Chapter 4: Welcome to Mahzipan.
The following morning, they all dressed quickly and made sure they had a proper wash, double-wiping their bottoms and making sure their fannies were nice and fresh. Ulrika had explained that Dark Elf society was matriarchal and quite misanthropist. It also had a thing for spiders, which Polly and Brutehilde were none too sure about, but they supposed as long as the horrible, hairy buggers were kept well away from them, they'd just have to put up with it.
Tanna's poor arse was still stinging from Honeymuff's lustful assault, and she thought better of popping the butt plug back inside her poor ring, at least for today.
It was a big day, as they were to be introduced to Lady Araksia, one of the City Councillors, this morning, and a formal banquet was to be held in their honour in the evening.
Ulrika joined them after breakfast, and led them along the elevated walkways that spanned the length and breadth of the enormous cavern, connecting the various towering buildings. As Polly looked up, her facial muscles twitched uncomfortably as she realised there were also walkways of a different sort overhead: shimmering nets of cobweb, almost invisible in the high places of the cavern. The things that scuttled and rustled in those heights were too far away for her to see, and she was very thankful for that.
The walkways were wide and sturdy, but Polly still found herself walking as close to the wall as possible, her eyes darting upward every few seconds. The others followed Ulrika in silence, the only sound the squeak of Minnie’s tea trolley and the occasional muttered curse from Brutehilde as she nearly tripped over her own clogs. Honeymuff fluttered ahead, her wings beating lazily as she darted between the group, occasionally landing on Tanna’s shoulder to whisper something that made the knight blush furiously.
Ulrika led them all to an audience with Lady Araksia, who welcomed them with a smile that was both regal and predatory. The Lady of Mahzipan was draped in layers of dark silk that shimmered like oil on water, her long, slender fingers adorned with rings that seemed to shift and writhe with movement.
As she began her speech of welcome, her voice was smooth and melodic, a velvet purr that filled the vast chamber. "Welcome, honoured guests, to the Seat of Shadows," she intoned, her gaze sweeping over them with regal amusement. "We do not often receive visitors from the surface, and so your presence is a rare and precious gift."
To their astonishment, as she spoke, her right hand drifted casually behind her back, her fingers slipping beneath the layers of her elaborate gown. Her expression never wavered—her smile remained fixed, her posture regal—but the rhythmic, deliberate motion beneath her skirts was unmistakable. Her fingers were moving inside herself, stroking with slow, deliberate purpose.
Polly’s jaw dropped. "Oh, you bloody cheeky cow," she muttered under her breath, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and grudging admiration.
Brutehilde elbowed her sharply in the ribs. "Shut it, ye daft besom," she hissed, her own cheeks flushing beneath her blonde plaits. Tulip merely raised an eyebrow, a faint, knowing smile playing on her golden lips as she watched the noblewoman’s hidden ministrations. Tanna stared rigidly at a point above Lady Araksia’s head, her face a mask of trained neutrality, though the tips of her ears burned crimson.
Lady Araksia concluded her welcome with a sonorous promise of mutual prosperity. "And so," she said, her voice dipping into a more intimate register, "we must celebrate this confluence of our worlds."
She rose from her ornate obsidian chair in a fluid rustle of silk. Her movements were deliberately slow, languid. As she stepped forward, her right hand emerged from behind her back. Her long, elegant fingers glistened with a clear, viscous fluid. She did not wipe them on her gown. Instead, she held them slightly away from her body, as one might after dipping them in perfume.
Polly, operating on a lifetime of ingrained, if rough, surface-world manners, saw the approaching noblewoman and instinct took over. She stepped forward, a lopsided grin on her face, and thrust her own hand out for a shake. "Nice speech. I'm Polly."
The gasp that rippled through the chamber wasn't a sound so much as a sudden vacuum of air. The stoic Dark Elf guards flanking the dais stiffened, their hands flying to their weapon hilts. Ulrika closed her eyes, a pained expression tightening her features. Jeremas let out a soft, sighing breath, almost of appreciation for the sheer scale of the blunder.
Lady Araksia looked down at Polly’s offered hand. Her gaze travelled from Polly’s calloused palm, up her fishnet-clad arm, to her defiant green mohawk. Her expression was utterly unreadable, a sculpture of dark grey stone. The silence stretched, thick enough to choke on. Polly’s grin faltered, her hand beginning to feel foolish and exposed in the space between them.
