Empire of the Black Moon

By Kingmaker

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It had been 50 years since the vile witch Morgana usurped the throne and the kingdom from the rightful king, masterminding a reign of terror and madness that had not been equaled since King Arthur waged war with his own mad son. As her power and treachery poisoned the land, so too did hope and defiance bloom in equal measure. Like all blooms, however bright, there came a time to wilt. This is such a tale, of black roses and their thorns…

Parisa’s sore feet walked along crumbled stone. Every day she woke it was if the previous day of torment had been forgotten, making each pain as fresh and strange as the first. She limped with her chained procession and looked around. Nothing but a sea of humanity before and behind her.

 

 

Enslaved girl Wildweasel339 6

Beside her strode knights clad in massive suits of black armor, adorned with spikes, metal thorns and shrunken heads. Sometimes it would be a witch, their intoxicating perfume a prelude to the wondrous image of twisted femininity that would canter into sight.Tall, pointy hats would sit atop heads of midnight black tresses or locks as bright as the night stars. Some were clad in luxurious robes that only hinted at the outrageous curves that lay beneath, others embraced their fallen nature. Those that did were often clad in form fitting silks that left their lush and defined thighs exposed, while their massive breasts remained constrained by smooth black leather straps. Being creatures of lust and treachery, it was not uncommon for the witches to arch their backs, making the soft flesh of their plump melons spill free.

The male slaves that looked upon their spectacular breasts were often beaten and whipped to their delighted cackles, while others were broken out of their chains and taken for the witch’s pleasure… never to be seen again. Parisa had noticed that things had gotten so desperate of late that many men were deliberately looking at the exposed witches, wanting to take a chance with them rather than endure one more step.

Parisa broke out in goosebumps as the slave line came under the cool shadow of Queen Morgana’s Tower of Darkness. The tower rose high above the twisted city of Camlann, putting its tall, black and barbed walls to shame. Even now, Parisa could hear the cries and screams of anguish and pleasure waft up over the sky and into the cold air.

As they came closer to the main gates, she noticed giant columns coming into view on both sides of the road. The columns were slate gray and the tips terminated into the head of a phallus. Moaning women were strapped to all of them. Parisa shivered as she walked by. Their cries of sexual euphoria touched her soul deeply. And then the olive skinned slave from the Southlands felt the blood drain from her face when she saw what was at the base of the phallic columns.

Stones. Just a little over two feet tall, they shined like polished black eggs. Strangely too, they pulsated as if they were living.

Shouts of fright and despair rose from the slave crowd seeing the foul things crack open. As tired as she was, Parisa had already connected the dots. The women tied to the phallic pillars had their legs splayed wide by chains, their dripping pussies left exposed to the enlivened stones below. Before she could contemplate further, a witch’s voice broke her out of her musing.

“Behold slaves! Those who run away are denied the pleasure of becoming one with our Queen within her grand chambers… but they will join us all the same, whether it be in warmth or cold, your soul is ours!” The maniacal witch at the head of the procession drew out her scepter and fired in the air to punctuate her point. Her hair flowed over her shoulders like rivers of swirled honey gold, and her ponderous, caramel bronzed breasts verged on spilling over her dark red corset.

Parisa thought it curious that the witch was so bronzed, knowing that everyone she had seen thus far had been endowed with an immaculate, pale marble complexion. She must have been a seasoned witch. Parisa squinted her eyes, and on second glance thought the woman’s skin almost looked golden. “I am Ingrid, Mistress of Flesh, and I decree that you watch!” The procession stopped, and on both sides the slaves were confronted with the sight of writhing sacrifices and the strange beasts that were bursting from their shells.

Like oversized black snakes the creatures leapt free from their cracked stones and wrapped around the pillars. They slowly slithered up and made inevitable progress to the pinned women. The closer they got, the more the women moaned. Parisa couldn’t tell if they were anticipating or fearing their inexorable crawl to destiny.

Some jutted their hips out, willingly offering their gushing womanhood’s to the dark creatures. “Ohhhh…” moaned one as the head of the creature poked at her slit, licking and testing the aura of an untainted morsel. Pure and ripe for the taking. Others said nothing but a gentle sigh, resigned to their fates as the evil beasts laid claim to their luscious bodies, their high and soft breasts heaving and their toned backs arching in climax as the erotic terrors pushed in.

Parisa averted her gaze from the horrible sight and looked instead to the girl closest to her. She seemed but a simple peasant girl, fireheaded and freckled, all that would win a man’s praise was that her breasts were supple and perky. Unlike the other chained women, the phallic snake beneath her moved with terrifying eagerness.

It wound up the various contours of the stone column before it wrapped around the woman’s pale, trembling leg. Parisa watched with perverse anticipation as the creature left a wet trail along her creamy skin, moving up along her upper inner thigh, poised to invade her tight and glistening pink flower.

“No… no!” whimpered the redhead, her wide eyes bright with fear as she bucked against her chains. The creature prolonged her torment and swept up her back before crossing between the shuddering swells of her breasts. Other women on the pillars, now sweaty and steaming with malevolent energy, cackled at her misfortune.

“Enjoy it sweetheart! You’ll regret putting it off as long as you did!”

“Let the change take you! It feels so… divine!”

The village girl shivered and whimpered while the phallic head of the beast hovered above her pubic mound, savoring each delicious note of emotion from her quivering soul. So ready to rip away her innocence, ready to plant the essence of darkness into her unknowing spirit… ready to make a slave.

At once the beast shot forward.

Parisa was startled at how fast it slithered up inside the vibrant redhead. The infested woman took a series of deep and breathy gasps, her eyes wide open in fearful anticipation, unwilling to consider what would happen next now that it was inside her. Her sighs and breaths punctuated the silence, which soon shifted from reluctant and fearful gasps to something… more pleasurable.

Parisa tensed as the girl stiffened, her arms still, her face caught in a mask of torture and ecstasy. And then with a long and husky moan, the girl relaxed her muscles. She quivered and her eyes rolled back in her head while whimpers of pleasure tumbled from her lips. Soon her quivers turned to twitches, then violent spasms, until in less than a minute, she was screaming her ecstasy to the sky as she convulsed to a savage cascade of orgasms.

“Yesss!” she hissed, still shaking as she arched her back, “Take me my Queen! I repent before your touch!” It amazed Parisa how fast her attitude changed, faster still was how quickly her body changed to the forbidden sex magic. Perky, athletic breasts doubled in size, her flesh rippling and expanding as her melons retained their delectable shape. Her carnal gasps streaked the air as her bosom bounced and blossomed with a luscious fullness. Her indistinct waist thinned into proportion and became emphasized all the more when her hips widened, becoming rounded and swooped.

