Pairs of Pumpkins #08: Pridemoon’s Precipice
Pairs of Pumpkins Episode 8: Pridemoon’s Precipice
By Jess Faulks
The Grand Bridge of The Allicans was the tallest in the land, the deck a quarter of a mile above the water. Built a thousand years ago by a people who later vanished, it rose over an ancient fault line that formed a walled river. At the eastern edge of the continent and the sea, the bridge was the pride of the bustling sprawl of Stusport.
Where the river bisected the massive, urban hub on one axis, the towering cliffs of the edge of the continent split it on the other. There was High Town and Low Town but each also split into North and South Town. From either side of the Low Town’s dock-laden delta, the bridge was a magnificent sight and often the only reminder there was much more city above them, obscured by cliffs and perspective.
Up in the High City, on a cold and cloudy afternoon, the spectacle had long faded for one, visiting, vixen adventuress. A long walk that got longer every time, every step reminding her how sore her body was.
The bridge was more crowded than usual and sometime that afternoon, Behemoth, the largest, tallest sailing ship in the Stusport fleet, would leave on a diplomatic mission and sail under the bridge on the way. It was a rare sight to see come and go, she’d heard. Not only was Behemoth Stusport’s largest, but also one of the biggest sailing ships ever built, folks had eagerly explained to her. She hadn’t asked. She didn’t care.
Wrapped in her hooded cloak, the adventuress, Portia Pridemoon, shambled over the uniformly laid, unusual-colored bricks. That smoothness was a welcome departure from newer, rougher, cobblestone paths that paved High Town, South, where she’d rented a room at an Inn. The ground was wet from earlier rain but the stone of the bridge dried off uncommonly fast. Whoever the Allicans had been, they knew how to build. Interesting for such a thing to be in Stusport. She had come for several reasons but tourism was not among them.
Foremost, she had told herself again and again, was the rescue of her children. Hundreds of children. Over a thousand? It was more than she’d counted. She had no desire to know the exact number. It would only make it worse.
Each of them had come from an egg magically stolen from her, without consent and until recently, without her knowledge. Every one of them was logged in the heavy, leather-bound ledger she carried in an improvised sheath, strapped to her lower back. It was the only means she had to track them down: the species of their fathers, the names of their buyers and where the buyers lived.
Three had been adopted by Stusport residents: Bowen, son of Portia’s stolen egg and Donor 26: another arctic fox, had been adopted by the family of the Harbormaster. Sienna, son of Donor 38: a red fox, adopted by another brothel owner. And then there was Jasper, the adopted son of the Lord and Lady of Stusport itself. He was the son of Donor 17: Bjorn Vasiljev. Like all the donors, Bjorn’s seed had fertilized her egg without either of them present, in some unknown, magical procedure. Unlike the others, Bjorn was Portia’s brother. Jasper was inbred.
The notes in the ledger rarely had any information on the children beyond conception and purchasing but between the lines and over the years, there was some suggestion that the wizard, Zarron had pursued experiments around inbreeding for a few years then stopped. It seemed something had gone wrong with what the log originally called “The Purebloods” but she didn’t know exactly what.
Portia wretched every time she remembered and this time was no exception. Bootsteps on the stone bridge fell out of rhythm before she veered aside and grabbed the railing for support, half collapsing against it.
Life was never supposed to have gone this way. A fatefully barren womb and ambitions of adventure ensured a child-free adulthood she’d been grateful for. A storied career was to be her legacy, only to discover some sick wizard had made a mother without her knowledge, wiping her memory clean of the theft. The inbreeding only cemented in her mind how deranged the wizard was and what she would do to him if she ever found him.
A mother and father nearby gathered their cubs and ushered them away from Portia, eyeing her with fear while the mother stifled a deep cough with her forearm. She was the sick one? To them? Nothing about her appearance confirmed how right they were.
Zarron’s perversion and cruelty motivated the other reason to come to Stusport before anywhere else: her best chance to find a cure for her condition was in a city this size. A condition that a week before, she blamed on Zarron himself. A condition to make the once-strong and independent vixen lose herself, sick with disgust and self-loathing.
