Author's note: Afternoon folks. What you've got here is what I produced for a little writing challenge suggested by a fellow deviantart user named Bunglebing (www.deviantart.com/bunglebing). He writes similar stuff to me, and he has a long-running DiD-themed fantasy series called "Tales of Somneria". The main heroine (more or less) is a pixie named Fiona Alesthid, and it's she who's the subject of our story today. This is a crossover between his series, and my Enhancegirl-universe, which is why I'm publishing it here. The Enhancegirl-verse character is Falcona, a minor-but-memorable heroine from Enhancegirl 13. Here I have her as the villain of the piece, but she's still Falcona in essence, I think. I quite liked this one, and it's racier than much of my usual stuff, so... enjoy!
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Felicity Chalfont was a woman of moderate appetite. There was little that she wanted in such excess that it did her any harm. She liked good food, but she wasn't a glutton. She liked fine wine, but she wasn’t a drunkard. She liked a good book, but she wasn’t a shut-in. She liked sex but she wasn’t a nymphomaniac. But she did like it, and she’d gained a reputation in the Ednivale upper crust of being something of a Casanova. Strapping young men and snake-hipped young women from all arenas of Ednivale society could be found in her bordello, and all of them left with a smile.
“But what does she do?” was the question on the lips of anyone curious. She wasn’t nobility. She wasn’t a burgher. But she was wealthy, somehow: those sumptuous dresses and delightful parties didn’t pay for themselves. There were all sorts of rumours. She was human, but she had a fae visage and slight, artfully petite figure that seemed to demand she had some elven ancestry somewhere in her bloodline. Perhaps she was an elven noble’s bastard daughter, or granddaughter? Kept far from where she could bring shame to her family, but attended to financially.
Some less kind rumours had it that Felicity was an accomplished blackmailer, for she had eyes of soft, baby blue, but they had a disarming keenness. Instinctively, people were hesitant to lie in her presence, and it was not difficult for gossips to imagine that the uncommonly attractive young woman had a talent for searching out secrets. “The Vulture”, they called her, or sometimes “the Hawk”. These hostile whispers gained some credence from the unfortunate incident of Seneca Livingstone, who had been noted to be a frequent… house-guest of Miss Chalfont. So frequent, in fact, that the gossipers had briefly had something nice to say, suggesting that Miss Chalfont might be Mrs. Livingstone ‘ere long. But he had taken his own life, and suddenly the notion that Felicity might have been blackmailing him was a little more plausible. Only the fact that she’d been seen at Seneca’s funeral sitting next to Seneca’s sister and, indeed, holding her hand had prevented her from becoming a pariah.
There were some who knew how Felicity got her money. Sure, many of the men and women who frequented Felicity’s villa were friends, and some were sweethearts. But for those that weren’t, the impression that they were engaged in a romantic liaison with her was a useful cover. Take the Lady Wexford, for example. She, like Felicity, had a faint air of imminent scandal about her. However, she was now fifty years old, so while she was certainly not beyond the possibility of romantic entanglement, she was nevertheless of sufficient age that she had become something close to venerable. So she was unlikely to suffer much social damage for a dalliance with Miss Chalfont. Even she, however, probably wouldn’t have got away with hiring her to perform a kidnapping.
“A kidnapping?” Felicity burst into a peal of sweet, playfully mocking laughter. “Oh my dear Lady Wexford you are just a foul old villainess, aren’t you?” She threw herself down into a sedan chair, folding her hands behind her head and draping one leg over the other. She was lithely petite, with a slinky, slender figure that nevertheless had a touch of the gymnastic about it: like a sweet and pretty little cat that one might purring by one’s ankle one moment, and then leaping with fatal pleasure upon a sparrow the next. Her hair was blonde, short and pixie-ish, her features precise and elfin. She was wearing a thin, green dress, and though it didn’t reveal anything apart from her arms, it clung tightly to her figure, and showed with pleasant clarity just how shapely she was.
“You do know,” Felicity said, “that I usually leave my targets a few quarts of blood short of ‘alive’, don’t you?”
“I can’t imagine that the skills needed by an assassin and a kidnapper are all that different,” Wexford replied, curtly. “I can compensate you if you need to buy some rope or something.”