Parisa felt a little bit of envy, though the poor girl’s soul had been devoured. The way her enormous, round breasts bobbed to her heaving gasps was almost hypnotizing. The redhead’s characteristic hair was no longer so, now inky black like her new sisters in arms. But the light freckles over her chest did remain, accenting the proud and upturned milky white swells of her large breasts.

Her dark nipples bore into Parisa’s eyes, growing sharp and perky, almost like a challenge to the young slave. She quickly averted her gaze to the woman’s face and felt her breath catch in her throat. The woman’s dark eyes held Parisa’s gaze with a certain look. A look of invitation.

“Join me…” she whispered.

Parisa turned away and shivered, just in time for Ingrid to shout once more to a now thoroughly demoralized crowd. “This is but a taste of your future. Rejoice that the good Queen has deigned to rescue your poor souls from the dreary existence of only trying to survive. Here, you will flourish… in the Empire of the Black Moon!”

***

Parisa had been pampered and decorated with various powders and scents to accentuate her beauty. All the slaves had been given relief from their hard travels in luxuriant baths. It was a welcome comfort, but Parisa knew at the back of her mind what was to come.

Sacrifice.

Men, older women, prostitutes and criminals from her homeland had been diverted onto other city duties, whittling the crowd down to the young and nubile, their spirits not yet tarred by the travails of the world.

As the newly resplendent women were lead down an arched marble hallway, she realized there were no guards strolling along with them. Only Ingrid led from the head of the line, spewing her vile ideas about power like a serpent spat poison.

Parisa saw where the line headed. The women ahead filed into a circular pit, much like the gladiator rings of old. Except the floor was not padded with crusty brown dust, but with every sort of cushion known to the imagination.

Crimson pillows, embroidered with gold tassels were laid out in between silver bowls of grapes and peaches. Fluffy, feathered headrests, sealed over in dead soft black silks stood out on the the dark violet satin blankets that covered the hard marble floor.

Ostentatious statues depicting ancient witches and warlocks hung from the walls surrounding the circle, carved in the very same black stone that the egg-like stones from the city entrance were made from. Below them, stony phalluses and vaginal arches alternated between each stone figure.

The place was set out like some darkly erotic picnic, one that Parisa was eager to fall away from. She looked to the girl next to her. Maria was her name, a local girl from Parisa’s village. “Maria,” she said, nudging on the brunette’s arm, “There’s no one else around, we can go!”

Maria stared ahead with pained eyes. “B-but… the fruit looks so good… and the cushions… so soft and comfy.” Parisa frowned and wondered what was wrong with her. The girl almost seemed to moan at the end of her sentence.

Parisa didn’t have time for idiocy. “Yeah, ok. You’re comin’ with me.” She yanked Maria by the arm and the two peeled off from the line. Their space was quickly filled by the next two girls behind them. Parisa got behind a large violet banner that extended from a ceiling arch down to the floor with Sam in tow.

Hidden in the shadows, she felt uneasy, watching the women in the line become progressively more empty eyed with a more staggered gait. She looked to the sensual circle once more and regretted it once she did. Everything called to her.

The erect members of the statues, the glittering red and white wines laid out in crystal goblets and the sumptuous honeyed hams, all within reaching distance of each pile of cushions. She felt her breath grow heavy and her nipples turn to rising buds as a familiar heat laced up her thighs.

She looked away from the tempting sight with a soft sigh, and stared at the ground. Her soul screamed for her to look back, but her will was strong, and her eyes made do with observing the slave procession instead. She watched as every last couple stepped through the arch leading to the circle in lockstep, like lambs to the slaughter.

And then as the last foot stepped inside the circle, great and grand black iron doors slammed shut. Parisa sighed with relief. She was free. For now. She looked back to Maria. She sat on the floor with her legs splayed out as her fingers rubbed against her pussy furiously.

“What are you doing!?” Parisa hissed. Of course she knew perfectly well what the farm girl was doing, being a lonely farm girl herself, she was well familiar what boredom could do to a young woman. But this was no place for such a display.

The cushions would have been welcome after such a long journey, the glistening ham and assorted fruits sweet and succulent. But as Parisa stared down at Maria’s soaked crotch, she figured they didn’t look that succulent. An uncanny magic was at play.

Before she could contemplate any further, she felt a steel gauntlet enclose around her throat. “You scream you die.” She looked at the armored arm, wondering what new torment awaited her.

But then a golden glow shimmered around the plates and radiated into her chest. The memories of how delectable the food looked dimmed, until they were remembered as any other meal in her life: typical. “I am Joran Baird, Protector of His Holiness and Blessed Subjects.” said the man, his voice gruff and rugged.

He let Parisa go and yanked Maria off the floor. Parisa watched him and observed other movements in the shadows. Joran looked younger than his voice suggested. Only the barest streaks of white ran against his blond hair. He looked to Parisa as he slung Maria over his shoulder.

“Whether you wanted to or not, you’re in the war now. Welcome to the resistance.”

***

Joran had cured Maria of her erotic malaise and handed her off to his men, but insisted Parisa stay with him. The two were now perched on a ledge that overlooked the circle of temptation that she had narrowly avoided. The holy necklace Joran had placed around her neck prevented her from regarding the assorted temptations in the same manner as before.

Outside the circle, on the audience platform was an empty throne, chased with silver and filled with bright red cushions to contrast against its black frame. She thought it curious that it was not filled. When her gaze drifted to the inside of the circle itself, it was as she feared.

The women lazed about, feeding each other grapes and moaning as they splashed wine over their faces. Their gaudy makeup turned runny and drizzled down in between their round breasts in rivers of lurid color. They had long given up resisting the dreadful aura that seduced their souls and tantalized their bodies.

Parisa felt the dark presence in the room coil and swirl around her limbs, like a kiss of cold air, held back by her pendant. “I want to leave.”

Joran shook his head. “No, you must see what we are fighting against. This is more than just sword against sword, this is a war for our souls.”

Parisa’s eyes became misty. “I know what they are capable of. I saw it on my way here.”

Joran locked eyes with her. “That is nothing. Now you want to escape, don’t you?” She nodded. “After this, you will want to kill her. I promise.”

“Her?”

He gestured back to the circle, and she looked in turn. She gasped when the curtains behind the throne overlooking the circle parted. The most beautiful woman she had ever seen passed through the violet silks, trailed by a retinue as fearsome as she was alluring.

The Queen.

Her skin was smooth alabaster and seemed to glow like the moon. Midnight black locks flowed down her slim shoulders and over her toned back. She did not float, and yet did not seem to walk. Her hips swished from side to side, accentuating their wide form. Every subtle muscle moved in rhythm to her gait, like a snake slithering to its prey.

