This will be my second submission to xnxx, although it is not the first time others will be reading this piece. Friends of mine have read the first four chapters of the erotic fantasy novel I have been writing for the last few years and have expressed VERY positive feedback. But they are my friends. The Temptress is Chapter One of that book but not the first book of the series of which it is part. I guess I am looking for genuine enthusiasm, an HONEST review and critique, and a reason to continue my writing this story (which, by the way, has a romantic twist to it that unfolds throughout the course of the books.) My first submission was not so well received as I may have mis-categorized it or the sexual content was lacking or something along those lines. If Chapter One proves to be popular, I will probably submit the other chapters I have written.
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Chapter One
As night crept across the lands of Demnos, the gray sky of the dreary, rain-soaked day continued to deepen until it was impossible to tell when the day ended and the night began. Far below the towering craggy edifice of Demon’s Peak, lights in the city of Xyn started flickering to life in windows and on street corners. The inhabitants were provided with a measure of supposed protection against the all too real creatures lurking in the dark, just past the last houses on the outskirts of the city. The streets bustled with both the necessary evening traffic and those seeking entertainment at one of the many taverns, brothels, or fest halls throughout the city. Shopkeepers were finishing closing up shop and securing their establishments from unwelcome nocturnal intruders. Despite the inclement weather, the pervasive ambiance of Xyn’s celebrants was as festive as always.
The dome-shaped buildings comprising the bustling valley city were typical of those found across the face of Tiaceor. Sturdy in construction, they could withstand many kinds of punishment and look only a little worse for the wear. The domes were all of varying sizes, built according to its function and the owner’s needs—as well as the depth of his or her purse.
High above the city, a pair of glowing yellow eyes looked down at the goings-on from the relative comfort of a very large and well-fortified keep. To the otherworldly eyes regarding the scene, the rain obscured the view only a little. The rain pitter-pattered in large puddles on the balconies of the three enormous windows outside the castle’s throne room. A tall, lone, dark figure stood in the window, thoroughly enjoying the sensation of the rain as it gently tapped against her hot ebony skin and soaked her long, thick raven tresses. Small droplets grew bigger until their weight pulled them down her naked flesh, tickling her lightly as they rolled. As she stood there, tiny rivulets also flowed from the longest ends of her hair and down between her large bat-like wings; from there, the water followed the curve of her back until finding its way around the base of her well-muscled tail and between the tight cheeks of her ass where it mixed with the lubrication of her already wet pussy. Droplets fell too from the rings piercing her nipples after collecting and hanging there for a moment. The unnatural heat given off by her body caused the mistress of the keep to be surrounded by a wispy nimbus of steam.
Demon’s Peak had been well-named by the early settlers who first looked upon the immense, foreboding mountain with an equal mixture of awe and fear, though mostly the latter. There were many locals who wondered if the name had actually been an unrecognized prophesy, especially since a demoness had been calling it her home for the past eighty years.
Standing just slightly taller than most human and some ork males, War Mistress L’tirashin Jaduor was an imposing sight to behold. Her manner and bearing left no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was not a being with whom someone trifled. Of course, her glowing yellow eyes, large bat wings and long tail only served to accentuate her otherworldly visage and make those around her fearful of inviting her wrath.
As if by its own accord, L’tirashin’s left hand slid slowly across her thigh, inching toward the black tangle of her hairy mound. Her long, talon-tipped fingers pushed through the slick folds of her labia until they found her already excited clit. L’tirashin flicked at it a few times before shoving her fingers deep into her pussy.