“It’s not that I’ve never had to do that sort of thing before,” Felicity said. “But kidnapping can be ever so messy, darling.”
“Messier than assassination?”
“Oh, much. Why it’s the whole reason that anyone executes criminals instead of clapping them in irons. It’s much cheaper to slit someone’s throat than to keep them locked up in a dungeon forever and ever.”
“I don’t need you to keep her prisoner. I need you to capture her, and deliver her. Here.” She handed Felicity a piece of a map of Ednivale. An address was written neatly in one corner, and the relevant street circled.
“Well, aren’t you helpful.” Felicity looked over the materials she’d been given. It all seemed straightforward. Very straightforward.
“I should warn you,” Wexford said, “my client says that this woman could be dangerous. She’s a swordswoman of some skill, apparently.”
“You can compensate me if I lose any digits,” Felicity replied. “I must warn you, dear heart, I have pretensions of being something other than a common criminal. The Hawk is selective about her prey. So tell me: what makes this woman worthy of my predations?”
Wexford had been expecting this question. From something not altogether unlike an attaché case, she drew a sheaf of papers, placed them abruptly into Felicity’s agile fingers.
“She’s a wayward aristocrat. From the house of Alesthid. She left her homeland some months ago, without leave, and her family wants her returned.”
“She’s not a criminal then.”
“Think of her as a deserter.”
“Hmmm…” Felicity frowned. “Hardly the most evil thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Providing you do your job properly, she won’t be harmed,” Wexford said. “They just want their daughter to come home.”
Felicity hadn’t made up her mind to refuse, exactly, but she was nevertheless doubtful.“What did you say their name was? Alesthis?”
“Alesthid.”
“I’ve never heard of them. They’re not in the Ednivale set, I take it.”
“You take it correctly. She’s a pixie.”
Felicity’s eyebrow popped upward. A little smile began to manifest on her elfin features.
“Oh, she is, is she? Now isn’t that fun…”
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It didn’t feel like home in Ednivale, and Fiona wondered sometimes if it ever would. It was tens of times larger than any settlement in the treeline; it was noisy, and busy, and far from the sky, and full of thousands and thousands of people, dozens of different cultures. Here there were no cords of family duty around her throat, here she did not have to play the noblewoman’s dance between luxury and poison. Here Fiona could breathe, and that was frightening.
Sometimes she caught people looking at her as she went about her business. Ednivale was multicultural, but pixies were still very unusual, and it was perfectly obvious that she was what she was. She cut a striking figure: by human standards she was extraordinarily tall for a woman. She was slim and willowy, with the firm, delicate grace of a yew tree. Her hair was long, sweet-smelling; a noble shade of violet. Her facial features were feminine, but defined, with a strong, noblewoman’s jawline and sharp, but quietly intelligent eyes.
Her clothes were lilac: a light, leaf-shaped breastplate and small pauldrons over a short, fine dress. Her arms were slender, and skilful, dressed in lilac gloves up to her elbows. Her legs were coltishly long, seeming to go on for longer than they really did - and they went on for quite some way as it was. They were clad up to the knee in tight, lamellar boots, and from there in pale-purple stockings. Between the stockings and the hem of Fiona’s dress, there were a good two-or-three inches of silky, creamy skin. At her hip, a sword as slender and sharp as its wielder. She was young, and beautiful, and her bearing told you that she was master of her own life. Which she was. Yet she was troubled still.
She was sufficiently lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice the cloaked figure in front of her until they were only an inch away.
“Please, my lady,” they said in a loud voice, and grabbed one of Fiona’s hands.
“Oh!” Fiona gasped. By the filthiness of the robe she guessed this person was a beggar. “Sir,” she said, “if you want to ask a coin of me, I won’t begrudge it. But I ask that you not take - liberties!” She pulled her hand away.
“Apologies, m’lady, apologies…” The cloaked figure slunk back into the crowd. Some people were looking, but they looked away after a few seconds. It was, at best, a small drama. Fiona too went on with her business immediately.
