Aurascyra First

Winston looked from Aurascyra to Helisparga and made the rest of it simple.

“You two stay.”

Hippolyta understood at once. She touched his shoulder as she rose, then turned the other two toward the flap with the same authority she had used to assign their places.

“Xanthibarqa. Penthascara. With me,” she ordered.

The taller broader Amazon hesitated only long enough to look at Winston, as if confirming the entrance would still be her concern when she returned. Then she went. Penthascara followed with her chin high, colour still in her throat, and did not look back. The flap fell shut behind them.

That left the two of them, Aurascyra recovered first. She set her spear against a tent pole with more care than the moment required, then reached for the clasp at her shoulder. The red cloak came away in a slow slide of heavy cloth, baring the line of her arm and the gold disc that had held it. She worked the next fastening while she watched his face, as if measuring whether he had the nerve to look as openly as the law now allowed. The dark breastplate loosened.

When she drew it off, the tunic beneath clung to her, thin from heat and wear, the shape of her breasts plain through the cloth. She let him have that view a moment longer than she needed to. Then she drew the tunic up over her head.

The sudden softness of her breasts settled into open air, pale against the remaining gold at her waist. She did not cover herself. She only breathed once, then unbuckled the belt and let the red skirt drop around her sandals, the gold-weighted edges whispering down the long bare length of her thigh.

“Does this please you, my king?” she asked, the teasing in it small and deliberate. “I would rather know now, while I still have your attention.”

Helisparga’s method was quieter, and somehow worse for it. The spear left her hand. The winged ornament stayed in her hair. She loosened the sunburst plate without hurry, each buckle giving with a small, definite sound. The armour opened down her front and she eased it from her shoulders, dark metal sliding away from the tunic beneath. The cloth clung where the heat of her skin had found it, the full weight of her breasts visible through the fabric as she stood there a moment and let him look.

Then she drew the tunic up, slow enough that the lift of it dragged over her nipples before the cloth came free and her breasts settled, heavy and bare, the red of her cape still pooled behind her. Heat climbed her throat as she reached for the belt, fingers working the clasp at her waist without looking down from him. She unfastened it with both hands at her waist, then let the red skirt slip from the curve of her hip and down the strong column of one thigh, catching briefly on the gold greave.

When she bent to unfasten it, she did so facing him, the motion putting her breasts in a slow, heavy sway, her hair falling forward until she straightened again. Sandals last. When she was done, she stood flushed and bare in the tent’s dimness, making no attempt to hide how her body had already answered the looking.

They came to him from either side of the pallet. Warmth closed in from both hands. Close enough that he had to tip his head to take them in: Aurascyra’s cool blue stare and the pale, unashamed nakedness she had chosen to show him; Helisparga’s quieter flush, the sun-warmed skin, the still-settling weight of her breasts as she stopped at his shoulder and waited.

Then they stepped in.

Winston's right side vanished first, then his left, and the space around him disappeared. Bare hips and the soft, heavy press of their breasts met him from either hand, trapping him between the heat of two bodies. Fingers found the edge of the cover at his waist and drew it down with the same measured attention Aurascyra gave an argument.

Slower hands slid up under the remaining cloth of his shirt, Helisparga’s palms warm against his ribs as she lifted it. His arms had to rise. The shirt came off between them, dragged over his head, and then there was only skin, their breasts shifting against his shoulders and chest as they worked.

Close enough that her mouth brushed his as she spoke, the words coming between small, unhurried kisses.

“Stay still,” she stated. “We will manage this.”

Fingers found the last of what he wore and eased it down his hips. Helisparga knelt just enough that her hair dragged across his stomach, warm breath following, and the cloth left him. When she rose again, there was nothing between them. Bare hips pinned him from both sides. The weight of their breasts held him in place. Neither of them stepped back.

The flap stirred.

Hippolyta came in alone, a folded length of wool in her arms. She shook it out across the canvas in one practised motion. The cloth fell thick and clean over the floor, catching the dim light, a pale rectangle waiting at their feet. She did not look at it long.

“There,” she stated, already turning back toward the light. “Use it. I will keep the other two from deciding this requires a schedule.”

With that she headed out.

Aurascyra’s hand settled on his shoulder. Helisparga’s found the other. For a moment they only stood there, the three of them, as if the next movement still needed choosing. Then the choosing was over.

