Pawns Duty The Rook

Content warning:

The following story contains dubious consent.

***

As the sun set on Camp Fidelity, the warriors of the Black Queen's invincible legion settled in for the long, cold night ahead. There had been no new orders now for three weeks, and the teeming horde was growing complacent. Pawns idled at their posts, trading tall tales of campaigns past, placing bets on cards and knucklebones, or on when the perfidious Reds would next crest the horizon.

The Elect, those blessed by the rite of Promotion with nigh-invulnerable war-forms to crush the Reds, were growing restless too, and their urges could not be quelled by such petty diversions. Some of their indulgences were arcane and secretive, strange alchemical concoctions and black-tongued rituals conducted behind the barred gates of their lairs. Their greatest appetite, though, was base, constant, and all too comprehensible. And, when they felt its pull, it was the duty of every loyal pawn to help them sate it.

Cesca knew all this. It had been drilled into her relentlessly from the moment of her recruitment. But confronting the hunger in person, black and glistening, looming over her, was something for which no deacon or drillmaster could have prepared her.

A hulking, heaving Rook had her all but pinned against the wall of the west armoury. Rooks were the most outwardly humanlike of the Elect, in that they had two arms, two legs, and opposable thumbs, but there the similarity more or less ended. This specimen was one of the smaller members of its kind, but it was still fully twice Cesca's height. Its night-black carapace seemed to swallow up the light from the nearby torches, and, at this distance, she could hear the

click-click-click

as the tightly woven scales slid one over another like a nest of vipers.

It glared down at her through four baleful, slitted eyes and growled, the four ridges atop its head shuddering violently. Thick black ichor dripped down from its split-jawed maw, and Cesca winced at the ominous hiss as it splashed on her shoulder guards. The resultant coils of vapour stank of tar and potash, a cloying, unwholesome scent that burned at the back of her throat.

A civilian might have thought the Rook was sizing her up to eat her, but Cesca knew better. The source of the war-form's irritation lay below its stomach.

Swallowing hard, biting her lip, she angled her gaze downwards, to the spot between the Rook's tree-trunk thighs where its armour plating slid apart. A twitching, iridescent shaft of bluish meat, longer than Cesca's forearm and nearly as thick, jutted upwards from the aperture, capped with a harshly ridged head. A pearl of oily black liquid had formed from the X-shaped hole at the tip.

With the slow inevitability of a battering ram, the Rook lowered a gargantuan hand and rested it atop Cesca's freshly shaved head. Razor-edged fingertips slipped beneath her gorget, grazing the back of her neck. Rooks didn't, or perhaps couldn't, speak the Queen's Tongue, but the message couldn't have been clearer.

Service me

.

Each ragged breath gave her another lungful of the creature's choking scent, crowding out her other senses, filling her head with smoke. She had been warned about this, of course: the very essence of the Elect was charged with supernatural strength, and merely being close to one could bend the minds of the unaugmented. But once again, actually feeling it was another matter entirely.

She pulled off a gauntlet and extended her index finger, running the tip along the underside of the Rook's length. It was slick, slightly sticky, and, when she pulled her hand back, a thin trail of blue-black goo followed it. She cursed under her breath. How in all the spheres was she meant to satisfy this beast? Cesca was no stranger to the earthly pleasures, but her experience was with other pawns, back during her training.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember what she had been taught. Hands and mouth, the abbess had said. Hands and mouth, and let the Elect guide you...

Well, then.

Cesca shed her other gauntlet and reached out with both hands, wrapping them around the Rook's prick at the base. One hand was far too small to encircle it, but, together, they were just about enough. She didn't kneel, as she would have for another pawn - standing like this, the Rook's cock stuck out level with her collarbone. Right. She'd stroked men off before. Surely this wasn't so different...

She pulled her hands slowly back towards her, dragging her tightly wrapped fingers over the slippery shaft. The Rook grunted and tensed, but then seemed to relax a little, leaning back and giving Cesca a little more light to work with. She tugged upward as far as the hard, frilled ridge at the head, then pushed back down, eliciting a few more drops of ichor from the Rook's twitching maw.

The oily slick at the tip began to swell, a little more with each tug, and soon it hung heavy enough to sag, on the verge of dripping down onto the hard, dry ground. Cesca swallowed again. Some Rooks, she had been told, took great offence to their sacred seed being spent on the dead earth, and the pawns were expected to see to it that not a drop was "wasted".

