The Bridegroom Visits His Brides
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Category:
zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] › Legends/Myths/Lore
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,403
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
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.
The Bridegroom Visits His Brides
The Bridegroom Visits His Brides
High Cleric Elam Heiss stared at the seven bare-breasted women standing before him, his dead gray eyes and cruel expression making them shudder. Elam had a frightening presence. There was no piousness about him. He was six-four, thin and sallow, with a persistently down-turned mouth, thin face and completely bald beneath his headdress. There seemed to be no mercy in the man. Dressed in white and gold robes, Elam sneered at the beauties, the brides of the Antimage.
They were in the pleasure parlor, a pure white carpeted room strewn with pillows, couches, silks and ottomans, scented of incense. The walls had numerous loops, restraints, bars and X frames bolted to them. A long table with manacles and several cages were arranged strategically around the parlor. On a table to the right were a number of instruments for the Antimage’s use. Crops, whips, ropes, ticklers, dildos, clamps, plugs and more, all colored white for purity of purpose. These items were blessed of course.
The sound of praying clerics was a constant undertone in the citadel. There were always prayers, day in and day out, a constant drone rising and falling hour after hour after hour, protecting the Antimage from sorcerers who would harm him.
For the brides the prayers were a reminder that hell could be in the midst of a holy place.
The women stood side by side with their loins girded in golden thongs and nothing else, eyes on the floor and silent, as always.
They were not to speak in the presence of another man, not even the High Cleric and he was closest to the Antimage. He studied them. Lovely women. High breasted, flat-bellied, flared hips, firm, round buttocks and long legs. Soft . . . so soft looking. Elam tightened beneath his robes.
How he’d love to make them scream like he did the sorceresses before handing them over to the Bleeders. Of course, he couldn’t spill their blood, but he could make them confess their corruption before they were taken. He had been blessed with an oversized extension of the Lord’s Wrath, and used it brutally after gagging and suitably purifying them.
They always confessed their evil.
The brides had better hope they were well out of the citadel when Elam came into power. Their flesh would hold his marks if they weren’t. But the Antimage was still healthy if aged. If Elam didn’t fear being found out, he would have poisoned him years ago. But treachery was not received well. No one other than sorcerers had attempted to kill an Antimage in generations. The price of failure was too horrible for words.
Presently, a door opened and the Antimage entered, his hair ridiculously red and curly under his papal cap. He wore simple white robes that buttoned up the front of his rotund body. But that dyed hair couldn’t hide the fact that he was pushing seventy, and not a robust seventy. His mean little eyes fell on the near-naked beauties standing before him and his thick-lipped mouth turned downward. He could never be what they needed under normal circumstances. He was no attractive, hard-bodied, insatiable young man with an enormous cock and stamina enough to bring them all to orgasm. Yes, he was the Antimage . . . the most powerful man in Damar, but even the lowliest peasant could outdo him in the sack.
And that was a constant source of irritation to him.
The only reason they were here, was because he was so powerful. They didn’t have a choice in the matter. It was a blessing to be a bride. No one turned down the Antimage . . . and lived. He knew they would prefer being stuffed by his warrior clerics or his guard clerics. He saw their sluttish eyes flick toward the men when they passed . . . only a minute glance that stuck in his craw for hours on end. The women wanted them . . . not him, and for that, the Antimage punished them.
He punished them because he was a weak, decrepit old man who should live a dignified, celibate life rather than shame himself this way. But old or not, he still lusted for a woman’s flesh wrapped around him, smoothing his wrinkled hands over soft skin, grasping two handfuls of breasts and ass and fucking. Oh yes, fucking. Even if he weren’t the best, he was still the Antimage.
He walked over to the table of goodies and eyed the items, picking up a white leather crop with a loop on the end. He turned his little eyes on Elam.
”You may leave me with my brides,” he said.
Elam bowed and exited the room.
He looked back at the women, his face in a snarl.
”WHY ARE YOU ALL STILL STANDING?” he roared, spittle flying from his mouth as the brides all fell to their hands and knees trembling, not daring to look up at him.
Some of the women were taller than the Antimage, and he hated that. So, the entire time they were alone in his presence, they had to crawl. He looked down on them, their long hair hanging to the floor. He had two blondes, two brunettes, one red-head, and two black-haired beauties, one very dark-skinned with hair like lamb’s wool, the other olive-toned. The Antimage insisted on long hair.
He licked his lips as his eyes drifted over their backs to the plump curve of their girded asses and he slowly walked around them, looking at their soft, full globes. Then he scowled.
They were too far apart.
”Shift closer, make your buttocks touch!” he hissed at the women, who quickly obeyed, their round cheeks jiggling as they shifted over until each touched the brides next to her. Now the Antimage had a nice little line of asses before him. His asses. Round, tight and begging for the blessing of the crop.
Starting from the right . . . he laid it to each of them.
