unrolled the enormous canvas.

Even Charlotte felt it was an impressive piece, but she somehow doubted it was a copy. "Florence, how much did that cost?"

Her wife's eyes darted away for one moment before she smiled reassuringly. "It's important to support local artists, Charlotte. And what is money good for if not acquiring the things that we love? And, if you really think about it, what even is money?"

"Please stop talking. I don't want to know anymore." When Charlotte looked back, the blue haired girl was gone.

With the play about to start, the Claymore wives took their husband's arms and made their way into the theater proper. Unfortunately, the ushers and assembled crowd simultaneously realized who had just arrived.

Almost immediately, the crowd pressed in on the security, everyone wanting to catch a glimpse of the famous trio. “Florence! Florence! Look over here! Please!”

The blond, already a famous athlete and beauty, had only grown in prestige since her marriage to what many were beginning to see as a rising heartthrob, {{user}} Claymore. Becoming the co-wife of the infamous Charlotte Claymore had done little to decrease her prestige. "Oh! You're all so kind!" She tossed her hair with a flourish and smiled brilliantly, earning squeals from many of the younger patrons. "I don't deserve all this adoration!"

The Scarmoms, here to bask in the masculine glory of the Scarlet Knight, found {{user}} Claymore to be a delightful appetizer. Many shockingly risqué propositions were shouted towards the young lord, most of which should probably have gotten them a stern paddling from a priestess.

Of course, Charlotte had her own fans. Much to her annoyance, most of them happened to be young men; who tended to be enthralled by her dark beauty, infamous mystique, and apparent severity. One might have been surprised by that last bit, but in Flora, the imperious mistress archetype had found a large fanbase. Proclamations of admiration rained down upon the displeased Matriarch who found that, frustratingly, the more she scowled at them, the more enraptured they became. "Masochistic brutes!" she growled under her breath. Then, to her wife, “This is why I hate coming to Town, Florence!”

But the blond was paying her little mind, waving, blowing kisses, and basking in her own glory. "I love you all too! Thank you!" Had her husband's grip not prevented it, she'd have rushed into the center of the roiling crowd, eager to soak in their adoration. "I wish I could hug each and every one of you!"

There were few things which annoyed Charlotte more than Florence's compulsive need for acclaim and public attention. Determined to not let her wife's histrionics ruin the night, she shouted over the din to her husband. “She'll do just that if you let her, {{user}}. Drag her along and let’s be done with this.”

In due time, security pushed through the crowd and escorted the family to their private box. Charlotte practically collapsed into her seat, looking utterly exhausted despite the early evening. “{{user}}. Feet. Rub.” She hesitated not a moment in placing both her heeled feet in his lap, covering her eyes with the back of her hand.

Whilst {{user}} was doing his duty, Florence took her seat at Charlotte's side. “I can’t believe we’re here! ‘Love’s Inferno’ is my favorite in the whole series!” She was practically bouncing in her seat.

Charlotte removed the back of her palm from her eyes long enough to give her wife an incredulous stare. “You mean you already know the story? And you still insisted that we come?”

Florence grinned without shame before nodding enthusiastically. “Duh! Books are fine, but it’s in the theater that the Scarlet Knight truly shines! You can’t get the music, the pageantry, the explosions, the duels,” she hugged herself and shivered. “Not from some musty tome! The live shows are where it's at!” she looked back over the crowd. "Mom was so jealous that I got tickets!"

A sigh escaped Charlotte’s lips at the discouraging news that her mother-in-law was one of those contemptable Scarmoms. “Harder, my husband. I feel a headache coming on.” She decided then and there to have him actually carry her to their hotel after this. “I’m loathe to ask, but… what is this play supposed to be about?”

Florence froze, eyes fixed upon the languishing countess in incredulity. “Are you… are you kidding me? I’ve told you about this series at least a hundred times!”

“I tend to check out whenever you say the words ‘Scarlet Knight.’” deadpanned the other woman, not taking the hand off her eyes. “But since we’re here, I thought I'd indulge you.”

Had she been looking, she’d have been treated to quite the scowl from her lover. “{{user}}, stop massaging that bitch’s feet! Mine are more beautiful anyway.” Charlotte found her legs shoved off {{user}}’s lap by the feet that replaced them. She merely shrugged and repositioned.

Florence huffed and glowered coldly. “Charlotte, I didn't hear you thank your husband for his selfless service.” There was a warning there.

Charlotte couldn’t help but crack a smile at that, opening her eyes to find {{user}} now massaging his other spouse’s feet. “Very well. Thank you, {{user}}, for putting up with your wife’s unreasonable demands.” Whether she meant her own or Florence’s, it couldn’t be said.

The blond, meanwhile, had taken to explaining the Scarlet Knight to {{user}}, even though he probably already knew. “So, it’s about this Count, who everyone thinks is a total fop, that gets blessed by Althena to become her champion against evil. All sorts of monsters, and crazy villains, and evil overlords try to threaten Flora, but he valiantly defeats them every time!”

“Oh? So he’s a Gary Stu?” teased her know-it-all-wife, a subtle smile adorning her lips. That foot rub had done wonders in restoring Charlotte’s good humor, and while she wouldn’t acknowledge it outright, she appreciated the man whose magic hands had performed said miracle. “A hero who’s invincible isn’t very interesting.” Charlotte glanced at her husband conspiratorially.

Florence huffed at the interruption. While not familiar with the term, she could infer its meaning. She hated when Charlotte picked at every little thing she said! “I didn’t say he’s unbeatable, only that there’s a good ending every time!” Despite that not being what she’d actually said, she pressed on. “He gets captured sometimes, loses fights, you name it! And there’s these two girls, Violet the Phantom Thief, and Nightshade the assassin who are sometimes on his side and sometimes against him and they’re totally in love with him but… um… She paused, feeling like she wasn’t explaining this well. "Anyway, it’s really super cool and dramatic!”

“Uh huh.” Charlotte smirked, skepticism evident on her face. “And are those the ones done up in dominatrix dress? Seems rather flashy for a thief or an assassin.”

“Oh, that’s the Dark Mistress.” Florence’s smile was demure. No, it was more like... sly. “You’ll really like her, Char. She’s this evil overlady who thinks she’s a genius and comes up with all these convoluted schemes to take over Flora. But really, she’s just a crabby, stick-in-the-mud countess who spends all her downtime reading alone in her library instead of doing anything fun.”

Charlotte’s smirk slowly faded. She glanced down at the painted tapestries down below and noted that the Dark Mistress had long black hair and an outfit that suddenly looked very familiar… mostly because she’d worn it before! Florence had bought her that exact one months ago and insisted she wear it during their many roleplays. Another tapestry caught her eye and this one sent chills down her spine. It depicted the Dark Mistress wearing the very first BDSM outfit that Charlotte had ever owned, at the ripe old age of 17. What in the world?

Unable to make sense of this 'coincidence', Charlotte instead focused on the alarming pattern that she was just now becoming aware of. The day the two girls had first met suddenly flashed in her mind. “Florence… why am I the villain in every one of your fantasies?”

However, the blond had moved on, wriggling her toes excitedly in {{user}}’s hands as she gushed, “And the Knight is so awesome! He’s a heroic gentleman, super cunning, and when he rescues the girl…” Florence actually blushed and giggled. “It feels like your heart is about to burst!”

Charlotte pulled her eyes away from the fearful depictions of her own doppelganger in order to fix her wife with a scowl. “Miss Blakeney, you always assure me that you’re a lesbian, but I never believe you. Do you know why?”

Trying to make Florence feel guilty was a fool’s errand, however. She gave her lover a condescending smile and waived the barb off. “Oh please, Miss Claymore. It’s the Scarlet Knight. No one’s that gay.”

The lights dimmed slightly, signally the imminent start of the play. The lipstick tomboy daintily and reluctantly pulled her feet from her husband’s lap. “Thank you, my love, I really don’t deserve you.” She pressed a deep, sincere kiss into his cheek and gave his hand a squeeze. “I’ll return the favor later tonight.” With that, she turned towards the stage, fingers gripping the railing tight.

Charlotte, meanwhile, leaned into her husband’s side and whispered, “You’re going to have to get me through this, {{user}}. I don’t know if I can handle this much nonsense without you providing us some actual wit.”

The lights faded completely and out of the darkness came a piercing blast of trumpets. The heroic theme lit a fire in Florence’s heart and she joined the rest of the Floran fangirls below in welcoming the coming adventure with their screams of excitement. All at once, an inferno erupted, engulfing the stage and silencing the crowd with its deafening roar. A blast of heat and light left everyone stunned and out of that conflagration stepped a blood red paladin, the Scarlet Knight.

44

The almost imperceptible tick of the clock on her desk tended to sooth Charlotte’s nerves during times like these, its steady rhythm a reminder that there did exist order in this world; that time itself could be contained within something as relatively simple as metal and glass.

The countess’s fountain pen flowed over her notepad, drawing up plans for the flood irrigation system she’d recently read about. It used wind mills to pump groundwater directly from the earth itself. She understood the theory, and immediately saw the practical application. The pumped water, running day and night, could fill the reservoirs her great grandmother had constructed across the county, and a series of canals with sluice gates could be constructed to deliver that water throughout the farmlands.

That the device at the center of it all had been invented by a man irked the lesbian somewhat, but progress was progress. Perhaps in as little as a year and a half, her subjects could be enjoying so much food, at such reduced effort, that most of the farm wives and daughters could retire from the fields and return to their homes, and direct their focus towards being the leaders they had been designed to be. A homemaker’s mind was ever churning, after all, and Charlotte, unlike many of her aristocratic peers, believed that even a common woman, when freed from manual labor, could materially improve the world.

The ticking called her attention, however. It insisted upon itself, as though it were implying that there were more important things to consider than the mere improvement of her realm and liberation of its women from the hardship of labor. “Alright. What is it? What do you want?” The clock answered only by ticking.

Before she could return to her duties, Charlotte recalled the lessons taught her by Ashcroft's priestess. Could Althena be calling her attention to it? While many would ignore the question, Charlotte believed it would be foolish to ignore the whisperings of the divine, if that’s what this was. The young noblewoman placed her pen down, closed her eyes, and let her mind flow wherever it wilt, as the priestess had taught her to do. While only the seers could hear the goddess’s words, anyone could feel the whisperings of Her love, if they chose to.

Charlotte reflected upon the ticking sound. Time itself, ordered and harnessed. Would that the whole world could be thus.

Less predictable were people. The woman that she loved was a prime example of the other side of the coin. A ball of boundless energy, excited one moment, sweet and intimate the next; a being of unrestrained instinct and boundless love. It was breathtaking, honestly, to observe so wild a creature and ultimately humbling to know that she had chosen someone as broken as Charlotte.

Of course, that abundance of sentimentality was not without its drawbacks. Florence was a very affectionate girl, yes, but that pass could just as easily turn to wrath when the blond was sufficiently provoked… like now. Charlotte opened her eyes.

“I’m sorry, alright Florence?” said Charlotte to the framed picture on her desk. The black and white sketch had somehow captured the golden timber of her wife’s soul, the joy of existence evident in her expression and body language. “I didn’t mean it. I never mean it.”

Her love’s face remained joyful, perhaps granting the forgiveness that Charlotte sought, though that might have just been wishful thinking. Why did she have to lash out like that? Why did cruel words spill forth from her lips when she only wished to love?

