Gwennalyn's Sexual Awakening Ch. 08

Many thanks as usual to EmmaKendrick01 for offering her thoughts on the chapter!

*****

The water of the Grand Canal sloshed against the Cerulean as it knifed slowly towards the pier. Gwennalyn stood on the deck, looking out at their destination, the platform still several yards away, a small gaggle of waiting figures visible. Her mind was inundated with images of what had happened the last time she had seen two of those figures.

It had been a month and a week since the orcs had departed from her father's castle. The night before they had left, Brand and Brash had given their guards the chance to gang-fuck the princess. Their rough attention had by the end of the night turned her into a mewling, mindless wreck, body coated and lashed and decorated with streaks of semen, nethers dripping seemingly endless streams of wasted seed. She had been so ravaged that she had slept throughout the following day, missing the farewell feast, her handmaiden having covered for her with the usual 'womanly concerns' excuse that always worked so well on her father.

For the first few weeks after that night, Gwennalyn had found it exceedingly hard to not think about the experience. Her thoughts flitted back so quickly to the sensations and emotions from that night, and her overactive imagination created new situations in which she might submit again to the same illicit pleasures. During dinner, she might think about a lustful orc striding into the hall, bending her over the table, rucking up her dress to claim her sodden sex. During her father's announcements, the guards in attendance would become orcs, rushing over to drag her to the center of the room, a gangbang commencing right in front of the throne. Even during worship, she would find herself helplessly fantasizing, the priests droning on about obeying the will of the gods while the princess could only think about obeying the will of a dominant orc. Many times throughout the day she would find her hand straying to the hem of her dress or her thighs rubbing subtly together. The time spent under the brother's sway meant that she had become used to their abuse, and this time after their departure meant that she sometimes found herself aching for that same abuse.

After those first few weeks, it had become easier to not think about it. And once the weeks turned into a month, she had found it even easier to deal with the ache for more subjugation, the experience further removed.

Two things had helped her cope.

The first was her handmaiden, who had become her nightly bedmate. The older woman was eager to please and be pleased, which delighted Gwennalyn. The only disappointment was that Deiara was no well-hung orc.

The second was the letter that had reached the castle a week or so after the orcs had departed.

She had been in the royal garden, reading about King Floreas, the kingdom's founder, when one of her father's attendants had come to collect her, bringing her with an urgent anxiety to his study.

"My dear daughter," her father had said, his voice thick with emotion, "read this."

He had slid a letter across the table to her.

Her father's surge of emotion had worried her, whereas the seal on the accompanying envelope, that of Captain Lancear, had made her fight back a sigh, sure that it was some dull ballad or half-hearted attempt at romance from Lucien, her husband-to-be.

It was neither.

My good and wise King, I write to you with a humble request. I know my father has been planning an expedition to the Southern Isles to curtail the surge in piracy that has waylaid the good seafarers of the kingdom. My request is to be granted a command in this expedition. Before you decide, I implore you to read further. I am aware that the union between myself and your daughter, whose beauty and grace knows no bounds, is impending, and that certain details need to be arranged. I ask only a delay in the proceedings, for but one reason. As my father's son, I am worthy of your daughter. My father and you are great friends, and that in and of itself makes us a perfect match. But I feel I am not worthy of your daughter as myself. Were my father any other man, I would be a poor match. I say this not for an attempt at charming self-deprecation, nor to dare at insulting my father and you and the match you have made. My request for a command comes out of a desire to prove myself, to my future wife, to my King, and to my kingdom. I do not ask for the first command, or even a captaincy, as my inexperience could lead to woe for the men under me. I only ask for some sort of command, so that when the time comes that I wed your daughter under the watchful gaze of the gods, I do so as a man who is worthy of her. I await your decision, which I know shall be wise and just. Your subject, and soon-to-be son, Lucien Lancear.

The impassioned plea had won her father over. She had fought back a giddy shriek when he had told her of his decision to grant the request in the letter. When she had made it back to her chambers, she had let loose several delighted shouts, dancing around happily at the good news.

Several days later, she had received a letter herself from Lucien.

