The Milk of her Grace
Elliot Silvestri
Copyright © 2015 Elliot Silvestri and Green Bush Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
The characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Contains adult material that might not be suitable for all audiences. This work is a fantasy; in your own life be sure to follow safer sex practices.
All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.
Contents
Dramatis Persona
Queen Illyana – Exiled ruler of the kobold realm
Sir George – former knight of King Roland, now Queen Illyana’s champion
Mahrina – a serving girl in Illyana’s home
Honoria – another serving girl
King Roland – ruler of the human realm
Queen Lenore – Roland’s wife
Duchess Carmin – Roland’s mistress
Earl Edmund – Carmin’s husband
Day One
George strained against the steel manacles holding him against the rock wall. He knew it was useless but he had to try regardless. He failed to break the steel bands. He wasn’t surprised.
It was cold in the dungeon especially since he was wearing only a loincloth. He had stopped bleeding from the multiple small wounds all over his body, but that was only a small bit of good news. None of the injuries were immediately life-threatening, but they would all need to be seen to if he didn’t want them to fester. The problem was he was in the dungeon and shackled. His captor didn’t want him dead, but suffering was apparently acceptable.
He remembered the battle. It was horrific. He remembered the fight with the evil queen’s champion, which he had won, but he didn’t remember getting captured. He didn’t remember much.
The dungeon was dark, but there was a faint light coming in from the tiny barred window cut into the heavy wooden door. From what he could tell the cell holding him was fairly large. That made him nervous. A tiny cell meant imprisonment. A large cell meant something else. Torture, most likely, interrogation was for certain surely.
He hated waiting but there was nothing for him to do but wait. He was seated on the floor. His arms were up and held against the wall. There was nothing around his neck or feet, but that was of little consequence.
After a few minutes he realized how thirsty and hungry he was. The hunger was easy to ignore. The thirst was the real problem. Sleep was a way to fight both of those problems, but after waking up he found it impossible to go back to sleep while trying to ignore the needs of his body.
It might have been a few minutes later, it might have been hours. The heavy door dragged open and an imposing woman walked in. She carried a bauble in her hand. It lit up the entire dank, ugly cell. In the midst of the cell’s dark, the woman was a center of light and beauty. She had long blonde hair falling down her back, the fairest, unblemished skin George had ever seen, and was dressed almost modestly in the most recent fashion of the king’s court. Her undercorset was bright green; it served to push up her large breasts which were modestly covered by her pale white dress embroidered with fine threads. The neckline of her dress revealed nothing; it went to her neck and the sleeves were large, almost poofy, gathered at the forearms. Beneath the corset the dress’s skirts descended to her knees, which was different from what was worn in the court. The ladies’ dresses there reached the floor. Here in the dungeon the skirt stopped, somewhat practically George thought, at her knees, revealing a band of skin between the hem and the top of her supple white leather boots. The boots had an incredibly high heel, impractical for the dungeon, or anywhere, but she walked in them with ease.
Her face…George blinked at her face. There were strong hints of beauty: a fine jaw, pale skin, high cheekbones, brilliant sapphire eyes, but this was all obscured by a mask of the sort worn a masquerade balls. George wondered why she would wear something like that.
The bauble was brighter than a candle or a lantern. It hurt George’s eyes to look at it so he focused on her other hand that was carrying a cup. Right away he knew what was in it, water or wine. The dryness in his mouth increased.
“What do you want?” he rasped after a long moment of her just staring at him, studying him.
“The question is, what do you want?” she asked, half offering him the stone goblet, but holding it more than an arm’s length away. And he couldn’t grab it because he was pinned to the wall. She was taunting him. “Would you like a drink?”
To his shame he was mortified to hear himself beg. “Yes.”
The woman—and he knew whom she was: Queen Ilyana the evil leader of the secretive nation of the kobolds that lived under the mountain on good King Roland’s lands—took a half step forward, the goblet still proffered. “Then I just need one thing from you.”
George said nothing. He remembered his training, his loyalties, his oath. He was silent. “You killed my champion,” Queen Ilyana said.