In an all too quick and overwhelming series of events, she had an impossibly strong attraction to a young fox named Joseph and against her better judgement, seduced him. The sex wasn’t just intense; it was life-changing, Girne Escort even had the events that followed never occurred. But they had. With him still tied inside her, she discovered the reason for her lifetime of infertility: her eggs had been stolen and used to breed legions of children, including Joseph! She’d seduced her own son! It felt like a trap, set up to ruin her.
As far as she could tell, her children became Zarron’s industry: every child had been ordered, bred and sold as a product and Portia resolved to save them all. She was off to a good start but bringing children with her, even older teenagers, would be a liability in the adventure business.
Two weeks ago, she’d left her first five, rescued children all in the city of Zentia with a trusted friend, hoping to focus on the rescuing of the three here.
Instead, she found it easier to focus on herself, trying desperately to escape her spiral of depravity so she might actually be a good mother when she found them. Her failures to do so grew increasingly spectacular.
Sex had become as pleasurable as a handshake but she kept trying despite what she’d learned of her condition. She’d hoped in Stusport, there was a chance to pinpoint her condition and do something about it. If Bowen, Sienna, Jasper, and all the others down the road were to have a chance, she needed to uncloud her mind and fix this.
The Shaman, Samir
The different kinds of magic were all jumbles of uninteresting nonsense and Portia was generally averse to the whole concept but her condition sounded a lot like a curse. Perhaps the anti-Magic charm she wore to protect her from spells left her vulnerable to curses, especially if they were in her blood?
Curses weren’t a favored magic anywhere on the mainland and the best shamans, in her experience, were foreigners. Low City, North, the rough and tumble industrial docks would be the place. She set off there on her second day in town to fact-find and cavort among sailors and travelers.
She drank countless pints over casual inquiries of the kind of people who could help her but the rowdy docks were also a comfortable reminder of what her life used to be. She fell into it willingly, occasionally being recognized or otherwise, getting involved in telling stories and other one-upmanship.
The interest of so many foreign men over the nights that followed was impossible to ignore, even as she pursued leads of a shaman. She sucked seventeen cocks and indulged three bent-over-a-barrel-in-a-filthy-alley fucks that would’ve disappointed her even in easier days. None of it was necessary to milk information out of drunken sailors, but they were old habits, amplified by current frustration. The attention of men remained a drug, even without physical pleasure in sex. By the fifth night, she’d tracked down the man said to be the best Shaman in all Low Town.
Samir was a towering wolf from somewhere exotic, a place she’d traveled once long ago. His body was chiseled and handsome, with long dreadlocks and a thick accent. Assured of his discretion, she explained her predicament as carefully as possible.
The wolf’s interest in her was obvious from the start and he delighted in the revelation of an insatiable, foreign woman. He offered to help, with the admission that his methods were a bit primal for some but Portia followed him back to his dockside shack, fully aware of his intentions.
The wolf wasn’t a selfish lover nor an inexperienced one, and he ran himself ragged, hoping like so many men before had, to be the one to fix her. Of course, he didn’t and eventually, exhaustion got the best of him. With a panting chant in a language she didn’t recognize, he dramatically climaxed and threw a handful of powder over their combined, rocking bodies. Quickly, he drew symbols in it, with her back as the canvas.
“The bad news…” the winded wolf spoke after some time, his weight tugging at his fist-sized knot inside her. Clawed fingertips delicately reached over her breasts to fondle the anti-magic amulet hanging from a necklace. “…is that this wouldn’t stop an old curse in your blood. The good news is that at this moment, there are no curses on you or your family. If you have no curses and magic cannot influence you, then whatever has happened is affecting your body or your mind. You should see a healer.”
The Healer, Pranav
Having a next step refocused her. Samir offered a recommendation, and she investigated herself the next day but everything pointed to the same healer, one they called when any of the nobility were injured or ill. That night she visited his modest home and found the older tiger named Pranav, orange but greying. Another accent made his words more compelling, and she might recognize from her travels, had it not been long tamed by time. The hour was late and he answered, clearly prepared to turn her away but after drinking in an eyeful of the vixen’s incomparable cleavage, he invited Magosa Escort her in.
