Queen Yavara: Chapter 18 by White Walls

The arrival of the Dark Queen had disrupted the equilibrium of the Gorge. Brock, already insecure about his position, was made even more so, and Master’s concerns about the intentions of her beloved had deepened. I could see the rift that was forming between Brock and Master, and indeed, the rift in Yavara’s own court. As of now, the greatest threat the two posed was to each other, for the division they sowed would pull at the Dark Queen, and paralyze her. The morally-flexible Zander Fredeon wouldn’t allow such a division to form, and I feared what he and his Prestira might do if they felt Master and Brock had worn out their usefulness. So, I took matters into my own hands.

“Mother, what are you doing?!” Diamond gasped.

I looked up at my first born. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Pissing in the whisky!”

“Your eyesight hasn’t failed you Dear.” I smiled at her, squatting over the gallon jug.

Diamond glanced nervously over her shoulder. “Why are you pissing in Brock’s whisky?”

“Do you hear that?” I inclined my head to the boisterous sounds in the next room, “Does that sound like a happy party, or drunken brawl ready to happen?”

Diamond listened to the sounds of tense laughter, cutting jests and cautious jeers. She turned back to me. “A brawl ready to happen.”

“Exactly.” I said, standing up and blotting myself with a nearby towel. “And in our urine, is a very special little chemical. It makes people happy, and it makes them want to love each other. They sound like they could use some love.” I pushed the cork back into the jug’s head. “Besides,” I grinned at Diamond, hoisting the jug, “Brock’s whisky tastes like piss anyway; no one will notice the difference.”

ELENA

“Brock, your whisky tastes like piss!” I cackled, spraying the table.

Brock growled, the knife flashing between his fingers.

“And… time. Thirty seconds.” Certiok said, swaying precariously on her feet beside her father-in-law.

Brock imbedded the knife into the wood, a confident smirk on his face. “Drink the piss, Ranger.”

I sneered at the orc, and downed another shot of his disgusting concoction. At least the burn killed my taste buds. I belched, wiped my mouth, then pulled the knife from the tabletop. Slapping my hand onto the table, I splayed my fingers, and steadied the knife. God, this shit was strong. I was already seeing double.

“Elena are you sure that’s a good decision?” Zander asked beside me, nursing his drink with Prestira pinned to his side.

“You know where good decisions get you, Zander?” I slurred, squinting at my spread hand, trying to decipher which one was the real one, “They get you a couple kids, a steady job, and a mid-life crisis. Then you die.”

“You’re too young to be this cynical.”

“You’re too old to be this boring. Aaaaand, I have all my fingers, the knife goes chop-chop-chop, if I miss the space in between, my fingers will come off!” I sang, stabbing the knife into the table in time with the song, “And if I hit my fingers, blood will soon come out, but all the same I play this game because that’s what it’s all about! Time!”

Certiok raised her brows. “Twenty-five seconds.”

I leaned over, my nose an inch from Brock’s. “Drink, orc.”

Brock grinned, and downed his shot. “I just have to outlast you, Ranger. How many more shots can that little body take before Zander has to pump your stomach?”

“For someone who looks like half a ton, you’re a fucking light weight.” I laughed, stumbling back into my chair, “Besides, Zander will be reattaching your fingers long before I get alcohol poisoning.”

“I’m tempted to just let you two live with your mistakes.” Zander frowned at us. Down the table Trenok and Patricia were in a heated arm-wrestling match, Yavara egging them on. Well, Trenok was in a heated arm-wrestling match; Patricia was making a show of yawning and checking her nails. With an effortless motion of her forearm, she flung Trenok clear off the edge of the table, much to the delight of the bubbly Dark Queen.

I grinned at Brock. “Like father, like son. You can give up before you embarrass yourself; there’s no shame in losing to a woman.”

“Is that what you’re calling yourself?” Brock grunted, steadying the knife.

I slid the robe off my shoulders, and let it fall to my waist. Brock gawked at my bare breasts, his poised hand swaying. “What’s the matter, Brock?” I tittered, “Something distracting you?” I hunched forward onto the tabletop, pressing my breasts together, sucking my thumb.

Brock tore his gaze away, fixed his jaw, and steadied his hand. Boisterously singing the song, he ran the knife between his fingers with lightning speed, then stabbed the table. “Time!”

“Twenty seconds.” Certiok announced.

