This story has mature content and contains futanari (hermaphrodites/'dickgirls'), and has fantasy/alternate universe themes. All original content/characters belong to me.
The cover art was made with artwork from Franz Von Stuck, called 'Wounded Amazon' (1903). I hope you enjoy the story.
This story is posted to other forums. My apologies if you come across it more than once.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work; unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Chapter 1: In The Receiving Room
Praxe stood outside the massive double-doors of the Receiving Room; in Empress Rixa's time, it had been called the Great Meeting Hall, where maps had been displayed, and battles planned. Now, under the rule of Rixa's daughter, Duxa, the room was the site of daily and ongoing debauchery.
Praxe felt her top lip curl and fought to contain the sneer. Possibly Empress Rixa was at fault for ensuring all the enemies at the borders of Yaldix were properly cowed, and had instilled constant vigilance and interruptions of any subversive tactics to keep them that way. Yaldix was a strong country, and so its citizens could afford to be so lax.
"Another fest?" Funax murmured beside her and Praxe turned her head to look up at the taller woman. Like most Yaldixians, Funax was big of body: massive breasts which seemed even larger as they were pushed up and out by the corset-like armour she sported; wide hips which strained the material of her trousers and muscular legs which were covered by knee-high boots. Under her tall, feathered helmet, Funax's red curls contrasted with her dark skin, another set of common traits. Praxe always teased that Funax was as Yaldixian as they come, and then some.
Praxe wasn't as large-bodied as most people assumed she should be, since she was General of the Imperial Armies; whenever someone unfamiliar with the Yaldixian Army met them together, it was always assumed that Funax was the General, and not Praxe. While her straight dark hair wasn't too unusual, it not as common as the red hair. Praxe thanked the Goddesses that her skin was at least the requisite earthy tone. It was bad enough that she was a few inches shorter, and a bit more slender than the norm...but maybe that was a good thing. Praxe had had to fight for everything in life, and that might have contributed to her well-earned status now.
"Of course it's another fest," Praxe answered now, and wondered impatiently how much longer the page would take to announce their presence to the Empress.
"What do you think she's celebrating this time?"
Praxe scoffed. "Why do you think she needs a reason? It's Duxa. The rising of the sun is reason enough for her."
"Hmm." Funax sounded deeply troubled, as well as she should be. She always claimed she wasn't particularly learned, even though she was a genius with that axe she slung casually over one shoulder; yet, even she could see the disparity in the situation. Like all the other soldiers in the Imperial Army, she worked hard to keep the borders of Yaldix safe, and didn't see her home in the main city of Yal as much as she liked. "It's unfair. We defend and they just...amuse themselves," she finally announced and Praxe shrugged.
"It is," Praxe agreed. "But that is how it goes."
"Maybe if your fat cow of an empress was more involved in actually running her country, and not fucking her way through it," a snide voice came from behind them, "then maybe brave Mulnar rebels wouldn't struggle so hard against her."
"She says 'rebels' as if they were actually a threat," Praxe said and smiled when Funax laughed. She glanced over her shoulder at their captive, a gift for Duxa: a girl with pale skin and even paler hair who claimed she was a priestess of Mulna, a stubborn state which had declared themselves free of Yaldix sovereignity. Their attempts to attack Yaldix was laughable most times and downright annoying on some occasions.
"Yaldixian bitch," the priestess said in almost contemplative tones. She was taller than Praxe, but not as much as Funax, with the typical slender body of a Mulnar.
"Wait until Duxa gets her fat cock in you," Praxe told her with a cold smile. "Let's see how rebellious you feel then."
The priestess paled. "Abomination," she said, and her formally strident tones were now modulated to a whisper. Praxe rolled her eyes and said nothing. Funax, however, decided to take the twit to task.
"Your people rid yourselves of those children who are simply different," Funax grumbled. "We don't. And you call us the abomination?"
"Because they are monsters!" The Mulnar priestress screeched, and then choked when Praxe tugged on the chain which was attached to a collar around her neck. "It is taught that there must be two, male and female, as it is in Mulna, not...not--"
Praxe had heard all of this before, on numerous occasons. The Mulnar were loud and chatty, to be sure. She yanked the chain again and the priestess's strident voice cut off into another choke.
"If that is the naturalness which your people teach," she said with a cold smile, "then why are your scientists the ones charge of procreation? You make sure that the only children that survive are the ones that you want to live."
The priestess wheezed. "The right ones."
Praxe wrapped the chain around her wrist and pulled so hard that the priestess fell to her knees, her wide eyes fixed on Praxe's face.
"In Yaldix, there are no wrong ones." Praxe's tone was icy. "You are either Yaldixian, or not, no matter what happens between your legs.."
The priestess sneered up at her. A smaller portal built into the massive door was pushed open at that moment; the young page, whom Praxe had been awaiting for the past fifteen minutes or so, stepped out, letting out some of the noise with her until she closed it again. Her hair, which had been neatly braided when she had first greeted Praxe and Funax, was now a russet mess of curls. Her clothing was pulled awry, exposing the large dark areolae of her small breasts, stiff nipples standing out as if they had been tugged and licked mercilessly. Her lips seemed red and puffy. There were more than a few translucent streaks on her chest and stomach, and Praxe sighed at the over-bright expression in her dark eyes.
It was obvious that she had been waylaid on the way to speak with Duxa; trapped by mouth, pussy, fingers and prick.
"General Praxe, Captain Funax," the girl said breathlessly. "I will announce your presence now. What is the name of your prisoner?"
"I don't know," Praxe said and angled a glance at the priestess, who was getting to her feet slowly. "Your name?"