“It was my duty to do so,” George whispered.
“I need a new champion.” The words were stated flatly, but he knew immediately what she was asking.
“No,” he said.
She wasn’t the least bit disturbed by his answer. “Do you know how long it takes a man to die of thirst?” He shook his head. “Three days for most. Four or five for a strong man.” She stepped forward again, but moved the goblet back, away from him, and squatted down in front of George. She ran her fine fingertips lightly from his sternum down to his abdomen, stopping just above his loincloth. “You are decidedly strong, but wounded. You’ll be lucky if you last three days.”
He brought up his eyes and glazed into hers. “No,” he repeated.
She smiled, not annoyed, not amused, not angry. Bemused. “We shall see,” she promised and poured out the contents of the goblet on the flagstones between his legs. Before standing up she tugged down the edge of her dress’s neckline, giving him a quick glimpse of her cleavage. Despite the situation and his wounds, George still looked down hoping to catch a view of her naked nipples. But he was either too slow or it was too dark. Nothing. It was still enough to cause his cock to stir which further shamed him. “We shall see,” she repeated as she stood. His eyes went to her bottom. The material of her dress pulled against her buttocks. There wasn’t much to see, but there was enough.
George hung his head and cried in shame as the door closed and left him in the dark.
Day Two
It was impossible for George to tell how much time had passed, but he simply assumed when he work up it was the next day. There was no food or water brought to him. The door opening would have woken him. It was the door that woke him, but it was Queen Ilyana walking in. George’s heart quickened. This was hope for escape, but not a good hope.
“Have you reconsidered your answer?” Ilyana asked him.
George shook his head weakly. “I haven’t changed it.”
“You’re dying,” she told him while dropping a silk handkerchief on the floor in front of him and placed one knee on it. “Do you want to live?”
“Yes,” he moaned. “But not on your terms.”
She was carrying the same glowing bauble and the same stone goblet. She was still wearing the same white dress. George wasn’t sure if it was the same dress or one exactly like the previous one, or if she had multiple dresses that were similar. Ilyana smiled sweetly at him. It was the smile of a woman being honest with a man. There was no hidden agenda behind her smile. What her motives were George couldn’t say. “Shall I change the terms?” Ilyana stopped another silk handkerchief to the floor and placed the bauble and goblet on it. Reaching up to the tie that held the top of her dress closed, she pulled the string and allowed the dress to open up and fall down exposing her breasts. “Are you sure?” she asked as she noticed George’s cock hardening inside his loincloth. “Is living so bad? Is death so honorable?”
His answer took too long. They both knew that as soon as he said the words. “Death is honorable compared to what you are offering me.”
Her smile didn’t waver. “Of course.” In the weak light from the bauble George immediately noticed something was wrong with her breasts. It took him a moment to realize there wasn’t something exactly wrong with them. They had simply been altered in a way the women of the court would never consider. Golden rings pierced the pink flesh of her nipples. Light flashed off the pure metal as the queen moved. Her fingers moved nimbly over her nipples and their jewelry. It seemed it should have caused her great pain, but the rings were removed easily enough and she placed them next to the bauble on the silk square. Ilyana then picked up the stone goblet and showed George that it was empty. He wasn’t sure if he should have been relieved there wasn’t any liquid there to tempt him or if he was crushed she hadn’t come to save him.
“No water for you today,” she informed him.
“No,” he vaguely agreed.
Then she did something that seemed more appropriate for the barnyard than a prisoner’s cell. She held the goblet in one hand and massaged her breast with the other. It was a large, fully organ, swollen to the point where he could see the blue veins tracing under her skin, even in the weak light. She wasn’t a fat woman by any means, yet her tits were outsized for her small frame. That was explained in a blink when her massaging miraculously produced a drop, then several, then a fine spray of white fluid from her breast. Milk, George realized right away. Apparently the queen was a lactating mother.