Then, a slow, dark smile spread across Lady Araksia’s lips. It did not reach her piercing eyes. "How… direct," she purred. She did not take Polly’s hand. Instead, she extended her own glistening fingers, allowing a single, shining droplet to fall from her fingertip onto the back of Polly’s wrist. It was warm. "In Mahzipan," Araksia continued, her voice like silk wrapped around a blade, "the most intimate offering is one of taste, not touch. We shall educate you."
She let the implication hang, watching the fluid bead on Polly’s skin. "You will all attend a banquet in your honour this evening in the Hall of Echoing Delights. My spiders have been weaving the table linens for a week." She turned her luminous eyes on the rest of the group, her smile widening. "Wear your finest. We so look forward to… sampling you."
With that, she turned, her gown swirling, and glided from the dais, her still-wet fingers trailing faintly in the air. Polly stared at the droplet on her wrist, then slowly, deliberately, wiped it on her plaid skirt. "Right," she muttered to the group, her bravado slightly forced. "So no handshakes. Got it."
"It's my fault," said Ulrika later, when they had returned to their rooms. She paced back and forth, gesticulating wearily. "I should have prepared you better. Though at least she didn't have you executed, Polly my dear, that would have been unbearable. I would so miss your pretty green pubes tickling my chin when we sixty-nine. Indeed, she seemed attracted to you."
"She did?" asked Polly. "You could have fooled me!"
"Oh yes," nodded Ulrika enthusiastically. "She favoured you with a drop of her cunny cream, after all. Fortunately, she had turned away and didn't see you wiping it off on your skirt. That would really have set the cat among the pigeons!"
"What was I supposed to do?" asked Polly, perplexed.
"Why, taste it, of course!" said Ulrika, aghast at the question. "The intimate secretions of a noble Dark Elf are the most precious currency in this city, not to be wasted but savoured."
"Well ... I guess I'll know for the future," shrugged Polly, who had tasted enough quims in her time to wonder what the fuss was all about. One fish dish was pretty much like another, after all.
"You will indeed," nodded Ulrika, "because you can guarantee she'll be sniffing around you tonight looking for some action. I do hope you won't make a fuss, it would be appallingly dangerous to disappoint her."
"Hell no," said Polly, "She's a fine looking piece of ass!"
"I'm very glad you think so," said Ulrika, "but your demeanour ... oh dear, oh dear - and I only have an afternoon to train you in Dark Elf etiquette!"
That evening, the banquet hall was a cavern of glimmering menace. Phosphorescent fungi cast a pulsating greenish light over long tables draped in cloth that was indeed woven of spider-silk, strong as steel cables yet delicate as mist. The air hummed with a low, chittering melody from unseen musicians. The guests of honour were seated at the high table, feeling distinctly like specimens on display. They had all been provided with the very finest silken gowns, in shades of black, grey, dark blue and silver. Tanna felt lost without her armour, but she had been permitted to wear her sword. Tulip couldn't keep her eyes off the perfect twin globes of the knight's ass in her flowing silk dress. She hoped Tanna would permit her to kiss it better later to make up for Honeymuff's indiscretion of the previous evening.
A male Dark Elf who had been introduced as Lord Dravion, seated further down, had not taken his eyes off Honeymuff since the first course of pickled cave-newt eggs. His white hair was a stark frame for his intense, mournful face. As a servitor poured wine, Dravion leaned toward the pixie, who was using a thimble as a wine goblet. "Such tragic beauty," he murmured, his voice dripping with melodrama. "A fleeting blossom in our eternal gloom. Your vibrancy… it wounds me."
Honeymuff, tipsy on three thimblefuls of strong fungal wine, fluttered her wings. "Och, away wi' ye. Yer gloom's no' so bad. Seen any bats aboot?" She then noticed the intricate silver rings piercing his long, pointed ears. "Ooh, shiny!"
The main course arrived: a roasted, multi-legged creature whose identity was best left unexamined. As platters were served, Lady Araksia rose once more. "A tradition!" she announced, her voice echoing. "To honour new alliances, we share our most cherished arts." She clapped her hands.
From behind a curtain, a male Dark Elf emerged, naked and blushing a deep shade of plum. He was painfully handsome, and utterly terrified. He walked to the center of the floor and knelt, head bowed. Araksia descended from her seat, a slender, silver tool in her hand. It ended in a sharp, needle-like point.
"Our piercing ceremonies are a sacrament," Araksia explained to her horrified guests, her eyes alight. "The merging of pain and permanence, beauty and ownership. Watch closely."
