Chapter Text
Atene scratched Torrex’s chin. Standing in a courtyard of marble, they looked to the vast fields of grass beyond. It was still day, but the skies of Azyr were dark, and the heavenly bodies were as clear as if it were midnight. She smiled as he purred – the feeling was strong enough to travel the length of her arm – and she batted his tongue away when he tried to lick her cheek. Ever since they’d met, he’d been physical like that. He’d rub against her leg as they walked, nuzzle her neck when they slept, or curl around her waist as she prayed. It was easier when he was as small as a gryph-hound. But he was a Draconith – a six-limbed celestial dragon with scales as rich as the ocean’s blue – and now, twice the size of a horse. His neck alone was as long as Atene’s entire body. When he nudged her, she had to fight to stay standing, when they slept, he almost suffocated her, and when she kneeled in prayer, she could hardly see the stars above.
Though, she thought as he snuck past her hand and drew his slimy tongue from her chin up to an eye, his size made him a strong mount to ride, a warm body to sleep beside, and a welcome companion in times of solitude. And he wasn’t even finished growing – the oldest Draconith were as large as buildings . It took hundreds of years, of course, and Torrex was hardly in what could be considered his adult years. Whenever she remembered that, he seemed again as small as the day they met: so tiny she could hold him in her arms.
He pushed his head into her chest and knocked her flat on her ass. She yelped as she fell and hissed after landing. “You’re very large. I can tell,” she said, pulling herself up by a strap on his saddle. If she were a mortal woman, the fall might have broken her tail bone. But she was a Stormcast: one of the mighty warriors of Sigmar’s divine host. Rescued from the moment before death by his celestial might, her body and soul were reforged in the image of a god – she was nearly seven feet tall and looked as if a sculptor had carved her from the polished marble they walked on. A divine rear-end she may have had, but that fall still hurt.
She had a thought to chastise Torrex, but he was already nuzzling her side and looking up at her with amber eyes that shone like stars. His snout got caught on her robe, and it looked as if he had a beard of silk. She pushed him away with a laugh.
A shadow raced overhead. Its trailing winds pulled her robe against her legs and back. Far too close – she knew he did it on purpose – Veros struck the courtyard like a bolt of thunder. He rode atop Aremis, his own Draconith mount, who posed proudly as he shook a mop of curls free from his helmet and made sure the light of Hysh framed his face. “You’re as elusive as ever,” he said in a voice that rang like a church bell. “But as I recall, the objective of the exercise was to unseat me, not run away.”
Atene said, “Aremis was too defensive. We couldn’t reach you.”
“So you fled?”
“We survived.” She cleared her throat. “Sir.”
Veros was a Knight-Draconis, one of the higher ranking members of their order of the Stormdrake Guard – those elite few Stormcast who managed to bond with a Draconith. He slid from the saddle and swaggered toward her. His bronze armour – which he was almost never without – shone so brightly she had to cover her eyes. “I suppose someone will have to carry the legends of my valour back to the halls of this keep. Sigmar knows I’ll be too busy making new ones.”
“Of course. Sir.”
He went to put a hand on her shoulder, but Torrex rested his head there and scowled at him. Atene didn’t know why Torrex was always so grumpy around Veros. She wondered if he just hated that patch of scruffy hair on his chin. “There’s going to be a celebration tonight,” he said. “It’s for no occasion, but I think we’ve earned a little fun. I’m sure Erice would appreciate you being there.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“Can I expect your appearance?”
“I’ll consider it, sir.”
He nodded, then patted her arm. Torrex growled. Veros looked at him like he was a petulant child. “You said mine was defensive?”
“He’ll warm up to you eventually,” Atena said.
“We’ll give it another century. Regardless, I don’t need him to like me. I have Aremis for that.” He snapped his fingers, and she snaked her neck around his chest. She purred as he drew circles under her chin, then nuzzled his face and licked at his jaw. “It looks like someone needs her scales polished.”
“Then I won’t keep you.”