Yet for Fiona this small drama meant more than it ought to have done. She was not, in her heart of hearts, a democrat. If you had asked her if she approved of the existence of kings and queens and earls and viscounts, she probably would have said ‘yes’, albeit appended with an ‘I suppose so.’ But the idea of people lording it over others, demanding deference because of who their parents happened to be - that she disliked intensely. But she thought of how she had spoken to the beggar, and it was not so much that she thought she’d behaved badly, but that without thinking she had reverted to type. Settled back into ‘haughty noblewoman’ because someone of lower status had dared to touch her.
“I’m still who I was,” she thought. Or, perhaps it was more accurate to say that she was vocalising a fear, rather than expressing something she necessarily believed. But she did fear it. She feared that leaving the Treeline had meant nothing. That she was playing at being an adventurer, and one day she would flutter home with her tail between her legs.
Trying to put the thoughts out of her mind, she checked her pockets. She didn’t like being suspicious, but it was possible the beggar had grabbed her as a cover for a pickpocket companion. But Fiona had not been robbed. On the contrary: the beggar had added something.
It was a note. It was written in a fine hand, and not in the common tongue, but in fluent silestri, the formal writing language of the pixie upper-classes.
“What on earth…?” Just seeing the pen-tongue was alarming enough, but the contents of the note made Fiona’s stomach tighten. It read:
Fiona Alesthid,
Your presence in Ednivale has been noticed. Your family has hired a group of thugs to take you by force back to the Treeline. They attempted to secure my services as well, but I wanted no part of it. I intend to profit from my knowledge, however. If you pay well, I will ensure that the others your family have paid never get anywhere near you. Meet me here [at this point in the letter, a diagram illustrating where Fiona was to go was drawn] an hour before midnight. If you are not alone, you will not see me, and I will offer my services to your enemies.
The letter was not signed, but an image was drawn at the bottom: a figure of a bird of prey.
“Oh - oh gods!” Fiona exclaimed, and more than on most occasions she really would have quite liked their aid. ‘How did they find me?’ she’d been about to ask herself, but to her shame Fiona realised that she hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to cover her tracks. But then why should she have done? She wasn’t a criminal. She wasn’t a fugitive. She had every right to be where she was.
In fact - how dare her mother have done this? How dare she send people to bring her home - to bring her home by force. It was monstrous. The more Fiona thought about it, the more she felt that she’d assessed herself wrongly. It wasn’t that she was still whom she had been - she was being kept as whom she had been. Even from hundreds of miles away, she could feel the pressure of her mother’s demands.
To hell with it, Fiona thought. If her mother had really done this, she would have ceded all possible moral superiority with respect to Fiona leaving the Treeline. Fiona would deal with this threat and then - in a way - then she would be free.
That she put it in terms of freedom would, later, strike Fiona as a little ironic.
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Fiona did not quite lie to her companions about where she was going, but she wasn’t entirely forthcoming. So, when she arrived at the spot the note had indicated, no-one knew where she was. She kept her hand on her sword’s hilt, and her wings twitched. But she was determined.
It was the appointed place and the appointed time, but Fiona could not see anyone. It wasn’t an unfamiliar part of the city: inactivity this late at night was normal. But still it made her nervous. She knew perfectly well that it could have been a trap, but the specificity of the information on the note had convinced Fiona that it would be at least equally dangerous to let the matter rest. But with every passing second of silence, Fiona’s confidence in her logic grew weaker. Had she been made to wait ten seconds longer than she had, she would have left. But just as Fiona was about to withdraw, a high-pitched whistle split the air.
Fiona partly drew her sword, thinking the sound was a signal for an ambush. But no ambush came. After a few seconds Fiona realised that the whistle was only meant to draw her attention, and after scanning around briefly, she saw something.
Atop the roof of the tallest building on the street, silhouetted by a gibbous moon, a figure looked down at Fiona Alesthid. They wore the same ragged cloak of the person who had snuck the note into Fiona’s pocket, but they were obviously no beggar. Fiona couldn’t see them well enough even to tell if they were a woman or a man, but something about the firmness with which they held themselves, the poise and balance - Fiona could tell immediately that they were dangerous. They extended a hand, motioned towards themselves. Fiona was being invited up.