Portia explained her predicament and was undressing soon after, at his request. Little time was wasted before he inspected every inch of her naked body with firm fingers, tracing contours of muscles and bone. It was professional at first but turned seductive once he’d explored her completely, his broad nose also drawing lines in her fur.
“I’d like to try. As part of the evaluation, of course.”
“Of course,” she smiled and turned toward him, draping arms over his shoulders. The vixen been far from selective over the last two months and not terribly selective before then but both Samir and Pranav were the kind of potent, magnetic males that any straight woman with desires would have considered.
Sex with the tiger had been like watching a master in action, making love with someone else. His every move was sensual and erotic, a coiled spring of power and violence wrapped in smoldering sensuality. The touch of his hands and mouth was considerate and keenly pushing boundaries but her body was off. He was a blazing inferno trying to set align soaking, wet wood. Pranav lasted for what must have been hours, stoic and steady while heavy brows betrayed his concern.
“It’s okay. Just finish,” she assured him several times before he obliged, collapsing in exhaustion and despair. Cheek to cheek, the vixen held him in the aftermath, and turned away enough to keep him from feeling her tears.
“I don’t understand. That’s not happened in decades. Since I was a boy.” The tiger sounded just as broken now as she was.
“I warned you, Pranav. It’s me,” she consoled him, stroking his back.
After an unsatisfying nap and a needed bath, they sat across a desk from each other, once again clothed. “You’ve suffered no injury, Portia. Your body and mind are perfectly sound and you are very healthy. To not have the sensations of pleasure from sex is not unheard of but it usually comes with the lack of desire, and you are in no small supply of that. For the joy of sex to just stop? That sounds like magic to me.”
“Perhaps this wizard charmed you back when you were a teenager? Before you had your amulet? A dormant enchantment, waiting for the right trigger perhaps? I don’t know anything about relagite but it’s possible that it acts as a shield for magic but not a cure for existing conditions. You should see an Enchanter. The Lord of Stusport uses one named Maren. He’s a stag who lives here in High Town, South, nearer to the palace. Tell him I sent you and that I promised you would be seen.”
Portia left with sullen thanks and was a half a mile back to her inn before she even considered that if the Lord of Stusport’s healer knew the Lord himself, he might also be aware of her son, Jasper! It was too late to ask now and maybe better that he didn’t know she was looking.
* * *
Portia was used to tuning out unwanted attention. Her ivory fur turned more heads the further south she ventured but always more remarkably was the way her breasts preceded her. They threw off her silhouette in the worst of conditions, draped in a cloak in the dead of winter. When her sculpted, leather breastplate was less concealed, they nearly ripped men’s eyeballs out of their skulls.
Today, cloudy and cold was somewhere in between and she was wrapped in her cloak enough to not command too much attention. Around her, a celebratory excitement was in the air, anticipating the passing of Behemoth under the bridge and it had folk both excited and largely oblivious. Those whose eyes she did catch, saw something else: the sullen, shambling presence of a broken vixen.
She walked on, to the apex of the bridge.
The Enchanter, Maren
Portia bathed that night at her inn and visited Maren the Enchanter the next day. From his home and neighborhood, he was either much more wealthy or much less humble than Pranav and the opulence on display from the moment he opened his front door would’ve made some nobles of lesser cities jealous.
Maren was a handsome stag, fit and younger-looking than her but that meant little. She’d long ago learned that age was more fluid for the magically-inclined and favored, or those who could afford them. His demeanor was the practiced arrogance of too much time around nobility and his obvious interest in her charm made her more guarded than she’d been with the others. Relagite was a metal so rare it was a rumor to many, but he seemed to recognize hers.
“If you take off the charm, I can blanket dispel any current enchantments affecting you. If there is old magic and we cancel it, we’ll have no way to know unless we test your condition afterward.” She noticed he was already half-hard in his wizard robes when he made the suggestion, staring at her chest.
“The dispel… spell. It only negates enchantment? No other effects of magic?”
Maren grinned knowingly, moving his eyes up to hers. “No, Lefkoşa Escort dear. Any other magical effects or other secrets that changed you, but aren’t active enchantments will remain in place.”
