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You weren't expecting Mother Miranda to even notice you as you passed meekly by her in the corridor. After all, she's Lady Dimitrescu's honoured guest, and you're just a maid, supposed to be invisible to the castle's occupants. But you feel her eyes on you, and you freeze, half in obedience and half in terror, when she calls imperiously, "maid, come here."
You do as you're told, going to her side. She smells of rich, expensive perfume, and yet earthy at the same time, and when she steps closer to you, backing you up against the wall, her scent overwhelms you.
She looks different without her mask. Less terrifying, and much, much more attractive. "You're a pretty one," she coos, wasting no time, stroking the blunt side of her talons down your face, "I'm surprised Alcina hasn't claimed you for herself." You blush, squirming, an ache beginning between your legs. She has you trapped.
Her talons drag deliciously up your thigh as she takes a handful of your dress and edges it up slowly. Her raw seductiveness is unmistakable, and you can't help shivering. If she wants to take you right here in the corridor, against the wall, where anyone could see, you just can't find it in yourself to care.
Your eyes drift closed irresistibly, but you open them again a second later when you hear a sharp noise, shocked to see her immense black wings, unbound and quivering, opening out behind her.
"No need to be frightened, dear. Sometimes I can't control them in the moment," she laughs, and you watch the way they move intently as she touches you. As her fingers brush your underwear, feeling the wetness already beginning there, her wings tremble, and you realise just how much this is affecting her too.
"Mother Miranda," you whisper desperately as she teases you, and you can see the effect your pleading tone has on her, her wings slashing through the air almost viciously as she bites her lip, moaning. “Please?” you gasp, parting your legs slightly as her fingers finally slip beneath your underwear, and though you have no idea if you’re allowed to touch her, you know that if you don’t hold onto something, you won’t be able to stay standing as she touches you.
You reach out to grip her shoulders, brushing against her wings, and her fingers falter between your legs. Intrigued, and not a little aroused, you reach out, running your fingers over the deceptively soft feathers. Her wings tremble jerkily, flexing against your touch, and you wonder just how much she can actually feel. It certainly seems like she can feel everything. You trace the shape of one of the lower wings, from base to tip, and she grits her teeth, shuddering and groaning when you reach the most sensitive part. Although she has you pinned to the wall, one of her hands still beneath your underwear, it’s almost as if you’re supporting her now.
“Mother Miranda please?” you moan, because as much as you’re enjoying undoing her, her fingers are resting, unmoving, against your clit, and you need some relief. Her wings curl around you both, cocooning you as she begins to touch you in earnest, but they still tremble and shiver in time with her feelings. When one errant wingtip brushes against your cheek, Mother Miranda’s head falls forward onto your shoulder and she lets out such an intense, choked groan that for a moment you think she might have come without even being touched.
All the control she had at the beginning of this encounter has slipped away, and it’s mesmerisingly sexy. In spite of how much you need to be touched, you’re even more desperate to find out exactly what will ruin her.
“Good girl,” she pants, her fingers slipping as she finally rubs you again, finding the perfect place, making your legs go weak, and you cry out, clinging to her. As though they’re completely beyond her control, Mother Miranda’s wings curl in closer to you, tips stroking every inch they can reach – your cheeks, your throat, the exposed parts of your chest, your bare forearms – and she begins to tremble against you, eyes glazed, lip caught between her teeth.
“Come on, Miranda,” you murmur, sensing she only needs the slightest amount of encouragement to lose it. Though it’s torture when her fingers slow again, you’re too addicted to the idea of seeing her come apart to care. You draw her into a kiss, once again reaching out and dragging your fingertips over her feathers. Her body and her wings convulse suddenly, and she pulls away from your mouth to let out an echoing cry which sounds almost more like a shriek.
She’s unexpectedly powerful and it takes all your strength to hold her steady through the aftershocks, her face buried in your shoulder, and you’d almost swear she was crying. When she seems to have recovered sufficiently, she looks up again, holding eye contact with you as she removes her fingers from your underwear and for one terrible second, you think she’s going to just leave you on the edge. The last thing you’re expecting is for her to swoop down on you and pick you up in a bridal carry, taking you towards a part of the house you’ve never been allowed in before. She’s deceptively – inhumanly – strong for her small size, and the movement of her footsteps is so smooth that it feels like you’re gliding rather than being carried.