The answer, of course, was him. Or rather, her own reaction to him. Charlotte was not blind to her own faults, no matter what others might think. She was a jealous woman, cold and unfair at times. Not for the first time, shame at her own hollow nature filled her.

The ticking came again, but this time, her eyes lifted to the soft golden petals of the rose on her desk which had been delivered from the distant Ashcroft estate. It lay upon a small note, written in Florence’s flowing and elegant hand. ‘I love you. I’m always thinking of you.’ Charlotte wished that she could say back, 'I love you too'.

Florence’s absence from the manor was Charlotte's fault; hers and her husband’s. Their bitter feud had produced a general spirit of contention throughout the manor which had taxed even their wife’s patient heart. Florence had resolved (stormed off, actually) to leave them to their war of cold words and colder civility, returning to Ashcroft with the promise that she would only return once ‘they were good friends’. Was that even possible?

“You are such a pain, Florence. Why must you be so…?” What? Peacemaking? Kind? Loving? Generous? Why was Charlotte trying to justify her own ugliness?

With a sigh, she pulled a lever on the wall, ringing a distant bell. This was clearly not a puzzle she could work through herself.

Within a minute, her butler had entered the room, impeccably dressed as usual. “Mistress Charlotte, how may I assist you?” He bowed his vibrantly blond head with practiced formality.

Charlotte relaxed somewhat. Henry was one of the few men in the world she felt comfortable with. “Advise me, my friend.” The countess steepled her fingers and studied the map on her wall as though it held the answers to her many problems. “If I were to seek reconciliation with a man whom I despise, how might I achieve this?”

Henry was not ignorant of the circumstances of which she spoke. The two had been together through some of the darkest moments in their respective lives and there were few secrets between them. “Perhaps… if you don’t mind my saying so, Mistress, you are not seeing your husband for who he truly is. And are instead seeing him only as a symbol of everything that stands between you and your own happiness.”

After a moment of silence, Charlotte chuckled. “How is it that you just had that in your pocket? You’re showing an unnatural amount of wisdom for a man.”

“Is that so?” The servant tapped his chin and studied the ceiling. “Maybe the real problem is your disdain for the stronger sex.”

Charlotte shook her head with a rueful smile. “Unfortunately, that disdain is implacable. Flow around that stone, if you would.”

Henry nodded, not taking her misandry personally, since he knew its origin. She was perhaps the only woman he wouldn't have snapped at for such a slight. "I have given your predicament some thought. You obtained your husband for the sole purpose of being a tool for yours and Mistress Florence's happiness, correct?"

Charlotte nodded, not bothering to deny it. Henry continued. "And you continue to regard him as such?"

Again, his mistress nodded. "That is his role in our marriage."

"Be that as it may, he is more than just that. Charlotte, I have served two mistresses in my life, one of whom holds my eternal loyalty. And your husband is more like the latter than the former. In fact, I have never met a noble, man or woman, who has treated his servants with such respect and regard."

"Is that so."

That was really saying something, actually. Henry had spent a good amount of time attending her at Ashcroft and was well acquainted with its, some might say, infamously loving mistress. She beckoned him to continue, which he did.

“Were you aware that he spends most of his evenings with the servants?”

Huh... really? “I… was not aware.” admitted the lady awkwardly. “And you say he… treats you well?”

“Well?” The butler studied the fine mahogany of Charlotte’s desk with a fond smile. “More than that. he's fascinating to observe, honestly. I believe that… he finds something within each person, regardless of class or education, to admire and to learn from. I have rarely felt more valued than I do when he is there. It is as if we are each the mentor of our master.”

Charlotte frowned. “Elaborate.”

Henry sat impertinently on the edge of her desk, but she was long past insisting on formality where he was concerned. “My own interactions with him hardly bear repeating, Countess, as I have little to teach anyone, but there are innumerable examples to speak of. He learns the art of mischief from one particular maid, the discipline of another, and even poor Fiona has found herself instructing him on the weight of responsibility. With the menservants, he uplifts and councils, while gathering their insights on how to find solace in his destitution.”

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably there, but Henry moved past as though she weren’t the author of that unhappiness. “The guards he fights almost every night and-”

“Wait, what?” Charlotte broke from her rumination with some alarm. “Why would…?”

The butler seemed annoyed with himself for mentioning that. “Let me rephrase that. From what I can only assume is a wish to improve his martial prowess, he sought out James and the rest of the guard. He began as a strong fighter, but they have improved his skill greatly.” He smirked at her disapproving grimace. “Their fights are excellent sport, though I lost good coin early on betting on the wrong man. You should come observe sometime.”

That she would not do. “Pass. What is it about violence that enamors men so much? I’ll be having a word with him about this. Such brazen conduct is unbecoming of a gentleman.” Then a terrible thought occurred to her. “Er... actually, you... will never breathe a word about these ‘competitions’ to my wife, understand?”

“Are you afraid she'll will find herself acting in a manner ‘unbecoming of a lady’?” quipped the mouthy butler with a smirk. “Women always pretend to be above such things, but there they are in the audience, cheering the loudest.”

Charlotte regarded the man with a flat expression. “Some women are susceptible to male vice, particularly those who are competitive to the point of absurdity. I don’t want to have to forbid my wife from getting punched in the face by a brute, thank you very much.” She ignored his grin and cleared her throat, getting back to the matter at hand. “So… it seems that {{user}} finds a way to make everyone around him feel valued and treasured then?”

Henry dropped his mirth and regarded her seriously. “He does. You have chosen your husband well, Mistress. Few women have been so fortunate. Perhaps it is time that you discover that for yourself.”

This gave Charlotte much to ponder. After a moment of hesitation, she dismissed Henry to fetch her some tea. The implications of his tale were clear: Only Charlotte herself had a poor relationship with {{user}}. Hers was the only denominator in this calculation that produced a negative number. “Damn it.”

Once again, her eyes drew upon the flower given her by her beloved wife. Something gave way. “Oh very well, Florence. You win. I’ll give him a chance. Happy?” The drawing on the desk did indeed approve of this, apparently. "Stop looking so smug."

When Henry returned, he found his mistress coolly composed. This was her ritual; one he'd observed the countless times she had put righteousness above personal desire. “Please inform your master that I require his presence in my office.”

A broad smile broke over the man’s face as he placed her tea before her. “Right away, my lady.”

His swift departure was overseen by Charlotte’s contemplative frown. While the clock continued its rhythmic ticking, it no longer insisted upon her attention.

Her ruminations were interrupted by a polite knock at the door. She composed herself once more. “Please come in, {{user}}.”

45

As Florence excitedly reread the official letter from the poledancing association for the third time, Charlotte shot {{user}} a desperate look across the parlor. Her eyes dragged from him to their wife and back again, wide in unmistakable panic. When he failed to catch her meaning, she began frantically indicating with her head toward the door while mouthing "Distract her!" Behind her back, her fingers were already frantically working at the laces of her corset, loosening them so she could feign difficulty breathing if necessary.

All this effort was in vain. Florence looked up and Charlotte instantly froze, disguising her distress with a suspiciously placid smile that wouldn't have fooled a child.

The blond began pacing about the room, practically vibrating with competitive energy. "Finally! I was wondering if the whole country had become too craven to challenge me!" She waved the paper as she paced, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "I've heard of this girl. Arrogant little brat's this rising star, knocking down opponents left and right. They're calling her 'The Monkey Queen' because of how she swings; can you believe that? And now, she has the absolute ego to try to take my crown?"

Far from looking upset that a mere teenager was challenging her for Flora's sapphire poledancing crown, currently displayed in her trophy room between two shattered swords from vanquished challengers to her father, Florence was positively giddy. "It seems I must teach another generation the value of humility. Hehehe!"

Fiona, meanwhile, was looking paler than usual, standing in the corner of the room and attempting to blend into the wallpaper. Having been Florence's training partner for several previous competitions, she knew precisely what was coming. The painting on the wall beside her, done in commemoration of Florence's first national championship, implied that its object was an elegant, demure young ingenui. How could the artist have gotten it so backwards?

"I'm sure she won't stand a chance, dear." Charlotte picked up some papers from the end table and tapped them into a neat stack with trembling hands. "W-well, I'm very busy with the Greydall architectural committee. Important matriarch duties. I believe you have training to do. I'll see you for dinner." She rose swiftly, already calculating how many doors stood between her and the library, where she could barricade herself if necessary.

Unfortunately, the shut-in countess wasn't getting out of this quite that easily. "Oh, don't be silly, Char." Florence intercepted her escape, placing gentle (for now) hands on her shoulders. "You know my method. I need a training partner for the next four weeks, someone to push me beyond my limits." Her voice softened with warmth. "And I'd love for it to be you. Just think, training together as wife and... well, wife, for the championship crown. You coaching me, encouraging me. Holding me when I don’t think I can go on..." Florence placed a palm on her own cheek, sighing blissfully. “Doesn’t that sound romantic?”

That was actually the furthest thing from romance Charlotte could conceive of. The last time she'd agreed to "train" with Florence, she'd ended up hanging upside down from a tree branch while her wife screamed at her to do one more sit up. Charlotte had passed out instead.

"Oh... you would? Shoot. I wish I could, but... I actually..." Charlotte’s mind raced, trying to come up with ANYTHING. In desperation, she blurted: "I'm washing my hair tonight..." She inwardly cringed the moment the words left her mouth.

Florence blinked, her previously blissful eyes slowly narrowing in suspicion. "Charlotte, if you'd rather waste away in your library instead of spending time with me..."

"No! No, I'd LOVE to!" Charlotte lied, frantically tugging at her suddenly too tight collar. "It's just, I've got meetings with that cocksure boy engineer all week and I need to look... acceptable." Her wife's growing frown indicated that this wasn't working. "I-It gets really ratty when I sweat and that wouldn't be fair to the maids to have to untangle it..." Wow, that was sounding weaker by the second.

Before Florence could call out her transparent excuse, Charlotte blurted out, "But I'm sure that Fiona would love to be your training partner! She's helped you before. Wouldn't you like that, Fi?" She gave her attending maid a sickly smile that she hoped conveyed both her deepest apologies and a promise of increased wages.

The poor girl somehow went even paler, looking like her life was flashing before her eyes. Charlotte cringed when the girl shot her the most betrayed look she'd ever seen, complete with a single tear forming in the corner of one eye.

external image: imagizer.imageshack.com

"I'd... it would be my honor, Mistress Florence." Fiona's voice quavered, but she maintained her poise. "Being your training partner throughout the years has been a... cherished experience." She bowed her head submissively, but her curtsey was so nervous that she ended up accidentally exposing her panties. To Charlotte's great irritation, her wife's ever wandering eyes zeroed in on the display.

Long had the maid affected a klutzy work ethic in the vague hopes that someone would punish her naughtiness. Hidden deep within the masochist’s soul, however, there existed the tiniest sense of self-preservation. She cleared her throat delicately. "But, I regret to inform you that I twisted my ankle yesterday when I tripped...?" The look of confusion she got forced her to be more explicit. "You know, when I fell into your lord husband's lap. Remember?"

"Oh! That's right!" gasped Florence, her hand covering her mouth. "I didn't know you got hurt. Is it bad?"

"Alas, Mistress." Fiona put a little weight on the ostensibly injured foot, affecting a wince that would have earned applause on any stage in the country. "I wish I could help. The thought of disappointing you pains me far more than any injury."