My dear Gwennalyn, I feel I must be truthful to you. I know that you do not want this union to happen, and although I will do my duty to my King and my father, I am of a similar mind. As such, I requested this command. I was not entirely deceitful towards your father with my intentions, as I do wish to prove myself, but only to myself. This command will grant us stays, and although I fear they are temporary, we perhaps may arrive at some better chance, or think on some solution that might free us from each other. With respect and admiration, Lucien Lancear.

She had always found him droll and dull. This missive did not change her mind, but it did give her a newfound respect for him.

Over the following days, she had found herself flouncing around the castle, happy now that she could push the wedding away in her mind. The expedition would take time, and as such she would be free for longer. Her father had a few times commented on her perplexing happiness.

"I shall have a husband worthy of me," she would tell him each time, "and that makes me happy."

The princess did her best to not think about how the delay was only temporary.

The Cerulean docked, and Gwennalyn turned to join her family as they debarked.

She did her best to hide her excitement. Here, she could forget entirely about Lucien and their impending nuptials. All she needed to do was submit and obey.

Brand and Brash were mostly silent during the introductions, only offering perfunctory greetings when called upon. She fell back to walk alongside them during the trek into the castle, to see if they might reveal some plans to her then, but they kept to themselves.

Her father and mother were directed to their chambers, and the princess' was on the level below.

"We don't have an adjoining room," the attendant told her handmaiden, "so your room is down the hall."

Deiara headed off, leaving the princess alone.

Gwennalyn sighed, wondering what plan the brothers had in store for her. The bed drew her eye, so she sat down, testing the mattress.

Wonder if it can handle a dozen orcs.

That salacious thought bouncing around in her head, she set herself to unpacking, readying her outfits for the week.

After a few minutes, a knock came at her door.

Her handmaiden was on the other side, leaning against the doorjamb, smirking.

In moments, the door was shut, the two women tumbling onto the bed. Hands grabbed at clothes to uncover bare flesh; the princess was faster, lifting her handmaiden's skirt to find her panties, tearing them off to reveal that ripe cunt. Over the last month or so, she had tasted its sweet tang practically every day. This day, even spent in another nation, would be no different.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

There were many differences between humans and orcs, and Gwennalyn often delighted in cataloguing them. For one example, she had found that orcs, by and large, were more straight-forward as a people, more willing to get to the point, as opposed to many humans she knew, who tiptoed around sensitive issues and used vague language.

Another difference was in their feasts.

All the feasts that Gwennalyn had attended were less about the actual feasting, and more about an excuse for the nobles and elites to get together and talk about nothing. Although her father always made sure to provide a sumptuous spread, oftentimes much of the food would go untouched, and end up donated to an orphanage or some other worthy place.

This was the first orcish feast that she had attended, and it was obvious that for the orcs, the entire point was the feasting. Any conversation had during the meal was short and terse.

This emphasis on eating first over socialization suited her perfectly. She always hated the vacuous discussions that were common at feasts. And whereas her father's feasts boasted more delicate and light fare, the tables in the orcish hall were laden with all sorts of sumptuous and decadent foodstuffs.

So she gorged happily.

Tender pork that fell easily off the bone, thick slabs of juicy fowl, rich and flaky pieces hewn from huge fish, accompanied by plate after plate of potatoes, carrots, and onions, each roasted to delectable perfection, followed by an endless array of sweet cakes and cookies.

After the bountiful feast came time for socialization.

By this point, the princess was stuffed, so she was happy to meet more orcs.

Her appetite for food had been sated, but now, going from orc to orc, another sort of appetite flared up. She could not help but imagine each one taking her, using her for their pleasure, one by one or all at once.

Throughout the evening, her eyes would flicker occasionally over to Brand and Brash, who had not talked to her aside from brief niceties when she had disembarked.

"They're waiting for you to go to them," came a murmur from beside her.

"How do you know?" she asked her handmaiden.

"Because I know. They won't approach you first."

"Why not?"

"Think for a moment, princess. Why would they want you to approach them?"

She thought for a moment, her face falling a second or two later when her mind came up with the answer.