"Shuxhe Emelin." The priestess tilted up her chin regally. "I am the High Priestess of the Mulnar, her whose word is might--ack!"
Praxe had pulled at the chain again, cutting off the insufferable speech. "Just call her Emel," she said, knowing full well that most Mulnar hated any kind of adjustment to their given name. If it was up to the priestess, she would have preferred that she was addressed the way she liked, even as a prisoner of war. Praxe's full name was Praxe, Second of House of the Red Star, but she didn't go around yelling about it.
The page nodded, then opened the door again to step inside. The cacophony of sex floated out once more, but her voice rang over the din as clear as a bell: "O Great Red Star! Empress Duxa, Most Beloved of the Land of Yaldix! I present General Praxe, Second of the House of the Red Star! I present Captain Funax, of the House of the Red Wind! I present their captive, the Prisoner Emel!"
The noise died down for a few moments and then increased once more. When Praxe stepped inside, dragging the priestess in after her, the page was already sitting on the floor near the door, her coltish legs spread wide and pushed up to her chest. She shuddered as another girl sucked her slender cock and plunged long fingers into the leaking slit of her pussy. Praxe's vision was assaulted by the view of pricks thrusting into slick orifices, fingers gripping at hot, thick flesh; the sharp grunts and moans rose up and around, and Praxe felt her own cock twitch in response.
They made their way up the side of the long, narrow room, where there was a bit more free space. Now and again, they had to step over legs, arms and heads and at one point someone mischievously licked at the ankle of Praxe's left boot as she stepped past.
Finally, they stood in front of the wide dais that was almost the width of the room. Atop it lay the Empress Duxa, sprawled on her back; she was of the same proportions as Funax, but instead of a muscular frame, she had the body of one who had once been well defined, but had gone to seed after a few years of great self-indulgence. She had massive breasts and long, thick nipples which she claimed she loved to have bitten, and an impressive cock to match.
Right now, she had a person Praxe recognized as a servant riding the Empress, not facing the ruler, but away, so that the Empress could smack the servant's ass with her meaty palm. The servant, whose name was something like Mixe or Maxte, Praxe couldn't quite recall, was bouncing up and down on the Empress's massive phallus, the stiff meat brushing past the red curls of her pussy. Duxa's long nails dug into the skin of the servant's hips, practically forcing the servant up and down.
Praxe removed her helmet, her long braid falling down her back as she did so. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Funax did the same. They waited as the Empress's thrusts increased in speed, becoming more and more erratic with every thrust. The servant, who was wearing nothing but a few loops of a long beaded necklace, screamed out as the cock inside her was shoved up to the hilt, pumping out so much cum that streams of the creamy liquid slid out of the battered slit and down brown, trembling thighs.
"Maxhe," the Empress crooned as the servant rose up off the fleshy, spent pole. More cum slithered out from between the lips of her pussy as she staggered off to one side of the dais and sat down on her bottom heavily. Luckily, the surface of the dais was heavily padded. Maxhe moaned low as another servant crawled between her legs, eagerly lapping up the Empress's precious spent fluids.
"Empress Duxa," Praxe called out in a strong and level tone of voice. A few other servants rushed out of the shadows and helped the Empress to a sitting position. As soon as she spotted Praxe, Duxa's beady eyes lit up. Her pupils were blown wide.
"You are back," she exclaimed. "And so soon!"
Praxe bowed. "I've brought you a gift, Empress." She turned and pulled the heavy chain again, hauling the priestess forward. She placed a hand on narrow shoulders and forcing the prisoner to her knees. "She is a High Priestess of the Mulnar. I gift her to you as your servant."
"Never," the priestess hissed and reeled when Funax stepped around and backhanded her across her face. Emel tumbled back against a pile of humping bodies, scrambling away when hands seemed to come out of nowhere to grope and pinch at her skin. She brushed her fair hair out of her eyes and sent the two warriors a hateful stare.
"You're the property of the Most Honourable Red Star now," Praxe told her in a calm, almost conversational manner. "It will do you well to remember that."
The Empress laughed, a delicate sound that was completely at odds with her large frame. "Daughter mine, must you batter my presents so?"
"My apologies, Mother." Praxe stepped up onto the dais, nearly slipping on a slick spot which might have been lubricant, cum or both. Regaining her balance quickly, she handed over the end of chain. Licking her lips, Duxa began to reel the priestess in; when the priestess resisted, Duxa laughed and kept pulling.
Praxe tightened her own lips, and turned away; glancing up, she spotted wide ledges set high up on the walls. On each one of these ledges, a form in a long grey hooded cloak remained motionless, either seated cross-legged or standing: an Imperial Guard. A military group almost as big as the Army, they did not fall under Praxe's command, being bound by strong mental charms directly to the ruling Empress; her wish was their command. Praxe hoped that they had not partaken in whatever substance had been imbibed by the crowd for this orgy. When she nodded at one of the guards, they gave a briefly dismissive nod in return, so it seemed they were alert so far. Praxe motioned to Funax, and they hurriedly picked their way back out. When they stepped out of the Receiving Room, it was if they were coming up from underwater, the air in the room had been that thick with the scent and sounds of fucking.
"We can go sort out rotations now, for tomorrow's training," Praxe said, donning her helmet again, not bothering to tuck up her braid.
"I'll take care of it, General," Funax said, inclining her head respectfully. "Please, take your well-needed rest at home."
Praxe tried to smile, but it felt faint and unnatural on her lips. She would rather deal with the troops than go to her own quarters now, but it was good that Funax was taking some initiative; in time, she could be a good general in her own right.
"Very well," she said, and turned away, marching quickly towards the Western Wing.
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