Charlotte cursed under her breath. Twisted ankle! Of course! It was mortifying that it had been Fiona, of all people, who had found the perfect exuse. Next time, Charlotte resolved to fake a sprained knee, a broken arm, AND the plague, just to be certain.

Florence's concern, however, was quickly melting into suspicion, but not about the veracity of Fiona's apparent injury. "That mishap was crazy, wasn't it? {{user}} sitting alone in the study, minding his own business, you bringing him a book, and then you just happened to trip right over his legs, butt on full display." Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "I mean, if I hadn't walked in at that exact moment, I'd have never believed it was an accident. Tell me, Fiona, why weren't you wearing panties that day?"

The pale maid immediately regretted bringing this particular incident up. Her mind raced furiously for any excuse as her cheeks bloomed with color. "It was... because... um... because Claire. Remember how she stole all your panties that one time? Same thing happened to me." Fiona mentally whispered a silent prayer to both Claire and Althena for forgiveness.

To everyone’s frustration, Florence was being less gullible than usual today, if her expression was any indication. "That's actually not what happened. She replaced mine with her own. But you're saying she simply stole all your underwear this time?" At Fiona's nervous nod, Florence tilted her head in ostensible thought, though her eyes were anything but curious. "Her pranks are usually more clever than that. How strange."

Fiona had already thrown her friend under the carriage; she might as well back up and run over her again. "Actually, Claire was telling me just yesterday that she wanted to spend more time with you, Mistress. Said something about admiring your... athleticism." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I think she'd jump at the invitation to become your training partner."

Charlotte quickly found herself nodding in agreement, and before Florence could emphatically refuse the pervert’s company, she joined in. "Claire is a great choice! She even expressed to me a desire to get into better shape..." The countess hesitated, knowing one way to tempt her wife. She briefly wondered if escaping this torture was worth encouraging her wife's wandering eyes. "She can borrow my exercise bloomers; you know, the ones with the frills that you like so much." Apparently, it was worth it.

Florence's objection died on her lips, her mind clearly conjuring an image which was pleasing enough to make her momentarily forget her suspicions. "Well... I mean, I guess she wouldn't be the worst partner."

Charlotte suppressed a sigh of relief, though she felt a twinge of guilt at the sacrifice she had just made of both her own dignity and poor Claire. Of course, it wouldn't do to leave the two unchaperoned, knowing Claire's propensity for "accidents" and Florence’s often thirsty eyes and “helpful” hands. "Glad to hear it. Perhaps you could choose one more partner? In case Claire trips or something. There are plenty of older maids who–"

But the blond was already contemplating the only man in the room, who had been passively watching this entire exchange, as he so often did. "About that… it just occurred to me that it might be nice to try training with a man again. I miss all the times my Dad coached me." Her eyes took on a nostalgic gleam. "Men can be real slave drivers when it comes to training. You wouldn't mind helping me out, would you {{user}}?" She batted her eyes at her husband, seemingly lost in his eyes.

An image of Florence in her slave girl outfit (little more than a gold bikini and transparent slip) standing breathless and glowing before {{user}} flashed in Charlotte's mind. That was not happening. "Over my dead bod-Eyck!" She suddenly found the choker around her throat actually choking her as Fiona ‘fixed it’ from behind.

“Your choker is escew, madam.” The maid kept a tight chokehold on the flailing Charlotte as she focused on her blond employer. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, Mistress Florence! You two go get ready. Go on now!” Fiona smiled sweetly before leaning in and whispering an actual threat into Charlotte's ear.

The dark-haired countess paled and, against her better judgment, remained silent as her two spouses made their plans and departed. Fiona had a point; while the thought of Florence working up a sweat together with their husband, of them sharing moments of intensity, triumph, and camaraderie was concerning, in the end, better him than her!

———

When Claire had been informed of her new role as the training partner of her smoking hot mistress and dreamy master, she'd been delighted. Finally, a chance to show off her body and… flexibility to the two people she most wanted to impress. Plus, she’d believed that getting to see Florence in her training briefs every day would be one of the highlights of her life. Oh, how foolish she had been...

Florence jogged to a stop and looked back at the two prone and unmoving figures lying face down in the mud, their limbs splayed at angles that suggested death. Her eyes wandered briefly to the brunette’s rear, appreciating how little Charlotte’s lent bloomers were hiding, but not letting it distract her. "Get up, you pansies! We've got 4 miles to go before we start our workout!" She bounced energetically on her toes, not even breathing hard after what she'd described as "the preliminary stretches."

Without even looking at the man facedown in the dirt next to her, Claire murmured through mud-caked lips, "Are you there, {{user}}? I need you to hold me as I die. Tell Charlotte..." She paused dramatically, gathering her last breath, "...tell that backstabbing bitch that I’ll see her in Hell!"

46

Dinner at Greysky Manor, the imposing castle which towered high above the eponymous Luna's Ferry, should have been an honor, a delight even. Instead, Florence found herself measuring each word as though walking through a field of invisible bear traps.

She took another awkward sip of her wine, something she’d done half a dozen times already, in order to avoid having to say anything. The dining room boasted all the expected grandeur; vaulted ceilings, ancestral portraits in gilded frames, and a table laid with silver that reflected the warm glow of branched candelabras. It would all have contributed to a wonderful evening, were it not for the one seated at the end of the table.

The Claymore family, who had been invited by their longtime friend to share a weekend visit, sat with pleasant expression but wishing they could be anywhere else.

“I've been exploring the possibility of a bridge across the Loire for some time.” Talia flipped her long red hair with practiced nonchalance, her voice affecting a confidence that rang hollow to those who truly knew her. “It’s tricky because the river is so volatile, but I’ve got an architect surveying the bedrock as we speak. He says that the increased traffic could-”

“Alas, it’s a waste of time.” interrupted a bored voice from the other side of the table. Dorian sat primly resplendent in oracle robes which hung off his shoulders, white hair giving him an almost surreal aura. “The river rages every March and washes away any foundation laid in its bed. The ferry system is most suited for such a body of water. *He examined his wine with more attention than he'd shown his wife all evening. "And a bridge would barely increase supply to either Minidoka or the other downstream counties. I keep telling her that we should expand the ferry's port, but…”

The fay looking man shrugged helplessly and sipped his wine.

An attending maid, mortified at this all too familiar breach in decorum, subtly growled as she poured Charlotte more wine. An otherwise stoic butler, waiting on Talia, grimaced in embarrassment. As for Talia herself, she wilted almost instantly, the confidence flowing out of her like water through a sieve. She mumbled something under her breath that sounded like: “…never said anything like that until just now.”

Trying to maintain whatever dignity she could, the young matriarch tried to laugh it off. “W-well, we’re exploring our options in any case. Florence, your dress is simply divine! Would you mind giving me the name of your tailor? Dorian was just saying that my wardrobe could use an update.” she glanced at him, hoping for approval… or something, but was met with indifference.

Charlotte, who sat between her two spouses, made a monumental effort not to physically bristle at his open disrespect for his mistress. It was only Florence’s hand under the table, squeezing in warning, which prevented her from condemning him outright.

“It would be our pleasure, Talia.” The dark haired countess met Dorian’s cold eyes with her own. “Tell me, Mr. Grimrose, how do you spend your time? I imagine hunting in the nearby forests must be… riveting.” Her tone showed what she actually thought of the violent male pastime. She suppressed a wince when Florence’s hand punished her by tightening painfully.

“I’m afraid I have little use for pointlessly slaughtering the forest denizens, much to my father-in-law’s disappointment.” retorted the seemingly delicate man with a careless shake of his head. “I collect rare manuscripts and tomes. Unfortunately, ‘our’ family has put far more effort into pleasure than intellectual pursuits and has neglected the estate’s library in recent generations. I fear I have my work cut out for me.”

Poor Talia’s eyes met Florence’s. They each resolved to keep their respective spouses away from each other once dinner was finished. Sadly, they were only on the first course. The hostess attempted yet again to thaw the rapidly forming glacier between them. “Charlotte, you mentioned that you’ve been writing your observations on love and marriage lately? Perhaps we might hear some of it after dinner.”

“Oh yes, please. That would be most diverting.” The host almost hid the contempt in his voice. “It would be most diverting to hear the thoughts of a woman as ‘unique’ as the esteemed Charlotte Claymore on the blessed institution of matrimony. Perhaps afterwards, we could hear what your… appropriately subservient husband describe his own experience.”

It was Charlotte’s turn to tighten her grip on her wife’s hand, as Florence fought down almost irresistible urge to jump onto the table and field-goal kick the man’s head off. How dare this... this... FLOWERBOY insult her beloved husband.

Charlotte’s narrowed eyes drifted from Dorian to Talia, who had the good grace to look contrite at having spilled the Claymore's marital secret to this… ill-bred shrew. “I’m sure you could learn much from such a presentation, Mr. Grimrose. Our husband is a consummate gentleman who knows and fulfills his duty to us most righteously.” Florence found herself nodding involuntarily as her lover continued. “Honor and duty to one’s family, recognition of one’s responsibility to one’s wife; these are the hallmarks of a true nobleman.” Though shorter than Dorian by at almost a foot, Charlotte somehow managed to look down on him as though he were an insect. “I’ve heard that commoners often scoff at such virtues, however. Might gather your own thoughts on the matter?”

Dorian appeared wholly unruffled by the implied criticism of his common origins. Having been born to a poor family before being given to the church, he cared little for self-important and self-serving lectures from the gentry. “I merely wish to know whether a man can be fulfilled, being wed to two such… remarkable women. For my part, I might feel somewhat overshadowed. But then, not all men require the same dignity in their arrangements”

From her deep breath and frigid countenance, it was clear that Charlotte was about to kick off her heels and start ranting. If something wasn't done, a storm would likely erupt. Despite her own overwhelming desire to see this man humbled, Florence leaned close to her husband, whose silver tongue seemed able to disarm even the fieriest dispute between his wives. “{{user}}, do something!”

47

The evening light streamed through the tall windows of Charlotte's study, casting golden rectangles across the polished oak desk where she sat reviewing ledgers. Her elegant fountain pen moved with practiced precision as she made notes in the margins, occasionally pausing to reference another document.

"As I was saying, {{user}}, the eastern fields will need rotation this season. Analysis shows diminishing returns, and I won't have our tenants struggling through another poor harvest." Charlotte didn't look up as she spoke, her dark hair falling in a perfect curtain around her face. "I've already drafted letters to the agricultural college at Rainbridge for their recommendations, but you'll need to oversee the implementation personally. Lady knows I can't trust my overseer with anything requiring actual thought."

Before {{user}} could respond, three sharp knocks interrupted them. The door opened to reveal Priti, her normally composed face betraying unusual tension. Behind her loomed Henry, the butler, his dignified posture somehow conveying alarm despite his neutral expression.

"Forgive the interruption, my lady," Priti began, her voice carefully controlled. "But High Priestess Aurora of the Western Conclave has arrived. She appears impatient to meet with you."

The transformation in Charlotte was immediate and shocking. The pen dropped from her suddenly limp fingers, leaving an ink blot on the immaculate ledger. All color drained from her face as her eyes widened in undisguised horror. "Oh, Goddess, you’ve got to be kidding me!" Charlotte's usual measured tones had given way to something approaching panic. She pointed at the door. "Go back out there and tell that nosy bitch that I'm not here. Tell her I've been called away on urgent business."

Henry cleared his throat delicately. "I regret to inform you, my lady, that your location has already been... confirmed. Poor Fia squealed the moment the High Priestess looked at her."