The wool took their weight first.

Aurascyra went to her hands and knees without being asked twice, the long pale line of her back dipping as she settled, hair falling over one shoulder. She looked back at him once, blue eyes still sharp even like this.

“Well?” she stated. “You chose who begins.”

He knelt behind Aurascyra , his shorter frame a shadow of desire against the firelight, the top of his head barely reaching the middle of her back. One hand, rough and calloused from years of labour, found the curve of her hip, gripping it with a possessive strength that belied his smaller stature.

The other guided him into the molten heat of her, and she took him with a broken sound that shattered the last of her control. Aurascyra was tight, slick, and so ready that the first thrust buried him to the root, the height difference making each movement a deep, consuming plunge. He could feel her inner walls clenching around him, the heat and wetness of her enveloping him completely.

Then Winston gave her what she had demanded, driving into her with every ounce of strength he had left. Each stroke shoved her forward, her knees digging into the wool, her arms braced to keep her from collapsing. A moan tore from Aurascyra's throat, raw and unguarded, then another, louder, any protest long since drowned in the rising tide of pleasure. Her breasts, heavy and full, swung beneath her, the soft flesh swaying with the force of his thrusts, the nipples brushing against the wool with each impact.

The wet sound of their joining filled the tent, a lewd symphony that only spurred him on. She pushed back to meet him, greedy for the force of it, her body trembling with the need to take all of him, to feel the full weight of his desire. The height difference meant every movement was a deep, grinding thrust, each one a claim and a promise, a dance of dominance and submission that left them both breathless and aching for more.

Warmth closed in from behind, a living wall of flesh and heat that pressed up along his spine. Helisparga's bare breasts flattened against his shoulders, the soft weight of them a sensual counterpoint to the hard thrusts of his hips. Her hips fitted against his ass, the curve of her pelvis moulding to the shape of his as if they were two pieces of a puzzle. The sandwich of her body stole the space he might have used to draw away, trapping him in a vice of desire.

Her hands slid around his waist, fingers splaying across his stomach, the touch both possessive and encouraging. Every time he drove into Aurascyra, Helisparga’s weight followed, her body a relentless force that pinned him between the two women, her breath hot and heavy at his ear, her thighs bracketing his, so that he could not fuck the woman in front of him without grinding back into the one behind. It was a dance of dominance and submission, a symphony of pleasure that left him breathless and aching, his body a willing prisoner in their embrace.

He refused the trap of it, his body a machine of pure, unyielding desire. The world narrowed to the heat of Aurascyra's body beneath him, the slick clench of her around his cock, the weight of Helisparga's body pressing against his back. Helisparga’s weight tried to steal his rhythm, her breasts flattened to his shoulders, the soft flesh a contrast to the hard, relentless thrusts of his hips. Her hips locked to his ass, the curve of her pelvis molding to the shape of his, a living wall that tried to steal the space he might have used to draw away.

But he drove forward anyway, each thrust coming harder than the last, a full-bodied shove that used her pressure instead of yielding to it. His hips snapped flush to Aurascyra, burying himself to the root, the height difference making each movement a deep, consuming plunge. He dragged back only far enough to do it again, the wet, lewd sound of their joining filling the tent, a symphony of pleasure and dominance.

The impact ran through her, shaking her to the core, a broken moan tearing out of her throat, then another, louder, raw enough that her arms shook as she took it. Wool bunched under her knees, her back dipping, the soft flesh of her breasts swaying with the force of his thrusts.

She pushed back into him, greedy for the force, her body a willing vessel for his desire. His hips snapped forward, meeting her thrust for thrust, a dance of dominance and submission that left them both breathless. Helisparga’s thighs tightened around his from behind, trying to hold him in that sandwich, but he only used it, driving off her weight so that every stroke into Aurascyra came deeper, heavier, until the woman on her hands and knees was moaning through her teeth and rocking on his cock like she had forgotten how to argue.

Her sounds were guttural, desperate, a symphony of pleasure that spurred him on. Each moan, each broken gasp, was a fuel to his fire, driving him to take her harder, faster, until the tent was filled with the wet sounds of their joining, the slap of flesh on flesh, the gasps and moans of their shared ecstasy. The height difference between them was a blessing, each thrust a deep, consuming plunge that left them both trembling on the edge of release.