‘Fools!’ she spat in her thoughts as her other hand cupped her right breast and brought it to her mouth. L’tirashin’s tongue darted out and rubbed across the hardening tip of the nipple. Using her teeth, she tugged firmly at the ornamental piercing, increasing her passion as her fingers probed even deeper into her vaginal flower. ‘See how they go about their lives, totally oblivious to the coming darkness!’ she mused as she continued masturbating. It excited the wicked demoness beyond mere words every time she used either her infernal powers or her mastery of arcane magic. Very soon after her arrival on this world the inhabitants called Tiaceor, a phenomenon heretofore never experienced by L’tirashin came to light: without exception, whenever the demoness cast any of the spells she knew, she would feel the need for some kind of sexual gratification. It also appeared that the greater the inherent power of the spell cast, so too was the urge that followed. Although L’tirashin had always possessed a fierce carnal appetite, there were inevitable times when sex of any sort—ranging from simply masturbating to enjoying a full-blown orgy—just was not possible. Of course, it went without saying that those missed chances for libidinous indulgences were made up for at the first opportunity. . . .and then some. L’tirashin tried to discover the reason for the odd, but very pleasant, connection but was far less successful than the learned sages, wizards, sorcerers, and priests who had studied it for centuries before her arrival.
As she felt an orgasm beginning to build within her, L’tirashin leaned her head back and turned it from side to side, causing her rain-soaked blue-black hair to brush across the top of her tight buttocks and base of her tail. Faster and faster L’tirashin plunged her fingers in and out until they were almost a blur of motion, working their own kind of magic on her pussy. With her excitement nearing its climactic peak, she brought her mouth and melon-sized breast back together and bit down hard on the nipple. Her elongated, razor-sharp canines punctured two small holes on either side of the silver ring dangling from the very stiff and protruding nub. A small ooze of dark crimson leaked out then vanished with a swipe of L’tirashin’s tongue.
The peak L’tirashin had felt stirring deep in her loins was upon her. A mask of pure euphoria washed over her beautiful, though otherworldly, face and brought a glaze to her glowing eyes just as the first wave of her orgasm caused her cunt to spasm and shudder. Slowly, the sensations ebbed then ceased. A smile of partial satisfaction pulled at the corners of her full lips.
“That was nice,” L’tirashin said as she brought her hand up and started licking her cum-soaked fingers clean. “But. . .” L’tirashin’s tail swished back and forth in anticipation as she let the thought trail off. As her wings folded quietly across her back and around her shoulders like a natural cape, the demoness turned away from the window. The talons on her toes clicked softly against the highly polished black marble floor of her immense audience chamber as she strode purposefully toward her throne.
In passing, L’tirashin momentarily glanced up at one of the eight colossal columns that supported the high, vaulted ceiling, fifty feet overhead. The girth of any one of them was so great it would require six men, with out-stretched arms, to encircle it. Running almost the entire length of each, from floor to ceiling, were highly detailed bass relief carvings of scenes depicting the torture of the souls of the damned, cast into the Abyss’s bottomless darkness. L’tirashin could recall only too well being on the receiving end of many of those terrible torments during the first few centuries of her afterlife spent deep in the Abyss’s lower planes. Over the many, many long years, she had managed to, literally, claw her way up to positions of greater and greater power until she had become one of the torturers. Mortal minds had yet to devise a method of torment that had not all ready been perfected by the Everdark’s resident experts, as well as many that even the most twisted ephemeral mind could not conceive.
The clergy of the seemingly countless number of deities, on a similar number of worlds throughout the known multiverse, warned their respective flocks of the literal eternal torment awaiting them if they refused to give up their sinful ways. L’tirashin was still amused as to how many of those going-to-temple-only-on-holy-days mortals who found themselves in the Everdark.
During her time on Tiaceor, L’tirashin had been christened with a variety of names by the inhabitants. Some of them, such as as Night One, Temptress, Demon Queen, and the Dark One, she bore with great pride. But there were others, like Bacchanal Queen, Demon Whore, Slut Queen, and the Fornicatress, that she secretly reveled in because of her pursuit of pleasure—although that pleasure was not without its purpose.