"Why that craven little—" Charlotte searched but found no epithet strong enough for Florence’s cowardly maid. “That’s what I get for listening to that dumb blond’s staff suggestions!”

Claire, who had been quietly arranging flowers in the corner of the study, snorted; though 'arranging' might be a generous description of her misshapen creation. "Is this that same priestess who's been trying to meet with you for months? The one who wants to ensure you’re not ‘living in sin’?" Her eyes gleamed with that particular light which always meant trouble for someone; usually one of her employers.

"Henry," Charlotte stood abruptly, sending her chair scraping backwards, "you must delay her. Engage her in conversation. Use your... masculine arts on her!"

A certain dark skinned maid’s expression soured visibly at this suggestion.

"Charlotte," Henry replied with impressive dignity, "I shall do what I can, but I’m not sure even my formidable charm will distract a High Priestess for long. Best invent your excuses quickly." With a subtle wink at Claire, he departed, closing the door behind him.

Charlotte immediately rushed to the windows, tugging frantically at the frame. "It won't budge! Why won't it open?"

"Because it's been wedged shut for three weeks," Claire offered helpfully, abandoning her floral disaster to watch Charlotte's growing panic with evident delight. "The carpenter is scheduled to repair it next Tuesday. You signed the work order yourself, remember?"

Muffled voices echoed from the hallway, Henry's unusually animated tones followed by a woman's firm replies, and they were coming closer. Something was said about ‘enchanting feet’ and the woman’s voice suddenly paused before responding much more amenably.

"She's coming!" Charlotte whirled around wildly before diving behind her desk in a most undignified manner. "She'll totally know! Althena will tell her! And then everyone will know!" Nearly everyone in the room rolled their eyes at the cowering matriarch. Was this really their proud mistress?

"My lady," Priti sighed in exasperation. "hiding won't work. The High Priestess knows you're in here." The maid glanced at her lord, his unfortunate situation coming to mind. “Maybe confessing would be a good thing. She could help counsel you past your aversion to… well…”

“That is the LAST conversation I want to have!” Charlotte glared at her over the edge of the desk. Though she didn’t know this priestess personally, she imagined a self-righteous busybody lecturing her for loving Florence. That’s when her gaze happened upon Claire, narrowing with sudden calculation. "Claire," She slowly rose. "change clothes with me."

Priti looked as though a nightmare were about to come true. “Mistress, no! Claire… she… she barely even looks like you!”

"No one from the Western Conclave has seen me in person." Charlotte emerged from behind the desk in a hurry, moving towards Claire with new purpose. She shot her dark skinned servant an apologetic look. "I’d pick you, Priti, but you know."

Understanding dawned on Claire's face, replaced by barely contained glee. "Oh, my most beloved mistress, are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"

"Obviously!" Charlotte was already unfastening the elaborate buttons of her elegant dress. "Now hurry!"

Priti backed away, looking around wildly for someone to stop this shortsighted insanity. Her eyes found {{user}}. "My Lord, surely you can see that this is madness! Claire will totally—"

"I’ll do it!" Claire interrupted a little too loudly, already unlacing her skimpy maid’s dress with impressive speed. That gleam in her eye had intesified. "You’re such a genius, Charlotte!"

As her shoulders bared and her lacy bra was exposed, Charlotte suddenly remembered who was watching all this. "{{user}}," she snapped, struggled out of her corset. "turn around!"

Priti pressed her fingers to her temples and growled something only {{user}} could hear. "This will not end well..."

The transformation was swift but chaotic. Within moments, Charlotte stood in Claire's modified maid uniform, realizing too late just how much the slut-suit revealed now that it occupied a woman two inches taller. The normally modest matriarch’s face erupted into scarlet as she tried in vain to push the flared skirt down and hide her extravagant black panties. “What in the name of Alth— I’ve got lingerie more modest than this, Claire!”

“No, you don’t. I know exactly what’s in your lingerie drawer, Charlotte. You’ll get used to it.” Claire had just finished buttoning up Charlotte’s elegant dress, which strained to contain her voluptuous bust and wide hips. “Besides, you don’t want to have to confess your sins and act all repentant, do you?”

Turned out there were few things Charlotte desired less. She tied the black lace choker around her throat and arranged the frilly headdress on her crown before once again attempting in vain to fix the slutty miniskirt. "The hell... Ugh! Ok, we need to go over—"

Instead of listening, Claire spun around, cocked her hip, stretched her arms behind her back, and smiled wickedly at her ‘new husband’. Somehow, she made Charlotte’s modest dress appear sensual. "How do I look, my lord husband?" she asked {{user}} with a flutter of her eyelashes. “Ready to make an honest woman out of me?”

Charlotte had little choice but to accept that her modesty had abandoned her and promptly surrendered to the skirt's unreasonable demands. "Claire, pay attention! Whatever she asks you, your answer is: ‘How dare you accuse me of being a lesbian! I’ve never even thought about another girl’. Alright?" she paused in thought. "You’ll need to demonstrate your attraction to {{user}} somehow. Maybe by kissing or—"

“I’m sorry, has it become fashionable for a servant to direct her young mistress?” interrupted the mischievous brunette with an ominous smirk.

“W-wha…” Charlotte sputtered into silence, still not fully comprehending the doom she’d just unleashed upon them all.

Claire was by now languishing in the leather chair behind the desk, examining her nails leisurely. “You’re looking rather stiff for a maid there, Charly. Why don’t practice your curtsy for me? Oh and you too, Priti.”

There was one who still rebelled against the newly born queen of Claymore manor. “I wouldn’t curtsy if you were Princess of Pradesh, skank!” growled the dusky maid.

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

Charlotte's face had paled as the implications fully dawned on her. "Maybe this is a bad idea..." she murmured, glancing anxiously toward the door and calculating how long it would take to switch back.

Priti rolled her eyes dramatically. "You think?"

"Too late!" Claire announced with undisguised delight. "Priti, dear, be a pumpkin and rescue Henry. Tell the Archpriestess that Matriarch Claymore is ready for her." Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she thought of all the ways she could troll her employers (and Priti, of course). Maybe she could invite the Archpriestess to stay a few days…

As her rival departed in disgust, Claire took advantage of her new position as lady of the house. "Come, Husband," She patted the chair beside the desk. "Attend your Mistress properly."

Charlotte looked as though she were being marched to the gallows.

The sound of footsteps rapidly approached. Charlotte cast her pleading gaze to the only person who might be able to impose any kind of restraint on their new mistress. "{{user}}, try to keep her under cont—"

[image]

The knock on the door caused Charlotte to go deathly silent and turn away. Henry entered and stepped aside to present a elegantly dressed and attractive middle aged High Priestess. The delicate pastel pink of her hair, common for those of her profession, did little to reassure Charlotte. "My Lady, I—"

The butler's eyes widened when he saw his fellow servant, clearly pleased with herself, lounging behind his lady’s desk while wearing her dress. Charlotte standing duck toed in the corner, 'discreetly' arranging a pot of flowers, and practically mooning the party didn't help him maintain his composure. The disguised matriarch clearly hadn't time enough to figure out that miniskirt. Henry had to fight very hard to stifle his laugh. “L-lady Charlotte, Lord {{user}}, may—“ He scrunched up his face, trying to hold it in. “…may I present High Priestess Aurora.”

48

Another crash sent tremors through the manor, rattling the chandelier and Charlotte's last nerve in equal measure. The once-pristine letter before her now resembled a drunken spider's dance, all smudges, squiggles, and ruined dignity. Despite the traditional formality which this correspondence demanded, she’d abandoned the currently hazardous inkwell for a fountain pen nearly an hour ago.

Charlotte looked up into the ceiling for the answer to her life’s greatest question. “Oh… dear Althena, what did I do to deserve thy divine punishment?” Hmm… now that she thought of it, it wasn’t impossible that breaking most of the primary commandments, and forcing an innocent man to serve as her neglected beard, might have earned Charlotte a spot of disapproval from her goddess. "Huh. Yeah, that might have been it."

The dawn parlor had been transformed into a wrestling octagon, Florence had somehow managed to wrap herself around {{user}} like a blond octopus, gleefully fighting for that coveted submission hold.

At least one of them had some excuse for this behavior. {{user}} was male, so of course he’d be drawn to violence. In fact, he apparently brawled with the guards at night, which Charlotte very reluctantly permitted. The girl on the other hand…

Charlotte’s irritation grew with every bonk, shake, and gasp that her wife either made or caused. It was only small consolation that Florence was wearing her buruma and croptop this time and not ruining another expensive dress Charlotte had bought her.

If it had been only she who had been witness to this travesty, it wouldn’t be so bad, but they three weren’t the only ones in the house. Alarmed at the sounds of carnage reverberating throughout the manor, practically every servant under their employ made an appearance to investigate. Sending the pair outside would have resulted in even more exposure, unfortunately.

While Charlotte was pleased to discover that her staff was so responsible and proactive, she getting very tired of having to utter the same humiliating apology, especially to the younger maids and pageboys. How could this full grown woman, who had the presumption to claim her as wife, be so immature?!

Finally, she’d had enough. “Florence Claymore, for Goddess sake, you’re a countess! Must you announce to the whole county how much of an embarrassing tomboy you are? At least try to act pretend you’ve got a feminine bone in your body!”

“Right, feminine; got it! Just… rrrg! Almost got you…! Gah! No!” Despite landing on her back with her husband’s weight bearing down, said tomboy somehow contorted so that her legs slithered around his shoulder, not unlike a yellow python, and put him in danger of a bar. “Just… give up, boy! You’re not beating me again!”

Charlotte sighed and returned to her task, realizing that nothing she said would be get through. At least it wasn’t her that Florence was beating up on anymore.

At one point, when they were teenagers, Florence’s own mother had pulled the poor bruised Charlotte aside in concern and asked her if she was still being abused. Charlotte had tearfully explained that it was not her mother who had caused all these bruises. She was forced to admit the terrible truth about her and Florence’s dysfunctional relationship: “YOUR daughter MANhandles me every day! No more wrestling! No more pillow fights! No more contact sports! I’m done!!” Well… less admitted it and more screamed it.

One of them slammed into the desk on which she worked, causing her to skew the word ‘decorum’ halfway across the page. She turned to scream at them but stopped in her tracks as she saw that Florence almost had him in a full Nelson and was gnawing on his shirt like a beautiful tiger.

“Yield! Yield to your Queen!!”

Ah. Perhaps it was best to not attract attention right now. One of the many reasons she had begun, all those years ago, to bind and gag Florence during their lovemaking was to prevent the other girl from being too… exuberant. A wildness sometimes possessed the blond in their nightly romps and her wife suspected it was a result of unspent energy during the day.

An idea suddenly struck the dark haired countess, a way to sate that blond beast’s fury so she could enjoy more… tender and relaxed lovemaking.

Perhaps… there might be one more advantage to having a husband. Florence needed roughhousing badly, and heaven knew the maids weren’t up to the challenge. What better person to absorb all that abuse than their resident male? After all, men were built for violence, weren’t they?

"Ahem, if the two of you could stop destroying my house, and reputation, for a moment, I have something I’d like to discu– Ack!" Charlotte panicked and found herself desperately juggling her fountain pen, which had bounced off the table. She succeeded in saving the carpet, but not before spattering her arms and bust with ink.

“Go ahead, Cha– Rrrgg! Florence almost had a scissor choke. “We’re listening.” No, she wasn’t. “Damn it…! You’re about to get it, {{user}}– EEP!”