“I don’t think she’d let you if you tried.” Aremis practically dragged Veros away. “Wretched thing,” he said, following her to the aviary in the mountains where all the Draconith roosted. All the Draconith except Torrex. He had stayed in Atene’s chambers ever since he learned she had her own – his child-like attachment was the butt of many jokes over their long years together and Atene had learned to play along with them. What she kept to herself was her appreciation for his company. She didn’t hate the other Stormcast. But she never felt as if she were one of them.
To be a Stormcast, one had to seek a death of valour and courage. Those who lived as champions would be saved by a bolt of divine thunder and brought to the forges of Azyr to be remade. Those who lived in mediocrity died in it. Atene had not lived as a hero. She could not remember how she died.
Most of her new existence was spent among warriors – as a warrior – yet the tales of heroism she heard, and what she had done so little of, left her feeling as if one day Sigmar himself would descend from the heavens and declare her entire existence a jest. A mere trick, put on for the amusement of all around her.
Torrex purred and leaned into her. Atene chuckled and pushed back with her shoulder. She wrapped her arms as far around his neck as she could reach and held him as they walked. By Sigmar’s grace she was reborn, but it was only when she found Torrex that Atene started to live again.
Towering above the courtyard was the Stormkeep – the local base of her Stormhost’s operations. It was made from white marble and rich bronze – a fortress of spires and columns, and a maze of winding streets filled with intricately carved buildings. Though it was also built above one, the Stormkeep was a city unto itself. The mortals who worked there quickly grew used to the sight of the demigod soldiers and their monstrous mounts, and Atene was thankful for how little attention they paid her. The other Stormcast were friendlier. She was given nods and salutations by most who saw her, and she returned them all, without ever looking another in the eyes.
The Stormdrake Guard were among the upper echelons of any Stormhost, and the privilege Atene was most thankful for were the private barracks. She was afforded an entire room to herself. It was an open, circular chamber with an inset floor. All her furnishings – the pile of pillows and blankets she called a bed, her book cases, weapon racks, and other accoutrements – were along the wall, and a bath was cut into the centre of the floor. Above it, there was no ceiling. The skies were open to her, and it was how Torrex most often came and went.
She shut the heavy bronze doors behind them. The clang echoed in the quiet room. Torrex slipped past her and lounged near the bath, basking in the last light of Hysh. It made the marble shine and the bronze burn like fire.
Atene could have described the way Torrex sat as regal, if not for how clumsy she knew he could be. She smiled at the memory, sat next to him, and started to run her hand along his side. He purred and the entire chamber seemed to rumble with him.
Atene sang. It was a quiet song she knew from her life before, but she could not remember where she learned it, or why it made her heart ache. Each reforging, from the first into perpetuity, saw the Stormcast lose a piece of themselves: a face they knew, the memory of home, or even their mortal name. Nothing was sacred beneath the hammer of a god.
She and Torrex were alike in many ways. They were born into wars they did not start, could not finish, and would die in service of. Neither the first among their peers, nor the last, they found solace only in each other. They had no family. They would fight, they would die, and one day, if they were lucky, they might be remembered for their deeds, else be lost to eternity like a mortal’s soul.
Her hand slid lower, across his stomach, and he leaned into her touch. It didn’t have to be that way. Atene was confined to the immortal service of Sigmar’s war – true death for a Stormcast was merely delayed – and could live no life outside it, but Torrex was Draconith – a mighty creature, yet still a beast. Though his existence was bound by treaties signed before he had even hatched, he was not a soldier as she was. When the Draconith were not called upon, they could soar freely, mingle among themselves, and live their lives as they saw fit. So why did he stay with her?
She rubbed circles on his stomach and traced the line of his hips.
There was nothing stopping him from flying to the mountains. He could soar through their peaks among the other Draconith, find one who suited him and–
Atene stopped singing. A deep blush spread across her cheeks. Torrex looked at her and she had to look away.
There was certainly nothing stopping him from doing any of that . It was imperative that the Draconith breed a new generation. It was a morbid, embarrassing thought, but true. Pragmatism trumped baser ethics in times like these.