When you realise where she’s taking you, your heart almost stops, but another, bigger, part of you thrills with excitement. Surely... surely she’s not going to take you on Lady Dimitrescu’s bed? And yet, you’ve heard enough about the matriarch’s private chambers to recognise exactly where you are, as Mother Miranda lays you down carefully on the bed, smirking at you, her wings flexing and flickering behind her again.
“You’ve been so good and patient, little one,” she purrs, straddling you and leaning down to nuzzle against your neck. “You deserve a reward. In fact, I’m going to honour you with something no one else has ever seen. My true form.”
You squirm beneath her, wondering how much more there could be to learn about her body, desperate to find out. She takes you in a kiss which is more biting and clashing teeth than anything, but as wonderful as her lips feel on yours, you need more. You can’t help raising your hips against her in a desperate search for any kind of pressure where you need it.
Mother Miranda smirks against your mouth, knowing exactly what you’re doing. “Poor pet,” she teases, sounding anything but sorry for the state she’s left you in, “it was very cruel of me not to finish you. Are you going to come the moment I touch you?”
You nod desperately. Even if it wasn’t true, you’d say and do anything she asked.
Mother Miranda purses her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe I should take the edge off first, otherwise you’ll come too quickly to really appreciate my gifts to you.” Looking almost reluctant, she climbs off you. “Undress, pet,” she commands, and though the fact that she makes no move to do the same should embarrass you, all you can think of is getting her to finish what she’s started.
She offers you a predatory smirk when you’re laid back down on the bed, completely at her mercy. “I want to taste you,” she murmurs in a filthy tone which could almost make you come untouched, “spread your legs for me, dear.”
There are no thoughts in your head except obeying, and you slowly part your legs for her, gasping as she pushes them apart roughly when you don’t move fast enough for her liking. “Mother Miranda!” you gasp as she drags her tongue over your clit, mercifully seeming to have no interest in teasing you. She spreads you open with her fingers, licking furiously and making you writhe beneath her, her wings flexing gently and caressing the air every time you moan.
“I was right, you’re going to lose it for me right now, aren’t you?” she laughs mockingly against you, waiting until you take a breath to answer before pushing two fingers inside you. The noise which escapes you is a sound you’ve never heard yourself make before, and your ability to form words is lost. Mother Miranda curls her fingers inside you, sucking your clit firmly, and you can’t help gripping a handful of her thick, blonde hair to keep her in place as you come, arching against her mouth. She manages to pull back anyway, leaving you writhing and sobbing through your orgasm, and you bring your hand down to rub yourself frantically, sensing that breaking you like this is exactly what she wanted, especially as her fingers keep moving hard inside you.
“Needy pet,” she chides, as a final gasp spills from your lips and you sink back on the bed, but she doesn’t seem displeased. After a second of thought, she wipes her glistening fingers on the embroidered covers, clearly not wanting to damage her own cloak. “Close your eyes,” she commands, and although she still feels like enough of a predator that the idea seems unwise, the thought of getting to see her fully eclipses all other instincts. You do as you’re told, hearing soft rustling and whispering as she – presumably – disrobes, and the brief thought of her trying to negotiate her massive wings through the holes in her cloak makes you smile, lessening your arousal just slightly, bringing it down to an almost-manageable level.
“Open your eyes, pet,” Mother Miranda commands, and you do so quickly, your mouth falling open immediately and, you’re sure, unattractively, at the glorious sight before you. She’s slender, her skin almost ethereally pale – but still rosier than Lady Dimitrescu’s bloodless pallor – and beneath her waist is a mass of tentacles writhing gently. You’ve never seen such a thing, but far from being scared, you can feel the ache between your legs intensifying. You barely know which part of her to drink in first, and she smirks at your blatant arousal.
As you stare, two of her tentacles reach out to you, trailing slowly up your thighs, making you shiver, but she bats them away lightly, as though she has no control over them. You think back to her comment about being unable to control her wings in the heat of the moment, and shiver again. The fact that, in spite of how stoic and controlled she tries to be, she’s unable to hide just how worked up she’s getting is incredibly erotic.