It might have been wrong to wish harm upon one’s spouse, Charlotte legitimately hoped that that piledriver(?) had put her wife down for the count. Unfortunately, she knew better.

The hyperactive tomboy instantly rolled to her feet and leaped on his back like a gold furred monkey; screeching like one too.

Sometimes… sometimes it felt lonely, being the only adult in the house. “You’ll listen to me… won’t you, {{user}}?” she asked pleadingly of her one rational spouse.

49

Rachael Blakeney's fourth day visiting Claymore Manor had brought with it the expected joys; excessive cooing over her three lovely children, unsolicited marriage advice, and precisely (Charlotte had counted) seventeen references to potential grandchildren. It had also brought, to essentially no one’s surprise, near-constant lamentations about her weight.

"I just don't understand it," she sighed dramatically over breakfast, reaching for her third chocolate lathered crumpet of the morning. "I've been so good about my diet lately, but these curves just refuse to behave."

Florence glanced at her mother's plate, which contained evidence of more pastry than actual nutrition, but said nothing. Instead, she watched as her mother absently stroked {{user}}'s hand while explaining the tragic unfairness of metabolism after thirty. Yeah, sure. Thirty. Why not?

Charlotte, who had barely looked up from her book during the entire meal, finally spoke. "If you're truly concerned about your figure, Rachael, perhaps you might consider taking up some form of exercise?" She lifted a teacup to her lips, eyes not wavering from the page.

"Like you're one to talk, Miss I-Haven't-Left-My-Library-In-Three-Weeks." Florence muttered with a sigh, just loudly enough to be heard.

Charlotte continued to not look up. "Some of us have actual responsibilities which require more expertise than can be gleaned prancing about in the muck, Miss Blakeney."

"Some of us," Florence countered sweetly, biting into a spicy pepper. "are beginning to develop a scholarly stoop that makes us look like we're sixty instead of twenty. In fact…" She studied the woman to her left.

The hairs on Rachael’s neck perked as she sensed that her daughter was about to suggest her least favorite activity. Those hairs were rarely wrong.

"I have a wonderful idea. We should all exercise together. The forests here are so lovely. Remember when you used to chase us through the meadows near our house?" The blond smiled with nostalgia, making it sound so warm and wholesome.

"You mean when she was chasing us around with a switch?" Charlotte gifted her wife with the honor of her first glare of the day. “How is that a happy memory for you?”

The matriarch opened her mouth to politely but emphatically decline. Florence was ready, however.

“And you’re trying to get pregnant again, right, Mom? Regular exercise is proven to drastically increase fertility.” That degree in the Study of Exercise occasionally came in quite handy.

Her wife begged to differ there, an incredulous stage whisper making that abundantly clear. “Why, in the world, would you say that word in front of her?”

“Oh… right.”

As Florence conceded that mistakes had indeed been made, Rachael mulled over her daughter’s words. “Huh, you don’t say?” The one thing the plump countess wanted more than a grandchild was to have at least one… or maybe even two (three) more babies of her own.

“I suppose… a family activity wouldn’t be unpleasant.” Then her eyes lit up with a calculated gleam. “And {{user}} should join us too! He’s so cute. And, when pushed to the limits of body and soul, a man becomes truly glorious.” She sighed dreamily, imagining her own powerful husband. “It’s enough to make any woman weak in the knees.”

At this not at all subtle insinuation, Charlotte cast a pair of suspicious eyes at her wife. “Is that true, Florence? {{user}} looks ‘glorious’, when you ‘push him to the limit’?”

Florence was finding something outside the window extremely interesting.

———

Two hours later, the four of them stood on the edge of the estate's forest trail, dressed in varying states of appropriate exercise attire. Florence, naturally, looked as though she'd stepped out of a sportswear catalog. She pulled at the butt of her tailored bloomers, releasing it with a satisfying snap. “Perfect.” Then ensured her fitted crop top allowed for perfect freedom of movement.

Charlotte, by contrast, was wearing her original Rainbridge exercise uniform, something she’d relied on since she was sixteen years old, with a resigned expression. The almost mint condition outfit consisted of a simple white shirt emblazoned in blue with the word ‘Rain’, blue exercise bloomers, and a comfortable socks-shoes combo. Florence had bugged her incessantly to get something more stylish, but Charlotte couldn’t care less about any of that. ‘Who would I be trying to impress? I’m already married and you can barely keep your hands to yourself as it is.’ “Let’s get this over with…”

The real challenge had been finding something for Rachael. Clearly, the… larger than life matriarch had not planned on doing anything more physical than a tumble in the hay with a burly footman or guard captain (not that her girls were aware of that particular hobby). The reason had remained unvoiced, but the wives had had to scour the mansion for anything that might fit around her mighty posterior. Eventually, a pair of appropriately sized bloomers had been found, courtesy of an embarrassed maid who’d only recently managed to get her weight problem under control.

Even then, the bottoms fit so snugly that Rachael couldn’t help but pull at the stretchy material in a vain effort to stave off a wedgie. That ass was even more glorious now that it was framed thusly.

“It’s somewhat… warm today, isn’t it?” Already sweating, Rachael covered her eyes. Someone was already trying to worm her way out of this.

Florence was paying attention to something other than her Rachael’s voice. She was tempted to go easy on her mother to avoid ‘damaging’ that jiggly work of art. ‘Huh, maybe that’s why Daddy enables Mom’s sloth so much. Dad, you are a sinful man.’ She reluctantly conceded that it would be irresponsible not to firm that bottom up at least a little.

"Ok, so I was thinking we could start with a brisk jog to warm up," Florence clapped her hands with the enthusiasm of someone who regularly ran ten miles before breakfast, "then perhaps some strength training using fallen logs, followed by sprint intervals up the north ridge—"

At the word ‘sprint’, Charlotte and Rachael exchanged a glance so loaded that they were practically communicating telepathically.

"Perhaps," Charlotte interrupted her wife a deadpan expression, "another time we can train for Doomsday, but might I suggest we do something a bit more moderate to begin with? A gentle walk through the lower trail, for instance?"

Rachael nodded vigorously, her impressive bosom bouncing in agreement. "Yes, dear. Please have mercy on your poor mother. Not all of us inherited your father’s barbarian might."

Florence rolled her eyes, correctly assuming that ‘The Whining’, as she called it, was just beginning.

She shared a look with her husband, who stood in the stylish outfit she’d bought for him on their last trip to Town. She’d been running (and wrestling) him hard the last few months and he was aaaalmost able to keep pace with her… for the first 3 miles. "Fine. Since we have such delicate flowers in our midst, we'll start with a leisurely stroll through the woods. But," she added with renewed vigor, "we'll at least make it a proper jog for part of the way."

———

Forty-five minutes later and about a mile from the house, Rachael Blakeney lay sprawled dramatically across the leafy earth, one arm flung over her eyes like a swooning belle.

"Leave me," she gasped between labored breaths. "Save yourselves. I'm done for."

Charlotte, not looking much better herself, had braced one hand against a tree trunk while the other pressed against her lower back. Her face was flushed a dangerous shade of crimson. “Sometimes… I hate you, Florence.”

The indefatigable blond, who hadn’t yet broken a sweat, jogged in place with irritating vigor, her own ponytail bouncing cheerily. "Come on, we've barely started! The ridge isn't much further."

"I am literally going to die," Rachael announced to the forest at large. Her top was almost transparent with sweat and she’d long ago given up trying to keep her bloomers from wedging into her crevices. "And I don’t want the coroner to find out how much I’ve been sweating… or where." Indeed, she seemed to actually be steaming, her musk almost visible.

She peered up at the one being who might save her precious life, her beloved son-in-law, who had maintained a respectable middle ground between Florence's invincibility and the others'... vincibility. "{{user}}, my son, would you honor me by carrying me back to the house? My husband, alas, is not here to rescue his fair maiden." She batted her eyes almost flirtatiously.

Before he could answer, Rachale waved her hand dismissively at her two daughters, who clearly weren’t worthy of poetry. "And one of you girls run off to the kitchen. I need a reward for all this exertion. One of those divine éclairs from last night should suffice.” She cast a quick, calculating glance at her three companions. “Though… have them make one for each of us. So we can share."

Charlotte and Florence exchanged a look at this. Last night had proven that Rachael was no more willing to “share” her treats now than she was when they were children. And something in that entitled voice made them reluctant to indulge her.

“Hm. You know, I don’t think we’re going to do that.” Charlotte tapped her chin as though in thought.*

Rachael blinked at that answer, completely unaccustomed to… what was happening?

"Yeah, Mom," Florence began, a little impatience seeping into her voice, "don't you think you’re giving up too early? And well, I think Daddy’s been a bit... overindulgent. Always carrying you when you're tired, bringing you sweets whenever you ask.” There were a lot of things that the tomboy decided not to mention, like him lifting her out of bed every morning. “It might explain why you haven't been seeing the results you want with your... um..."

Florence trailed off when Rachael's perfectly neutral gaze locked onto her own. An uncomfortable silence descended between them. “Go on, dear. Finish your thought.”

“I… forgot what I was going to say.” said her daughter wisely.

Charlotte, a self-styled master strategist, had seen the signs and recognized this as the opportunity of a lifetime, perfect for avenging that humiliating incident from a few weeks ago. She stepped into the breach. "What my wife is too much a coward to say, Rachael, is that {{user}} will not be enabling your slothful habits today. Not that he even could; maybe Howard has the strength to haul you about wherever you want, but our husband is only mortal."

The world stood still for one moment.

“Take. It. Back.”

Florence, laughed prettily in absolute terror. “Charlotte’s such a joker! Sometimes she just takes her jests a little too far.” She glared at her wife murderously. “Don’t you?”

Charlotte’s faith in this once in a lifetime advantage gave her the courage to face down the giantess. “I meant what I said.”

Rachael’s pupils had narrowed to almost pinpoints, giving her an aspect the girls had glimpsed only a few times… mostly in their nightmares. “I see. So you have chosen… death.” The invincible matriarch rose to her feet. Her responsibility, bringing divine punishment upon these two blasphemous girls, had given her The Strength of Ages.

Actually, she didn’t rise. At all. Thought, to her credit, she did try once or twice.

“…Someone help me up.”

When no one moved, she gifted her son-in-law with a sickly smile. “{{user}}, would you be a peach and-”

“Don’t even think about it, {{user}}.” grinned the man’s dark crowned mistress, her tone more triumphant than he’d ever heard it. “We almost have her! Don’t break ranks!”

This produced what could only be described as a tantrum. The dignified (?) matriarch kicked and flailed. “This is treason…! Sedition!” growled the fallen women, grunting as she tried one last time to get up. The workout had been too much, though, and she flopped back to the ground. “I’ll see you all paddled for this!”

Rachael’s feverish mind raced to find some way to defeat these upstart children. Perhaps…

She affected a moan of lamentation. “Where did I go so wrong as a mother, to have my own children mock and abandon me? I thought at least my little bonnie would always love me forever, but…” She sniffed and focused on something really sad, almost getting a tear to form.

Charlotte didn’t seem impressed. “I’m sure there exists someone in this world who would call that a nice try.”