Silver serpents wrapped along her arms and clasped her long embroidered loincloth to her waist. With each step, shapely legs peeked out from under the rich black fabrics, liquid smooth yet strong and powerful. The bountiful flesh of her huge ivory breasts pressed against the silver scaled serpents that held them back. Gleaming violet gems, adorned to her stylized bra, rose and fell to the heaving rhythm of her ponderous globes.

When she took the throne, a giant snake slithered from behind and draped itself over her shoulders and lithe arms. Behind her to the right stood a giant of a man, easily over six feet tall and bedecked in nightmarish black armor, ornamented with kill tallies and inscriptions of the profane. To the voluptuous Queen’s left was the strange blonde from earlier, her tresses gleamed like molten gold and her ample tanned cleavage swelled below her neck, her heaving globes a radiant golden brown. Behind her was a line of followers, all shrouded in darkness.

Parisa thought it absurd that the retinue should have a retinue.

Joran spoke up. “That’s the Black Knight on the right. A terrible foe and betrayer of the realm. I take it you’ve already met Ingrid, the Queen’s second in command and favorite sycophant. Behind her is Vincent, Ingrid’s second in command, and behind Vincent is… I quite forgot her name, but she’s his second in command.”

Queen Morgana raised a languid hand, signaling to some unseen follower.

“It begins.” said the Paladin.

Torchlight dimmed and the cacophony of grinding stone roared into the air. Parisa saw the stone gargoyle heads within the ‘arena’, placed at head level, their jaws opened. At first nothing happened. The women’s lust and terror filled moans filled the darkness and the Queen remained perfectly still but for the rising swells of her chest.

She broke the silence with an aroused cry. “FEAAAAST!”

The torchlight blazed back to full luminosity, just in time for Parisa to witness countless streams of blackish purple smoke disgorge from the gargoyle’s mouths. The sight was just enough for some of the dazed women to be shocked back into reality. She picked out two brunettes, perhaps mother and daughter, bolt off the ground and knock over goblets and fruit baskets, but there was nowhere to go.

Every angle was covered and every door was locked. One woman grabbed a silk blanket and covered up her face and mouth, only to be undone as a wispy coil of darkness snaked up into her pussy. The effect was immediate. She shuddered in pleasure and kept the cloth to her face, even as the endless fount of darkness burrowed deep inside her. Parisa paled when the woman’s eyes rolled back into her head and gave in to the unimaginable pleasure, dropping the blanket. She fell back onto her back and surrendered just as an additional tendril shot down her mouth.

Other women caught on quickly and tried to block every opening, only to be surprised by a slithering trail of smoke in between their ass cheeks. Their backs arched and their toes curled as the infectious and insidious ecstasy worked its touch over their bodies.

Much to Parisa’s horror, many women remained calm and lay on their backs with their legs spread wide in acceptance. They yielded willingly to the invasion in their bodies, moaning softly as Morgana’s darkness changed them from the inside. Complexions lightened into the hue of winter clouds while small and typical breasts underwent sorcerous growth spurts. They bounced and throbbed as they grew swollen in size and more spectacular in shape, their luscious and plump globes having pushed aside the modest mounds of the past.

Whether taken willingly or unwillingly, eyes burned in lurid violet and crooked, dangerous smiles broke out from the reborn harlots. Parisa felt a gnawing urge to just look away as many of the turned women held down those who were untouched. Most tragically, the mother from before had her daughter pinned, cackling as she stuffed the poor girl’s face with her massive melons. She poured the evil that had corrupted her soul straight out of her soaked pussy and into her daughter’s own.

The daughter bucked and squirmed underneath her mother’s voluptuous body, her whimpers both of fear and desire. Both their bodies shined with sweat and they slid against each other with smooth friction. When the daughter quit her struggles and her body stiffened, Parisa knew she was done for. Instead of fighting against her busty mother, the girl’s hands now pressed down on her plump and curved ass cheeks, forcing the one she trusted and loved to flood her with more corruption.

She watched the lascivious mother press her huge tits against the rampant and blossoming slopes of her daughter, their voluptuous flesh glistening in their fervid sexual heat. The daughter arched her back, her face stretching into a soundless scream of unfathomable pleasure, her breasts like ripe melons dipped in ivory as they widened out against the silken pressure of her mother’s overflowing bosom.

Parisa looked away. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Joran pointed to the space above the orgy, where lilac stained white light danced and shimmered in the air. “This is how that foul witch stays young and powerful. Some witches bath in virgin blood, others suck the souls of men… this one feasts on purity. Righteousness.”

Parisa spared one last look to Queen Morgana. She had stood up from her throne and her shapely, powerful thighs glistened with her own love juices while her eyes were dark with lust and heavy lidded. The orgy had thrown her into delirium. In a sudden movement she spread her arms wide and pushed her lush and giant breasts out. At once the the purity that had been forced out of the slave girls rushed into her in a single lance of light.

Her voluptuous body shook and shuddered underneath the fresh vitality sucked into her black soul. The tight alabaster swells of her deep cleavage heaved. Her silvery chain piercing jangled seductively across her soft, writhing belly. The sheer loss of goodness sent a wailing wind through the chamber, kicking up the Queen’s silk, offering fluttering glimpses of her clenched and jutting round ass cheeks, jiggling and meaty spheres of firm feminine flesh.

Her mountainous cleavage swayed and bounced while her silvered bra gleamed with blinding light from the brightness of the souls. Even with her holy necklace on, Parisa felt a paralyzing thrill of pleasure pin her in place as she listened to Morgana’s wild moans of pleasure. The Queen’s toned yet soft body undulated like a snake to her ecstasy. And as the last of the shining goodness was sucked into her glowing eyes, Parisa noted slight and subtle changes.

The Queen’s face seemed to have grown a little more youthful, her cheeks carrying a new glow and her lips more voluptuous. She might have passed for a woman slightly older than Parisa! Her hair, as black as the void, shined with star like radiance and her bountiful breasts, while not growing larger, rounded out more and grew more puffy and plump near the top.

The Black Knight and Ingrid caught her as she fell back, dazed and utterly spent from her debauchery. In the arena a symphony of all that was wanton took place. Moans floated in the air as if from some deranged choir, supple and curvaceous women writhed and coiled amongst each other, licking the nectar of corruption from flowing slits and drinking it from ripe and round tits.

“You aren’t old enough to know of her treacherous usurping of the old kingdom. But as you can see, she has only grown more maniacal with time. This… creature, steals all that is good and wholesome from this world.” Joran got on his feet and gave Parisa a hand up. “Now you see why she must die.”

Parisa looked him in the eye. “What do you need of me?”

***

“Though five decades have passed since that fateful day, as the last Paladin, His Holiness has not permitted me to die from age, not until I teach another.” Parisa and Maria nodded to Joran’s recounting of the kingdom’s fall, knowing nothing of the outside world of Camelot from their distant home. Around them was a circle of knights and rebel fighters, all warming around a campfire in a part of the capital that had laid untouched since its fall generations ago. “Which I’ll only do when the wicked witch is put in the ground.