“You don’t have to stop them,” you murmur, groaning softly as the tentacles begin to move slickly against your thighs again, creeping slowly higher, and all you can think of is how they’d feel plunging inside you. You want it so desperately that there’s almost no room in your head for any other thoughts.
“Are you sure? It’ll be a lot,” Mother Miranda says slowly, and although she tries to keep her voice hard, there’s a small amount of... something behind it. Care? Hesitancy? Vulnerability? “I’ve never taken anyone like this before, and I don’t know that I can control...”
“I don’t want you to control yourself,” you say, words coming out in a rush, surprised to find that it’s true, and the moment she’s watched your lips form the words, the two tentacles seize your thighs and drag them wider apart, ready to take her. She’s still stood at the foot of the bed, not having moved since she disrobed, and suddenly the tentacles drag you closer to her, the sheer force of her need overwhelming any discomfort you feel from your bare skin dragging against the covers.
Mother Miranda smirks down at you. “There, just where I want you, pet.” And you see why immediately; the tentacles which are nudging at your entrance are much shorter than those wrapped around your thighs, but much thicker. She runs her fingers through your juices, soaking them then smearing your slick need all over your sex, and you quickly understand when the tentacles begin to push and slide inside you. They’re gentle at first as they stretch you, and Mother Miranda pets your head as you adjust to the feeling, but when you clench hard around them, she throws her head back, trembling, her wings slashing the air again.
“Fuck,” she gasps harshly, and though there are tentacles holding you in place, she reaches down and grips your thighs anyway, perhaps more to steady herself than to pin you down. Her wings shiver as the tentacles begin to thrust hard inside you, pulling back almost all the way before driving forward again, making you cry out. “You feel perfect,” she praises you throatily, and it’s clear from the way she can barely keep her head up that not only can she feel everything, but it’s completely ruining her too.
“Mother Miranda!” you cry out, and every time she loses more control, the tentacles begin to move harder, pounding you into the bed, making you writhe in desperate pleasure, “please don’t stop?” You’re breathless, desperate for something to cling onto to steady yourself. You’ve never felt anything so deep inside you, and the way the two tentacles are moving independently of each other – one thrusting hard, the other rubbing and stroking teasingly – is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
“Come on, pet,” she groans, looking for a minute as though she’s considering trying to use her fingers on you, then thinking better of it. Instead she seizes your free hand and drags it between your legs, holding it there until you begin to touch yourself again. “Good girl,” she manages to grind out, “so good. Come on.”
The tentacles swell inside you, stretching you almost but not quite to the point of pain, and you know Mother Miranda must be on the very edge. With effort, you reach down and cover her hand with yours, whispering, “it’s okay Miranda, let go.” Once again, the simple, sweet reassurance is exactly what she needs, and she cries out desperately as she begins to shake, her wings extending out with a whip-crack sound like thunder.
Your fingers stutter on your clit as you’re overawed by the eroticism of watching her fall apart in front of you, and then the tentacles are pounding you even harder, and every thought is driven from your mind except the need to come. “Mother Miranda!” you gasp, rubbing yourself frantically, moving desperately against her.
“That’s it, pet,” she encourages breathlessly, and her wings sweep towards you again, the tips stroking down your face, and you can feel the feathers trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. That’s all it takes to push you over, and you whimper her name as you come, moving against the tentacles again and again until your strength gives out and you collapse down on the bed.
“So pretty, pet,” Mother Miranda coos, feathers stroking your face soothingly as you calm, “are you satisfied, or do you still want more?” She smirks. Though she’s still in control, her composure seems fragile, her lip bitten and swollen, forehead and hair damp with sweat.
The idea that there’s more she could show you is obscenely addictive, and you moan, trying not to dissolve under the sheer intensity of her lustful gaze. “If you think I deserve more then I’d be honoured to experience more of you, Mother Miranda,” you say quietly, not even sure if your words are making sense. You turn your head, experimentally licking the tip of a feather, and her wings flex lightly, giving you the sense she’s managing to hold them back from moving as much as they could. Parting your lips, you suck wetly at the same feather, and the noise which rolls over you is nothing short of primal. Shocked, you look back to Mother Miranda, and it’s as though everything has changed. You’d swear her eyes were darker than normal, her body flushed, her talons driven into the bed – Lady Dimitrescu's bed, you remind yourself, but you can only find it in you to be horrified for a second – she looks utterly wanton and wild, and yet devastatingly in control.