There was nothing stopping Atene from doing any of that, either. She blushed deeper. Stormcast were incapable of breeding – the reforging saw to that – but there was no edict decreeing they could not… enjoy the process of trying. Sigmar knows she had received her share of offers – from mortal and Stormcast alike.
Why she had turned them down, she could not say. Whenever it happened, she would blush and tell them they were very kind, then return to her chambers and stay there until Veros started knocking. She wasn’t against the thought. In fact, she had many thoughts about that thought – thoughts of mortal and Stormcast alike. But she enjoyed them in the privacy of her chamber, in the times when even Torrex was gone and she prayed Sigmar was not watching. But, she decided as the heat in her face and chest started to spread lower, that that line of thinking had gone quite far enough.
She touched something wet.
Atene jerked her hand back and her head toward it. There was a slit between Torrex’s legs oozing a clear, viscous fluid. Then something slid out. It was the size of her fingertip, purple, and covered with a sheen of slime. It pulsed in-time with what could only be Torrex’s heart, and with each quickening beat, it grew further. She watched in a bewildered trance, her eyes locked on its length as what seemed like an endless amount of flesh slid out from between his legs. It lay against his thigh, then started to swell. Atene could see his pulse ripple along it as it grew longer, thicker, harder, until it stood rigid, erect, and pointed directly at her.
It was his… manhood, she finally realised. His cock .
It didn’t look like any cock she could remember. It was too thick, and purplish, with a tapered head and a dripping coat of clear fluid. Torrex grumbled in his deep baritone. The power of his voice carried through the floor and into Atene’s body, mingling with the growing tremble that took her limbs. Her hand hovered in the air above his member. He growled. Torrex thrusted his hips as if she already touched him and his cock flexed – a bead of his pre gathered on its tip then, at the base, it swelled out even further, and from the slit, two bulging knots of flesh slipped out.
Atene gasped. The size of it was enough to surprise her – she had seen enough of her comrades to know that Sigmar never blessed his chosen with anything quite like this – but what she was taken most by was just how alien it looked. She leaned forward. It should be ugly. She should be disgusted. Indifferent, at the very least.
So why did she lean even closer?
Torrex was watching her. His amber eyes bore into her own as his hot breaths filled the air and spilled over her body. Her own breath was heavy. She saw him only through the corner of her eyes, because they were locked on his cock.
How long had it been since she’d known the touch of a man? Never, since her rebirth. Before that, in her mortal life? She couldn’t even remember.
It was not that Torrex was a man, she reminded herself. He was Draconith. A beast. A magnificent one, to be sure, but a beast all the same.
One with all the makings of a man.
His chest was broad. His entire body was well-muscled. He had a strong jaw and his entire form radiated power. There was his cock to consider, as well.
Sigmar knows she was considering it.
Atene looked to the open ceiling of their chamber and the vast expanse of the heavens above.
She hoped Sigmar didn’t know.
Torrex certainly did. His lips pulled back and a growl rumbled in his chest. She felt no threat from the gesture – he could be impatient, that was all. But what was he waiting for? What did he expect her to do?
She couldn’t lay with him. It was unthinkable. So why was she thinking it? Atene forced the thoughts aside.
It would be cruel to leave him like this. After all, was she not the reason he’d felt this way? Had her touch not drawn this from him? Her thoughts? The deepest connection between a Stormcast and their mount transcended mundane boundaries – one could feel the other's thoughts like a whisper in their own. Had Torrex felt hers? Or had she felt his?
At that moment, it didn’t seem to matter, for what could she do?
Torrex watched her. She looked into his amber eyes. His head turned low and his eyes were lidded – almost sultry. His tongue, wet and long, slid past dagger-fangs and snaked through the air. He was tasting it. Her cheeks – already flushed – burned crimson when she smelled it.
There was a heat in her core that ran lower. Down, between her legs. She rubbed her thighs together and felt the warm wetness of her sex. They looked into each other’s eyes as his cock flexed and her thighs ground together and the seeping warmth between them burned.