The eternal warrior sat down on a log in front of them. “Still, it’s fortuitous I found both of you. The old hag is most jealous of any woman that enters her city, she must be losing her step to have her slaves so unguarded. To the point, did you two overhear anything useful from her overseers on your way here?”

“Apologies, my lord, but I remember nothing.” Parisa looked to Maria, her nods telling her that she too was similarly afflicted. “I can barely remember my own family, much less what our journey here was like. But the pains of it are still with me.”

“Not too unusual…” mused the Paladin, “it is most like the witch to deprive her future slaves memories of home and hearth to better ease their fall into damnation.”

“Thank you sir, for saving us from that fate.” said Maria, her eyes appreciative and the tanned slopes of her swollen breasts temptingly close to falling out of her rags.

Joran stroked his beard and sighed. “It was my duty, my lady. I only wish I could always be so bold.”

Parisa leaned closer to the firelight and noted appreciative glances from men at the cleavage down her blouse. Though she wasn’t as endowed or shapely as any touched by Morgana’s sex magic, as a woman from Camelot’s southern provinces she had some curves to work with. Not as much as Maria did, however.

The former slave girl marveled how her friend had grown, as if the long horrible journey had somehow made her even more beautiful. The cut of her blouse seemed lower than she remembered, low enough to showcase a mile of soft cleavage that she knew she didn’t have when they lived in the village. Men gawked openly at her monumental breast flesh, glowing in the firelight and jiggling with every flick of her hair.

All but Joran was subject to such base lusts, his holy radiance putting him above it all.

“With respect, my lord, why are you not always so bold with the witch?” said Parisa, her eyes still distracted with her friend’s giant, protruding tits and her dumb little smile that she flashed at every man who met her eyes.

Joran stoked the fire solemnly. “Ever since she took my cousin as hostage, I have ceased all open attacks. The girl is kept alive with the queen’s infernal black magics. She’s the only family I have left. And I will not risk her.” He pulled his sword to his side and took a swig of water. “But… the false queen has let two women go. Women who aren’t her own. We can use that. Come closer…”

Parisa inched closer, listening to his plan, unaware as Maria gave her the slip and fooled the surrounding men that she needed a drink of water. She blended into the night like a crow against the sky, the man she slipped away from still carrying the divine image of her soft and heavy endowments bobbing to her stride.

Unknown to all, Joran’s plans were merely the starting moves for another player, one with a darker heart and a crueler mind…

***

Joran sneaked into the uppermost cell of the Tower of Darkness and there he found what he had loved but could never protect for so many years. “Clara. I’m here.” The woman in the cell turned around and smiled.

Various arcane runes and wards of protection, the kind that had prevented his rescue but also her aging over the decades, distorted her appearance through a hazy field of magic. But he knew it was her behind it all.

Her face was heart shaped and elfin, her hands as small and as delicate as her feet and waist. “Uncle Joran!” she said, overjoyed at his appearance. The last remaining person he could call family had turned out to be a real beauty. Spectacularly so. Decades of magical imprisonment had turned her long maiden locks into a vivid and splendorous mix of red and gold. Her eyes sparkled pale green, dancing with celestial light and her ivory body was both heavy breasted and thick bottomed, her backside sculpted and tight.

It was only by the grace of His Holiness that Joran’s thoughts did not take a more carnal turn when he saw her round, milky breasts pressed tightly together. “I can’t rescue you yet but I still bring happy tidings. Your imprisonment is coming to an end. Luck and faith has been on our side and it would seem…” he paused and looked at her, almost unbelieving of how well things had gone, “that I have figured a way to vanquish the Queen without ending your life.”

“Oh that’s wonderful, uncle!” said Clara, her eyes bright, pure and naïve. “I can’t wait to see the world, breathe the fresh air-”

“Easy now. Don’t get too excited. Morgana might think the worst if you get too jubilant. Just be aware that things will change…” he put his hand against the glowing magic barrier “and that I love you. Nothing will stop me from getting you out of there. I promised your parents that.”

He snapped his head to the side at the sound of clattering and commotion down the hallway. Guards. He put his finger to his lips and backed into the shadows.

“I love you too, uncle. Be safe.” whispered Clara.

She couldn’t wait.

The next time they met there would be no barrier between them.

***

A week had passed since Joran had detailed his plan and Maria’s disappearance. Parisa was concerned about her friend who had turned strange beyond belief since coming to the city, but figured all would be resolved once the evil queen was vanquished.

Joran had disguised her as a caterer for the queen’s latest party, celebrating Black Moon victories over barbarians in some distant land. Within the throne room, rows upon rows of hooded followers assembled for their queen while Morgana herself was accompanied by all of her greatest minions.

To the far left, were her Dark Maidens, voluptuous and treacherous harlots whose stained and ruined robes still glowed heavenly white wherever they weren’t marred and spoiled. Below horned foreheads, their eyes glowed in a demonic hue of yellow while carnivorous teeth gleamed behind sly smiles, their gowns so ripped and low cut it seemed at any moment their heavy and pale breasts would spill free.

To the far right, were the Black Knight’s bastard sons, born of his tainted seed and the Dark Maiden’s befouled wombs. Tall, strapping and as numerous as they were demonic, they were a far cry from the aristocratic handsomeness of the two sons the Black Knight had given to his Queen who were not present.

Morgana sat in her throne like a statue, perfect and immaculate, the rounded tops of her massive, alabaster white breasts ached to overflow their constraints and be free for all to admire. Her fit belly gleamed with silver chains and adornments while her sleek, toned legs were splayed, taunting her followers with a view they dare not take.

At her side stood the Black Knight and Ingrid. The Mistress of Flesh’s sparkling honey hued skin matched her resplendent golden hair, which glowed with the same unnatural and eerie light as her crystalline eyes. The roundness and size of her vast bosom was emphasized within her crimson corset, showcasing a deep, deep chasm of cleavage. The rest of her one piece was cut high, allowing her hyperfeminine hips to breathe, her long, shapely legs accentuated.

Only her mistress and Queen surpassed her in beauty that should not be.

Parisa moved as she thought a Black Moon cultist might move: aimlessly yet with a sense of foreboding. She looked at the floor leading up to Morgana’s throne and Joran’s words came to mind. A frontal attack on the Queen is pointless. Magical wards would incinerate the trespasser of the First Circle. An engraved halo of bronze as wide as the throne room itself sprawled out before her, while a second halo of silver intruded at the edge of its border. At the end of the silvered circle’s border were the beginnings of the final and golden halo, which ended at Morgana’s feet. The Third Circle. The wards can only be overloaded with magic and since there isn’t a surplus of witches to hurl past the circles… we’ll have to be more subtle. Parisa thumbed the archaic stone dagger in her pockets and felt its malevolence seethe and prickle under her skin. The weapon was corrupted by Morgana in her earliest days, and stolen in her last. Only it will let you pass through the circles unharmed.

