The Frenzy

He didn't choose one. He took them all.

He turned to Helga, who was still on her knees, her eyes glazed. He grabbed her by the hair and the back of her tunic, hauling her to her feet and spinning her around to face the stone bench. With a single, powerful shove, he bent her over it, her massive torso pressed against the cold stone. Her simple trousers were ripped down in one brutal motion.

He didn't prepare her. He didn't need to. She was dripping from the oral worship and her own arousal. He positioned himself behind her, the broad, slick head of his cock pressing against her entrance. Then he drove forward, burying himself to the hilt in one devastating thrust.

Helga's scream was a raw, animal sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure. Her hands scrabbled against the unyielding stone as he began to fuck her with deep, piston-like strokes, each one driving a choked cry from her throat. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed in the Iron Garden.

While he ravaged Helga from behind, he reached out with one hand and grabbed Kira by the arm, pulling her close. "You want to serve?" he growled, his voice strained with effort. "Serve her." He guided Kira's head down between Helga's spread legs. "Make her cum on my cock."

Kira, her own need a wildfire, obeyed without hesitation. She dropped to her knees behind the Master's pounding form and pressed her mouth to Helga's exposed, stretched sex, licking and sucking where his massive shaft pistoned in and out. Helga's screams turned into broken, sobbing wails of overstimulation.

Grilka, seeing both positions occupied, moved with **** ingenuity. She climbed onto the bench in front of Helga, straddling her head. She pulled Helga's face into her own soaked sex. "Take your reward," Grilka commanded, grinding down onto Helga's mouth.

They became a single, groaning, fucking organism. The Master pounded into Helga, Kira's mouth worked furiously below, and Grilka rode Helga's face. The Overseer's hand left Kira's head and found Grilka's throat, his large fingers wrapping around her neck and squeezing. Not enough to kill, but enough to cut off her air, to make the blood pound in her temples and her vision spark. Her body went rigid, then convulsed in a silent, strangled climax, her juices flooding Helga's face as she gasped for air when he released her.

When Helga's body began to convulse around him, her inner muscles milking his cock as she came from the dual ****, he pulled out of her, his cock slick and gleaming. He turned his attention to Kira, who looked up at him, her mouth wet with Helga's arousal.

He pulled Kira to her feet and pushed her onto her back on the hard earth. He followed her down, his weight pinning her. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, exposing her completely. He didn't enter her slowly. He slammed into her, the **** driving the air from her lungs. One of his hands went immediately to her throat, his thumb pressing into the hollow of her throat, his fingers tightening on the sides of her neck. Kira's eyes flew wide, her hands coming up to claw weakly at his wrist, not to pull him away, but to feel the strength of his grip. He fucked her like that, each deep thrust punctuated by a subtle tightening of his hand, stealing her breath and feeding her a dizzying, euphoric high of oxygen deprivation mixed with brutal pleasure. Her cries became choked, **** gurgles, her body writhing in ecstatic panic beneath him.

As he fucked Kira, Helga, still trembling from her own climax, crawled over. The Master grabbed a handful of her hair and **** her head down to his and Kira's joining. "Clean her," he ordered. Helga's tongue lapped at Kira's stretched, weeping entrance, tasting both of them.

Grilka, recovered, moved behind him. She pressed her body against his back, her hands sliding over his sweat-slicked shoulders. He reached back with his free hand, his fingers finding her throat, pulling her head to the side to expose her neck. He didn't squeeze Grilka fully, but held her there, a constant, dominant pressure on her carotid as he continued to pound into Kira and **** her with his other hand. Grilka moaned, biting his shoulder, her hips grinding against him, climaxing again from the sheer, terrifying dominance of the act.

He took Kira to a screaming, sobbing, air-starved climax, then pulled out of her, releasing her throat. She gasped, coughing, her body shuddering with aftershocks. He turned, dislodging Grilka, and pushed Grilka onto her hands and knees. He mounted her from behind, his entry just as ruthless. As he began to drive into her, one hand fisted in her braids, pulling her head back, the other wrapped around her throat from behind, his forearm against her spine. He fucked her like a beast, using the chokehold to control the angle and depth of his thrusts, to pull her body back onto him. Grilka's cries were ragged, joyous surrenders to the overwhelming, breathless mastery.

He fucked them in a relentless rotation—Helga over the bench, Kira on her back, Grilka on all fours—spanking their asses until the skin glowed red, **** them in different ways until they saw stars and their bodies went limp with surrender before reviving with **** hunger, using their bodies with a merciless, creative abandon that left them sobbing, screaming, and begging for more through their constricted airways. It was not lovemaking. It was a demonstration of absolute control over life, breath, and pleasure. A reaffirmation of his power over the strongest things in his Garden, and they worshipped him for it with every bruise, every gasp for air, every shuddering, mind-shattering orgasm he wrung from their broken, willing bodies.