“Get up,” she commands, her voice tight, “now. Stand in front of me and bend over the bed.” She steps back to give you room to manoeuvre, and you do exactly as she asks, bending over the bed, your legs slightly parted, conscious of the slickness on the inside of your thighs. There are murmured words behind you, and though you can’t make them out, the next second you find yourself unable to care, because something hot and slick is teasing against your entrance, and you can tell it’s not another tentacle. “This isn’t truly mine, but I couldn’t resist feeling you from the inside,” Mother Miranda whispers in your ear, leaning over you until her breasts press into your back.
She enters you with no resistance whatsoever, the thick cock stretching you but not unpleasantly, and she grips your hips, pulling you back against her as she moves forward at the same time, sliding deep inside you almost effortlessly. “Merciful Mother Miranda!” you cry, when she’s as deep as you can take her, and she holds you close, giving you time to adjust to the delicious feeling. After a minute or two, you begin to slowly grind your hips back against her, and she takes that as a sign to start fucking you.
She pulls back and begins to thrust inside you hard, shocking you with the strength and power in her slender hips. You can feel something, you’re not sure what, some wildness inside her, straining to be free. “Oh darling, you’re taking me so well,” she groans frantically, and you can’t help but notice the obscene, unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin as she pounds into you. And yet as hard as she fucks you, it’s clear she’s still holding something back.
“Let go, Miranda. Completely. It’s okay. I want to know everything,” you manage to say, harsh pants for breath preventing you from stringing together a longer sentence.
She hisses, grinding her words out with difficulty. “I can’t. I don’t know what will happen if I do. You... I don’t want to hurt you.” There, again, the flash of vulnerability, replaced almost immediately by something else. “If I show you my true power, I’ll have to keep you.”
“Then keep me,” you moan, almost delirious with need, “keep me, use me, hurt me, do whatever you want to me.” You’d started off supporting yourself on your hands, but her next, deep thrust almost breaks you, and your arms give way, leaving you to collapse face-first onto the bed. The new position allows her to fuck into you even more deeply, but your frantic moans are smothered in the expensive bedding.
“No,” she growls, fury dripping from the single word, and you can’t tell what you’ve done wrong, but you don’t care. Maybe she doesn’t want your noises to be stifled. So let her punish you if she wants. The wildness seems so close to breaking the surface, and you want it. Need it.
With a grunt of exertion, you push yourself up off the bed enough that you can beg, “please, Mother Miranda, take me.” No soft words or sweet encouragement this time. Only desire and lust and a desperate need unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” she murmurs, whimpering as she reluctantly slows her thrusts, whether to tease you or to stop herself from coming too quickly, you’re not sure. “I can’t. I shouldn’t.”
Your lust-drunk thoughts are slow, jumbled, and as she grips your hips tighter, moving inside you slow and hard and nowhere near giving you what you need, you fumble desperately for something to say which will push her over the edge. “Own me, Mother Miranda, breed me, make me yours,” you beg hoarsely, and the change which comes over her is tangible.
Mother Miranda feels a snarl leave her mouth as something ancient and primal finally tears free inside her, shredding the remains of her restraint. Her tentacles snatch at your arms, dragging you up into a standing position, your body pressing flush against hers. She wraps one arm around your waist, her talons biting into you so hard that you’re sure they’ll be tipped with blood when she lets go, and curls her other hand around your throat, choking you.
“You shouldn’t have begged for this,” she growls in your ear, and her voice is lower, dangerous. Between that and the way she’s restraining you, you’re sure now that she could break you with just her bare hands, but instead of terrifying you, the idea makes you weak, a rush of wetness soaking her thick cock. “Look at you,” she spits contemptuously, “you still don’t realise, do you?”
You don’t know the answer to that question. You barely know anything except how good she feels inside you, all around you. “If I don’t realise then show me,” you beg, “show me, Mother Miranda.”