Cautiously, Fiona fluttered her gossamer wings, wings made only of light, extending from her bare back. They looked like illusions, but they bore Fiona’s weight comfortably, and she rose into the air. In the silent, dark street, her wings were like beacons, and one could even hear a quiet hum from them as they carried her. Warily she rose to the level of the one who beckoned her, and warily she alighted on the cold, stone roof.
“Are you Fiona Alesthid?”
“I am,” Fiona replied. Finally she knew something about this mysterious person: unquestionably they had spoken with a woman’s voice.
“Oh, splendid!” the woman replied, and with a flourish, they cast their cloak aside.
They revealed a woman a full foot shorter than Fiona, dressed in very thin, form-fitting white fabric, a little like leather but tighter, softer, hugging a slender, petite frame. She wore a helmet shaped something like the head of a hawk, with the beak covering her nose, and what looked like blue quartz covering her eyes. But much of her face was still visible, and Fiona saw sprightly, elfin features, and a pair of pretty, painted-blue lips. There was a sort of… bounciness to her, a slinky, feminine gymnasticism that, in different circumstances, Fiona would have found extremely attractive. At present, though, she was in no humour to notice such things. What she did notice was the long sabre that the woman carried.
“I take it you’re the one who gave me that letter.” Fiona did not quite land fully. She kept herself on her tiptoes, ready to charge or to flee at a moment’s notice.
“You take it correctly, Miss Alesthid,” the other replied. “I’d apologise for the subterfuge, but I have to say it makes all of this so exciting, don’t you think?”
“Who are you?”
“Tsk tsk. You do see the mask, no? I never yield an advantage when I could hold onto it.” She smiled. “Some people call me ‘the Hawk’. Or perhaps you’d prefer ‘Falcona’ - that’s what it is in Silestri, yes?”
Fiona felt toyed with, but she tried to ignore it. “You said my moth - my family had found me. That they were willing to have me taken back by force. Is that really true?”
“As far as I know, yes,” Falcona said. “But I’m afraid I did lie to you in my little letter. No-one else has been contracted to hunt you.”
Fiona’s stomach tightened. “Then what is this?”
Falcona laughed. “I’ve got no interest whatsoever in the politics of the Treeline. You can do whatever you like as far as I’ve concerned. But I’ve heard rumours of you: the pixie swordswoman with her promising little guild - as tall and slender as a supple young tree; as sharp as the point of a diamond; as lovely as a dew-kissed violet. I just had to introduce myself.” Her eyes flashed beneath her helmet - literally flashed, sparkling briefly with blue light. “I just had to test myself against you!” She drew her sabre.
Fiona was confused, and bewildered, and even a little afraid. Had Falcona attacked her in some other way she might have been less than her full self. But she had been challenged to a duel. She did not need to think.
“You are a liar. But clearly there is much you do know. I shall win your knowledge from you, Falcona!” She drew her rapier, and raised it high above her head, holding it with both hands in what her people called la postura del falco - the stance of the hawk. “En garde!” Her wings flashed, and she shot forward like an arrow.
Fiona made the first strike. She aimed for near the tip of Falcona’s sword, not so close to the edge that her own sword would slide straight off her enemy’s, but far enough from the hilt that there would be a lot of leverage. For Falcona, while obviously agile and skilled, did not look all that strong. Fiona was a fair bit larger, and she hoped that a full force blow might knock the sword from Falcona’s hand. It was also unconventional: she sensed Falcona was a practiced duelist, and she wanted to catch her by surprise.
But Falcona just danced away from the strike, as if Fiona’s move was the most natural opening gambit imaginable. Fiona struck at her again with a series of rapid thrusts, pressing forward on the first two with footwork, then on the third with her wings, in the sequence known as la tre coltellate. But this too Falcona evaded, allowing Fiona to pass her. The pixie turned swiftly, but Falcona was already on her.