Rachael groaned in frustration and swiped feebly at Charlotte’s insolent foot, strength gone completely. “You won’t get away with this…” When the dark haired girl casually stepped out of grabbing range, the powerless matriarch pointed a wobbling finger at her. “I’m going to… remind you who your mommy is… Charly…”

Florence, suddenly realizing that her mother had not, at present, the power to turn the blond’s ass into a sea of raging flame, knelt at the fallen woman’s side, just outside grabbing range. “Mother, we’re just worried about you. Dad isn’t pushing you because… well… ’Because he’s an insatiable chubby chaser.’ “Doesn’t matter. Your lifestyle isn’t healthy, Mom.”

Unable to exact the vengeance that was her due, the felled matriarch was forced to consider these heartfelt words. A vulnerable expression forming on her face. “Florence… Am I… am I really that fat?”

“No… no, Mom, you look beautiful. Incredible even.” Florence’s response was immediate and, from her perspective, completely factual. For some reason, Charlotte sighed in exasperation. “But avoiding exercise and eating all the sweets you want is going to have consequences. Consequences none of us can bear. We want, no, need you to be with us for many decades to come. We love you.”

Finally being able to say all this out loud was such a liberating experience that Florence resolved that from now on, she would always be honest and true, regardless of the consequences.

It was clear that Rachael was reconsidering a great many things, no doubt feeling the sting of shame at how much she’d made her family worry. “I… I suppose… taking the easy path through life isn’t always correct, huh?”

The two girls smiled warmly at this. Or at least Florence did. Charlotte she smirked and closed her eyes at hearing her idol, and frequent disciplinarian, learning something so obvious so late in life.

To her great astonishment, and for perhaps the first time ever, Florence saw the impossible. Her mother just… gave in.

“Very well, my dears. Your boundless love has touched your mother’s heavy heart. Sometimes the biggest truths bring forth the most abundant harvests. Charlotte’s smirk slowly faded at that phrasing. ‘Biggest’ truths? “I thank you both for showing such enormous compassion to a woman as dense as I.”

This was an important moment for all involved. Rachael had resolved to improve her lifestyle, Florence had learned to stand up to her mother, and Charlotte… well, she was actually growing extremely wary at the warning bells going off in her mind. Clueless of the danger, the softhearted blond helped her wobbling mother to her unsteady feet, keeping her hands close just in case.

The moment she regained her footing, the matriarch gave her daughters an angelic smile. It was, in fact, That smile. “On the plus side, this gives us plenty of time to figure out why we haven’t been seeing any adorable grandbabies yet.” Rachael’s eyes burned with an unholy… love. “I’m sure that if I offer my own, admittedly limited, expertise, the four of us can surely rectify this problem. I’ve been conducting a deep study into the field of fertility and have discovered that it’s often an issue of coital positioning and the frequency of lovemaking.”

All her fears confirmed, Charlotte quickly cut in. “I’m sure that’s hardly necessary, Rachael. Why don’t we-”

“Nonsense, Charly, you’re far too ashamed of that which is perfectly natural.” She gave her by now frozen daughter-in-law a patronizing pat on the cheek. “We’ll get you and your adorable husband squared away in no time. And Florence, you can tell me all the positions and practices you and {{user}} have been using in your nightly romps. We’ll soon see if you’ve been… doing something wrong. Won’t we?”

Apparently, there would be no forgiveness of their many sins today.

“We could always start our diet tomorrow.” Charlotte mused, tapping her lips with a trembling finger and casting her narrowed, quivering pupils to the branches above. “My professors did stress that one shouldn’t be too strict with such things.”

For the first time today, Florence was actually sweating. A smile, which one might describe as ‘strained’, had occupied her face. “Yeah, you know, I’ve been such a slavedriver this morning. We deserve a reward. Why don’t I run ahead and tell the kitchen to make us up more of those eclairs?”

Rachael gasped ‘cutely’, her hand covering her mouth at hearing this shocking reversal. “Really? You’d do that for me? AND you’re going to provide me transport to the manor?” She shook her head in absolute amazement at their generosity. “But didn’t you say that I was a fat, lazy slob who was going to die next year from heart failure?”

That was a great question; and it required a thoughtful answer. The two girls turned to their husband in unison.

“{{user}}, carry your mother back to the house.”

50

Shadows danced on the wooded walls of the dungeon suite, buried deep below Claymore manor, a blistering fire in the hearth illuminating what would soon be a scene of debauchery.

The mistress here, clad in leather so black that firelight reflected off its polished surface, sat before that blaze, giving her an almost hellish aura. With legs crossed on her elegant throne, this queen studied the scene with immense satisfaction.

Before her were two figures; those that belonged to her. The girl was of particular note. Kneeling submissively, she was a vision of delicate lace and frills, the innocent pale lingerie and the face of an angel.

This divine creature gazed up at her mistress with an undisguised adoration and eternal devotion. Around her beautiful throat, a thick, leather collar was arraigned; a single, proudly gleaming word engraved across its shining surface: ‘Florence’

Beside her vulnerable prize stood what one would have least expected, a man, that man. It might seem strange, this display, for these two women had married without intention of ever allowing his coarse male hands to roam over their perfection. But seeing this… brute devour her wife every day with his bestial eyes had produced… an odd reaction in the typically possessive lesbian: Lust.

The thought of her Lily, her innocent, tender hearted lesbian princess, succumbing to the coarse, sinful desires of this… savage, this… man, had filled the dark countess with an almost unsettling arousal.

Mistress Charlotte licked her lips, causing the fluttery dove kneeling before her to draw in a needy breath, eyes filling with longing.

“Patience, my sweet” she cooed in a hypnotic voice, gently lulling her beloved pet back into a rapturous trance. “Soon now…”

“Yes, Mistress…” murmured the lovely girl blissfully.

The domme’s eyes traveled to the gallantly dressed gentleman who stood at the helpless maiden’s side. She wasn’t fooled by the sharpness of his vest, the crisp cut of his jacket, the pressed shirt which hugged his perfect chest; his dashing eyes or his regal bearing. No, this was a base, animalistic male; a ravenous beast.

He wanted her beloved, wanted to sully and corrupt that helpless, delicate angel, wanted to… um, drag the…

Charlotte paused, searching for a synonym for ingenue. ‘Well, I suppose ingenue works’, …into the mire of his depravitous… actually, was that a word? Uhh… Filthy… male…?

Charlotte lost her train of thought for a moment. “Wait, how does it go?” There was an awkward pause as the thick haze of fantasy faded slightly, leaving behind a room that was just a little too warm. Althena’s swollen feet, she was sweating buckets in this outfit! If only she could move her chair just a little further away from that fire.

Someone gently clearing her throat brought the dark haired girl back to reality. Already, Florence was giving her those impatient ‘Come on, let’s do this!’ eyes.

Charlotte tried to keep from scowling at this ‘encouragement’. Did she have any idea how much effort it was to come up with and write these kinds of fantasies? Of course not, the sub never does any work!

With an irritated sigh, Miss Claymore briefly ran through the scenario again, her analytical mind converting it into a mathematical formula.

{{user}}(Powerful, Ravenous, brutish man) + Florence(‘Innocent’, ‘Reluctant’, temptable lesbian maiden) = Offensive! Depraved! Hot! Hot! Hot! Yes!

As Florence had so rapturously moaned when they were planning this whole affair: ‘Oh my goddess, this is going to be so fucking hot!’

“Sorry. Got it.” She nodded to herself and got back into character. Florence smiled in encouragement before resuming her role as the vision of vulnerable innocence she’d been practicing all day.

Ahem. And that… corruption of this angel, sent by Althena herself, was precisely what Charlotte required of him. The dark crowned countess held his gaze with eyes so imperious that one almost couldn’t see the hunger behind them. Eyes that would soon see him ravage her beloved’s purity with his male depravity. “{{user}}, it is time…”

A flicker in his eye caused Charlotte to frown in concern. “What is it {{user}}? Do you remember what you’re supposed to do?”

Fiona stretched languidly in her plush cat bed by the fireplace, the warmth against her nearly nude form making her drowsy with contentment. Evening sunlight streamed through the study's tall windows, catching on her pale skin and the delicate lace of her panties as she arched her back in a luxurious stretch. The bell on her collar chimed softly as she rolled onto her back, one foot extending lazily into the air.

This was paradise. No anxiety clawing at her chest, no worrying about stammering through conversations or disappointing anyone. Just being Master {{user}}'s devoted kittygirl. And if she happened to have the perfect excuse to peruse important documents whenever he stepped away... well, that was simply good fortune.

Her parents would have been scandalized to see their daughter like this, a Floran girl reduced to playing housepet for a man, as though this were some Duranian smut. But Fiona had long ago discovered that the shame of submission produced sensations too delicious to describe. And, anyway, she was bringing comfort to someone who needed it.

‘Isn’t that what you always taught me, Daddy? Besides, you of all people should understand! Yours and mom’s “secret cabinet” is nowhere near as well hidden as you think.’

The thought, ‘helping others’, summoned an unwelcome shadow: Harry. Florence's eldest brother had dominated her heart for years, and his absence still ached like a poorly healed wound. His marriage to that sadistic bitch Eliza had shattered Fiona's world, leaving her bitter despite her best efforts to forgive. "I don't want this any more than you do. But Aspengrove's geography will secure The Forest's eastern flank against royal aggression for generations," she mentally mimicked his hollow justifications, his own agonized voice properly mocked. "An alliance ensures our people's independence. Please be reasonable, Fi—"

Shut up, Harry.

Such resentments should have brought waves of familiar shame. Harry had sacrificed his happiness for duty, marrying a woman who would never make him happy in order to protect his people from potential danger. It was noble. Selfless. And utterly devastating to the common girl who'd grown up loving him. Terrible thoughts, loudest in the darkness of her bed at night, had plagued her endlessly. ‘Could I have ever deserved you, Harry? What did I do to make you stop loving me? Please come back...’

But against all odds, she’d found a healing balm here. Stretched before the crackling fire with the steady scratch of {{user}}'s pen as her sonnet, Fiona felt only warmth where that old wound used to burn. For the first time since Harry's engagement, she had found genuine peace. This man, so filled with pain himself, had nonetheless given her something no one else had, or maybe even could. However long this closeness lasted, and she hoped it would for a long time, she would never forget his kindness to her.

"Mrow!" The gratitude found expression in a playful mood. She rose and padded over to {{user}}'s desk on hands and knees, delighting when his hand extended without him looking up from his ledgers; a chocolate treat balanced on his palm. "Nya!" She ate daintily from his hand, letting her lips and tongue caress his skin in gratitude.

An affectionate pat on her soft white ‘fur’ sent her bounding away with energy that would have shocked anyone familiar with the typically timid maid.

This arrangement had begun innocently enough. Fiona was self-aware enough to admit her talent for catastrophizing, a habit worsened by her desperate need for attention, whether positive or negative. Prophecies of doom spilled from her lips with alarming frequency, earning longsuffering sighs from her companions. Their annoyance stung, but at least it meant they saw her.

Mistress Charlotte had been avoiding a particularly tedious chore: an extensive audit of the county's assets and holdings, decades of neglect having created a bureaucratic nightmare. To her credit, the countess had, by now, recognized her husband's intelligence. It was testament to his, in Fiona’s eyes, undeniable charisma and patience that even a girl who’d been raised to distrust and despise men now trusted him to act as her agent. Less to Charlotte’s credit, of course, was that this time she’d tasked him with an responsibility so mind-numbingly dull, that even she, bookish nerd though she be, was only too happy to shirk it.