Parisa ambled through the crowd and was so lost in Joran’s words that she couldn’t stop herself when she bumped into a fellow cultist. One that, as their eyes met, found that she was not a cultist. It was Maria. Parisa’s blood ran cold as she beheld her friends cold smile and dead eyes.

“Ohhhhh…” moaned Maria as she cupped her hands around Parisa’s breasts, squeezing like a lewd drunkard. “She’s so right… you would be here!” Lurid purple light filtered through Maria’s cruel eyes and then Parisa knew, somehow, some way, her friend had fallen into darkness.

“Please don’t…” whispered Parisa, her voice trembling as she tried to remove her friend’s hands.

“Please don’t what!?” Maria grinned and yanked Parisa by the shoulder, throwing her to the floor. Parisa’s robes made her skid along the smooth marble, and she stopped just before the border of the First Circle. “Please don’t show the Queen and all her fine friends that there’s a snake in our midst!?” She cackled out loud while the other cultists receded like a black tide, leaving behind hushed whispers as they fixed Parisa with disapproving eyes.

Morgana clapped in the silence. “Well done my sweetest Maria. That you have delivered me the one who deprived me of your purity and her own is cause for reward! You shall be beautified even more within Ingrid’s embrace!”

Maria beamed with malevolent joy at her Queen. Parisa saw how much she had changed since her disappearance. Though not as alluring as the usual Black Moon convert, her looks had the undeniable flourish of magic’s caress. Her complexion had an uncanny smoothness to it, her legs more refined and elegant, and the tightness of her robe which strained against her ample chest, now jutted out like a shelf, even larger from when she last saw it.

“Give her my gift, my pet! Give her soul the kiss of darkness!” cackled Morgana, the squeezed slopes of her porcelain smooth cleavage jiggling to her malicious laughter.

Maria looked down on Parisa with fanatical eyes. “Yes, my Queen…” In one motion she ripped off her soft robes, revealing the body of Parisa’s nightmares. Heavy and enormous breasts pointed outwards, their round and perky shape boring into Parisa’s eyes. No woman should have looked like that… and yet she did.

Parisa’s nerves turned to ice. Powerless and paralyzed with fear, the fact that she had the dagger on her person escaped her mind. Maria leaned over her, her gigantic tits bobbing into Parisa’s face as her soft fingers skimmed down the nape of her neck, cooing with delight at the prospect of bringing her friend into darkness.

Parisa sighed with erotic resignation as her friend’s violet eyes mesmerized her own, almost accepting of what was to befall her. It all seemed so familiar, as if she had danced this dance before, perhaps in her dreams… or nightmares. It was impossible to tell which was which in this city.

Maria’s breathy moans vibrated against her sensitive neck. Parisa stared at her friend’s luscious swinging breasts with longing. How a clear, iridescent fluid that shined with surreal color under the light leaked from her dark puffy nipples, running across the beige slopes of her tits in tempting rivulets. The nectar of her downfall.

“And now sweet Parisa, you will drink and the veil will be lifted…” cooed Maria, lowering her twin globes with fateful inevitability. Parisa’s eyes beheld not only feminine melons, but destiny, sighing as her friend’s ample endowments grazed across her cheek like warm silk, ever closer to her lips…

Just when she thought the violet eyed Maria was to deliver the Gift of Morgana, a tremendous clamor erupted in the air. All spun in the direction of the noise and it was hard for the country girl to admit that she was both disappointed and relieved she was spared the exquisite darkening of her soul.

“You do not stand alone, Parisa of the Southlands!” Joran emerged from the assembled cultists and threw back his hood. Unsheathing his gleaming sword high in the fire dotted darkness he shouted, “Knights! To me!” More rebellion fighters pulled back their hoods, and a whole chorus of unsheathed blades filled the air.

Morgana looked on with an amused smirk, not bothering to rise out of her throne as the Black Knight unsheathed his sword. All the brazier’s flames in the royal court blazed and wavered to Joran’s holy presence, throwing a cast of shifting shadows across the supreme witch’s sizable and lush ivory mounds.

Joran ignored the cries and shouts of fright from the huddled and robed masses as he and his men formed up in the center. “Morgana of the Black Moon! For crimes of black magic, sex magic, wars against Camelot and the spiritual desecration of its leaders, I, Joran Baird, Protector of His Holiness, declare you a heretic. The punishment of which is death!”

Parisa came back to her senses and inched away from her friend’s full breasts, their seductiveness numbed to Joran’s holy aura. She hovered her hands above Maria’s hips, ready to pitch her at any moment.

Joran looked to Parisa. “Parisa, now!” The slave girl shoved Maria back across the delineating line of the First Circle and watched with remorse as her childhood friend turned to ash. Joran bounded over the now deactivated line and carved his way through a band of loony sycophants and seasoned warrior sons of the Black Knight, lopping off their heads with graceful precision. His men joined and threw spears, skewering stunned Dark Maidens, witches and warlocks like kebabs.

As he came to the silvery border of the Second Circle, Ingrid the Deceiver, Mistress of Flesh, leapt down from her Queen’s side to confront him. She did not come bearing spells, but charms. His men’s spears flew past her and past the Second Circle, disintegrating instantly. She tilted her head to the side and looked at him with sweet, imploring eyes.

And then she put her fingers under the buttons of her corset and pulled. Silver buttons burst free, pinging off of Joran’s armored chest. Like a crumbling dam, the halves of her corset split and the gorgeous and huge honey globes of her chest rushed out as if a levee had broken. Dark areolas and sharp, aroused nipples arrested his attention, and for the moment, the veteran Paladin lost his fighting spirit.

They hung in the shape of a heart and sat perfectly on her chest, goading him to drop his weapon and lose himself in between the luscious valley of her silken slopes. Her wavy tresses framed her bronzed mounds in rivers of silky gold, and for a moment, the righteous Paladin felt he had gone to heaven.

“Isn’t this easier, Joran?” Her voice chilled him and raised goosebumps. His world was reduced to her divine bare form. The shouts of his comrades had faded to nothing and Parisa’s pleas went ignored. “Our Queen… is a good Queen. Come to me. Be with me. Lay with me.”

Her voice, sweet and sumptuous like erotic nectar, rattled him. But then her words cooled his lusts and he remembered he was on the cusp of ending a tyrant. “No. No she’s not. Your words are bitter honey.” In one movement, she was decapitated. Before her head had hit the floor, Joran kicked her corpse across the border of the Second Circle. In the space of a breath, she crumpled to ash and the magical wards were thrown in disarray.