I slammed another drink before the leering orc chieftain, a drop of burning whisky dribbling down my chin, splashing on my chest, and running to my nipple. God, I was hot. My body seemed to burn beneath the skin, but not just with the warmth of liquor. I was becoming increasingly aware of the growing stiffness between my legs, barely concealed by the bunched robe in my lap. And oh, I was wet! I took the knife in one hand, and planted the other onto the tabletop. The grains of the wood surface were rough and pleasant against my hand, a juxtaposition to the smooth handle in my other palm, warm with body heat, the cold sharp steel at the end, glinting in the firelight. I wondered how it would feel laid across my bare flesh, the deadly edge tickling me in vulnerable places, guided by a dangerous, teasing hand. God, what the hell is happening to me?

“Elena!” An indignant voice yelled. Yavara strode behind Brock, her gait a struggle of intoxication, “How dare you expose yourself before your queen!”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Of course!” Yavara huffed, raising her chin. Then her lips creased into a wicked smile, and she slid out of her dress, “You can only expose yourself after your queen.”

My eyes fixated on Yavara breasts, the pink nipples hard and moist against her bronze globes, which were perched in gravity-defying fullness above her flat belly. I didn’t know why they transfixed me so; I’d seen them plenty of times, but oh… oh, they looked so good!

“Yavara, cover yourself.” I hissed, holding the knife aloft, “You’re distracting me.”

“Am I?” Yavara grinned, leaning onto the table, “Then it’s a fair contest.” She giggled, “Brock is practically lifting the table with his cock right now.” Her voice became low in my ear, “I think your little minions have been busy little bees.”

I looked over Brock’s shoulder, where in the shadows surrounding the hut, Crystal was biting her lip, looking as guilty as could be. I glanced over at Prestira, whose porcelain face was flushed, her skin glimmering beautifully, her white eyes transfixed on me. Zander was staring a hole through Certiok’s head, Certiok was ogling him back, Trenok was rubbing his shoulder as he gazed at Patricia, who was returning the look with red ravenous eyes. With effort, I raised the knife over my hand. It seemed the entire room hinged on my movement, their eyes fixing on the edge of the knife, their breaths bated. They were waiting, waiting for blood to be drawn so that they could become animals. The semblance of civility was crumbling, the very fabric of society stretching at the point of my blade, longing to tear. I didn’t even sing the song, but simply stabbed the table in flurry of motion, my rhythm gone, my vision hazed, the blood pounding in my ears. I could smell the arousal in the room, the hormone-rich perfume that sublimed from our loins, that primal signaler that saturated the ancient parts of our minds. Thump, thump, thump; was it the blade hitting the table, or my heart beating in my chest? I couldn’t know. Thump, thump, thump. I gasped, sweet pain lancing up my forearm. The knife wagged into the table, its slim edge opening the tip of my finger. The room was silent as I held my hand aloft, and watched the deep crimson draw a path into my palm. A covetous hand clasped me gently, and brought my finger to blood-red lips. I barely recognized Prestira in her vampiric form. Her features were a display of gothic beauty, and with a shrug of her shoulders, her silver robe cascaded from her, revealing a body that had transformed into a celebration of muscle and curves. Her slit pupils consumed her irises as she took my finger into her mouth, and sucked it.

“Delicious.” She whispered, her voice sounding through the room, “Can I have more?”

“Yes.” I whispered back.

Then it began. I didn’t know who coupled with who, but I saw the flurry of motion, heard the moans and cries, smelled the joining of flesh. Prestira had me against the wall, my wrists pinned above my head, her mouth consuming mine. Our tongues entangled voraciously, her fangs biting into my lips, secreting her narcotic into me. The wet squishing of our breasts deepened with the joining of our bodies, our thighs pressing, my cock traversing her abdomen, springing between her legs, gliding through her petals. Entering her.

PRESTIRA

I wore my vampiric body like armor. I wasn’t Prestira Rasloraca, the woman who’d been raped to insanity; I was this beast, this apex killer who knew no weakness. I growled into Elena’s mouth as I took every inch of her, feeling her bulging against my tender walls, splitting me. She was a woman, not one of those things that had tortured Prestira Rasloraca, but a being of my own disposition. She looked into my eyes with an empathy only our sex could have, and she drove her hips with a compassion a man never could. She was perfect, my angel, my healer. I wrapped my lips about her throat, and drank freely of her blood. She surged into me as I extracted life from her, my body burning with it, the enchanting toxins of the dark-elf. I gasped when I’d had my fill of her, my eyes rolling back, my nerves electrified.