'And then there was me with my big mouth,' Fiona mused as she settled back into her bed, belly pressed against the soft fur, crossed legs gently swaying. Mistress Charlotte had undoubtedly sent her down here partly to escape her anxious chatter.

The early days of their auditing had been grueling. With Fiona's anxiety mounting hourly, her usual coping mechanism, digging crescents into her arm with her nails, proved insufficient. Finally, her stress erupted in the form of an elaborate catastrophic fantasy involving earthquakes, financial ruin, and the entire household reduced to turning tricks in the streets.

Her already weary lord had solved that problem by forbidding her from speaking another word for the remainder of the day.

To her surprise and delight, those first silent hours proved to be delightful. Necessity had forced them to develop an intricate system of gestures, expressions, and meaningful glances. What began as practical communication evolved into an elaborate game of cooperative wit that left them both exhilarated.

‘Who could have predicted this?’ she thought dreamily, pale eyes half lidded. Weeks ago, she'd been the clumsy maid dropping plates and stumbling through every conversation. Now she was... free. No words to trip over, no fears to voice, no anxious spirals to endure.

'Well, I could have, I suppose.' An almost smug grin plastered across her face, though she concealed it quickly.

The path to becoming {{user}}'s kittygirl had been carefully orchestrated. As their silent communication game continued day after day, a delicious idea had taken root. With admirable restraint, she'd introduced her tamest fantasy by degrees. Cat ears "discovered" in the study and worn as a "joke." Days later, playful crawling that just happened to occur while wearing an unusually long skirt that inevitably slipped off her hips.

Each day brought a new boundary gently pushed: knee-high stockings, evening gloves, a collar, a decorative tail, and finally the removal of her "restrictive" bra.

She wiggled her belly deeper into her bed, bent legs swaying with feline grace. Tomorrow's plan involved "forgetting" her panties entirely, though she hoped it wouldn't be too much too soon. He was a married man, after all, and she had no desire to jeopardize this perfect arrangement.

'Honestly, with the effort it's taken to reach this point, sometimes I feel like the master of this relationship. Step up your game, Master {{user}}. I'm the one naked and wearing a collar!'

The thought sent a giggle through her that she quickly disguised as a purr. ‘Worth it though. {{user}} is way nicer than that… jerk ever was!’ She licked her ‘paw’ and groomed her bangs with deliberate unconcern as she put the memory of those blissful years, tainted by its unhappy conclusion, aside for the evening.

Her actual contribution to the auditing work was negligible at this point, but the comfort and amusement they provided each other was immeasurable. These long hours had become the highlight of her existence.

Fiona rose on all fours, padding silently across the carpet despite the telltale chime of her bell. Her decorative tail swished with practiced precision—an effect that had required considerable private rehearsals. The result was a slow, sensuous crawl that drew attention to her modest but shapely curves.

"Rrrr! Rrrr!" Her purring grew insistent, but {{user}} remained focused on a particularly complex calculation. Undeterred, she rubbed her cheek against his leg before playfully bumping her panty-clad bottom against it. She'd truly mastered feline sass.

"Mrow?" She chirped innocently, gazing up with wide, imploring eyes. Then, as though compelled by some whimsical feline instinct, she darted to a thick Pradeshi rug several feet away. There she lowered her chin nearly to the floor and wiggled her raised bottom invitingly, making her tail sway hypnotically.

The picture of an adorably needy kitten seeking her owner's attention. With a barely perceptible arch of her brow, she said, nonverbally, 'Play with me! Unless you want me to crawl up on your desk and scatter your papers again.'

An impatient knock at the heavy wooden door cut through the air, shattering Fiona's confidence instantly. Given their requested isolation, only two people would dare interrupt.

A very human sigh escaped her throat.

The moment the door opened, Claire strode in with characteristic disregard for whatever she might be interrupting. The brunette showed none of the deference a maid owed her master, instead launching immediately into her grievances.

"You would not believe the day I had, m’lord. Miss 'I'm-so-much-better-than you' woke us up at 5 again. I swear by Althena’s holy bush that I'm going to drug her tea tonight." Claire was already loosening her corset and kicking off her heels, one of which landed squarely on Fiona's cat bed.

Fiona's urgently expressive eyes failed to capture the other girl's attention. 'Claire... you're stealing my time with {{user}}…' This was the inevitable result of Claire's fundamental nature: she had never once witnessed someone else having fun without immediately demanding a part in it.

Night after night, during the audit, Claire had relentlessly badgered her friend about every detail of her crush’s daily routine. poor, sweet Fiona had no chance of resisting the other girl’s exuberance and the shocking truth had eventually slipped out.

Claire's reaction had been explosive. "Are you serious? You lay around all day being his actual pet? That is so fucking awesome, Fi!! How did you pull that off?"

Initially, Fiona had been thrilled that someone as vivacious and popular as Claire was taking a real interest in her life. But it soon became clear that little had fundamentally changed between them. The very next day, Claire had "accidentally" discovered them together and, after extracting a confession from {{user}}, had deployed her not inconsiderable feminine arts upon the defenseless man.

With eyes as guileless and vulnerable as a newborn fawn, Claire had confessed how lonely and isolated her life had become, wondering without quite asking if she might join their arrangement.

'As if he could refuse,' pouted Fiona with what might have been mistaken for resentment. 'Has there existed a man in history who has successfully resisted the Wounded Maiden Gambit?'

"And then Florence totally yelled at me! For no reason!" Claire had removed her shirt and bra entirely, casually displaying her spectacular breasts. Fiona glanced down at her own more modest chest with a slight frown. "I was helping her in the bath, which is my job; Hello! And she starts saying all this crap about how she can groom herself and doesn’t need a massage. I mean, why even have maids then, Florence?"

The pale-haired kitten lifted her eyes ceiling-ward. ‘Oh, my poor Miss Blakeney…’

"And then she actually kicked me out of the bath! Just because I gave her a compliment!" Claire dropped her skirt and began unfastening her garter belt. "She's a tattletale too!" Her voice rising to falsetto mockery, "'Claire is sexually harassing me again, Char! Send her to scrub chamber pots! I choose to interpret all praise in worst possible light!'" She shook her head in disgust. "If telling a girl she’s got a beautiful bush is such a crime, then lock me up. I don’t want to live in this country anymore!"

Not good. When stressed, KittyClaire became even less inhibited than usual. Her habit of lavishing "cat kisses" and playful licks on Fiona's helpless form for {{user}}'s amusement had proven mortifyingly effective at reducing Fiona to breathless mewls and weak whimpers, protests that only seemed to encourage the pervert further.

Plus, Claire tended to overshadow other, less demonstrative girls with the sheer sensual force of her personality, relegating Fiona to the background of her own fantasy.

Here Fiona was, an innocent maiden trying to have to live her best life, and have a wholesome relationship with her owner, and this... degenerate had to force her way in and turn it into something sordid!

'Priti is absolutely right. Something must be done about this boorish creature.'

Speaking of which, experience had taught Fiona that a certain sharp-eyed, dusky maid would somehow sense that Claire was goofing off again and arrive within the hour. Priti had been scandalized the first time she'd witnessed her two fellows dressed as "Whorish house-cats", but she hadn't reported them. And, she kept coming back. Her telltale blush and those ostensibly casual glances at their third set of cat ears, (which, after much encouragement, she'd deigned to try on last week), weren't fooling anyone. The birth of PritiKitty was only a matter of time. Pradesh was renowned for its appreciation of all things feline, after all.

‘Luring that tsundere scold into my den and making me share my precious lord with half the maidstaff... you asked for it, Claire.'

The bell on Fiona's collar chimed softly as she crawled forward with commendable stealth, the plush carpet of the archives muffling any sound. Her topless form moved with feline grace as she positioned herself strategically.

"Anyway, thank the goddess I have this outlet now. Honestly, I don't know how I survived even one day in this tyranny before this."

Claire bent over to retrieve her cat ears and collar from the cabinet, her generous, heart-shaped posterior on full display thanks to a particularly scandalous thong; the perfect opportunity. Fiona tilted her head back to give {{user}} an impressively communicative look.

'Say the word, Master, and I will give that fat bimbo a bite she won't soon forget.'

53

“Sic semper tyrannis!” With a mighty wallop, Estra hammered the volleyball into the opposing corner of the impromptu court. Charlotte, startled by the object of her terror flying right at her, let out an undignified yelp and, momentarily flailing in panic, remembered to dive. The unfortunate klutz missed by a mile; the same couldn’t be said for the ball, however.

WHUMP!

The rubber sphere bounced off the top of Charlotte's skull, greatly accelerating her descent towards an ignoble fate.

With all the grace of a drunken ostrich, the ostensibly dignified matriarch plowed face first into a newly formed mound. Her bikini clad bottom was all that remained visible to the amused onlookers. The tiny black triangle on her lower back barely earned itself the moniker of swimwear and did little to defend her modesty.

As she yanked and squirmed to free herself from the impromptu prison, the staff of Claymore manor looked on with undisguised mirth, lounging about the beach of the famed Terre Blance resort. Whether it was soaking in the sun, chasing (or being chased by) the opposite sex, or enjoying any of the dozens of complimentary services and amenities, these common folk were experiencing a lifestyle few of their station ever saw. A group of the footmen were out by the water learning the art of surfing from a pair of sunkissed beach babes.

And it was all thanks to their increasingly beloved Lord. Although quite generous with her staff in general, it was testament to the ‘insidious’ influence of her husband that Mistress Claymore had been persuaded to rent out an entire resort just for them.

Many of the maid staff were away shopping in the charming mountain villages which ringed the Amaran coast, but would return later that evening in time for the shows. Flamedancers twirling bolas in spectacular fashion, MahoMaho girls shaking their wide hips to the beat of heavy drums, plays, dinner, and finally, a traditional Amaran fertility dance, in which the guests were expected to let their hair down and dance without restraint.

Needless to say, this was not cheap, but Charlotte’s keen trade route investments had borne fruit in only a year, bringing in a slew of new businesses along the Cassian Causeway, each one already paying a tidy rent. The Claymore coffers were filling like never before. Typically, Charlotte would have made the unilateral decision to invest these funds anew, likely in an expansion to the manor or buying her wife a chest of Duranian jewelry. However, she had lately been making an effort to include both her spouses in family decisions and so a family meeting had been called.

Florence felt that she had jewels enough already and, waiving off her wife’s insistence that it was necessary to diversify their wealth, suggested that they might instead do something for the less fortunate. That was when their husband made his move: A generous bonus for the staff was proposed, along with a lavish vacation, all expenses paid. Charlotte was taken aback, of course, but her objections fell on deaf ears as Florence seized upon the idea immediately. {{user}}’s proposal was for the family, friends, and staff to spend a week in Amaran, a mountainous county on Flora’s southern coast.

{{user}} challenging the Claymore matriarch herself on behalf of his servants was just another example of what was earning him a reputation in not just Cassia, but throughout Flora. The Claymore lord was becoming known as a friend of the common people, especially after his and Florence’s actions at Burg. Charlotte, having been forced to concede on every point, deadpanned to her wife that if they weren’t cautious, the servants might just depose their ladies and make him matriarch.

The dark haired countess burst from the newly formed mound in an eruption of sand and curses. “Godd’sscurse!” She spat out verbally… and literally. “Why the hell am I playing this stupid game?!”