The final, shared climax was a seismic event. Demongus, having taken each of them multiple times in every conceivable way, finally allowed his own release. He was buried to the hilt in Grilka, who was on her hands and knees, her body bowed and trembling. One hand was still wrapped in her braids, the other splayed possessively over the red, hand-print-marked swell of her ass. With a final, deep, grinding thrust, he held himself there, and a low, guttural roar was torn from his chest.

Inside her, he pulsed, a hot, voluminous flood that seemed to go on and on, filling her to overflowing. Grilka screamed, her own climax triggered anew by the feeling of being claimed so utterly, her inner muscles milking him desperately as she collapsed forward onto the hard earth, his seed spilling out around the still-buried base of his cock.

He withdrew slowly, his massive, glistening cock finally softening only slightly, still impressively thick and wet with their combined fluids. He stood over them, breathing deeply, his magnificent body sheened with sweat, marked with scratches and bite marks, the air around him still thick with his potent, post-coital musk.

The three women lay where they had fallen, a tangle of bruised, sweat-slicked limbs. Helga was face-down by the bench, her great body heaving with each breath, a puddle of his release slowly leaking from her well-used sex onto the stone. Kira was on her back, her throat visibly marked with faint, darkening bruises, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling as tears of overwhelmed sensation tracked through the dirt on her face. Grilka was curled on her side, her body still twitching with occasional aftershocks, his seed painting her inner thighs.

There were no words. The only sounds were their ragged, slowing breaths and the distant, ever-present hum of the fortress.

After a long moment, Demongus moved. He went to the water basin in the corner, splashed his face and chest, and used a cloth to clean himself with efficient, unhurried motions. He then picked up a clean cloth and a pitcher of water.

He went to Kira first. He knelt beside her, his touch now surprisingly gentle. He wiped the sweat and tears from her face, then carefully cleaned between her legs, his fingers tender as they swabbed away the evidence of his brutality. He tipped the pitcher, letting cool water trickle into her mouth. She drank weakly, her eyes fluttering closed.

He repeated the process with Helga, rolling her onto her back, cleaning her massive, spent form with the same detached care one would give a prized weapon after a battle. He did the same for Grilka, who sighed and leaned into his touch, her shaman's pride completely dissolved into sated submission.

When he was finished, he stood. He looked down at the three broken, serviced warriors, a faint, satisfied curve to his lips. "You performed adequately," he said, his voice once more calm and measured. "Remember this feeling. The feeling of your limits being tested, and then surpassed. That is the peace of this Garden."

He turned and walked towards the fortress door, leaving them lying in the aftermath. He did not look back.

Slowly, painfully, they began to stir. Helga pushed herself up to a sitting position, wincing. Grilka sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. Kira rolled onto her side, facing them.

No one spoke. There was no competition left, no hierarchy among them. They were equals in their utter, complete devastation. They shared a look—a raw, wordless understanding that passed between them. They had been broken by the same ****, and in that breaking, a strange, brutal sisterhood had been forged.

They helped each other up, moving stiffly, supporting each other's weight. They found their discarded, torn clothing and dressed in silence. Without a word, they limped together towards the Garden entrance, a trio of walking testaments to the Master's power, bound now not by rivalry, but by the shared, profound knowledge of what it meant to be truly conquered.

From her hidden vantage point, Mara watched the entire brutal, magnificent spectacle. Her hand worked frantically between her own thighs, her fingers soaked, her breath coming in sharp, silent gasps that fogged the cool stone of the archway.

She watched as he bent Helga over the bench and took her with that first, shocking thrust. The raw power of it, the complete lack of gentleness, made Mara's own core clench in sympathetic, terrified arousal. Her fingers mimicked the rhythm, plunging deep and fast as she imagined that overwhelming fullness.

When he pulled Kira beneath him and his hand closed around her throat, Mara's own breath hitched. She could almost feel the pressure on her own neck, the dizzying lack of air mixed with the deep, claiming penetration. Her free hand flew to her own throat, her fingers pressing lightly against her pulse point as she fucked herself with the other, her hips bucking against her own hand. The sight of Kira's ****, euphoric panic was the most confusing, thrilling thing she had ever seen.

She watched Grilka climb onto the bench, forcing Helga's face into her sex, and a moan escaped Mara's lips. The complete abandonment of pride, the use of each other as mere extensions of his pleasure—it was horrifying. It was beautiful. Her fingers found her clit, rubbing in frantic, tight circles as she watched the Master take Grilka from behind, his hand in her hair, his other arm across her throat.

The sounds were a quartet of her undoing. The wet slap of flesh, the choked gags and sobs, the guttural groans of the man, the sharp crack of his hand on ass after ass. Each sound drove her higher. She was panting openly now, her forehead pressed against the vines, her body trembling with the effort to stay quiet and upright.