She opened her mouth, letting her tongue hang loose, and leaned in, fighting the urge to cough as she enveloped herself in the dark miasma. The vapours seemed to crawl up into her brain, weighing her down, dulling her thoughts. The closer she got, the more natural it felt to get closer still, to dip her head down, to press her lips to the shimmering mess and

kiss

...

The taste. Gods, the taste. It fizzed on her tongue, a burning buzz that was not quite numbness and not quite pain, lighting up her nerves with impossible sensation. She swallowed it down as naturally as water, and then, in its absence, found herself desperate for more. She pushed her tongue inelegantly against the X-shaped source, lapping at the tender, sticky flesh in the hope of teasing out just one more drop, one more mote of that nameless, overwhelming feeling. A quick squeeze at the base of the cock milked out another trickle of oil, and, with it, another intoxicating headrush.

With her focus so inexorably drawn to her mouth, she was only dimly aware of the strength beginning to leave her. Each swallow felt a little harder than the last as her throat relaxed, numbed and drained by the Rook's essence. Her grip loosened and eventually slipped away, leaving her arms to dangle uselessly at her sides while she tongue-bathed the Rook's cockhead. Her knees buckled, and it was only the Rook shoving her backwards, bracing her against the wall, that kept her from crumpling to the ground.

Within minutes, her whole body was all but unresponsive. Her jaw hung slack, and she drooled helplessly over the Rook's cock, her spittle mingling with its natural slick (if anything about the now snarling war-form could be called natural).

But Cesca was so lost in the sensation that she barely noticed. She only truly recognised what was happening when the Rook, seemingly impatient, rutted its hips forward, and she tried to resist. She would have been only too happy to drink down its nectar until sunrise, but its shaft was simply too big for her. There was no way it was actually going to fit in her mouth.

Except... as her feeble attempts to push back were betrayed by her weakened muscles, as she felt the back of her head meet the rough stone wall of the armoury, as the impossibly huge head of the Rook's shaft pressed and pressed and breached her lips and the frills dragged over her limp tongue... she felt her body accepting it. In defiance of the limits she thought she had, her jaw opened up and welcomed the invasion, and then, with a little more pressure, so did her throat. She felt its ridges and bumps touching her in places she had never been touched, the scales of the shaft shifting and slithering on her tongue.

The chill of the evening air, the chafing of her ill-fitting armour, the unyielding roughness of the wall as her head was pressed back into it, it all faded into the background. They were still there, somewhere, but her addled mind tucked them away. The stretch of her lips and the strain on her throat were all she felt. They were all she

needed

to feel.

It was hard to tell how much time passed before the Rook began to come. It threw its head back, snarling its release out at the now ink-black sky, and rammed its shaft as far down Cesca's throat as it could possibly reach - not quite its full, impossible length, but far enough that she would be feeling it for weeks. Its climax lasted for a full minute, perhaps more, flexing and bulging out her throat, testing her muscles, as it emptied itself into her stomach. Its seed was thick, gluey and filling - by the time it had finished, her belly felt tight, as though she'd just eaten two or three full meals.

The moment the Rook withdrew its shaft, spent and temporarily satisfied, Cesca's legs gave out and she collapsed, as though its mighty cock had been the only thing holding her upright. Her mouth hung open, her eyes half-lidded and vacant. As the war-form stomped off to its lair, she could only lie there and contemplate, with what was left of her thoughts, what she'd just been through. Perhaps a patrol would come around and pick her up, at least drag her back to her tent, but she'd already seen used pawns sleeping out in the dirt; maybe that would be her.

She was already a little sore, and she knew that, come morning, she would feel even worse. Just as well, really, that it had filled her belly; she would have trouble eating with her throat and jaw aching. She had to wonder, too, how quickly she would recover her strength. The drillmasters would surely have some choice words for her if she couldn't stay on her feet at roll call.

And yet... it all felt so right. She had served the Elect, as every good pawn was supposed to. She might be exhausted, drained, utterly spent, but it was a good kind of exhaustion, the kind she could wear as a badge of honour.

She wondered when a Rook would take interest in her next.

She wondered if, next time, it might not stop at her mouth.