Joran walked across the seal and stopped before the Third Circle’s golden border. He extended his hand behind him, waiting for Parisa but not taking his powerful stare away from Morgana’s mirthful face. “Parisa!” he called. There was no response. “Parisa, the blade!”

Morgana spoke, her voice breathy and silvery smooth. “Parisa, darling, your Queen insists that you give him the blade.”

What the holy warrior received next was not a blade in hand but a blade in the back, followed by moans of wanton arousal. He slumped down to his knees and saw Parisa grinning evilly, before she too fell to the ground, writhing and gasping in pleasure as some otherworldly force overtook her.

Morgana rose from her throne and descended down the marble steps with inhuman grace, her heavy alabaster breasts jiggling to her stride. “Did you not think it odd, Paladin, that your latest recruits possessed no memory of how they came to be slaves? How ill-guarded their convoy was?” Joran gasped for air, feeling warm blood stream around his plates and trickle through the chain mail underneath.

Something else was seeping into him, too. Unnatural, forbidden lust. When he looked back up to the vile sorceress, he gulped, as beheld the voluptuous view of her full and heaving bosom, glistening like polished mountains of creamy flesh to her heated arousal. “You presented me with a quandary. How does one lie to a man that cannot be lied to? Simple. By giving him a liar who does not yet know she is lying.” she said, looking at the pleasure struck Parisa.

Everything came back to Parisa. The burning and sacking of her village. The corruption of her family. The beginning of her journey came back to her, how on a cold night, Maria, already turned by Ingrid, crept up on her. Sharing their warmth, her childhood friend held her close, not to comfort but to betray. She brushed her soft lips against her neck and whispered dark words of enslavement, entrapping her unsuspecting soul for all time.

As she moved in for a kiss, a tiny mote of violet light floated from her mouth into Parisa’s. A seed of corruption. When Parisa’s eyes snapped open in surprise, her irises clouded with the violet light she had come to fear so much, an insidious smile stretching her face, before she exploded in orgasm at the sheer pleasure of being enslaved. The two girls spent the night writhing in rapture, until the morning, when the dark touch lifted and things seemed normal yet… off.

“A servant, who did not know she was a servant.” Morgana smiled and stopped in front of Joran, jutting her hips out. She kept her eyes on Parisa, watching with pride as the evil simmering in her soul at last came to a delicious bloom. “It pained me to withhold from her the full power of my grace, but it was a necessary hurt, lest your keen eye spy the very quality within her that would prove your downfall.”

“You… treacherous… misbegotten… harlot!” Joran struggled, and coughed up a substance that was not blood. He rolled on his back, wheezing and crying out. “End the witch… men! The time is… is…” he coughed once more and his eyes grew hazy.

Joran’s men stepped forward, weapons brandished, until the Black Knight stepped in front of Morgana. “You are welcome to try and best my champion, or you may surrender to my coven.” Morgana pointed to the newly arrived witches behind them, already dropping their tight fitting outfits to the floor and extending their arms in welcome of their new lovers.

Gigantic jutting breasts, ivory white and succulent, jiggled and sparkled in the dim light of the court. Their smooth rounded hips awakened primal desire within Joran’s men. Hyperfeminized bodies and lustrous raven locks made the choice between their warm embrace and the Black Knight’s cold blade all the easier to make. The men, as one, dropped their blades and headed for the nubile sirens. They surrendered to plump bosoms, high and ripe, and drowned in their plush lips, reveling in the peachy softness of their bubble shaped asses.

All but for one. A blond, scrawny lad with an oversized sword, tore his eyes away from dark paradise and settled on the nightmare in midnight armor that was the Black Knight. “For the kin-” his war cry was cut short, not making it three steps forward before the Black Knight threw his jagged sword like a spear and impaled the young hero through the heart.

“Ah. Regrettable.” said Morgana. She noted with satisfaction the raucous moans soaring into the air as Joran’s men began fondling, groping and sucking on her sorceresses. “Perhaps you should have chosen men possessed of higher character… not that such a thing has stopped me in the past.” She looked down to Joran, hazy eyed and hyperventilating.

“My poor champion…” she said, leaning down to him and letting her delicate hand graze against his sweaty forehead. “So long you have warred against me, all for this one little moment.” She looked straight into his eyes and kept her vast, pendulous breasts hanging just above his face, tormenting him.

“I will fuck you.” she said, running a hand through his hair. “I will make your defeat… be the greatest loss you have ever experienced. And you will want it over and over again.”

“No…” he groaned, finding himself paralyzed yet tortured by his infernal lusts.

“YES! Oh fuck!” sobbed Parisa across from the two. Weeks of pent up lust and darkness, darkness she never knew she had, clawed up out of her formerly pure soul, ripping her innocence apart and turning the white light of her spirit into a sore, pulsing core of roiling violet.

Her hands stretched out, scoring the marble with steaming blacken nails as she moaned her nirvana into the chamber. Her voice was but a sonorous accompaniment to the forbidden rutting of Joran’s men and the delighted coos and gasps of Morgana as she stripped Joran.

Her amber complexion paled across her body, her blue black tresses darkening into an abyssal hue of night. Her nipples tingled and her hips bucked as her forbidden spirit at last saturated her flesh with corruption. She had the feeling of an invisible hardness funneling up her pussy, dulling her mind with pleasure and tearing out the last bits of noble resistance.

But there was no stopping her fall. It was inevitable, even if she could marshal her willpower… Morgana’s dark enchantment had been buried too deep to resist. Her aroused gasp to this dark realization transformed into a hiss as the malevolent energy spread deeper into her tattered soul, making her toes curl with pleasure, her hips jerk with excitement.

As she came, she felt the final wall to corruption break down. Orgasmic waves ripped through her, burning through blood and flesh as the evil essence became one with her. Before she could even contemplate what had been taken away from her, it was gone. That she was lost and defeated only emboldened her lusts. Lost in her storm of pleasure, her thoughts drifted on what duties Morgana would have for her, what treachery she would visit on the innocent.

Before she could contemplate further, she cried out as heated pleasure bloomed in her bosom, and she felt her back muscles strengthen. She was changing even more.

Her breasts, a handful before, quivered and bloomed, expanding upon her chest like two bouncing, overripe melons. Her back arched and her eyes rolled back into her head as the erotic enslavement overcame her, making her luscious, expanding mounds jiggle in rhythm to her orgasmic convulsions.

The former daughter of the Southlands gasped in pleasure as the spheres of her ass ripened into prominence, soft and voluptuous. When she rolled over to grind herself on the floor, her succulent backside stuck out as two soft globes, aching to be grabbed. She slid her hand underneath one of her giant tits, grasping the cool, smooth flesh as she pinched for her dark nipples.