"Because it would give them the power."

"Exactly. They would have all the power."

That doesn't sound so bad.

"I know you don't think that sounds too horrid, but if you were to approach them, they would likely reject you."

She frowned at the older woman.

"Why would they do that? I would think they'd want to spend as much time as possible abusing me."

"How you so easily forget, princess. They love manipulating and humiliating you almost as much as they love abusing you. If you approach them, desperate for their attention, it gives them an easy way to upset you."

Gwennalyn harrumphed.

"So what should I do?"

I really want them to fuck me tonight.

"Wait for them to approach you. They likely will tonight, because like you said, they'll want to spend as much time abusing you."

"I hope you're right."

"But if you give in too quickly, princess, they'll have all the power. Once they approach you, be strong, at least for a little bit. Show them you won't be manipulated."

"So I should reject them?" she asked, sounding as crestfallen as she felt.

"No," the handmaiden assured her, smiling gently, "just play it coy, and don't give in too quickly."

She nodded, already imagining how they might approach her.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Later that night, she was once again in bed with her handmaiden, the two entwined closely, each one feasting on the other's quim. The bedsheets were rumpled and marked here and there with bodily fluids.

The two had fallen back into bed as soon as they had returned from the feast.

Gwennalyn groaned into her mouthful of cunt, enjoying the streams of juice that flowed liberally forth. Her hands strayed all over the lush form before her, the handmaiden showing the same affection to the princess' body.

A knock came at the door.

"That's probably them," Deiara muttered.

"Should I answer?"

"Yes. I'm sure they know we're in here."

The princess slid off the bed, grabbing her silk robe from the floor, pulling it on as she padded out into the sitting room, towards the door.

"Hello, good sirs," she chirped, flashing a smile at Brand and Brash, the surly duo standing expectantly outside the room.

They pushed past her with their customary dismissiveness.

"I have company," she said, still standing by the door.

"I'll bet you ten pieces of silver it's the handmaiden," Brand said to Brash.

"Do you take me for a fool? Of course it's the handmaiden."

Brash sauntered over to the doorway that opened into the bedroom.

"See," he grunted, gesturing to the naked handmaiden reclining on the bed, "it's the handmaiden."

Brand shrugged.

"Come, whore," he ordered Gwennalyn casually, already walking into the bedroom, his brother behind him.

She followed.

"On your knees," Brash commanded her once she was over the threshold.

The instinct to obey was there, but distilled enough after their time apart that she was able to simply give him a polite smile.

"I am a princess," she reminded him, "so show me some respect, or at least ask nicely."

She peeked past the brothers to her handmaiden, who smiled at her, as if to approve of her words.

Brash stepped closer, looming over her.

His hand moved up to her cheek, one finger stroking there in a surprising show of tenderness.

"Do you remember when we first met? On the road?"

She nodded.

I doubt I'll ever forget.

The ravaging she had experienced at their hands had awakened some illicit desire inside her.

"I'm sure you remember," Brash said, his deep voice finding a tone of softness and smoothness, "you probably touch yourself every day to the memory."

His hand slid around past her neck.

She yelped as he took hold of her hair and yanked, pulling her head back, his heavy-browed visage dominating her field of vision.

"We didn't show respect then," he growled, his voice now cold and hard as steel, "neither did we ask nicely."

His other hand found her robe, and with a tug, untied the sash, the robe sliding off her shoulders to reveal the ivory flesh underneath, her nakedness on display.

"We won't ask nicely now," he rumbled.

The princess could not help but tremble.

"Get. On. Your. Knees."

Whatever defiance had existed inside her died a quick death.

Even with the flash of disappointment that she caught in her handmaiden's eyes, Gwennalyn herself was happy to submit.

"Good whore," Brand grunted.

"Care to join your princess?" Brash asked Deiara.

The handmaiden let out a barely audible sigh, but slid off the bed to join Gwennalyn.

By the time Deiara was next to her princess, Brand had already undone his trousers and presented himself. Gwennalyn purred, leaning forward to lick and lap at the erect flesh, remembering how it had ravaged her, eager for it to do the same again.