She positioned herself behind the kneeling male. With no ceremony, she spread the pale cheeks of his arse with her free hand, exposing his tight, pink hole. The room was silent but for his quick, panicked breaths. Araksia placed the needle’s point directly against his pucker. "The sigil of the house goes here," she said conversationally, as if discussing embroidery.
She pushed. The needle pierced his rim with a soft, wet pop. The elf jolted, a strangled gasp escaping him. Araksia worked the needle slowly, deliberately through the sensitive flesh, her tongue pressed between her lips in concentration. Blood, shockingly red against his grey skin, welled up and trickled down his perineum. She threaded a delicate silver ring through the new hole, the jewelry glinting as it settled against his violated entrance.
Polly felt a hot, unwelcome thrill between her own legs. She shifted on the bench, her fishnets rasping under her gown. Tulip’s hand found hers under the table, gripping tight, her druidess’s breathing shallow. Tanna looked like she was about to attack someone, her knuckles white around her fork. Brutehilde stared, stony-faced, while Minnie tried to focus very hard on buttering a roll.
"Beautiful," Araksia sighed, admiring her work. She then leaned down and, before the blood could drip further, swiped her tongue in a long, slow stripe up the cleft of his arse, cleaning the wound. She lingered, her mouth pressed against his new ring, her tongue probing the inflamed flesh around it. The elf shuddered, a low moan escaping him—whether of pain or shameful, traitorous pleasure, it was impossible to tell.
Araksia stood, licking her lips clean. "Now," she said, her eyes finding Polly, then Tulip, then Tanna. "Who among our guests wishes to be truly honoured? To wear a mark of Mahzipan?" Her gaze was predatory, inviting. The silence that followed was broken only by the chittering music and the soft, wet sound of Lord Dravion, under the table, desperately unbuttoning his trousers, his eyes locked on the oblivious, six-inch-tall pixie hovering near the salt cellar.
The silence stretched, taut as a garrote. Polly felt the weight of the Lady’s gaze, the expectant pressure of the entire hall. Tulip’s grip on her hand was a vise. Tanna’s breathing had stopped. Then, from the corner of her vision, Polly saw Ulrika. Their guide gave a nearly imperceptible tilt of her head, then a slow, deliberate wink.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Polly muttered under her breath. She shoved her bench back with a screech that cut the music. The sound echoed in the vast space. “Fine. I’ll do it.” She stood, her green mohawk a defiant splash of colour against the monochrome hall. “Where do you want it?”
Araksia’s smile was a crack in marble. “Brave little surface-dweller. Come here.” She gestured to the space before her, where the pierced male still knelt, trembling. Polly strode over, her clunky boots thudding on the stone. She didn’t look at the bleeding man. “Already got a few,” Polly said, jerking a thumb at her own ear, crusted with metal. “One more won’t kill me.”
“This is different,” Araksia purred. She selected a new needle, this one tipped with a small, obsidian bead. “This is a covenant. It goes where you are most vulnerable, to show you embrace our protection.” Her eyes dipped meaningfully to Polly’s gown. “Remove your lower garments. Bend over the table.”
Polly’s heart hammered against her ribs. A public piercing was one thing; a full strip was another. She glanced at Ulrika, who gave a slight, encouraging nod. With a sharp, defiant motion, Polly hitched up her silken gown, shoved her underwear and fishnets down to her knees, and turned. She planted her hands on the cold obsidian table, presenting her bare arse to the hall. A ripple of appreciative murmurs went through the Dark Elf assembly. Her skin was pale, marked with old scars, the cheeks firm and muscular.
“Lovely,” Araksia whispered. Her cool fingers parted Polly’s buttocks. The air was cold on her exposed hole. Polly flinched, expecting the sharp stab immediately. It didn’t come. Instead, she felt the wet, hot flat of Araksia’s tongue.
“Oh sweet Paipan!” Polly gasped, her fingers curling on the stone.
The Dark Elf noblewoman laved her with slow, thorough strokes, her tongue delving deep into Polly’s cleft, circling her tight pucker with insistent pressure. It wasn’t clinical. It was intimate, obscenely so, a violating cleaning that sent jolts of unwanted pleasure straight to Polly’s cunt. She was wet almost instantly, a betraying drip sliding down her inner thigh. Araksia hummed against her, the vibration making Polly’s knees shake.
“Good,” Araksia murmured, her breath hot. “You taste of defiance and cheap ale. I like it.” Then the tongue retreated. The cold point of the needle pressed against the top of Polly’s arsehole, right at the pucker’s edge.