Being of a sun touched people, her complexion had not bleached into the pale marble perfection of so many Black Moon fanatics, but rather lightened into a soft, pleasing creaminess. The torch light blurred the edges of her curvaceous form, lending her vile personage an almost heavenly cast. As she rolled back onto her back, gasping for air in her storm of dark pleasure, so too did her eyes roll back down.

Narrow, violet, cat like eyes. Lovely, caring Parisa, was no more.

She rose up from the marble floor with feline grace, her new, massive bosom sitting high on her chest like some living sculpture, the kind seen in only the mad dreams of poets and artists alike. She watched Morgana’s witches couple with their noble victims.

A smile dawned on her face. She saw a mix of shuddering bodies, round and feminine ass cheeks in a blur as they took the warrior’s seed. Huge breasts bounced and swayed atop narrow waisted nymphs. Some were already finished, with the witches hugging the knights like long lost lovers as the men offered the last of their life into their yearning wombs, filling the treacherous women with their virtuous seed. Seed that would ripen into dark life.

Other warriors were more lucky and Parisa grinned when she saw the tell-tale signs of gray skin and dimmed hair. Yet more to join her Queen’s ranks, so great was their thirst for life and lust for dark beauty that they simply could not die like their more noble brethren.

However delightful the sight of that defilement was, nothing compared to when she witnessed the greatest depravity astride the greatest good. Morgana swiveled her hips and clawed into Joran’s chest, just as he squeezed her soft and massive globes around his desperate fingers.

She rode him sinuously, her beautiful back arched, his manly hands immersed in her bountiful breast flesh, her copious ivory tits pouring through his fingers. Her moans and his grunts filled the chamber and all watched in awe, even the dying, whose last sight was of primal evil entwined with the essence of good.

Morgana drew blood from Joran with her glossy black nails, biting into her lips as the jiggling porcelain domes of her perfect ass bounced atop his hips. From the head of his shaft to the root, she owned him, body and soul. When she pulled his head up to her round and giant tits, she meant to cement his servitude. Already fluids of corruption ran from her proud nipples, coating her mountainous melons in a glistening, delectable sheen.

Joran had faced such devilry in the past and come out righteous, but this was different. This was Morgana. The vile dagger Parisa had stabbed him with seemed to have not only instilled unholy lusts, but severed his connection with His Holiness. As those milky teardrop mounds loomed before him, he cried tears of joy and terror and gave a quick prayer to his lord for deliverance.

There was not an answer.

But there were immense and soft breasts in his face, and then in his mouth. He spat and sputtered at first, but Morgana would have her due. She smothered him beneath her pillowy bosom, stuffing his mouth with her luscious flesh as the essence of evil flowed as free as ever. The scalding mixture burnt his throat and yet he could not tear himself away.

“Yes suck them, noble hero!” she moaned, squeezing his face against her swollen mounds. Each pulse of her unholy concoction down his mouth filled her with nerve searing ecstasy. Her whole body trembled and quaked, her pussy clenching his cock mercilessly, pushing him to spew his seed and soul into her depths. “Let go, Joran! Pump it inside me, cast off the light!”

Her words sent him over the edge and the irrepressible tingle at the head of his cock told him it was over. He groaned and took handfuls of her juicy ass cheeks as his manhood fired off the load that had waited so long. “Yesss!” hissed Morgana, raking her claws down his back as spurt after spurt of his goodness spewed into her.

His mouth fell away from one of her tits and it resumed its perfect, gravity defying shape, huge and full. Steam rose from his mouth as corruption needled through his veins and stung his heart. He held onto a pearl of goodness even as his soul caved before the vile witch’s onslaught. He clutched the hot flesh of her plush ass cheeks helplessly, pleasure wracking his body so hard it almost hurt.

Life ebbed from his muscled form as he ran out of semen to give and her devouring slit sucked on his soul instead. If firing off his cock inside her was divine, giving his soul was unbearable. Her strong vaginal muscles clamped down on his member, choking off his senses with pure ecstasy as her body choked off his life.

As darkness fell he saw endless pairs of violet eyes floating in the darkness. The cultists, witches, Parisa and even his men, all turned, all gone forever…

***

When Joran woke he was still in the throne room. His skin had diminished in radiance but had not taken the dead gray cast of so many of her faithful. Still, he was without weapons and Morgana still stood while her underlings washed out the bloodstained floor from the botched attack.

“What is this madness? What mad purgatory is this?” he demanded of the wicked witch.

“Paradise, good Paladin. For those wise enough to see it.” purred Morgana. “Your soul is gone and yet you live through my beneficence alone… rejoice!”

“I’d rather die than enjoy your ‘beneficence’.” Though truth be told, the Paladin didn’t feel that wicked. He didn’t feel a compelling need to act like a wild eyed maniac, like so many of the Queen’s lackies. He almost felt as noble as before, but something was… missing.

“Oh! I am so pleased you said that!” Her enormous ivory breasts swelled to her breath, her body electrified with excitement, eyes gleaming over the new trickery she had conjured for the holy warrior. “For you have one final test, Joran of Camlann, one that I have left just enough of your free will intact to make it even more exquisite.”

Morgana stepped aside and before Joran stood a vision of beauty. Chained to a throne room pillar and bathed in radiant white light, the voluptuous figure of Clara writhed in chains.

“Oh no…” He felt a burning lust pulse through his veins at the very sight of such nubile innocence, such was her beauty as to move him to his feet.

“Oh yes! A question of life and lust. Is it better to be innocent and dead, or alive and wicked? Can you resist her with my Gift, and keep her innocent… and cold? Or will she experience her uncle’s degeneracy and live forever?” Morgana saw the mingled looks of confusion and carnal longing that played across Joran’s face. “Oh yes, once my magic fades from her… all those years will not be so kind. Aging all at once may be enough to stop her heart…”

Clara jangled her chains and her straining swelled the top of her soft and bountiful cleavage in such a way as to ignite fresh heat between Joran’s legs. “Please uncle! I’d rather be humble and gray than be cursed with sinful beauty!”

“Rut with her or watch her die, Paladin!” screamed Morgana, her face alight with a carnal rage, her eyes bright with madness.

Joran stumbled forward to his niece, compelled by a perverted and dark lust that he could not call his own. She was so trembling, scared, helpless… and pure. “I’m sorry… Clara! I can’t stop!” His muscular arms reached forward, his corrupted black veins writhing in anticipation as much as his swollen cock.

He had a feeling that he could have stopped it all. But the way her long and lustrous golden red tresses framed those two hefty melons, like sweet slopes of porcelain, pressed together and billowing to her frightened breath… it was too much. He had to feel their ripe softness squeeze through his fingers.

“No! Uncle, fight it!” Clara cried, her radiant ruddy yellow locks frolicked to her struggles as her full breasts bounced within her low cut dress. She gasped and felt thrills race around her nipples as his hands ripped apart her paltry satin gown, exposing her creamy maiden breasts for all to see. She involuntarily arched her back in pleasure as his greedy hands sank into her luscious flesh, his thumbs teasing her nipples.