She drives deep inside you, and though you’re more than wet enough to take her, the punishing force with which she begins to fuck you takes your breath away. Her hand tightens slightly around your throat, more tentacles looping around your arms and legs, her wings slashing and tearing through the air with such ferocity that you dizzily wonder whether it’s actually possible for her to take flight. Your whole world narrows to her harsh, panting gasps by your ear, the occasional growl or snarl, the earthy scent you noticed earlier mixed with the strong scent of her arousal, the feeling of her sweat-soaked skin against yours, and the feeling of her thickness inside you. You’re surrounded by her, overwhelmed by her, claimed by her.
And it’s clear that this is for her, and her alone.
You can only imagine how wrecked she must look, and you wish desperately that you could turn your head and see her, but as you try to, she sinks her teeth into your neck, and the howl you let out sounds almost like the primal noises of need she’s been making. It should shame you, but it doesn’t. You’re not sure anything could. She drags her talons across your stomach, and laps wetly at the blood she’s drawn with her bite. It’s hard to ignore the fact that, while her cock inside you feels indescribably good, it’s all of her other touches and reactions which are really ruining you.
Wordlessly, her tentacles retract and she pushes you down so you’re once again bent over the bed, the sudden change in position making you cry out. Mother Miranda growls furiously, bracing herself on your back as she fucks you even more furiously. It’s clear that this time, she needs no encouragement. Her hands, where they’re pressed to your back, curl slowly into claws, her talons dragging across your damp skin. Her wings beat furiously, and somewhere in the maelstrom of her panting and growling and the noise of skin pounding against skin, you can hear a strange, unfamiliar noise, a delicate tinkling as of china or glass, and you realise that the displacement of air from her wings is rattling some ornaments you can’t see.
The idea of how much of a mess Lady Dimitrescu’s chambers are going to be by the time Mother Miranda has finished taking you apart forces your hand between your legs, and you rub yourself shakily, knowing that she’s too far gone to think about your pleasure.
“Oh!” she gasps, any further words lost in a guttural moan, and, sensing how close you are to collapsing completely, her tentacles wrap around you again, holding you in position.
“Breed me, Mother Miranda,” you beg, as much to spur on your own orgasm as hers, and her punishing rhythm inside you falters, choking cries flooding over you as she reaches the edge, and your fingers slip wildly between your legs. “Yes, yes, please, give it to me, give it all to me,” you pant, delirious with need, barely recognising your own voice, let alone your words.
With another of her shriek-like cries, you feel Mother Miranda come apart completely, gripping your hip bruisingly to steady herself. The feeling of her spilling inside you again and again, combined with the harsh cry of her release, and the sound of her wings flexing and slashing the air again, pushes you over into the most mind-numbingly intense orgasm you’ve ever experienced, Mother Miranda’s name leaving you in a shout that you’d swear could be heard even outside the castle walls. She somehow has the presence of mind to slide her hands beneath you, supporting you as your arms give way once again, even though she can barely support herself, panting and trembling.
She makes a hoarse sound which – when you can finally think again, and hear more than just the sound of your blood rushing in your ears – you realise is supposed to be words, and a second later, the thick cock inside you, which is still hard, is gone. You feel exceptionally empty all of a sudden, and you’re overwhelmed with wondering just how quickly you can encourage her to take you again.
“Easy,” Mother Miranda says, with surprising tenderness, her voice scratchy and small from overuse, as you try to stand up, your legs shaking. Your inner thighs are wet with her come, and she gives a strangled laugh as you go to sit down on the bed and then think better of it. You’ve already defiled Lady Dimitrescu’s bed quite enough. “Perhaps you ought to get yourself cleaned up,” she suggests, “I must talk to Alcina. If... if indeed you meant what you said.”
Your mind reels. You’d said a lot of things, and remembering anything other than a blur of the most intense pleasure you’ve ever experienced is proving to be difficult.
Mother Miranda turns away as she redresses, although you sense that it’s more about vulnerability than modesty. “I said that if I showed you my true self, I’d have to keep you as my own. And you agreed... at the time. But I quite understand if you weren’t in your right mind.”
You can’t bear the tone of dignified resignation in her voice, and you step up behind her, running your fingertips over every inch of her wings you can reach. It’s an instinctive gesture, and you have no idea how she’ll react, but surprisingly, she hums in pleasure. “Then talk to Lady Dimitrescu,” you say quietly, knowing exactly what you’re agreeing to and not feeling the slightest amount of fear, “I meant it, Mother Miranda. Take me as yours, only yours.”