Atene sucked in a breath, then stood. She fought to steady her breathing and wrung the skirt of her robe. She turned, then looked over her shoulder but was unable to meet his gaze. “I’ll give you some space.”
She left the room with stiff, unsteady steps and knew that Torrex watched her the entire time.
–
Every flight ended the same – they retired to their chambers, Torrex bared himself, and Atene left. What she didn’t realise is that every time, she stayed a little longer, and her hand reached a little closer.
–
For the entirety of the exercise, Atene could focus on nothing except the feeling of him between her legs: the heat of his body, the smooth slide of his scales, his steady breathing, and the powerful drumbeat of his heart.
They raced beneath the stars faster than the comets between them. Not even Aremis could match Torrex in his flying. It was erratic and daring – harrowing yet thrilling manoeuvres that forced her to hold him close and press her body against his. Their flights had always been exhilarating, but when they landed, she knew it was not a lust for the skies that left her breath heavy and her heart quickened.
Not even waiting for Veros, she slid off the saddle and hastened to their chamber, daring not to look back. By the time she’d reached the centre of the room and started to calm herself, Torrex was still following with slow, casual steps.
She watched from over her shoulder as he curled on the floor and licked his paw. He rested on his side, his chest and belly out. It was not all she could see. Already, the slit between his legs widened. The head of his cock slipped through. Her breath caught when she saw that he was watching her, too.
The fabric of her gown hung close to her body. Though it obscured her musculature, the trim curve of her waist and the swell of her hips seemed all-too apparent.
Atene folded her arms across her chest, as if to cover it. Torrex never looked away, even as she did and, slowly, walked toward him. “I’ve known you since you were young. Nothing but a little drake, not even the length of my arm. Veros said you hatched the day I was first reforged.” She knelt and slid her hand across his chest. Then, down his stomach. He purred, a rumbling sound that went along her arm and into her breast. Atene sighed. “We have grown with each other – two halves of one whole. Sigmar’s champions. We are the lightning and the thunder. The calm and the storm.” His cock grew – a steady swelling as it already oozed from the tip. She circled his belly, tracing the definition of his musculature and the grooves on his hips that seemed to point her to his manhood. The heat of his body was matched only by that of her core. Her thighs rubbed together, involuntarily, and she snaked her fingers between them. “Yet we are human and beast. It would be perverse. Wrong.”
He growled. It shook her entire body yet the sound ended pitifully, almost a whine. It was met by her own that slipped past her lips as her fingers slid through the ones between her legs. She rubbed the inside of his thighs. His cock flexed and a jet of clear, viscous fluid slapped across her lap. Its smell – like ozone – struck her and she groaned. Her fingers quickened and she rubbed at the skin around the bulge of his base. “But we are man and woman, also.” She looked into his amber eyes, glazed with want, hers lidded with shameful arousal. “Is it wrong that we become one?”
Atene slid her hand across the length of his cock, moaning in time with her exploration of it. It was hot. She could feel it even before she touched the flesh but as her fingers slid across its slick length, she half-expected steam to follow. Torrex’s head fell back. When she reached the tip, she wrapped her fingers around it. Her hand was already drenched with its fluids – it spilled between her fingers and ran down, past her wrist and arm as she twisted around the thin, tapered head. Torrex groaned, almost a roar.
She stroked him in a frantic rhythm in tandem with her own pleasuring. His cock was as rigid as iron yet the flesh was supple beneath her soft touch. The longer she stroked him, the harder she gripped. Droplets of his arousal fell onto Atene, his own body, and the floor around them. The air was stained with their smell and filled with a wet, slapping sound.
“You’ve wanted this, haven’t you?”
Her pace quickened. Torrex thrusted into her hand. His tongue fell past his lips and he growled, constant and low.
“How long have you waited, watching? How long have you wanted me?”