**************************************
A/N: lolol. :::shaking head::: Oh Antimage. You rascal you. :::snort::::
High Cleric Elam Heiss stared at the seven bare-breasted women standing before him, his dead gray eyes and cruel expression making them shudder. Elam had a frightening presence. There was no piousness about him. He was six-four, thin and sallow, with a persistently down-turned mouth, thin face and completely bald beneath his headdress. There seemed to be no mercy in the man. Dressed in white and gold robes, Elam sneered at the beauties, the brides of the Antimage.
They were in the pleasure parlor, a pure white carpeted room strewn with pillows, couches, silks and ottomans, scented of incense. The walls had numerous loops, restraints, bars and X frames bolted to them. A long table with manacles and several cages were arranged strategically around the parlor. On a table to the right were a number of instruments for the Antimage’s use. Crops, whips, ropes, ticklers, dildos, clamps, plugs and more, all colored white for purity of purpose. These items were blessed of course.
The sound of praying clerics was a constant undertone in the citadel. There were always prayers, day in and day out, a constant drone rising and falling hour after hour after hour, protecting the Antimage from sorcerers who would harm him.
For the brides the prayers were a reminder that hell could be in the midst of a holy place.
The women stood side by side with their loins girded in golden thongs and nothing else, eyes on the floor and silent, as always.
They were not to speak in the presence of another man, not even the High Cleric and he was closest to the Antimage. He studied them. Lovely women. High breasted, flat-bellied, flared hips, firm, round buttocks and long legs. Soft . . . so soft looking. Elam tightened beneath his robes.
How he’d love to make them scream like he did the sorceresses before handing them over to the Bleeders. Of course, he couldn’t spill their blood, but he could make them confess their corruption before they were taken. He had been blessed with an oversized extension of the Lord’s Wrath, and used it brutally after gagging and suitably purifying them.
They always confessed their evil.
The brides had better hope they were well out of the citadel when Elam came into power. Their flesh would hold his marks if they weren’t. But the Antimage was still healthy if aged. If Elam didn’t fear being found out, he would have poisoned him years ago. But treachery was not received well. No one other than sorcerers had attempted to kill an Antimage in generations. The price of failure was too horrible for words.
Presently, a door opened and the Antimage entered, his hair ridiculously red and curly under his papal cap. He wore simple white robes that buttoned up the front of his rotund body. But that dyed hair couldn’t hide the fact that he was pushing seventy, and not a robust seventy. His mean little eyes fell on the near-naked beauties standing before him and his thick-lipped mouth turned downward. He could never be what they needed under normal circumstances. He was no attractive, hard-bodied, insatiable young man with an enormous cock and stamina enough to bring them all to orgasm. Yes, he was the Antimage . . . the most powerful man in Damar, but even the lowliest peasant could outdo him in the sack.
And that was a constant source of irritation to him.
The only reason they were here, was because he was so powerful. They didn’t have a choice in the matter. It was a blessing to be a bride. No one turned down the Antimage . . . and lived. He knew they would prefer being stuffed by his warrior clerics or his guard clerics. He saw their sluttish eyes flick toward the men when they passed . . . only a minute glance that stuck in his craw for hours on end. The women wanted them . . . not him, and for that, the Antimage punished them.
He punished them because he was a weak, decrepit old man who should live a dignified, celibate life rather than shame himself this way. But old or not, he still lusted for a woman’s flesh wrapped around him, smoothing his wrinkled hands over soft skin, grasping two handfuls of breasts and ass and fucking. Oh yes, fucking. Even if he weren’t the best, he was still the Antimage.
He walked over to the table of goodies and eyed the items, picking up a white leather crop with a loop on the end. He turned his little eyes on Elam.
”You may leave me with my brides,” he said.
Elam bowed and exited the room.
He looked back at the women, his face in a snarl.
”WHY ARE YOU ALL STILL STANDING?” he roared, spittle flying from his mouth as the brides all fell to their hands and knees trembling, not daring to look up at him.
Some of the women were taller than the Antimage, and he hated that. So, the entire time they were alone in his presence, they had to crawl. He looked down on them, their long hair hanging to the floor. He had two blondes, two brunettes, one red-head, and two black-haired beauties, one very dark-skinned with hair like lamb’s wool, the other olive-toned. The Antimage insisted on long hair.
He licked his lips as his eyes drifted over their backs to the plump curve of their girded asses and he slowly walked around them, looking at their soft, full globes. Then he scowled.
They were too far apart.
”Shift closer, make your buttocks touch!” he hissed at the women, who quickly obeyed, their round cheeks jiggling as they shifted over until each touched the brides next to her. Now the Antimage had a nice little line of asses before him. His asses. Round, tight and begging for the blessing of the crop.
Starting from the right . . . he laid it to each of them.
**************************************
A/N: lolol. :::shaking head::: Oh Antimage. You rascal you. :::snort::::