The charm seldom came off her neck often since she acquired it. The vixen was distrustful of wizards since her early days of emancipation and there was solace in having an absolute defense against magic. This time, she was desperate and obliged.
With the necklace off, he cast a Dispel on her or at least he claimed to. It that felt like he’d done nothing at all. The stag moved in then, with eager hands and muzzle, kissing and groping the vixen needfully and with her help, undressing her of her armor.
Portia knew better than to get her hopes up but went through the motions with him anyway, as she’d done so many times before. Sex with him was a demonstration of experience, pride and precision. More selfish than Pranav but not so much that he saw after some time, it wasn’t working for her.
“This is quite a humbling experience,” he said, panting and hunched over her, still hard and deep inside her. “I’d like to try a spell on you.”
“What kind of spell?”
“It makes you orgasm.”
Maren rolled them over, pulling her to sit upright, atop him, lifting the busty vixen like the proud, prow of a ship. He chanted an incantation under his breath then made a gesture with his fingers before they flung at her, diving into her thick, arctic fur.
The vixen’s skin was electric in an instant and a fire swelled from within to overwhelm her. Like an explosion, it was sudden and unnatural the way it came yet here she was, orgasming with a stranger. She howled out in delight and rode through, her athletic body grinding hips on his, driving herself down on her sorcerous lover. Hungry, cervine eyes latched on the effect her enthusiasm had on her massive, jostling breasts, his composed demeanor for the moment fallen to giddy and boyish.
At that moment, the weight of everything fell away. Finally, guilt-free relief and a remedy to her perverse ailment! The magically-induced orgasm was unusual in its sudden onset but in her drought of pleasure, it was satisfaction. This was something she could live with. When she’d all but gone limp atop him, he rolled her over and with a few, hard bucks of his hips, finished inside her with a groan of relief, before collapsing over her. She fell asleep in his bed, the longest and best she had since leaving Marina and the rest of her family in Zentia.
In the morning, she woke in his arms to a hungry kiss and groping, eager hands that soon guided her rump over her ankles. The stag lubed himself up from the bedside table and nudged her pucker with his erection, waiting for approval.
“Just make me cum again.”
He was less gentle with her ass for his eagerness to be inside it and he quickly pounded away selfishly but with his magic, he made her suddenly cum again, just before he did, after not much time at all. The second time was every bit as good but having anticipated now, it’s false perfection was more obvious and unearned.
Later, in bathrobes over breakfast, Maren’s explanation was more disappointing.
“That was not a common spell, Portia. One I only know from youthful skullduggery and one frowned upon by most Enchanters. There were mischievous, night-casting sessions in my student days.” This was the closest she’d seen him to embarrassed. “I can make you a few scrolls, but they’ll only work when you take off that charm. If you’re prepared to give that up, I would pay handsomely.”
“Scrolls? So I’ll read a scroll and I’ll cum?”
“Read a scroll while I’m fucking someone?”
Maren pursed his mouth. “Or by yourself. It’ll work any time.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
Shoulders fell and the tall horns on his head made obvious the tilt of it. “If you’re planning on staying in Stusport…”
The proud Enchanter’s sigh was almost humble and responded with composure. “I can make you three scrolls and send you on your way. Magic isn’t your problem, Portia. You were on the right track with a healer. Try a wizard who specializes in Life Magic. They tend to be more creative than closing wounds and curing sickness.”
Zarron practiced Life Magic. It was so obvious.
“Drucius is the Lord consult on Life Magic Affairs but only because Dame Darcy has a bit of an unprofessional reputation. I don’t think that will bother you and she’s much more experienced. She’ll definitely see you.”
* * *
At the center of the bridge, Portia stopped and slumped against the thick railing. The design was thoughtful, like everything about the bridge though the height of the guard rails suggested that the the people who built it averaged shorter than most modern folk. She had observed earlier in the week that taller species preferred to walk down the middle.
She looked east, over the sea and ran her hands over her chest. Ever since her earliest taste of freedom as a runaway and aspiring adventurer, they had made her so proud and confident in her sexuality and eventually, a token of adversity she’d overcome to be so capable. They were her pride and signature. No one forgot her when she was the one to save their village.