When he began to rotate between them, using them with relentless, creative cruelty, Mara lost all sense of time and place. She was no longer a scribe hiding in the bushes. She was Helga, taking that monstrous cock from behind until she screamed. She was Kira, feeling her breath stolen as she was filled to bursting. She was Grilka, being choked and used as her body convulsed with helpless pleasure.

Her climax built like a storm, tightening her belly, making her toes curl in her soft shoes. It crested when she watched his final, claiming release into Grilka, heard his animal roar, saw Grilka's body collapse in total surrender as she was filled.

That was the image that broke her.

Mara's own orgasm ripped through her with silent, devastating ****. Her back arched, her mouth opened in a soundless scream, and her vision whited out. Pleasure, sharp and shocking as a lightning bolt, radiated from her core out to her fingertips and toes. Her inner muscles fluttered around her own fingers in pathetic imitation of what she had just witnessed. Wave after wave of intense, shameful ecstasy washed over her, leaving her weak and trembling, clinging to the archway for support.

As the aftershocks subsided, she slid bonelessly to the mossy ground, her legs unable to hold her. She sat there, breathing raggedly, the scent of her own arousal mingling with the damp earth. The sounds from the Iron Garden had changed—now only the heavy breathing of the spent women and the soft, terrifyingly gentle sounds of the Master's aftercare.

She had just masturbated to the violent ravishing of three other women. The shame was a cold stone in her stomach, but it was inextricably fused with the lingering, warm buzz of her climax. She felt hollowed out, exposed, and profoundly, dangerously changed.

Mara didn't know how long she sat there in the moss, her body humming with spent shame. The sounds from the Iron Garden had faded completely. The need to flee, to be anywhere but here, finally pushed her to her feet. Her legs felt like water, her robe was damp in embarrassing places, and her face was surely flushed. She had to get back to her quarters, to her ledgers, to anything normal.

She gathered her fallen ledger, clutching it to her chest like a shield, and stumbled back through the gap in the jasmine hedge. Her plan was to take the most secluded, winding path back to the scribes' annex.

She turned a corner around a large flowering bush and collided head-on with another figure.

"Oof!"

It was Floria. The painter was also clutching something to her chest—a small sketchbook. Her fingers were stained with charcoal, and a smudge of it was on her cheek. Her eyes were wide, her breathing slightly too quick. A single, loose sheet of paper fluttered to the ground between them. On it, in quick, passionate strokes, was an unmistakable, detailed sketch of a muscular male back, glistening with sweat, with a woman's hand splayed possessively across it.

Both women froze, staring at the incriminating evidence on the ground.

"I—I was just—" Floria stammered, her face turning as red as the berries on the bush. "The chiaroscuro of the moonlight on the, uh, the fountain statuary is particularly challenging tonight—"

Before Mara could even attempt her own lie, a third figure hurried around the opposite side of the bush. It was Sylandra. The cleric was smoothing down her simple grey habit, which was oddly rumpled. A few strands of her usually neat blonde hair had escaped her wimple. She held a small, silver watering can, but it was empty and dry.

"Ah! Sisters!" Sylandra said, her voice an octave too high. "What a… coincidence. I was just… tending to the nocturnal meditation herbs. They require… vigilant observation for blight. Yes."

The three of them stood in a tense, silent triangle. The air was thick with unspoken truths. Mara could smell the faint, lingering scent of her own arousal on herself. Floria's charcoal-stained fingers trembled. Sylandra's habit was buttoned crookedly.

Mara looked from the sketch on the ground, to Floria's guilty face, to Sylandra's empty watering can and disheveled state. A hysterical bubble of laughter threatened to escape her throat. They were all so terrible at this.

"I… was reviewing growth ledgers," Mara whispered, her voice hoarse. "The… jasmine. It's… proliferating."

"Indeed!" Sylandra agreed too quickly. "Vigorous growth! Requires… documentation!"

"Absolutely," Floria squeaked, snatching her sketch off the ground and hiding it behind her back. "Form and… proliferation. Artistic study."

Another moment of agonizing silence stretched between them. The distant, satisfied groan of one of the three barbarian women being helped to her feet (a sound only they would recognize and interpret) drifted faintly on the breeze.

All three women flinched.

"Well!" Sylandra said, clutching her watering can like a holy relic. "The herbs await. Vigilance!"

"Form and light!" Floria chirped, already backing away.

"Proliferation!" Mara echoed weakly.

They scattered like startled birds, scurrying off in three different directions without another word. The unspoken pact was sealed. They had all been caught. They all knew. And they would all take the secret of their simultaneous, voyeuristic masturbation to the Garden's beautifully manicured grave, where it would live forever in their shared, mortified, and secretly thrilled memories.