Besides having an almost insatiable libido, L’tirashin also had equally great ambitions and a lust for power. She had been busy ever since her arrival. By appealing to the mortals of this world on their basest levels, L’tirahsin had been able to gather an army of considerable strength in almost no time. When her forces quickly claimed the nation of Calimaar, the new country of Demnos came into being. To the nations surrounding Demnos, L’tirashin delivered a powerful ultimatum: live under her rule and prosper or defy her and suffer. Only two of the eleven nations tried to resist. True to her word, the Temptress made them suffer mightily.
The continent of the Eleasheua fell to her conquest in less than six years.
Demnos had become a fierce world power with which to be reckoned.
But L’tirashin was not content ruling just one kingdom. Or continent. No, she had far loftier ambitions than that. For reasons no mortal mind would ever expect, her ultimate goal was to conquer all of Tiaceor.
With incredible and inhuman speed, the Temptress dashed up the eighteen steps of the dais. Her movement had been so sudden and swift it could have been thought of as magic. She paused a moment and gazed appreciatively at her regal seat. The throne was a truly wicked looking construction: hundreds of spread open rib cages had been used to create a radiating disc directly behind a seat made entirely out of whole skeletal arms and legs. A wall comprised of nothing but skulls formed the backdrop for this agglomeration of bones, running from floor to ceiling and spanned forty feet from one side to the other. But as intimidating as L’tirashin’s royal seat was itself, some very potent and deadly enchantments worked into it as well. With a wicked smile, L’tirashin assumed her seat. When she had first entered the former realm of Calimaar, L’tirashin lacked such a chair. Over the intervening seventy-eight years, she had had one magically crafted from the bones of all those who dared oppose her. It mattered little as to the social status of the bones’ former owners: righteous knights, powerful spellcasters, pious priests, and those of more humble origins were all present—even Calimaar’s former regent had been likewise interred. The commonality they all shared was defying the demoness’s will. No matter how great or small their indiscretion, they paid for it with their lives.
Many (foolish) adventurers had tested also themselves against her. While the number of intruders who dared to confront the Dark One in her personal sanctum had been few and far between, there were still those who had successfully gained entry past her keep’s formidable defenses. Of coourse, when they encountered L’tirashin, usually lounging on her throne, their only reward was death: death that came at them from the hundreds of empty eye sockets in the skull wall.
“You there, slave,” L’tirashin said, pointing at one of the barely clad slaves standing against the wall just past the banquet table. “Come here.” Although L’tirashin knew every one of her slaves’ names—as well as a good deal about them—she found that by stripping them of even such a small measure of individuality tended to keep the spirits of her slaves broken far more effectively than any amount of chain.
Daring to cast a momentary sidelong look at her sister standing just two paces to her left, Amean obediently stepped forward and walked quickly toward her mistress, keeping her head bowed the entire way. Amean, which meant swan rider in her native elven language, had been a celebrated dancer in the elven kingdom Deth’el, a verdant island nation that lay only two hundred miles to the west of Eleasheua. Amean had been visiting her family in the small coastal city of Eichuula when the Temptress’s warships attacked from both the water and the sky. When the raiders finally left, more than half the city was burning and many elves had been taken as slaves—with Amean and her sister among the captives. Even after two years, neither of the sisters ever learned of the fates of any of the rest of their family.
The sisters’ introduction to slavery was savage and cruel. As they stood before the one called “the Wrangler”, a new slave was chosen at random then slaughtered in front of the rest of his fellow captives. The Wrangler screamed at them, “That is exactly how much your lives now mean to your mistress! But, by serving Mistress L’tirashin with complete loyalty and devotion, you will be allowed to live! Betray her in even the smallest way and you will die!” Following the Wrangler’s brutal demonstration, they were stripped of what few possessions they still clung to, along with their clothes.
