comfortable fit. Was this really the duke? Or just some suit of skin he wore when the mood took him?
The presented right hand closed into a fist, the rustle of meat and the grind of migrating skin sounding before he unfurled the digits, revealing a thick membrane between each. The fingers flattened and merged more with the wings, forming his hand into the semblance of an organic paddle.
Swinging his reformed hand at the air he tested its strength and satisfied, he walked to Kira’s side. Rubbing the palm to her rear, the soft flesh brushed her buttocks and made her reluctance melt further. Raising her cheeks as best she could, she offered herself to him.
With a jolting swing he cast his arm back and fired it back down, slapping it to her rear. The flesh quaked and a hot flash spilled through the skin.
Kira gasped against her gag, the warm sensation strangely pleasurable. Again he struck, and again, employing a slow though harsh attack, distending her buttocks with an inner heat. The more he applied, the more he fed the ambient glow within the flesh, each stinging stroke adding to the temperature, making her squawk and start to fight the hold of the women. But the more she fought the more they increased their hold and chuckled with derision, becoming more amused the more she resisted.
With tears rolling down her cheeks her sex was wet with desire, excited by the stern punishment. Being held in the air while sheathed in gorgeous rears had made Kira hungry for more.
86
He stopped suddenly, placing his left hand to her hot cheeks. If she could have achieved speech she would have begged him to continue.
The fingers delved into her rear, tracing the plug before sliding into her sex to have her head rise and her back flicker as they slithered in, amply assisted by her juices.
Testing her arousal with some dextrous caresses, he moved back.
‘I think the seneschal was being a little deceitful concerning your tolerances, Kira. I believe we need to go a little further than this,’ he commented with a smile, the paddle withdrawing, freeing his fingers as he ducked under her suspended form and arose before her.
Kira watched astounded as the tissues shivered and continued to metamorphose. Each finger thinned and then broke into two, the rest of the hand gathering in, the bones fusing into one as the eight slender stalks of his divided digits started to lengthen. The skin spilled along them, stretching onwards at a fantastic speed as they welled with internal muscle, the translucency fading the longer they grew, hiding the interior.
The structure shuddered and condensed, growing dark and leaving the right hand of the duke a solid ball of flesh with a thumb and eight individual, yard-long tentacles. It appeared as though the extremity were a bizarre version of a cat o’ nine tails.
‘Are you ready, Kira?’ he asked, stroking her hair as he shook the lithe strands beside him.
She looked up at the warlock with adoration and nodded, her eyes wet with tears of pain and pleasure.
His face was marked with occasional beads of perspiration, his hair dishevelled from the exertion as he assessed her expression.
Without further word his arm launched overhead, 87
swinging high and bringing the strands down across her back. Kira jolted, crying out against the gag, the burning lines the whip had painted being far harsher than the paddle.
The women tightened their holds and pulled her more forcefully, making Kira believe she would be dragged apart should they apply any more strength to their task.
She could not even claw against them; her hands and feet were squashed too effectively within a cushion of internal tracts.
The whip fell again, its savage tone releasing fitful purls from Kira’s throat as she suffered for his delight.
The duke continued to whip her, making her battle to get free, her mind churning with mayhem as the expanse of her back was rocked with fulgent streaks. The repeated blows ate into her, sometimes
The presented right hand closed into a fist, the rustle of meat and the grind of migrating skin sounding before he unfurled the digits, revealing a thick membrane between each. The fingers flattened and merged more with the wings, forming his hand into the semblance of an organic paddle.
Swinging his reformed hand at the air he tested its strength and satisfied, he walked to Kira’s side. Rubbing the palm to her rear, the soft flesh brushed her buttocks and made her reluctance melt further. Raising her cheeks as best she could, she offered herself to him.
With a jolting swing he cast his arm back and fired it back down, slapping it to her rear. The flesh quaked and a hot flash spilled through the skin.
Kira gasped against her gag, the warm sensation strangely pleasurable. Again he struck, and again, employing a slow though harsh attack, distending her buttocks with an inner heat. The more he applied, the more he fed the ambient glow within the flesh, each stinging stroke adding to the temperature, making her squawk and start to fight the hold of the women. But the more she fought the more they increased their hold and chuckled with derision, becoming more amused the more she resisted.
With tears rolling down her cheeks her sex was wet with desire, excited by the stern punishment. Being held in the air while sheathed in gorgeous rears had made Kira hungry for more.
86
He stopped suddenly, placing his left hand to her hot cheeks. If she could have achieved speech she would have begged him to continue.
The fingers delved into her rear, tracing the plug before sliding into her sex to have her head rise and her back flicker as they slithered in, amply assisted by her juices.
Testing her arousal with some dextrous caresses, he moved back.
‘I think the seneschal was being a little deceitful concerning your tolerances, Kira. I believe we need to go a little further than this,’ he commented with a smile, the paddle withdrawing, freeing his fingers as he ducked under her suspended form and arose before her.
Kira watched astounded as the tissues shivered and continued to metamorphose. Each finger thinned and then broke into two, the rest of the hand gathering in, the bones fusing into one as the eight slender stalks of his divided digits started to lengthen. The skin spilled along them, stretching onwards at a fantastic speed as they welled with internal muscle, the translucency fading the longer they grew, hiding the interior.
The structure shuddered and condensed, growing dark and leaving the right hand of the duke a solid ball of flesh with a thumb and eight individual, yard-long tentacles. It appeared as though the extremity were a bizarre version of a cat o’ nine tails.
‘Are you ready, Kira?’ he asked, stroking her hair as he shook the lithe strands beside him.
She looked up at the warlock with adoration and nodded, her eyes wet with tears of pain and pleasure.
His face was marked with occasional beads of perspiration, his hair dishevelled from the exertion as he assessed her expression.
Without further word his arm launched overhead, 87
swinging high and bringing the strands down across her back. Kira jolted, crying out against the gag, the burning lines the whip had painted being far harsher than the paddle.
The women tightened their holds and pulled her more forcefully, making Kira believe she would be dragged apart should they apply any more strength to their task.
She could not even claw against them; her hands and feet were squashed too effectively within a cushion of internal tracts.
The whip fell again, its savage tone releasing fitful purls from Kira’s throat as she suffered for his delight.
The duke continued to whip her, making her battle to get free, her mind churning with mayhem as the expanse of her back was rocked with fulgent streaks. The repeated blows ate into her, sometimes
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