Her hand was a blur and desperate, coiling pressure built in her core. Her fingers danced between her folds and teased at her clit. But she couldn’t take her eyes off his cock. Its length. The thickness. The smell filled her mind and she imagined the taste – the feeling of it inside her mouth – its texture on her tongue. She imagined him above her, his body blocking all light as he guided that cock between her legs and split her body on its girth – the pulsing thickness as it filled the aching emptiness in her core. What would it be like? To feel him thrusting into her? Taking all of her in a way no other had as she writhed beneath him, and that cock filled her and spilled its load across her chest, down her throat, between her legs, and–
“Sigmar help me, I want you too!”
Her thighs tensed, her breath hitched, her eyes screwed shut, and relief came like the roll of thunder across every quivering muscle in her body as sweat dripped down her brow, between her breasts and the world seemed to fade – all except her, the wracking pleasure she knew, and Torrex in her hand.
He roared, long and loud. His hips jerked and ropes of his release splattered onto his belly. Atene felt distant and numb, and she could do nothing but watch as his stomach flexed and heaved as his cock kept pulsing and more cum kept jetting out. The scales of his underbelly were pale before but now seemed as alabaster as the marble floor beneath him. It, too, was covered in his cum.
She held him near his base. He grinded the knot against her hand. She had stopped touching herself after her release, but Torrex grumbled and the sound seemed so sweet to her, and as he writhed under her touch, he seemed again the little drake she met all those years ago.
The fingers between her sopping thighs started again. She teased her drenched lips and the swollen bud at their peak, trembling as fresh waves rolled across her quivering body.
Torrex’s musk already filled the room like the Dark Prince’s perfume, but when his hips stopped moving and his cock finally seemed to still, she took her hand from it. She watched with lidded eyes as the sheer volume of his release fell from her fingers in thick, sticky streams, then brought them close and smelled his release as if it were a bouquet of Ghyran’s sweetest flowers.
It was pungent. Electric. Like the storm itself. It was unbearably masculine.
She came again.
When her mind settled, as if floating down on clouds, and her body stopped shaking, the first thing she noticed was the sound of her own panting. She held her cum-drenched hand too close.
Her tongue was already past her lips.
Atene jerked back and forced her hand away, but it landed on her leg, staining her robes with another wet patch. His release seeped through the thin fabric and already, she felt some sliding down the sweat-slick skin of her inner thigh. She shook her head as she frantically wiped it off, but there was so much of Torrex on her that by the time her hand was clean – as clean as she could get it – it looked as if he had simply released on her chest and belly instead. The fabric was wet and stuck to her. She could see herself beneath it.
It seemed that Torrex could, too. His cock didn’t look much softer.
Atene forced herself to look away. She decided that she would burn these robes and take a very long, very private bath. She forced herself to stand. The wobble in her legs made her chest bounce and she knew Torrex was watching. Somehow, her face became even more flushed, and she turned away. “We can’t do this again.”
–
Her desperate panting was louder than his growls. She held him in both hands, stroking the entirety of his shaft as she ground herself against the smooth scales of his thigh – every rock of her hips and stroke of her arms made her chest sway and her hair fall into further disarray.
Under her breath – stifled by husky moans – she cursed him for feeling so good beneath her. She damned Dracothian for siring such a child whose smell alone could send a burning heat across her cheeks and between her legs, whose smouldering eyes were enough to make her tremble, and for giving him mind enough to learn that growling in her ear and letting his hot breath spill across her neck – even in the presence of her comrades – was enough to make her knees buckle and tear a pathetic mewl from her lips. She had to tell Erice and Veros that she was just excited for the next training exercise as Torrex’s shadow blanketed her, his heat burned against her back, and streams of arousal already leaked down her leg.
When his eyes rolled back and his hips started to buck, she squeezed the bulge at his base and teased his head. His cock swelled. She pointed it at her naked chest. Arcs of cum smacked against sweaty skin, their impact strong enough to be heard. By the time he finished, it dribbled down her hands, a thick glaze covered Atene’s breasts, ran down her belly and pooled between her thighs. It mingled with her arousal. As Torrex’s head rolled back and he softened in her hands, she finished herself on his thigh, smearing her sex with his cum.
She damned herself for not being able to stop.