More kisses found Winston's ear first, a soft, lingering press that sent a shiver down his spine. Lips were warm, breath a gentle caress against his skin, a stark contrast to the force of his hips. Then the mouth moved, tracing the line of his cheek in small, unhurried presses, each one a whisper of affection that belied the intensity of their coupling. Her breath spilled against his skin, a steady rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart. Breasts, crushed to his back, the soft flesh a cushion against the hard thrusts of his hips.

Every time he slammed into the other, the body followed, glued to him, the mouth never leaving his cheek, kissing him through the impact, a constant reminder of the tenderness that coexisted with the violence of their union.

His climax gathered fast, a storm building low in his belly, tightening with every wet, heavy stroke. His cock swelled inside Aurascyra’s clenching heat until there was nowhere left to put it. The sensation was overwhelming, a pressure that built and built, threatening to consume him. His rhythm broke, and he thrust himself deep, holding, grinding flush to her ass as the first pulse tore through him.

It was a release like no other, a surge of heat and pleasure that tore a groan from his throat. Thick surges followed, one after another, as Winston pumped thick white ropes of his cum into Aurascyra, each one a wave of ecstasy that left him breathless.

Aurascyra’s body clenched around him, her inner walls milking him, drawing out every last drop, her moans breaking into cries, her arms shaking, nearly giving out. Helisparga’s mouth never left his cheek, her lips warm, her breath a gentle caress, kissing him through every spurt, through the helpless jerk of his hips, through the last of what he emptied into the woman on her hands and knees. It was a symphony of pleasure, a dance of desire that left them both trembling and sated.

As he pulled out of her, the wet heat of Aurascyra’s body clung to him for a last second before he slipped free. She collapsed onto the wool with a moan, knees giving out from under her, cheek turning into the cloth. Seed followed at once, a thick, pale run of it slipping down the inside of her thigh and catching in the wool beneath. Her back still rose and fell in hard pulls. Her fingers opened and closed once against the fabric. She did not try to speak.

Winston went with the loss of her. His balance failed the moment Aurascyra’s body no longer held him up, and he would have gone over backward if Helisparga had not been pressed along his spine. Her weight took him instead. They went down together, her body catching his fall, then she rolled, putting him on the wool and herself over him. Bare breasts settled on his chest, warm and heavy, nipples dragging as she shifted to find his mouth.

The kiss came unhurried, deep enough to steal what breath he had left, lingering through the shake in his limbs. Her hips stayed warm against his, the wet heat of her resting over his spent cock while she gave him the space to breathe and did not let him go.

Instead of rushing him, her kisses stayed slow, Helisparga's mouth opening over his, pulling back just enough to let him breathe, then returning. Winston pulse hammered under her chest. Little by little it eased, as the raw ache of his climax loosened until the weight of her breasts, the heat of her hips, the wet slide of her against his thigh started to mean wanting again instead of aftershock.

As Helisparga's hand slipped between them her slender smooth but firm fingers wrapped Winston's spent cock, still slick from Aurascyra, and stroked with quiet patience, base to head, a firm, unhurried pull that asked rather than demanded. Slowly, and carefully Wintson' cock started to grow erect within her grip. She kissed his mouth through it, felt him stir, and kept that same patient rhythm until the spent weight of him grew heavy again in her hand and he was hard enough to want her.

Her mouth left his only far enough for the words, then came back between them.

“Do you want to rest, my king?” Helisparga asked, the question warm against his lips. Another kiss. “I can do the work.” Another. “You need only stay.”

Winston’s hand found her hip and held her there.

“No,” he stated. “I want to be on top.”

While Helisparga obliged Winston made a fight of it, teasing and light, a twist of her hips and a press of her palm to his chest as if she might keep him under her. He felt the strength in it at once, and the lie. She could have held him. She let the pressure give instead, allowed him to roll her, allowed his shorter weight to put her on her back on the wool.

The winged ornament stayed in her hair. Reddish strands spilled around it. For a moment he only looked, struck again by what he had already seen and somehow not finished seeing: the sun-warmed skin, the full heavy settle of her breasts, the strong waist and the open line of her thighs, flushed and waiting. Beautiful in a way that made his mouth go dry. Sexy in a way that made the wanting feel new all over again.

One of her thighs opened for him without being asked. He guided himself into the wet heat of her and sank in, missionary, until his hips met hers and her breath caught under him.

Then he began to move.