Midriél and Evandolas — Part Two of Two

Midriél and Evandolas

Part Two of Two:

The Dire-Stones

For a sennight the welts drawn on Midriél’s rear faded, and for the same sennight her dark desire rose anew. The pleasure she had found under her lover’s cane had been absolute, but oh so fleeting, the memory of it turned to a mocking phantasm. The burning Evandolas’ pole had left in its wake was gone, replaced by an emptiness along her oral passage and up the more sinister one of her bottom.

Sun-danced water caressed her skin, washed away the day’s strains and replenished the Elf-girl. She dove down into the coolness, broke the surface again, the copper of her hair turned rust. Midriél spun about and fell still, floating on the tiny waves, eyes closed against the late light. With her ears submerged she could not hear the forest, yet timely a smile found her soft lips. Neither turning her head nor opening her eyes she began a gentle backstroke towards the sole pebble shore of the steep-banked loch. As the ground reached up she abandoned her levitating pose and tumbled to stand upright. The water bared her shoulders, and she could see – and could be seen from – the stony stretch before the trees.

Evandolas was sitting in the midst of it, next to the boulder on which her attire was neatly splayed out. His voice, teasing and gentle, was carried over to her with the faintest of echoes.

“A goblin once snuck through the leaves,

Saw close a maiden bathing.

He grabbed her clothes, the worst of thieves,

All deer roused by his laughing.”

Pony Boot Camp — Part Fifty-Five

Weird Turned Pro

Dawn would not come lightly. After the near-perfect disaster that had been last night I woke from a mockery of sleep more exhausted than I had ever felt. Half-dreams filled with Zero-One’s sobbing, with thorns and haste clinged to me as I dragged myself to the little fall-in. An invigorated Kandrin gloated over our misery, yet spoke no word of the incident. She did not have to. Judgement would be upon the red-haired girl come eve.

Midriél and Evandolas — Part Two of Two (IV)

Midriél and Evandolas

Part Two of Two (and of this the final share):

The Dire-Stones (continued)

Midriél’s muscles were exhausting themselves in a twisting frenzy, the uncontrolled trembling of a woman being lashed to madness. Ever deeper the whip reached into her sundered flesh, ever more laboured the cycle of her breathing became. All worlds had shrunken to the black denseness before her and the red mayhem behind. Thrice more the whip struck with such furore that she could not keep her torso under tension. Air came and went in ragged gasps, the thrill of suffocating addictive. Lightheaded, Midriél allowed the pain to overwhelm her whilst the final lines, curving towards the monolith’s very top, were redrawn in her blood. Lust and suffering, her very essence she gave to the stone, and it accepted her gift.

Midriél and Evandolas — Part One of Two

To celebrate the tenth anniversary of the release of The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim (the only piece of art yours truly ever geeked up enough to write fan fiction about) I would like to share this two-part story with you. Though not set in the Elder Scrolls universe, it shares certain concepts and plot points with it. It also borrows from The Whispering Woods, the elusive book series so prominently featured in Pony Boot Camp. Last but not least I duly state movies_maidens_n_manmeat’s spicy narrations Camelot and Oruale and the Saxons as strong, if not initial inspirations.

Midriél and Evandolas

Part One of Two:

A Sylvan Meeting

Her keen ears had guided her to him long before the forest granted sight. As she finally descried him, the familiar sting found her heart anew. The climax of longing, ere it turned into desire in the face of the desired and longed-fore. Evandolas was sitting on a burly trunk, cutting away at a hazel rod whilst reciting his latest work. Words were smoothed, verses piled upon verses to ever greater splendour as his voice floated across the sunny clearing, rich and sweet. Midriél listened in her hiding spot behind the mighty oak trees for far longer than decency allowed, and only moved when Evandolas had ended his poetry with a sigh only those could vent who truly suffered for their art.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Fifty-Three

Acolytes

That Hipster Beard shared Kendrick’s vision of the Perfect Pony was a safe bet. The vast majority of lashes he dealt to me on our jaunt through the woods I received for poor execution or silly mistakes. At no point he would use more than one stroke to speed me up, let alone whipping me into a frenzy as Kandrin had done on multiple occasions. Long before we reached the halfway point of today’s tour, I was hell-bent to be the bestest pony for my new master.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Twenty-Six

Terra Incognita

Under my hooves the ground changed towards a more bouncy, less cushioning nature. My perfectly executed high steps caused hollow sounds, and the wheels of the sulky began to rattle in a distinct frequency. That, and the intensified noise of flowing water told me I was crossing the old wooden bridge. It was the first time Miss Cuntling had made me take this route instead of the trail that led upstream towards the Deepfall. I’d love to describe the scenery as I trotted deeper into the woods, but Kandrin had opted for the full blinkers. No distractions from the rein commands. And since this measure alone wasn’t sufficient to solve my alleged attention span problem, Miss C. had done what she liked to do best: She’d fitted me with a new bit.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Thirteen

Under Bridle

By now more ponygirls had arrived to be readied for a little tour. Handlers were busy harnessing them to the carts. A tall and thin tomboy with scraggy black hair caught my attention in particular. 1310, if I wasn’t mistaken. Despite being snugly embraced by tack her lean body still managed to show off the elaborated tattoos running intricately along her limbs and down her back and sides. The dark inkings went disturbingly well with sturdy leather.