—
The protection of the mortal denizens of the realms was the impetus of Sigmar’s unending crusade. It was the bravest among them and Sigmar’s own Stormcast Eternals who fought these wars. The Stormdrake Guard ended them.
It was mere moments before Atene lost her will and kneeled before Torrex that Veros barged into her chamber, and before she had even finished fastening her armour, she was on Torrex’s back, flying toward the realmgate that would lead them to their next conquest.
“Sigmar’s mercy be upon you,” Atene said. She held her hand next to her head, and clenched her fist. Torrex roared so loudly the grass beneath him trembled, and a gout of electric blue fire spewed from his maw. Thunder danced across the smoke of its edges, and the flames enveloped the fallen warrior. His flesh burned with sizzling pops and his armour melted around him. He did not scream only because Atene had already cut out his throat.
Similar scenes played across the rest of the battlefield. Where the ground was not already burned, dragons – Draconith, Stardrake, and Dracoth alike – prowled the earth and clouded skies, rendering the realm around them, and what was left of the village they were sent to save, a charred husk of dirt and bone. The influence of the Dark Gods was as subtle as it was sinister. Though the inhabitants of the village had not appreciated the Stormcasts’ work, this was the only way to purge the taint that had taken root.
Atene dropped from Torrex’s saddle. A skull broke beneath her boot.
They went to a huddled group of survivors who clung tight to one another, shirking from the Stormcast who had already found them.
“Fear not, blessed children,” Veros said. He sat atop Aremis, who perched on the bleeding remains of a goat-headed monster with more legs than Atene could count. Her claws dug into the back of an already-dead champion with iron armour and almost comically large horns on his helm. “You alone have survived by Sigmar’s will. It is His plan that this hamlet be restored, and your people flourish. You may only see a field of ash, but I see fertile grounds on which a new, brighter legacy might be–”
Atene stopped listening.
“It’s not just the ground that’s fertile,” someone said, nudging her shoulder.
Atene had to look down to see her: Erice, another member of their Stormhost, stood beside her. She was the shortest Stormcast Atene knew – hardly taller than a mortal man – and had short blonde hair and a button nose. She was a Knight-Arcanum, one of the few among the Stormcast who could channel magic. She wore the same full-body plate as Veros and Atene, but in place of a scale skirt, she had one of fine silk, cut up one side all the way to her hips. Sleeves of the same fabric covered much of her arms. Traditionally, a Knight-Arcanum wore an ornamental plate that curved around the back of their head, but Erice eschewed it, once telling Atene that, “It got in the way.” What it got in the way of, she never said.
“See the tits on that one?” Erice said, pointing at a woman in a green dress. “I don’t know why they bothered with farming. Looks like she could feed an entire Dawnbringer Crusade with those.” She nudged Atene again.
Atene prayed silent thanks to Grungi – the Dwarf god of the forge – who had given the Stormcast helmets in which their faces could not be seen. It would be rude to walk away from anyone else – Atene might have still done it – but she knew Erice would just follow. “I don’t think she’s… producing,” Atene said in a doomed attempt to end that line of conversation.
“No?” Erice asked. “She will be soon. Someone’s been hammering her Anvil of Apotheosis, if you understand my meaning.”
Atene looked at the clouds.
“Breaching her Stormkeep, if you will.”
She tried listening to Veros’ speech, which seemed far from over.
“Traversing her Realmgate,” Erice said.
Atene wondered how quickly she could make it to Torrex, and whether he’d let Erice ride him, too.
Then, Erice pulled herself up by Atene’s pauldron, whispered into her ear, and Atene cursed Grungni for these helms as the words echoed inside it. “She got fucked raw .”
Atene jumped in place and a shiver went down her spine.
Erice giggled like a child who’d been caught stealing sweets. “I can feel the wind of life, and it’s coalescing in that bitch’s belly. In fact…” Erice brought her hand up. A green shimmer spread between her fingers. She snapped.