“You’re very good!” Falcona called out. “Your form is gorgeous, m’lady!” She struck back at Fiona with a series of short, quick slashes. They were certainly the movements of an expert swordswoman, but not of a genius. Fiona knew exactly how to parry them. And yet - it was strange. Every time their swords clashed, every time Fiona had to defend herself, she felt strange. It was always just a little more difficult than it ought to have been to get her sword into the right place to block Falcona’s strikes. Always her parry was a little clumsier than she expected, always there were some subtle perturbations in the way Falcona slashed that made her responses feel inadequate; like there was a dimension to the fight she just couldn’t see.
After nearly three minutes of this back and forth, finally it seemed like Fiona did have an exploitable advantage: endurance. Falcona was breathing a little harder than she was, a little sweat visible on her slim, smooth neck. After one particularly hard slash, Falcona’s shoulder dropped, and Fiona saw an opening, and went for it. Falcona raised her blade to defend herself, but not in time. She was pushed back, more so when Fiona put her wings into an afterthrust, and there was a dull clack as their hilts smacked against each other, the base of their blades grinding hard enough to produce a single spark. At the last moment, Fiona sensed that she’d been right about Falcona, that she wasn’t quite as strong as Fiona was, and so she forced Falcona’s guard to the side, grabbed the underside of Falcona’s hilt with her free hand, and just ripped the sword out of her grasp with brute strength.
“Oh!” Falcona gasped. She tried to move back, but in less than a second the tip of her own sword was against her throat. Sheepishly, she raised her hands in surrender.
“It’s over,” Fiona said. “Now. Tell me the truth. Did my family really hire you? There are other ways you could know about me. Answer!”
“Damn,” Falcona said. “Damn, damn, damn. I really thought I had you there for a moment!”
“Well… you didn’t,” Fiona said, her impatience taking a little of the sting from her retort.
“Indeed,” Falcona answered. “You’re the better swordswoman, I do confess’t. Perhaps after another month I’ll be on your level.”
“Another -?” The implication was so extraordinary that, for the moment, it became the central mystery of the encounter. “You mean you’ve only been studying the sword for a month?”
Falcona bit her lip in faux-embarrassment. “I don’t mean to be a braggart. I just take to these sorts of things quickly. I have certain… advantages, you see. Or rather - I see.”
“Well - whatever. Answer my questions unless you want to become even better acquainted with your sabre.” She pushed the point a little closer.
“Temper temper,” Falcona said. Though it was subtle, there was a steel in her voice that hadn’t been there before. She narrowed her eyes. “You may be the superior swordswoman, Fiona Alesthid,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean you’re the better fighter.”
It should have been easy to stop her. Her movements were fast, but not that fast. She was agile, but not that agile. But somehow, she avoided Fiona’s strikes. Somehow she slipped in between the two swords Fiona was carrying. Somehow she slipped under Fiona’s right arm and stood behind her. And somehow, before Fiona could turn around, Falcona jabbed her seven times in her bare, shapely back.
“AUUHHH!” Fiona cried out. Each blow felt no harder than being pushed. Each touch of Falcona’s fingers was light. Her fingertips barely grazed Fiona’s creamy skin. But each jab was like an electric shock, only without the pain. But a buzzing, sharply tingling sensation shot up and down Fiona’s spine, like the froth of champagne effervescing against her skin from the inside.
“Ahh! Ah-ahh-auuuuhhhh!” Fiona cried, as the effervescence travelled all the way through her body, pulsing through her arms, her torso, up her neck, down her long legs and between them, buzzing in a spot just underneath her skirt. She found that she was blushing, brightly, as her entire body throbbed with this disturbing feeling. It overrode everything else, making Fiona’s body ignore her. She stiffened like she’d been wrapped up by an invisible snake, arms pressing against her sides, legs pushing against each other, neck arching back. “Wh- what have you done to m-me? Wh - auhhh!”
Fiona felt her back tensing, her toes curling inside her boots, her bosoms pushing against her breastplate with deep, rapid breaths. Her wings flashed, but they too were stiff, unable to carry Fiona anywhere. Her cheeks were almost scarlet, her milky thighs trembling, her neck hot, caressed by small, bright beads of sweat.
“My-my body, I - I can’t - can’t - I - ahhh - ahhhhhhh!” She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Her whole body overpowered by just six little jabs. “Was it magic or - or some martial art or - oh I can’t think… it feels too… too… uuuuunnhhhhh!”