Amean’s spirit finally broke when she and the other new slaves were unceremoniously thrown into a large pool filled with a green, foul smelling magical brew. When she surfaced, Amean watched in horrified disbelief as her luxuriant, waist-length golden tresses literally slid right off her scalp and dissolve, like a dream upon waking. As her body was racked by near-hysterical sobs, Amean noticed that everyone had been similarly been affected. That she could see, no hair remained on anyone, anywhere. She had never felt so naked and exposed in all her young one hundred and fifty-three years of life. Amean’s sister, Simvanna, was also just as bare but Amean could still see the familiar defiant spark in Simvanna’s deep blue eyes.
Once the new slaves had been sorted according to where they would be put to use, Amean, Simvanna, and twenty-nine other male and female vassals were taken to the house dormitory. The female house slaves were given very short, gauze-thin dresses to wear while the males wore only breeches made of the same fabric and all were given a pair of sandals. Despite the deadly conditions of the mines, Amean sometimes envied the slaves who worked deep in the bowels of the mountain. “At least they get to wear real clothes and shoes,” she whispered to Simvanna one night, just as the pair was drifting into a dreamless sleep.
All house slaves shared their beds with at least one other and some even bunked together by choice. It was typical for one to be just getting out of bed to resume his or her duties as another would be climbing in to get some rest. Despite their captivity, Amean did have to admit that she and Simvanna (as well as the other residential vassals, at least) were treated well enough and not subjected to any punishment greater than necessary.
As she approached her mistress’s throne, Amean kept her eyes averted to her feet then stopped as the bottom step of the dais. “Yes, mistress?” Amean asked in a quiet voice.
L’tirashin let her slave wait. After all, that was a slave’s singular purpose in life: to wait on whatever whims their mistress or master expressed. Starting at the top of Amean’s bald head, L’tirashin’s eyes slowly traced all of her slave’s pleasant curves. Up and down Amean’s pointed ears, down her delicate, narrow neck, and over her shapely shoulders. The Temptress allowed her gaze to linger for a few moments as her lusty gaze carressed the small swell of Amean’s breasts. The sweat covering Amean’s body caused her whisper-thin dress cling to her, allowing a nearly unobstructed view of the treasures beneath. Amean’s aureoles were correspondingly small though her nipples already looked slightly erect. While they were only about half the size of her own, L’tirashin was pleased nonetheless and went on assessing her slave.
Amean’s narrow waist and hips indicated she had yet to experience the “joys of motherhood”—a situation L’tirashin was sure that could soon be remedied. L’tirashin noticed Amean’s arms and legs to be remarkably well-toned and conditioned but, for a moment, the reason escaped her. Then an amused smile played at the corners of L’tirashin’s full lips. Ahhh, yes, she thought. ‘This one was a dancer when she was captured. Mmmmmmm. . .I haven’t had one of those in a while.’
“Come here!” L’tirashin said as she motioned for Amean to mount the steps.
Fear swelled in Amean’s chest. She was suddenly filled with an almost irresistible urge to run as fast and as far as she could away from the Night One, but she knew that doing so would mean her death. She had been present when a band of foolhardy adventurers had made their way into the keep only the previous year and stood where she herself was now.
They never had a chance.
As if the wall were an extension of the Temptress, Amean watched in horror as the demoness annihilated them instantly as hundreds of arcane energy bolts tore them to pieces. This the Night One did without even moving a finger.
Terrified, Amean did as she was commanded and slowly ascended the steps. Had she not already been sweating due to the heat within the keep, Amean would have surely started just then. As she climbed the steps, the elven slave felt she were walking many miles—and all of them up a steep hill. Finally, Amean stood a mere arm span in front of L’tirashin and it was all Amean could do to just remain standing.
The Temptress’s smile suddenly became even more wicked. Her slave’s fear was so palpable that the demoness could smell it as easily as she could see Amean trembling as she stood before her. A rush of warmth washed over L’tirashin. Although it suffused throughout her body, she felt it most acutely in her hot and very wet pussy.
When L’tirashin got to her feet, Amean swooned. In an instant, Amean was scooped up in her mistress’s arms. Giving her slave no time to recover, L’tirashin clamped her lips wetly to Amean’s and pushed her tongue into the startled elf’s mouth.
