Justice be bred

The city continued its quiet, orderly rhythm beyond the casino doors.

Clorinde moved through the main plaza with the same measured stride she used on the dueling grounds. Her uniform was immaculate, the dark fabric and gold accents cutting a sharp silhouette against the pale stone. A short chain and a set of official seals hung at her belt.

(https://im.ge/i/QMKagmS)
(artist: miyu)
The young woman she escorted walked a half-step ahead, completely bare, wrists already bound in front of her with soft official cuffs. No clothing remained. Her skin carried the faint sheen of the standard preparation oil applied at the holding desk—nothing dramatic, simply enough to keep her ready for use.

They stopped at the central pillory.

It stood on a raised platform of white marble, elegant rather than crude: polished wood stocks for the neck and wrists, a padded ledge at the correct height for the hips, and a small engraved plaque that recorded the offense and the duration. Clorinde unlocked the stocks with a practiced turn of the key, guided the woman’s head and hands into place, and closed them with a soft, final click. The body settled into the standard position—bent forward, ass and cunt presented to the open plaza, legs spread just wide enough by the design of the ledge.

Clorinde stepped back, checked the seals, and affixed the three-day marker to the plaque.

“No ticket on a primary transit vessel,” she stated for the record, voice level and formal. “Public release service, seventy-two hours. Standard access.”

The young woman did not protest. Her breathing stayed even. A thin line of anticipation already glistened between her thighs.

Clorinde turned away the moment the paperwork was complete. Behind her the first citizens approached—curious, unhurried, treating the new fixture the same way they treated any other public convenience. A man in a tailored coat stepped up first, unfastened his trousers, and pushed into the waiting cunt with a low sigh of satisfaction. Another waited his turn a few paces back, chatting quietly with a companion about the afternoon’s theater schedule. A woman in an elegant dress reached under the pillory to stroke the prisoner’s dangling breasts while the first user finished. Soft wet sounds rose and fell. The plaza absorbed them without pause.

(https://im.ge/i/QMKaZhF)
(artist: 敗北する胡蝶しのぶ)

Clorinde was already halfway across the square when a junior clerk in formal blues intercepted her.

“Champion. The Oratrice requires your presence in the main judgment hall. Immediate.”

She gave a single nod, adjusted the chain at her belt, and changed direction toward the grand doors of the Opera Epiclese without looking back. The soft rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh faded behind her, already just another ordinary sound of the city.

Clorinde entered the judgment hall through the side doors reserved for enforcement personnel.

The session was already in progress. Two men stood on opposite sides of the polished central dais—one a merchant in neat commercial blues, the other a private citizen in quieter civilian dress. Between them rested the disputed object: a damaged mechanical timepiece whose warranty status had consumed the better part of an afternoon. The Oratrice Mécanique d’Analyse Cardinale had delivered its verdict in the usual resonant tones. Evidence insufficient. No clear preponderance. Standard resolution required.

A senior clerk in formal robes turned as Clorinde approached.

“Champion. You are reassigned for the duration of this matter. The pool of available Justice Mediators is currently exhausted. Your body will serve as the deciding vessel.”

There was no request for consent. The decision had already been entered into the record.

Clorinde’s expression did not change. She removed her gloves with precise, economical motions and set them aside on the designated tray. The clerk stepped forward, unfastened the formal closures of her uniform jacket and trousers with the same bureaucratic efficiency used for any other procedural step, and folded the garments neatly. Within moments she stood bare from the waist down, boots still on, the dark fabric of her top left open enough to free her breasts.

(https://im.ge/i/QMKacOy)
(artist: Frozenspiderlily)
An official seal was pressed to the soft skin just above her cunt—temporary mediator mark, valid until conception was confirmed.

She was guided to the low, padded judgment bench at the center of the dais. The design was familiar even if she had never occupied it herself: knees spread and slightly elevated, hips angled for easy access, wrists loosely secured to the side rails so the vessel would remain steady through the process. Clorinde settled into position without protest. Her face stayed composed, the same calm she wore before a duel.

The merchant was granted first right by coin toss.

He stepped between her open thighs, freed his cock, and pushed into her in one smooth motion. Clorinde’s breath left her in a controlled exhale. She was already slick—standard preparatory oil mixed with the body’s own response to the situation—and the stretch registered as simple physical fact. The man fucked her with practical, unhurried strokes, focused more on depositing his claim than on her reactions. When he finished he remained buried for the required thirty seconds, then withdrew. A thin trail of seed followed.

(https://im.ge/i/QMKazy8)
(artist: Stable Skynet)

The second man took his place immediately.

He was thicker, less restrained. His thrusts carried more force, the wet sound of him driving into Clorinde’s freshly used cunt echoing faintly under the high ceiling. She took every stroke without shifting position, eyes fixed on the far wall, the only visible sign of sensation a faint flush across her cheeks and the slow clench of her walls around the invading cock. He came harder, flooding her deeper, and held himself in place until the clerk nodded.

(https://im.ge/i/QMKav1M)
(artist: Spoilage)

Both men stepped back. Clorinde remained on the bench, thighs still spread, cum from two sources already beginning to leak from her well-fucked hole onto the padded surface beneath her. The clerk made a brief notation.

“The vessel will remain available for additional deposits as needed until conception is verified. Monitoring begins at first light. The party whose seed takes root will be declared the rightful claimant.”

Clorinde’s only response was a single, quiet breath. Her body stayed open and ready on the judgment bench, the elegant machinery of Fontaine’s justice continuing around her without pause.