The woman in the green dress yelped. The other villagers must have been as bored of Veros’ speech as Atene, as they all turned to her. Her face was as red as the blood pooling in the dirt. She looked down. Everyone else did, too. Two dark patches stained the chest of her dress. Little droplets of white leaked out and ran down the heavy curve of her chest. She gave a panicked look to everyone around her, whimpered, then slapped her hands over her breasts and ran to the nearest pile of smouldering wood to hide behind.
Veros cleared his throat. “I was going to say the next step would be rebuilding, then repopulating, but… I suppose I should applaud you all for being ahead of schedule. Well done.” The villagers dispersed, more men than likely necessary following the leaking woman, and Veros came beside them. “Was that necessary?” he asked Erice.
“It was a blessing,” she said.
“I’m sure she’ll be receiving plenty more blessings. I think I can hear some of them now.”
Atene tried to ignore how the wood pile started to shake.
“Atene,” Veros said.
“Sir?”
“Your synchronicity with Torrex is commendable as ever, but your bladework was sloppy. You left one of them alive.”
“Where?”
“Right behind you.”
The warrior wore polished plate stained with blood, molded in the shape of bare musculature. A deep gash tore into his shoulder, yet he hefted a jagged axe in the other hand. “Sigmarite whore!” He shouted. “I’ll fuck you till you bleed! Walking cunt! I’ll break you on my–”
Erice flicked her wrist. A root erupted from the dirt, curled around his waist, and dragged him, screaming, into the earth.
Atene lowered her blade. “I could have taken him”.
“Oh, I’m sure you could,” Erice purred.
Atene gave all her thanks to Grungni for the helmet she wore.
“You didn’t account for the chance of his survival,” Veros said. “Remember that, next time. The only thing more important than a sharp blade–”
“Is a sharper mind,” she mumbled.
Veros nodded, and Aremis took off. They disappeared behind smoke and clouds.
“If there’s anything he’s not teaching you,” Erice wrapped her arms around Atene’s, “I’d be happy to give you some… private tutoring.” She batted her eyelashes.
“I’m… busy.”
“Doing what?”
—
Atene squeezed her thighs tight around Torrex’s cock, squishing her sex against it. Her clit pressed into his knot, rubbing against every curve and vein, their combined arousal steaming in the cool air and turning their hips into a slick, sopping mess. Torrex thrusted – his member slid between Atene’s hands and stomach. Her fingers alone had never been enough. Not for either of them.
After a day of such intense training that the sweat turned her robes sheer and stuck them to every curve of her body, Atene hadn’t even finished peeling them off before she was upon Torrex, forcing him to lay down. She rolled him onto his back and straddled his hips. She hadn’t noticed when their sexes first touched. But she felt a furnace heat against her apex and when she saw that she pleasured herself not on his thigh, but his rigid, pulsing girth, she groaned and came harder than she ever had before.
She had taken him like this ever since.
She looked between her tits at the tapered head of his cock as it slid past her fingers, almost to her chest.
It would never fit.
It would kill a mortal woman.
But she wasn’t mortal, was she?
She bit her lip and squeezed him harder. Torrex roared. His cum splattered against her, streaking the skin of her chest and collar. A spurt hit her jaw then rolled down her neck. The thick ropes jetted into the air before falling into her hair, against her shoulders and back, even reaching as far as her ass.
Atene could have laughed at the absurdity of it. She could have seen reason and run from her chamber to Sigmar’s throne and prostrated herself before him, so that he might deliver the punishment a debased creature such as herself deserved. But her body trembled in perverse delight. The last of his climax surged through the air and hit her face – it landed across her lips and nose, even reaching above her eye. It dribbled down, and she forced it shut. Atene sputtered and tried to clean herself with the back of her hand. It was a futile effort, she already knew, as she only smeared it over more skin. She shook her head and grimaced, leaving the pale streaks staining her face. Torrex grumbled. It sounded like he was laughing.
“I hope you’re enjoying this more than I am,” Atene said. As she spoke, some of his cum slipped past her lips and onto her tongue. She spat it out and made a show of looking disgusted but, to her surprise, she didn’t mind the taste.