She felt a hand on her collar, felt a nose brushing against her ear.
“Poor pixie,” Falcona whispered, “I know it feels good… but it’s a little distressing, isn’t it?”
As Fiona shivered and gasped, she felt soft, brief caresses from her enemy: little touches on her upper arms, her legs; a quick, sweet kiss on her neck. It should have enraged her, but each touch made her tremble.
“Have you ever seen a balloon, Fiona?” Falcona asked. “Funny little things. I saw an alchemist using one, once. Said if he made one big enough even a human like me could fly. You fill them with air, see, but you must be careful.” She slipped her hand under Fiona’s skirt, fondling her tight, firm buttocks and only deepening the pixie’s incandescent blush. “You see if you fill them too much they get all stiff. That’s what you’re like now, Fiona. A balloon filled with too much air. Too late to let the air out now. I think the only way to help you, Fiona… is to let you burst.” She jabbed her fingers one last time into the base of Fiona’s spine and breathed a single word:
“Burst.”
“AHHHHH!!” Fiona screamed, as her whole body shook and convulsed, wave after wave after wave of electric pleasure completely overwhelming her. Powerlessly she trembled, her neck taut, her head back almost as far as it could go, her thighs moist and shaking as the core of Fiona pulsed and pulsed and pulsed and pulsed, a flawless, musical note of helpless bliss pouring out of her soft mouth. “Oh - oh no, oh no, oh no - S-Song I don’t - I don’t - c-can’t - AAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!” She was soaked by one last tidal wave, her tall, willowy body surrendering utterly to the sensation that had been forced on it, her skin wet, her nerves on fire with forbidden delight. And then, finally, it faded.
Her shoulders sank. Her muscles relaxed. Her toes uncurled, and as her fingers did the same, her swords clattered from her hands. She felt a blissful relaxation washing softly through her, and it was and wasn’t relief from what had come before. For though her body had unclenched itself, she could no more move now than she had been able to before. Her neck began to sway, unable to support her head. Her knees went weak. Her arms remained still at her sides. Her wings sparkled, and then faded into luminous dust. For a moment, she was motionless. All was silent. But a slight breeze fluttered her skirt, and a slight tangy smell reached Fiona’s nostrils. It made her give one last quiver, and that was enough to topple her.
“Nooooo…” she whimpered, hazily, the pleasure still hanging onto her and making her feel like she was dreaming. But it was real. She felt her hair fluttering as she sank, her head flopping from one side to the other as she fell primly to her pretty knees, and she was so tall that it took what seemed like forever for her knees actually to hit the ground beneath her. When the rest of her followed, it seemed to take even longer. Like a young, strong tree felled long before its time, she collapsed with a long moan onto her front, until with a heavy finality she reached her terminus, arms flat by her sides, legs askew, so long that it seemed they could not decide quite where to lie. But she did not move. She could not move. She was totally limp; outmatched, defeated, and completely paralysed.
The skin of her bare back, of her naked thighs, glinted in the starlight. Behind Fiona, Falcona was struck by the pixie’s extraordinary beauty. She still mewed softly as she lay on her front, kittenish little whimpers that made Falcona tremble a little herself.
She knelt down by Fiona, and carefully took each hand, crossing Fiona’s wrists behind her back, pausing only to plant a swift, appreciative kiss between Fiona’s elegant shoulder-blades. Then, easily manipulating Fiona’s supple, fallen frame, she took a length of thin, white cord, and began winding it around Fiona’s slim wrists, coiling around four or five times, making sure not to be too abrasive: her victim was already beaten, after all. Only when she had used all the rope she wanted did she pull tight, cinching Fiona’s wrists together with the backs of her hands facing each other, her fingers curling slightly inward.
“Wh… why are you… tying me up?” Fiona said. “I’m… p-paralysed…”
“But not crippled, darling,” Falcona said, with what sounded like genuine care. “It’ll wear off in a few hours, and I need to make sure you don’t flutter away.” She was about to attend to binding Fiona’s lower body too, but just before she did, she had a wicked thought. “Oh I shouldn’t,” she thought. “It’s shamelessly self-indulgent.”
She did it anyway.
