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War Games

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Sif moved quickly, adjusting each fur-lined strap so that it was snug but comfortable over Darcy’s wrists. She did the same across Darcy’s calves, moving with businesslike efficiency. Now Darcy was completely immobilized against the table, strapped down like Frankenstein’s monster, just with her arms stretched above her head to draw attention to her prominent bust even through the many layers of clothing she was wearing. Sif couldn’t resist that one. Finally, Lady Sif rotated the table so that Darcy was upright. With the added height of being suspended off the ground, she was actually eye to eye with the warrior.

 

“When you said you wanted to play a game, I just assumed jello shots,” Darcy said.

 

“This,” Sif said, and her voice was thick with tension, so she’d waited a long time to go over each and every word, “is a game called Spoils of War.”

 

“Does it have Quick-Time Events?”

 

As always when Darcy made a joke Sif had no way of getting, her lady made a smile that was both lovingly tolerant and a bit impatient. “You are a member of the opposition, perhaps a camp follower or an officer’s serving girl. Now that your masters have been routed by Asgard, you belong to me.”

 

“Why can’t I be a badass warrior?”

 

“What?”

 

“Sorry,” Darcy said, rephrasing so she sounded less whiny. “Can I be a badass warrior like you, who, like, gets captured or is being blackmailed to save her favorite horse or whatever?”

 

“That’s not how it works.”

 

“Why not? It’s your game.”

 

Sif rolled her eyes, as if Darcy were insisting on the sky being pink. “First of all, a warrior would not be made spoils of war, it would be… disrespectful. They might be made to fight in the arena or sentenced to a labor camp…”

 

“Whoa, wait, you actually take people as spoils? That’s fucked up!”

 

Sif sighed and rolled her eyes harder. “No, we don’t, not for eons. These days, all captives would be treated as prisoners of war and held humanely until they could be ransomed back to their nation, can we get on with it?

 

“Sorry, sorry, grad student. Kinda curious about this stuff.” Darcy grinned. “Wait, is this a nerdy history geek fantasy of yours?”

 

Sif sighed harder, though she’d given up on rolling her eyes, perhaps for fear they’d never unroll.

 

“Oh, dude, you’re like that guy I dated who wanted me to wear a toga and call him Caesar. That is so dorky, I love it!”

 

“I’m glad you’re amused,” Sif said humorlessly. “May we begin play?”

 

“Yeah, sure, I don’t know how healthy it is to have my blood flow all jammied like this for long, so let’s get to the orgasms.”

 

Instantly, whatever bemused love was in Sif’s eyes was gone, replaced by Scary Warrior Princess Sif. Darcy might’ve eked as Sif’s hand went to her throat. “Be silent, slave. You talk when I wish you to talk. You climax when I wish you to climax. Your existence now is only prolonged to bring me pleasure. Succeed in this, and I will be merciful; you will know ecstasy beyond any clumsy gropings of your native land. Displease me, and I will take what recompense I can in ravishing your insensate form until it is broken.” She slipped into a quick whisper. “Remember, safe word is Game Boy.” And gave Darcy an even quicker kiss on the cheek before slipping back into character.

 

Okay, that was so totally hot. Scary, but hot. Darcy was pretty sure her gf could beat up Jane’s bf.

 

“Uh… uh… uh…” she said eloquently, still stuck on the hotness. Maybe she had a thing for choking? Why couldn’t she have realized that in high school?

 

“Speechless with anticipation, I see,” Sif said smugly. Oh yeah, she knew exactly what she was doing to Darcy. “A good start. But you are displeasing me, mortal.” Her hand moved down from Darcy’s throat to rub her sweater between its fingers. “You obscure your form in such unflattering garments.”

 

“Yeah, you try being fashionable with a hundred-dollar budget and the only ‘boutique’ in town inside the local Sears.”

 

Sif pulled out one of the million knives she had hidden on her body. Darcy saw where this was going.

 

“Oh, no, nononono…”

 

Sif grabbed her sweater by the collar, pulling it away from Darcy’s body. “Pray this sight pleases me, mortal. If it does, I will clothe it in Asgardian silks worthy of it.”

 

Darcy could only freeze as the blade went through her sweater, which was ugly as hell, sure, but also very warm during nights in New Mexico. She remembered ‘Game Boy,’ but fuck it, one twenty dollar sweater was worth making her warrior woman happy. And Asgardian silks sounded nice. It’d make the ol’ walk of shame a lot more interesting than the time Suzie ripped her blouse off and Darcy stole her concert T-shirt the next morning, that was for sure.

 

Still, it wasn’t too hard to fake the attractive trembling as that knife traveled down her body. With her sweater halved, Sif thudded the knife into place on the table and used her bare hands to rip off the bulky jacket Darcy was wearing over it. Now Darc was down to the five layers of shirts that came with eating a girl out for the first time.