“I can’t… it feels too good…” he growled, yielding to the irresistible dark power that pulsed through his being. His cock spasmed obscenely as it came near her virgin petals, eager to spear something so innocent and untouched. Pure sexual heat surrounded his manhood as he slid inside her, warmed by her wet feminine nectar.

Clara bucked and whined, trying to resist her corrupted uncle but her struggles only helped him slide further inside. He buried his corrupting weapon into her lubricated passage with obscene eagerness. The former maiden both craved and feared what she would become if he released himself inside her. Though when she looked into his deranged, lusty eyes she saw there was no ‘if’ about it.

He was going to tarnish her soul in every way possible and that made her heart pound even more.

Joran was addicted to squeezing and groping her perfect bobbing tits. Like full and supple mounds of ivory topped with pink crowns they yielded to his groping hands, his fingers leaving momentary imprints upon her soft flesh. He bottomed out inside her with each thrust and relished the feel of his heavy balls slapping against her pert ass cheeks, a reminder of what seething evil churned just below his shaft, ready to inject itself into her innocent center.

A greater purpose than just release thrummed within Joran. The urge to stain, ruin and corrupt and turn yet another soul in the world away from righteousness pressed him on, luring him with a greater pleasure than even the common orgasm. He squeezed his face in between her ample, jiggling globes and clutched her ripe cheeks, hammering into her wet slit at a brutal pace.

Clara screamed as he plundered her body but not in pain. She was ashamed of the raucous ecstasy that played and teased her nerves, making her tingle and her belly writhe with an eroticism she never knew she had. Her innocent and unknowing flesh was seduced by the former hero’s forbidden seductions. Wet tingles ran down her supple thighs as her feminine nectar ran riot with arousal. Her senses were lost in a haze of carnal euphoria and she couldn’t dodge the feeling of ultimate climax creeping up on her.

Joran’s tongue play and slamming peeled away layers of her fragile willpower. He looked with triumph and hunger into her lost and lusty green eyes, so close to the delectable cusp of surrender. Her soft moans leaked from her lips like a stream of whispers. The fallen Paladin held her tight as he plunged into her at a more upright angle, hitting her pleasure spot.

Her body sprung to violent life as sexual release blazed through her lithe and voluptuous form. Her hands clawed down his back and her hips went off as if electrocuted, rolling against his cock and smacking his own hips. “Oh fuck uncle!” she sobbed as her young and tight passage quivered and clenched around his cock, drowning his frothing masculinity in the walls of her pink flesh.

Joran groaned and felt dark power well up behind his cock. Morgana’s malevolence, powerful and exquisite, pulsed through his body and stiffened his muscles. He was the channel for her evil, ready to be passed into the chaste and unsuspecting young thing entwined in his arms. He so wished to say ‘Forgive me!’ but instead only “YESSS!” came out.

Like a tidal wave of power, heathen thrills raced up his spine and down his legs, until at last, like a volcano, he erupted his unholy seed straight into her ripe and innocent womb. He pinned her ass cheeks around his cock and stuffed his mouth with one of her ample and plump tits, sucking furiously as Morgana’s curse spewed into the redhead’s shuddering body.

Clara held him close, loosing a series of helpless whines and pleasure filled whimpers. Her body went stiff as the first ropes of his corrupted semen lashed the moist walls of her womanhood. Right then she knew her beloved uncle could have only been pumping pure evil inside her, for only something evil could feel so good.

She could feel such wicked power overcoming her, spreading through her womb like an irresistible tide of shadow. She was a soft girl, not seasoned by the hardships of the world. Whatever determination she had to resist flickered and died before the ethereal temptation of damnation.

She shivered with climax after climax, milking his iron hard member for everything it had. With each soul melting release, she felt her grip on reality loosen and voices that were not her own. With each spray of her uncle’s tainted seed, the voices grew louder, more sensuous and tempting. She knew them all to be Morgana, and despite this, welcomed the witch into her soul.

How could she not?

Ecstasy had robbed her of resistance, not that she could have resisted. Her fall was only a matter of time and that fact made the young girl all the more aroused. The dark queen’s gift burned into her soul, spreading throughout her body like an infestation of spiritual vice. Before Clara could even think that she would never be the same, she was already changed. For one so inexperienced and innocent, Morgana’s touch fell upon her like quicksilver, infesting her soul and replacing virtue for vice with terrible speed.

For a moment she writhed in her chains, her eyes shut in unbearable pleasure as Morgana’s insidious essence took root within. Her sweat covered skin shined in the throne room’s torchlight, her soft sighs and gasps filling the silence. The large slopes of her creamy breast flesh swayed and bounced to her sudden jerks and twitches, all futile and weak efforts to escape her fate.

The fallen holy warrior stepped back from Clara’s chains, spent and exhausted, his mind in a haze. And when at last her eyes opened, slowly, delicately… orbs of heartless violet greeted Joran.

Evil had left the Paladin, and he rejoiced, sensing the first rays of noble thought piercing through the gray clouds of his mind. It was only when he realized that it had passed from him to another that his joy was chilled.

Joran backed away from his turned niece, the gravity of his terrible deed sinking in. “Oh… may His Holiness forgive me… may you forgive me Clara… I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be!” Clara shot back with unexpected venom, breaking away from her chains with ease. “This is a gift!” she hissed. “She has made me glorious!”

It was then the Paladin dropped to his knees coughing, his tongue tasting like ash. “What sick mockery is this, witch!?” Black blood dripped from his nose onto the marble floor, splattering like oil drops.

Morgana cackled. “You fool! Old lusty fool… you forget that your curse was my blessing… your only hold on life. You fucked me remember? The soul is the price for such a gift. Now you’ve given up my blessing to your dear niece…” Clara moaned like a harlot and clutched her heavy and swollen breasts, her lush pale flesh pouring through her fingers. “And still you have no soul. Nature is merely asserting itself.”

Joran struggled up to his feet, his back hunched over, rage in his eyes. The Black Knight readied his weapon but Morgana held her hand up. “I will… strangle… the life out of your pallid… litt-” he coughed and held his throat in pain.

Morgana’s laughs were sweet as they were cruel. “Oh ‘noble’ warrior… this was the deal! Force yourself upon your sweet niece or watch her die. You went through with it, your will alone, I made sure of that. And now… a life for a life. Yours for hers. That sounds noble, doesn’t it?”

The whole room roared with laughter, even Joran’s former men and his precious niece. The Paladin fell back onto his knees. “Biiitch…” he gurgled, before his body collapsed into ash. And with him, the rebellion to Morgana’s rule, was at last…

Dust.

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