Where she wanted to indulge in teasing that thickness, Brand wanted something else.

He took her by the hair, and yanked her head back.

"Open wide."

She obeyed instinctively.

With a grunt, he sheathed himself in her throat. The princess squealed, feeling inch after inch pack her gullet so rudely, her time apart from the brothers rendering her temporarily incapable of taking him to the balls. Brand growled, shoving his hips forward, granting her no time to adjust. Her hand moved to her soaked slit as she choked messily around him.

Brash, meanwhile, was content to let Deiara suck at his length. The handmaiden was gazing up at him, her dainty hand stroking at his member, her lips wrapped around it just underneath the head. The dual sources of stimulation made the orc growl, his hands twining in her dark hair.

By now, Brand had managed to fit every inch down the princess' throat. She had briefly forgotten how to take him so deep, but she remembered as she choked around him that it had never been about her agency or ability. The brothers would give her every inch, would hilt themselves ruthlessly in each of her holes, not asking her permission or even any acknowledgement that she could take them all the way.

His length pulled back slightly.

And then he began to fuck his chosen hole, pumping his hips with a fierce urgency. She sputtered and gurgled around the thrusts, her fingers sinking into her channel, the pleasure rising from her debasement. Drool began to run down from her lips, his passage forcing out her saliva. His balls began to slap at her chin, the sound loud and lewd.

All too soon, Brand yanked himself from her. Thick lines of drool connected him to her lips, lines which broke apart as he dropped his shaft down onto her face. She moaned whorishly, her fingers rubbing and caressing her walls, upping the pleasure rapidly.

"What are you?" Brand asked.

"I'm a whore," she mewled, batting her eyelashes coquettishly, "yours and his."

She peeked over to Brash, who was by now also fucking Deiara's mouth, the handmaiden also touching herself excitedly.

"That's right," Brand said, quickly lining his length up to her lips.

Every inch was once again sent down her throat. She gagged and burbled, the thick meat throbbing inside her. Brand picked his rough rhythm back up. In moments, both women were treated to a harsh throat-rutting. What made this round even better was that she was sharing the debasement with her treasured handmaiden.

"Care to switch?" Brash asked his brother after a little while.

Brand nodded, already sliding his length back out of the gasping princess.

As the brothers moved about, Gwennalyn glanced over to her handmaiden, who was taking the abuse with a sultry enthusiasm that complemented the princess' own submissive glee. The handmaiden was breathing heavily, streams of drool sticking to her chin, some already having dropped off to land on her breasts. Her fingers were buried in her quim, moving steadily; she glanced back at the princess, smiling at her lustfulness. Once Brand took up his position before her, she turned back to him, tilting her head back slightly to allow him to line his length up to her lips. With one rough shove, she was sputtering wildly around his meat, the careless orc pumping his hips insistently.

Brash stepped up to the princess, who opened her mouth wide, eager to take every inch of him down her gullet.

Instead, the orc shoved his sweat-slicked testicles against her nose, the sudden influx of heady musk making her whimper, nuzzling against him, wanting to imprint his scent on her flesh. The fat sacks slathered down over the bridge of her nose, and dropped into her mouth. She moaned and began sucking immediately, obeying the unspoken command with gusto. Her own orgasm was close at hand, the surging pleasure building higher, rising to a messy crescendo that would overwhelm her, sinking her deeper into the miasma of lust. Adding to the atmosphere were the sounds from next to her, the sounds of Brand plundering the handmaiden's throat: her helpless sputtering, his harsh grunts, the consistent slap of his balls against her chin, the barely discernable squelching of her fingers buried in her sopping cunt.

Her onrushing climax hit her hard. The princess whimpered meekly, unwilling to tear herself from his testicles, slobbering all over the sweaty flesh, wanting to prove that their time apart had not diminished her whorishness or eagerness. Shudders ran up and down her body, the princess finally taking her mouth off his balls, only to rub her face against them, breathing deeply to send more of his scent straight up into her brain, all the better to warp her further into the depraved bitch in heat she so often was with these brothers.