She continued the display in front of him for some time, until the goblet was nearly a third full, then she switched hands and proceeded to fill the goblet another third from her other breast. George looked on in curiosity and dread. What was she planning?
When Ilyana was done relieving her breasts of their milk—though George could detect no change in the size of her mammaries—she placed the goblet back on the silk handkerchief, put the rings back into her nipples, and tied the top of her dress closed.
“My milk will sustain you,” the informed him, lifting the cup up in the air between them. “The stone was warmed before I came here. The milk is still warm, as warm as my heart. Would you like a taste?” she asked. “Would you like it all?”
George flopped his head back and forth against the uneven rocky wall. “No,” he whimpered.
“You don’t seem to have much strength in your refusal,” she pointed out.
“I’d rather die,” George all but spat at her, but his mouth was too dry.
Ilyana lifted the cup higher until it was right under his mouth and nose. George could feel the warmth of the sustaining liquid, he could smell its sweetness and the promise it held.
“Are you sure?” She pursed her blood-red lips, licking them ever so slightly with the tip of her tongue.
“I’m a knight of the king’s guard. I will not betray him.”
“Not even to save your own life?” she asked. “Not even to serve me?”
“Especially for those reasons,” he shot back.
Ilyana nodded and stood up, picking up the silk squares and the bauble. She was about to tip the stone goblet on its side, spilling the milk where she had spilled the water the day before, but she stopped herself. “No. There’s no reason to waste good milk,” she said. “I know of others who would die just for a taste of my ambrosia.”
Once again she left his cell, the door slamming shut behind her, propelled by unseen hands, and George was alone in his misery.
This time he didn’t have enough energy to weep.
Day Three
The third day was the worse. George came to consciousness with his parched mouth and weak limbs. Long ago he had lost all feeling in his arms. There was not a drop of moisture in his body. He knew he was next to death. All he had to do was wait.
He hated waiting.
When the door opened to admit Queen Ilyana. George wasn’t surprised. He was certain she wanted to see him dead. This time, while she was carrying the glowing bauble, her other hand was empty. The stone goblet was nowhere in evidence. George could barely lift up his head to look at her.
Ilyana didn’t say a word to him. She was wearing her beautiful white dress with the green corset on the outside. The silk handkerchief went down on the stone floor and she opened up the top of her dress. Despite knowing he was dying, George couldn’t tear his gaze away from the display. His cock struggled to come to life even as he approached death.
Today her nipple rings were still in place but now she had a matching golden chain linking her nipples together. George was horrified at what she had done to her body. It was bad enough that she had lowered herself to mar her body like the northern barbarians with their tattoos and body alterations, but now she was strutting about proudly and unashamedly as if mutilating her perfection was something to boast about.
“This is literally your last chance,” the queen said to him as she once more went down on one knee before him, bringing her breasts even with his face, seated as he was on the floor. “You can choose to live or die just by taking a simple drink.”
George studied her tits. They—like the rest of her—were beautiful…even with the chain and nipple rings. The pink of her areola’s faded in from the perfect white of her skin. It was impossible to tell where her breast ended and the areola began. On the other hand, the firm nubs of her nipples stood up in high contrast to the areolas. Then there were the small golden rings and the chains attached to them. Her entire torso was strangely beautiful. It was the conventional beauty of the king’s court where warm skin tones were treasured along with dark, curly hair. Queen Ilyana had long blond straight hair. She would have found time in the court difficult to endure when listening to the high snark of the female courtiers and noblewomen.
“I must serve my king,” he rasped out, certain they were his last words. It would be a noble death to have those syllables on his lips.
“You can serve me,” she promised. “I am queen of my lands. Your service would be the embodiment of highest honor.” Her hands went up underneath her tits, lifting them ever so slightly, offering them to George. He reflected that the current style of female dress in court was one that sought to hide large busts. Noblewomen were teachers and courtiers and advisor, not mothers or prostitutes, roles that were suited to large breasts.
In the end George knew he was weak, not just in body, but in spirit. He nodded once, only once, but it was enough. Ilyana smiled and moved in close to his failing body. It took ...