“Breathe out,” Araksia commanded.
Polly exhaled. The pain was a bright, white-hot spike, a precise and shocking invasion. She grunted, her nails scraping stone. The needle pushed through, a slow, grinding pressure as it pierced the dense ring of muscle. She heard the pop of it exiting the other side of the flesh fold. Her vision swam. Then a click, as the obsidian bead was fastened into place. The pain ebbed, replaced by a throbbing, full ache. Araksia’s mouth was on her again immediately, her tongue swiping over the wounded flesh, cooling the burn with saliva, lapping at the bead of blood that welled up. The combination of sharp pain and wet, gentle licking was overwhelming. A ragged moan tore from Polly’s throat.
Araksia worked her tongue with relentless focus, dipping into Polly’s actual hole now, fucking her with it, soothing and violating in the same motion. Polly’s hips pushed back involuntarily, seeking more of that maddening, tender contact. She was panting, her forehead against the table. The humiliation was molten, mixing with a dark, shocking tide of arousal. She’d never had her arse eaten like this, with such possessive, single-minded skill. It was fucking unbelievable.
“See?” Araksia whispered, her lips moving against Polly’s swollen flesh. “The pain opens the door. The tongue shows the path to pleasure.” She gave one last, lingering lick that made Polly’s entire body shudder. “You are marked, little warrior. You belong to Mahzipan now.”
Polly barely heard her. She was trembling, soaked between her legs, the new piercing a hot, insistent brand that seemed to pulse in time with her clit. Araksia stood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She helped Polly up, her touch oddly gentle. Polly fumbled with her clothes, her movements uncoordinated. As she turned, she saw Tulip staring at her, the druidess’s golden face flushed, her lips parted. Tanna looked stricken, furious, and deeply turned on all at once.
From under the table came a frantic, muffled squeaking. Lord Dravion had finally captured Honeymuff. He had her pinned gently under an overturned crystal goblet, his trousers around his ankles, his painfully erect cock, slender and grey, aimed at the glass prison. Tears streamed down his tragic face. “Stay, fleeting blossom!” he begged the pixie, who was hammering against the crystal walls with tiny fists. “Let me… let me just be near you!” He began stroking himself furiously, his hips jerking, his release splattering against the goblet in hot, desperate streaks.
The banquet hall erupted into polite applause, the chittering music swelled, and Lady Araksia took Polly’s hand, leading her back to the high table as if nothing of consequence had occurred at all.
"Later," she whispered so that only Polly could hear, "I shall send for you, and we can taste each other's pierced flesh and internal juices till we are sated."
Polly looked their host straight in the eye and grinned. No way was she going to miss this!
The evening was long, and the faux-pas were many. Ulrika sighed in relief that it was over. "Thank you, Polly, for pleasing Lady Araksia and submitting to the piercing," she sighed. "That at least mitigated Brutehilde's clog dance when she'd had too much of the wine. It probably also warded off the disapproval when Minnie started drinking tea from her trolley instead of the finest fungal vintages that had been opened especially for the occasion. But I do believe I shall retire from diplomacy when we get back to the surface - it has too many heart-stopping moments."
"I think it may have been the promise of what is still to come that may have proven the bigger mitigation," said Polly. "She seemed to like the taste of my stink and is going to send for me shortly."
"Oh, bravo!" said Ulrika, "that means we have indeed avoided execution! You should feel flattered, Lady Araksia is a connoisseur of sphincters."
"Just as long as we don't get to see that Dravion again, the noo!" snapped Honeymuff crossly. "Och, I cannae believe the nerve o' the man, trappin' me under a glass and wankin' when he could have stuffed ma snatch. What a fuckin' weirdo!"
"Honeymuff," blinked Brutehilde in mild confusion. "What on earth has happened to your accent over this past few days?"
"Och, I've been givin' the wee sprite elocution lessons, hen," beamed Wee Minnie. "Isn't she guid?"
"Say no more," sighed Brutehilde.
There came a soft tap at the door and a messenger whispered a few words to Polly when she answered it.
"Okay, folks, I'm off," she said cheerfully. "See you in the morning!"
Tulip sighed as her playmate left. "She'll be off having all manner of oral fun," she said glumly. Eyeing Tanna's beautiful bottom, still outlined in shimmering silk, she reached out and patted it playfully. "Looks like there'll just be the two of us in the bed tonight darling."
Tanna, blushed, and then grinned.