Smiling naughtily, Falcona brought her hands down to Fiona’s legs. Swiftly she untied the laces of Fiona’s boots. She slipped them off, leaving the pixie’s limbs in nothing but her stockings, but even this was too much. Slowly spreading her fingers up her victim’s silky, slender, abundantly long legs, she unclipped her suspenders, and slowly began peeling down one of the stockings, gradually revealing more and more of Fiona’s beautiful, white skin.
“Oh… ooh…” Fiona was shamefaced of course, but every time Falcona’s fingers brushed against her legs, an aftershock surged through her. It wasn’t just pleasurable, though. Fiona sensed, in some way, that the pleasure was keeping her… meek. A doe-eyed, helpless little-captive. But she couldn’t fight back. By the time her other stocking was removed as well - leaving her barefoot and bare-legged at her captor’s mercy - she had all but surrendered to the sensations, a phantom hand inside her kissing and tickling and stroking her pleasure centres.
As little rope was needed to bind her feet as had been needed for her hands. Four circuits, a pinch, and Fiona’s ankles were tied, pushed together with firm, but not excessive force. Fiona felt Falcona’s hands tucking under her, carefully rolling her onto her back. The two looked each other in the eye, and Falcona almost cried out in delight.
She looked so beautifully forlorn, you see, gazing into Falcona’s eyes with such sweet, doe-ish helplessness. Her cheeks were aglow, her breasts slowly rising and falling beneath her leaf-shaped armour. Her shoulders were pulled back by her arms being bound, her long, long legs completely exposed, acres of pristine skin glinting in the starlight. She was the very image of a vanquished, tamed warrior, stripped of weapons and power, trembling at the mercy of her captor.
“I… beg you,” she sighed, “don’t… make me go back…”
The plea was so elegantly disconsolate that Falcona quite ignored its contents. She knelt astride the fallen pixie, stroked her cheek, kissed her neck.
“Oh aren’t you perfect,” she whispered, before tugging down on Fiona’s dignified jaw, and stuffing something into her mouth.
“Mmph?” Fiona didn’t know what it was at first, just that it was soft, and tasted like perfume. It was only when Falcona pressed something over her mouth, something that smelled clearly of lavender, that Fiona realised that it was her own perfume. As the soft fabric was stretched over her mouth, and then knotted behind her head, she realised that she’d been gagged with her own stockings. This would have been mortifying enough, but she could smell something else, aside from her perfume, a sharper, headier smell, and when she realised what it was she almost fainted from sheer, sensuous humiliation.
Falcona sprang back up to her feet, and with a predatory stoop she plucked her prey from the ground. She slipped her arms under Fiona’s thighs and her slim shoulders, and with a grunt, heaved the maiden up into her arms. Her calves dangled, swinging slightly for a few seconds. Her neck fell back, tautening and arching, her long, violet hair flowing down, looking almost blue in the darkness of Ednivale’s night. Completely limp, Fiona couldn’t even look at her abductor, not until she happened to lift her shoulders high enough that her neck flopped forward instead of back. Only then could she see herself.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” Fiona’s moan was long and soft. She could see herself and her captor plainly, and it was so obvious that Falcona was much shorter than her that it only added to her humiliation, that this elfin, fairy-ish woman was bearing her in her arms, the stronger - or seemingly stronger - being carried off a bound, helpless prize. She saw her own pristine, naked legs, and she felt them tingle where Falcona’s hands gripped them, her dignity stripped from her along with her stockings. And between her flawless thighs, she still felt herself throbbing, still felt herself aglow with unasked pleasure. It wasn’t just embarrassing - it was incredible. It was astonishing. She looked Falcona in the eye with a mixture of dismay and - she didn’t know the word for it. Falcona saw it, and thought of the word ‘submissive’, but such a word didn’t enter Fiona’s mind.
“Oh gods,” she thought, the words and the feelings rising without her wanting them to. “She’s defeated me…” But that wasn’t right. That wasn’t enough. With a shiver, the correct words surged up, and with a gagged moan, a flash of crimson in her cheeks, and a heavy, tingling pulse between her legs, in her own mind Fiona gasped:
“She’s conquered me…”
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