 

Sif cut through them one by one, like she was Darcy dissecting a frog in biology class, only with a lot less vomiting and mental trauma. Darcy had to admit it, Sif was good at this. For all the Asgardians were berserker rage and big heavy things that they slammed into big heavy people, Sif’s hand was absolutely steady and her knife went precisely where it needed to. The damnably thin layers of women’s clothing snapped away one by one, making Darcy’s ‘top’ tissue-thin, almost translucent before Sif clenched her fist in the last T-shirt and just ripped it off.

 

Underneath, Darcy’s Pokeball bra did an admirable job boosting and separating.

 

Lady Sif didn’t break character, of course, but her smirk said it all.

 

“Fuck you, it’s comfortable,” Darcy said, lady-like.

 

Sif plonked the knife down in the table again and carefully reached between Darcy’s breasts to snap the bra hook open. Darcy was slightly thankful that her bra had been spared. It was damn cute, and she may have thought “Boobs, I choose you!” during foreplay once or a bunch of times.

 

“Now here,” Sif said, tossing the bra side, “is a treasure worthy of Asgard.”

 

“Don’t you mean Titgard?”

 

Sif stared contemptuously at Darcy, pissed that Darcy’s fawning slave girl routine needed work. “Do you want me to choke you again?”

 

“Little bit.”

 

Wisely, Sif gave up on Darcy ever keeping her mouth shut, even if she really were being enslaved by a dominatrix war-goddess, and refocused her attention on Darcy’s breasts. She was clearly in awe of them, no matter how many centuries she’d been swerving on ladies, which made Darcy feel all kinds of self-esteem.

 

Licking her lips, Sif took hold of Darcy’s massive cleavage. She squeezed gently, almost worshipfully, and Darcy found it very easy to give Sif some ravished-slave-girl moans. The pressure of Sif’s hands increased, almost to the point of pain. Darcy knew Sif was holding back her full strength—she just wasn’t holding back much. And when Sif took Darcy’s nipples between her fingers and twisted them and tugged at them and squeezed them, it felt like she wasn’t holding back at all.

 

“Fuck, babe—I mean, mistress—you’re turning my panties into Hoover Dam. Any of my wardrobe you don’t wanna ruin?”

 

Sif raised an eyebrow, releasing the nipples she’d been pulling at. Darcy’s tits bobbed with the release. “I haven’t destroyed your shoes yet.”

 

“And you won’t unless you want me to kick your ass to Frost Giant Land. There was a pair exactly like these on Pretty Little Liars.”

 

Sif just growled her assent, unable to hold a conversation with Darcy’s amazing breasts right there for her use. She cradled them with her fingers, raised them up, knelt down on one knee, and licked her way from the pale underside to the hardened nipple, feeling it get even harder in her mouth. Darcy squeaked. She did it again on Darcy’s other breast, taking even longer this time, and Darcy’s squeak got even higher-pitched.

 

“Shitting goddamn!” Darcy swore. “This was all an excuse for unlimited facetime with my ta-tas, wasn’t it?”

 

“Strategy wins more battles than strength of arms,” Sif murmured, now kissing her way down Darcy’s cleavage from top to bottom.

 

“I swear to God or Odin or whoever, babe—tress, you really need to cut my pants off, because that is… oh shit!

 

Sif was sucking on Darcy’s left breast like a Hoover, barely able to pull herself away to nip and kiss at the other one, her hands roaming over Darcy’s smooth back, delighting in the perfectly soft skin, no scars or hard muscle to ruin the silky texture of it. Sif only barely had the presence of mind to bring her hands lower, slipping them under Darcy’s belt and squeezing her ass in both hands, finding it just as ample as that amazing cleavage.

 

Darcy, for her part, had come to a realization about Asgardian culture. A martial society which focused almost exclusively on war-making slash peacekeeping, with even the women expected to be able to defend their homes and children, everyone was subjected to exercise and athleticism probably from birth. There were no hourglass curves like Darcy’s hours of getting high and watching Spongebob Squarepants while eating Bon-Bons had provided her.

 

She wondered if she could do her thesis paper on this. “The Appreciation of Voluptuous Women In A Warrior Race: A Personal Experience.”

 

Then she came. Sif was biting down on her boob and squeezing her ass and the only thing her pussy had to rub against was the inseam of her jeans, but apparently that was enough, because Darcy felt a sudden warm rush and yelped like a Chihuahua, just like she always did.

 

That was apparently the only thing that could get Sif to stop tonguing her rack. The war-goddess looked up at her, chin resting comfortably you-know-where. “Did you just reach completion?”

 

“If that means what it does in Spartacus, then yeah. I did.”

 

Before your mistress?” Sif demanded, eyebrows raised in convincing fake-rage. At least, Darcy hoped it was fake. That O had taken too much out of her for angry sex.

 

“Umm… sorry, sorry, mistress, please don’t punish me! –-or do, if it’s sexy and what you think is best?” Darcy simpered. As best she could simper.

 

Sif spun the table so Darcy was flat on her back, locked it in place, and tugged at her belt. “I think it time you drink from my chalice, slave.”

 

“That doesn’t mean you’re going to pee on me, right?”

 

Sif stopped with her pants half-down. Her nose wrinkled. “You Midgardians can be so gross.”