At first, Amean resisted but, as soon as her mistress’s unexpected sexual advances were revealed to be her true intentions, Amean began to respond. Though she was a bit unsure for the first few moments, she found herself becoming amenable, pushing her tongue past the Night One’s and into her hot and hungry mouth. Amean’s hands also seemed anxious to join in on the pleasure and were soon caressing L’tirashin’s dark skin.
It was L’tirashin who gently broke away from their kissing embrace after the pair had been entwined for several minutes. Holding Amean’s face affectionately between her hands, L’tirashin whispered in a breathy voice, “Pleasure me.”
Amean smiled sweetly at her mistress. Leaning in, Amean started kissing and nibbling on L’tirashin’s neck. Her mistress’s ebony skin was noticeably hot to the touch. It was not long before Amean felt her own body’s heat increase in response to what she was doing to the demoness. While Amean was not a woman-lover, she was also no stranger to pleasuring another woman. In fact, she and Simvanna still indulged in such acts of “sisterly love” whenever they were able to be together. They delighted in those stolen moments and had been doing so ever since they were elflings, playing amid the tall and ancient trees deep in the Aelque Forest of Deth’el.
Wanting to be as free and unfettered as her mistress, Amean slipped her dress down over her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. The look of pure lust shining in the Night One’s glowing amber eyes brought a smile to Amean’s pouty lips.
Amean slowly kissed, nibbled, licked, and sucked her way down one side of L’tirashin’s neck then up the other. As she got near her mistress’s similarly pointed ears, Amean felt a pang of longing when she smelled the light, sweet scent of L’tirashin’s hair. Forcing her feelings back down, Amean started nipping sensuously on the Temptress’s left earlobe. When a moan of delight escaped L’tirashin’s lips, Amean teased her by lightly flicking the tip of her tongue across her mistress’s ear.
Amean’s skill pleasantly surprised L’tirashin. Every spot where Amean’s hot mouth and tongue had touched tingled, sending wave after wave of excitement directly to her already sodden pussy. Unable to help herself any longer, L’tirashin brought up a hand and cupped one of Amean’s small breasts. After a few firm squeezes, she started to roll and pinch the slowly stiffening nipple. A soft sigh in L’tirashin’s ear let her know her own ministrations were hardly in vain as her libidinous slave continued pleasing her.
L’tirashin’s other hand soon found Amean’s bare thigh then slowly slid its way up until it encountered the slightly fleshy folds of Amean’s smooth and hairless cunt. Back and forth L’tirashin rubbed, always just missing the moist slit running between her slave’s thickening labia. Deciding to give Amean a thrill, L’tirashin pressed on her love button.
Thoroughly stimulated by what her mistress was doing to her, Amean could not resist grinding her pussy against L’tirashin’s hand. Amean’s fear had almost completely vanished. In its place was an aching lust and a passion ignited fire in her loins begging to be extinguished. Her own hands followed the Temptress’s lead; one hand on a breast, the nipple between her fingers while the other massaged L’tirashin’s mound of black, bushy pubic hair.
Most of the slaves, whether male or female, human, dwarf, ork, elf, or any one of Tiaceor’s other races had been on either the receiving or giving end (or both) of L’tirashin’s attentions at one time or another. For the long minutes their mistress and her slave pleasured each other, the rest household slaves present watched the goings on with a mixture of envy and relief.
Though not Simvanna
The willful elf was succeeding quite well at hiding her disgust and jealousy at the sexual spectacle happening only a short distance away. Such flagrant, public, sexual displays were unheard of in even the most liberal of Deth’el’s courts, where love and beauty were worshipped just as devoutly as were the gods. And that the Night One’s attentions were centered on Amean was almost too much for Simvanna to take. If any woman was going to sex her sister, it should be her, not their so-called mistress—despite the Temptress holding their lives quite literally in the palms of her taloned hands.

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