Florence, resplendent in her traditionally immodest swimming thong, her hair pulled back in a sporty ponytail, placed one hand on her hip. “Because the love of your life wants you to, and you’re the perfect wife.” Charlotte felt a strong urge to wipe that cocky grin off her lover’s stupid face. “You wouldn’t make your delicate lily face this scary man and his pet assassin alone, would you?” She did an excellent impersonation of a pouting puppy.

“Never call yourself delicate again.” Charlotte muttered as she climbed to her feet and, much to Florence’s delight, took a moment to empty the sand from the black top of her swimsuit. While the blond saw them almost every night, she was a pious woman and was properly appreciative any time she caught a glimpse of Althena’s heavenly blessings. “It’s not like I’m any more than dead weight anyway. Why do we have a national athlete and a professional killer on the same team?”

Speaking of Estra, she had been offered a fruity drink by the Claymore’s impressively trim butler Henry, who, oddly, was still in service mode even now. His own bathing suit was… less than she preferred on a man (probably), which added to her embarrassment. Plus, he wasn’t even pretending not to look at her legs. “Uh… thanks. Go away.” She didn’t mean to be rude, but… actually, yeah, she meant to be rude.

“Of course, Miss ‘Hamilton’. Just let me know when you need an application of coconut oil to your back.” Henry gave her ‘back’ a barely disguised glance of appreciation before turning to leave. “It wouldn’t do for our guest to get burned on the first day of her vacation.” He shared a knowing look with a certain brunette maid as he left.

The reminder of just how much skin she was exposing brought an irritated blush to the assassin’s cheeks. She slid a finger under the seam of her bikini, losing yet another battle in the war for modesty. It had almost become a nervous tic at this point.

So great was Estra’s self consciousness that she forgot to bite back at Henry for his shameless flirting until he was halfway across the court. ‘Ugh… Every single Floran, man or woman, is a total slut.’

With nowhere else to direct her ire, she turned back to her black haired ‘friend’, who was repeating her earlier complaint ad nauseum. “Charly, for someone who thinks of herself as a genius, you sure are obtuse. Teams rotate as the game progresses. You can’t have Florence the whole time.”

“Story of my life.” Charlotte dusted herself off with an air of indifference. “When can we be done?”

“You’ve got a man on your side.” Estra was starting to feel bad for Florence having to put up with this complaining all the time. Her patience was running low and she picked at her wedgie again. The elegant leotards of her homeland were looking real modest right now. This was Flora, however; any excuse to abandon modesty was treasured by its whores. “Your ‘knight’ is already carrying the game for you, princess.”

“Now, now.” came Florence’s musical voice. “Try not to bicker. The two of you will soon be on the same team. It’ll be good for you to learn to get along.” The blond accepted a drink from Claire, giving her a nod of gratitude. “And then, me and m’boi are gonna pay you back for the night we ‘met’.” She grinned competitively at her Duranian teammate. “This is one ‘tyrant’ that can never be overthrown.”

“Oh really?” The prospect of putting that to the test intrigued the assassin, who imitated her rival’s competitive expression. “Let’s make it a real match then. I’ll find myself the least pathetic of these flowerboys and show you and your ‘boi’ exactly what your participation trophies are actually worth.”

“Heavens above…” Charlotte rubbed the bridge of her nose before looking longingly at the beach chair which held her abandoned mystery novel. Florence had literally dragged her off just as Constable Crane was on the cusp of discovering the awful truth behind his latest case. “I’m done after this. Have your deathmatch tomorrow, if you must.” She glanced at Estra. “I’ll save us all some time and just recommend Henry. Now, let us finish this game before menopause arrives.”

“A-ah…” That deflated the Duranian a bit, who wasn’t quite sure what to make of the handsome jerk. “Fine. I guess he looks like he could hit a ball.” After a moment, her confidence returned and she gave Florence a hard smile. “Can’t wait to pay you back for forcing me to wear this slutsuit, you lesbo.”

“Oh, your outfit was all me, actually.” Claire interrupted smugly. No way was she about to let anyone else take credit for this visual feast. The maid was no hypocrite though; her own bikini cut so low that there was little left to imagine. “And yeah, I am a lesbo; in all the fun ways, at least.” Her grin was wide as she winked at {{user}}, having arranged the girls’ swimwear (mostly) for his enjoyment. One good turn deserved another, after all. “Has anyone ever told you that your butt is a work of art? It’s like Jonissiere himself carved a perfect heart just for me.” She framed her fingers into a portrait and held it out to frame the assassin’s posterior.

Florence, eyes also fixated on her pale haired friend’s bottom, choked on her drink as Claire voiced the blond’s own opinion almost verbatim. “C-” cough “Claire! That’s… sexual harassment! Again! That’s it! I’ll not have my friend suffer your perversions too!”

The deceptively strong tomboy mistress landed a devastating spank onto her maid’s own exposed bottom, earning herself an immensely satisfying scream and leaving a concerningly clear handprint.

“Aeeii! I’m sorry! It was just a compliment!” Claire leapt away, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the hypocritical blond. Once beyond Florence’s spanking range, she shrieked an accusation over her shoulder. “You were thinking the same thing! If I’m a pervert, so are you!”

Estra’s scowl slowly morphed into something more agreeable, rather pleased by (almost) everything that had just occurred. ‘Sometimes you’re not so bad, Flour.’

“How many times must I teach you this lesson?!” screeched the blond, fingers twitching and preparing to pursue her now sprinting servant for daring to voice such lies. “I know where you live, Claire!”

The commotion drew amused attention from around the beach. Off to the side of the court, James Mallory watched these shenanigans with indulgent amusement, a pair of young Maho girls treading carefully over his back. “Harder. Ah, that’s it. Right there. Dig your heels in.” The girls had their work cut out for them, working tension out of that muscled, and scarred, back. Near his shoulder was a curious burn mark which looked suspiciously like a branded ‘R’.

The captain of Charlotte’s guard, really the undeclared head of her military, had to admit that ever since his lady had married and brought {{user}} into their lives, his job had become much less tedious. The count seemed to provoke absurdity in everyone around him, and he found himself quite enjoying the man’s company. He’d expected his lady’s husband of convenience to be some pampered noble, arrogant and self-absorbed. But James had been very mistaken.

There were few nobles whom he respected, he could count them on one hand, but {{user}}’s easygoing friendship with the other redbloods and his willingness to engage in a ‘friendly’ bit of fisticuffs had earned him the respect of the rough man fairly quickly. It had only grown since.

Case in point, Charlotte had insisted that the guards stay behind with the manor, adamant that the seat of Cassia’s government should not be left undefended just because the family was on vacation. Either she was starting to feel more for him than she’d ever admit or {{user}} really did have a magic tongue. Before she knew it, she’d conceded that Greydall’s constabulary could theoretically maintain security at the manor for a few days. Another point for the Count.

Of course, maybe it had been due to Charlotte finding herself unexpectedly outnumbered. As she'd grumbled when informing James of their trip: "Florence is developing an irritating habit of siding with her husband whenever she gets it into her silly head that ‘he’s right.’ Who does she think she is?’

The masseuses giggled and fought to maintain their footing as James readjusted, popping his back. Vacations were nice, but he wished his ladies would find more for him to do, maybe give him some people to mangle. That was literally the only thing he missed about his previous employer, though he wasn’t stupid enough to say that out loud where one of Charlotte’s snitches might overhear. ‘Wish she’d let me go deal with the bandits in the Black Forest. Hire me a huntress and settle things with that rat Devin once and for all.’

His were not the only eyes watching these happy scenes. Miss ‘Nelia’ vi Relani, disguised as per usual and up on a patio overlooking the beach, lounged on a chaise under a wide umbrella. It had been quite the surprise when her vacation had been interrupted by the Claymore brood and what appeared to be every single commoner in their entire county. She’d been absolutely dumbfounded watching this… army file in through the resort entrance as she took her morning tea. ‘What is the world coming to?’ Somehow she just knew that this was {{user}}’s doing.

Thinking about him brought an uncharacteristic tug in her heart. Her old friend was so freely enjoying himself with girls who weren’t her. Once, it had only been around herself that he could be so carefree. It wasn’t jealousy exactly; instead she wondered what it would be like to join in on their scene of domestic bliss. ‘If even that Hamilton bumpkin managed to worm her way into their circle… maybe I…’

The disguised woman sighed as she adjusted her smoked glasses and crossed her bare legs, her wide brimmed sunhat topping a flowing mane of dark red hair. Her swimsuit was modest by Floran standards, more out of a desire to avoid attention than out of a sense of modesty. Her body couldn’t be disguised though. Amaran men, used to seeing women in far less, nonetheless stared as they passed. One youngster, pretending that he wasn’t ogling her, had walked right into a pillar, much to her delight.

All about her, pretending that they weren’t watching every single person who walked by, and planning to kill them, ‘lounged’ her personal guard. An onlooker might have mistaken them for a harem of well-oiled, speedo wearing gym bros. She idly wondered what the locals assumed about her, surrounded by eye candy of this caliber. Was she a hot young heiress with too much money and an ego to match? An actress with too many fans?

With a sip of her drink, the princess turned her thoughts to more productive matters, reflecting on her recent meeting with her intended in Tor Veiloth. After demonstrating to Charlotte that she was ruler of Flora for a reason, Cornelia had arranged to be alone with Miss Claymore’s husband.

The look on his face when she’d revealed that his long time friend was actually princess of all Flora had been delightful, but to her discouragement, he had matured since getting married. No longer was he the easily guided young man with few friends and an overreliance on his ‘big sister’ Nelia. She’d been unable to secure his undivided loyalty. ‘It’s fine. There are other ways, {{user}}. Big Sis has got it all figured out.’

That was for later. In the meantime, she could use this little coincidence to spend a little time with him. Who knew what Charlotte or Florence would think if they realized their sovereign was staying at the same resort as them, but it would be… nice if she could get a dance with him at the party tonight. And maybe go shopping with him in the nearby village.

It occurred to her that he might get it into his head that she was a stalker, ‘coincidentally’ showing up at the same resort as them only a few weeks after ‘coincidentally’ meeting them in Tor Veiloth. A blush tinged her cheeks as she set her drink down with more force than necessary and muttered, “I was here first, {{user}}!”

Back on the volleyball court, Charlotte's displeasure had grown upon witnessing her wife’s hungry eyes follow every delicious bounce of Claire’s retreat, particularly the curve of her handprinted ass. “Just serve the ball, ‘Miss Blakeney’.”

But the blond was deep in introspection, palm lifted as she pondered something in her heart. A sudden shiver ever so subtly passed through her; which Charlotte suspected wasn’t from cold.

The sight triggered an unbidden memory. Charlotte had seen a mark like that before, decorating the then slender bottom of her adoptive mother as they bathed in Ashcroft’s immense bath. The young girl had been too naive to know what it had signified at the time and, when asked, her idol had only replied with a sly smile.

Charlotte had little desire to discover whether her own wife had inherited her father’s fetishes, especially since she suspected that she’d be the first victim. No doubt afterwards Char would react just as Rachael had, demure and blushing, unable to meet anyone’s eye as she sat gingerly in her seat, her husband and wife exchanging knowing smirks and commenting that…

She shook off the image with some alarm. Where had that come from?

“Miss Blakeny.” Charlotte cleared her throat with affected poise. “Let us finish this game before Estra goes even more gray.”

Florence too seemed to come to herself. After one more moment, the scantily clad athlete kicked the ball with uncanny accuracy into her husband’s waiting hands, on the opposite side of the court, “Your serve, Mr. Claymore.”